Perfect Victim by Megan Norris, Elizabeth Southall Read Free Book Online

through the streets. We spoke to several security guards outside Timezone fun parlours and similar places, finally being convinced by one guard that this was not the right place for us to be.
    ‘We’re not going to find her, Mike,’ I said, nervously squeezing his hand, and agreeing with the guard. ‘It’s not going to do anyone any good if we both end up dead.’
    Mike nodded.
    When the car was in sight we ran the last few metres and locked ourselves in quickly. I felt ashamed.
    Mike said, ‘Did you notice the police presence?’
    ‘What police presence?’
    We had been in the city for close on two hours, maybe longer, and had seen one patrol car.
    ‘Shall we drive to Rose Street?’ I can’t remember whether it was Mike or me who said it, but we couldn’t go home. So we ‘cased out’ our first brothel, the one that was the focus of that story in Monday’s Age . By day eight we had noted the goings-in and the goings-out of five brothels and one escort agency. And why? Imagined fear coupled with exhaustion. This was the phenomenon the detective senior sergeant was probably trying to save us from.
    We drove slowly down Rose Street, not even sure what a brothel looked like, and into the back streets of Fitzroy. Mike was driving now because I couldn’t trust my concentration. We were stopped at one of the back street corners when a group of colourful, and young, dreadlocked adults surrounded the car. Oranges and reds, purple stripes and blue stripes marked their fashion statement.
    Mike wound the window down. I couldn’t believe it. We could have been mugged!
    To my surprise we found that they were worried about us driving around the streets so slowly. They thought we were lost. Mike told them our story and they asked for some posters, offering to put them up. I was ashamed, again, at my preconception. They were warm and caring, and I had grossly misjudged them.
    About 4.30 a.m. we found ourselves outside a pink, illuminated ‘house of ill repute’ in Richmond.
    ‘She wouldn’t be here,’ I said. ‘It looks too legal.’
    ‘Right district though,’ said Mike.
    ‘No,’ I said. ‘She’s not here.’
    Mike drove over the bridge and on until we stopped the car near a small park. We watched a man walking two Great Danes on leashes while we sipped lukewarm coffee which tasted of vacuum flask. We walked around the park, looking under shrubs and in children’s play equipment. Mike checked more dump bins.
    ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘Let’s go home.’
    We did not sleep. We did not talk. We mulled over our unfolding tragedy, independently, for the two hours rest we allowed ourselves.
    There was a gentle knock on the bedroom door. ‘Are you awake?’ came a whisper.
    ‘Yes,’ answered Mike.
    My mother opened the door with tea and toast. ‘Don’t get up,’ she said. ‘I heard you come in.’
    She sat down beside us. ‘Robbie rang last night and Heather’s fine. She’ll go to the nursery with her today.’
    We sipped our tea in silence. No words, just pain.
    ‘Your parents rang, Mike,’ said Mum. ‘They’ve asked the Major at Inala if the Salvation Army can help.’
    ‘Good idea,’ answered Mike. Mike’s parents lived at Inala, a retirement village not far away.
    ‘We walked through the city last night.’
    ‘ Elizabeth ,’ said Mum, with her concerned mother’s voice from my childhood.
    ‘It’s so sad,’ added Mike. ‘The city at night. It was terrible. There was this drunk …’
    ‘Is Ashleigh-Rose okay?’ I asked, breaking yet another silence.
    ‘She settled late after letting me read to her in bed,’ answered Mum.
    The phone rang. It was Ted, our old friend. Mum left the room to refill our cups. She took the plate of cold toast with her.
    ‘I don’t know,’ Ted told Mike, ‘but I don’t sense she’s come to any harm. I feel she will turn up at the end of the week.’ Mike passed this news to me. I felt relieved.
    ‘Ted wants to know if you know of an old woman who lived in