'Maybe that's because he had nothing to say. Since the mystery witness was supposed to be O'Toole's closest friend, surely he would have come forward to save him if he could? The police knew what they were doing, Ms Carlyle. That taxi driver was bad news, mixing with druggies and street kids. It was all so sordid.' Patricia repressed a shudder, making a heroic effort to smile. 'My husband has led an exemplary life since we were married. Ask anyone. Look, the election is the weekend after next. Arthur stands a good chance of winning this seat. Politics is a dirty business. We don't want a documentary about his past coming out after he's elected to undermine his credibility.'
She turned to Arthur who was dunking a biscuit in his tea. I saw her wince. They'd been married 12 years and she hadn't managed to cure him of that. I didn't think she stood much chance now.
When it became clear he wasn't going to speak, I prodded, 'Why ask me about Genevieve James' murder, Arthur? Do you have a different theory?'
His slightly uneven eyes met mine. 'If you've read the statements you know as much as me. I wasn't even home when it happened. They sent me out to get pizza.' He sounded aggrieved. The high drama had happened while his back was turned. I suspected it was the story of his life. 'I reckon the only person who could have saved O'Toole was Joe.'
The casual way Arthur used these infamous names sent a frisson through me. 'You mean Joseph Walenski?'
Arthur nodded.
I'd come to the same conclusion. O'Toole claimed he'd been with Walenski at the time Genevieve was attacked. But Walenski had disappeared. If the police hadn't been able to find him 25 years ago, I had no hope of finding him now. Luckily, he didn't even figure on my must-interview list.
'You talked to anyone else?' Arthur asked.
'I've read the police statements. I have photocopies of all the newspaper clippings and articles from the early days right through to now. I've been talking to Jake Tucker's agent. He's willing to see me,'
Arthur snorted softly. 'Tuck'd talk to anyone if he thought it would help his tour.'
Was Arthur just being frank or was there bad blood between him and the band's guiding light?
Tucker was willing to talk, that was all I needed to know. As for Pia Zaffir, she was a lot harder to approach. When the band broke up she went into the movies. With her sexual magnetism and contacts, she'd walked straight into a leading role and hadn't looked back. Five years ago, at 38, she'd won her second Oscar for her role in Outing. Despite the rush of offers she had retreated from public life and done a Jodie Foster, buying designer sperm.
It was even harder to get near Pia since she'd had the baby. Motherhood had made her reclusive, driving the paparazzi to howl like bloodhounds on the scent. I'd heard she was coming back to Australia but her publicity people wouldn't even reply to my requests. It was incredibly frustrating. I was sure if I could just speak with her in person I'd win her over.
'Pia's come home for a family wedding,' Arthur revealed, following the same line of thought as me. 'I can ask, but I don't know if she'll see you.'
His wife's mouth opened, then closed in a tight line.
I fished around in my satchel for a business card and quickly scribbled my current phone numbers and address, then passed it across to Arthur. 'Here's how to contact me.'
He glanced at it. 'You're from Melbourne?'
'Queensland, actually. I'm renting number One-Eight-One.' I felt my face grow hot. One-Eight-One was the house where Genevieve James had been murdered. A flicker of something passed behind his eyes and was hidden. Resentment? I wasn't being ghoulish. I rushed on. 'Had to get the feel of the house, of St Kilda. The owners, Grace and Scott, are fans of the band. When I told them my plans they offered to let me rent while they went overseas. It's been renovated but-'
'It's nothing like it was. St Kilda's become trendy. When we lived there you could still-' he glanced at his wife and shrugged.
I knew what St Kilda was like 25 years ago. I'd done my research. The suburb had started as a little seaside town outside of Melbourne. It had become a holiday retreat for wealthy families, gradually losing popularity as the city engulfed it. Eventually the large homes were divided up into flats. For many years the suburb had had a bad name and deservedly so. Drugs and prostitution had lowered property values. Then low rents attracted people like Arthur and his band. Artists, writers and musicians mingled with druggies and prostitutes as the suburb took on a new life.
Then, like many inner-city suburbs, especially those near the bay, St Kilda had experienced a rebirth. When it became trendy the prices rose. Yuppies bought the terrace houses and did them up, forcing out the very musicians and artists who had given the suburb its character, along with the pimps and prostitutes.
Twenty-five years ago you could still score a fix on the street but Arthur hadn't wanted to say that in front of his wife.
'I have an expression of interest from the ABC and I've done my research,' I said, meeting his eyes.
He nodded.
'Will you give me an insight into what it was like being one of the Tough Romantics?'
I knew the answer before he shook his head. I hurried on. 'Everyone remembers Genevieve James' murder. They know your part in it. The band's past is explored in lurid detail on the web. It has a listing in Wikipedia. All someone has to do is enter your name and hit search. You can't hide from your past.
'Besides, you'll be safely elected by the time I get this series off the ground. I still have to finish the script, compile archival footage, secure copyright and edit the pilot doco. I'm not setting out to milk it for cheap thrills. I want to discover what makes a band original and creative-'
'At the expense of my husband's political career?' his wife asked.
'I'm not convinced of that, Mrs Miles-Davidson,' I replied while I watched Arthur, who was staring fixedly at his tea cup. Coward. 'Thanks anyway.'
I wasn't going to push. If I was lucky he'd think about it and come back to me. If not, I'd given it my best shot. I'd do it without him, somehow - but the thought made me sick with frustration.
I stood, smoothing down my thigh-length skirt. To give him credit, Arthur's eyes did not track to my thighs, they went to my face as he came to his feet with old world courtesy. I nodded to his wife. 'Mrs Miles-Davidson.'
She said goodbye, relieved enough for the smile to reach her eyes now that I was going.
We walked to the door, me with my satchel, Arthur with his coffee mug in one hand, and forgotten, half-eaten biscuit in the other. I felt a tug of fellowship that was totally irrational and was sorry we'd lost our initial rapport.
We stood at the door, him still distracted, me wondering what was going on.
'Nice place,' I told him, gesturing down the drive. The sun had broken through the clouds and shafts of horizontal, afternoon light set the fallen leaves on fire. I felt an almost visceral surge of pleasure. Growing up on Nan's pension I'd been starved for beautiful things.
'Did you come by taxi?' Arthur asked.
'My car's parked on the street. Didn't realise the driveway was so long,' I said. He didn't need to know I drove a creaky old Corolla. I could have bought a new car but I was hoarding every cent to finance my dream.
Arthur seemed in no hurry to see me off. He sipped his coffee and stared down the drive.
'There's a strange synchronicity about your arrival and your project, Antonia,' he said softly. This was the Arthur who wrote the band's philosophical lyrics, giving voice to the preoccupations of a generation. His expression cleared and he smiled at me. 'Almost opportune.'
'Opportune, why?'
'A number of things have fallen into place,' he said, which didn't really answer my question. Then he met my eyes decisively.