Then he dropped his bombshell. 'That's where you'll find Joe.'
I gave an undignified squeak that made Monty look over. Seeing my expression, he came to his feet.
Arthur kept right on speaking. 'I just got back from seeing him. He'll talk to you but I wouldn't hang about. He's just as likely to change his mind and do a midnight flit.'
My heart raced. 'Joe? You don't mean-'
'I mean the missing witness, Joseph Walenski. Joe, as in O'Toole's friend.' I could hear the smile in Arthur's voice.
'How'd you find him?'
'Bingo! You owe me one.' Arthur hung up.
I looked at Monty as I replaced the receiver. A buzz of excitement made my stomach knot.
'Well?' Monty pressed.
I waited a beat to draw it out, unable to keep the grin off my face. 'Arthur Davidson just gave us the missing witness!'
'Whaaat?' A frown spread across Monty's forehead. 'Why?'
I couldn't believe it. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, as Nan would say, but the police couldn't find Walenski 25 years ago, yet Arthur found him in less than a day. No, he already knew where he was. But how? And, as Monty said, why? Why give him to us?
'I just don't get it, Monty. Even if he was part of the '80s sex-and-drugs-and-punk-rock era, Arthur comes across as white bread now, so how could he know where Walenski lives?'
'Perhaps Arthur paid this guy not to come forward and testify 25 years ago. Perhaps he's been paying him ever since,' Monty suggested, leaning his hips against the bench and folding his arms across his chest. 'Clearing O'Toole might have implicated Arthur.'
'Then why give me Walenski now?' I countered. 'Besides, Arthur told the police he was down the road getting pizza when the murder happened and I believe him. I can't imagine him killing Genevieve, then calmly going out to buy pizza. He's not that cold-blooded.'
'It's always the least likely suspect who's the killer in Agatha Christie's books.'
I grinned. 'Wonder how Arthur found the missing witness.'
He shrugged. 'You can ask Walenski when we see him.'
'If we don't get over there soon he might do a runner.' I grabbed my coat. 'Then we'll never know.'
'And you couldn't bear that, could you?' Monty uncoiled, moving away from the bench.
I felt an answering coil in the pit of my stomach.
'Your car or mine?' he asked, double entendre intended.
I chose to ignore it. 'You navigate. I'll drive.'
'Then I'd better get the camera out of mine.'
'Whoa. Walenski's been Mr Invisible for 25 years. If we turn up on his doorstep with a camera he's likely to bolt.'
'You're right, but-' he hesitated.
I felt for Monty, the thought of capturing Walenski on film excited me too. 'Bring it just in case.'
Footscray was a run-down suburb across town. By the looks of things, it had inherited St Kilda's mantle. I counted three under-age prostitutes on one corner. My old Corolla wasn't worth stealing except for a teenager's joyride. I parked it under a street light to deter them. As I stepped out of the car, I was glad Monty was with me.
When I joined him on the footpath he'd turned up the collar of his leather jacket and tucked his hands in his pockets. He looked like he was waiting for a roving fashion photographer. I'd never been able to work out if Monty just naturally fell into these poses or if it was all carefully calculated. After all, he had an excellent eye for framing a scene. At any rate, I made a point of never commenting.
A drunk staggered past us, clutched the light pole and threw up in the gutter.
Monty gave a happy sigh. 'Feels just like home.'
I snorted. Monty and I came from a similar poor-respectable backgrounds. At least he knew who his father was and didn't have a heroin-addicted nutter for a mother. I elbowed him in the ribs. 'Keep your mind on the job. Look for 12B.'
There were no street numbers. We were not far from a dilapidated corner store, where a family business was struggling to compete with the nearest 7-Eleven.
'That's 10.' Monty indicated a little worker's cottage, then nodded to the store. 'So that makes the shop number 12.'
My heart sank. Was Arthur yanking my chain?
'Bet that's your man.' Monty pointed to a shadowy outline at the window of the residence above the shop.
Of course. We dodged the rubbish in the lane between the shop and the cottage, found a set of rickety stairs and climbed to the landing. Passing door A, we went on to B. The top screw had fallen off so that the B hung upside down. I knocked.
A knot of excitement curled in my stomach. I glanced at Monty. He had taken a step back. With the street light behind him his face was in shadow, expression unreadable.
'This could be an actor Arthur has hired to feed us a pack of lies,' Monty said softly.
'Arthur wouldn't do that,' I answered instinctively.
He snorted. 'The man's going into politics, Antsy.'
Damn, I'd always been too trusting, too quick to rush into things. Yet, I couldn't imagine Arthur telling a lie. Once elected, he was sure to shoot himself in the foot first chance he got. Why was he going into politics? 'Why would Arthur set us up?'
'To put us off the track.'
'Of?'
'The real killer.'
But we weren't trying to find who killed Genevieve, we were making a documentary about the band. That raised the question: did Arthur know who killed Genevieve?
I looked up at Monty. His eyes gleamed in the shadows.
Just as I went to speak the entry light came on, glowing through the rippled glass. Someone fumbled with the door, opening it as far as the chain would allow. An old man peered out at us. He had been taller than me but he was bent with age, and the flesh had fallen away from his skin, paring down his features to reveal the prominent nose and high cheekbones of a typical middle European profile. A sickly-sweet medicinal smell clung to his body and his clothes were shiny with ground-in grime. He looked genuine to me, but then he would, wouldn't he?
Arthur, a Machiavellian murderer? Logic told me it was possible but it just didn't gel.
The man claiming to be Joseph Walenski looked me up and down, registering surprise. 'You're the one? You don't look old enough to be a documentary producer.'
'I'm not. Not yet, anyway,' I told him. 'You're Walenski?' He nodded. 'I'm Antonia Carlyle, Arthur Davidson gave me your address. He said-'
'You didn't waste any time.' He cut me short as he closed the door to take off the chain, then opened it again and gestured us into a lounge room. 'Come in.'
When the light fell on Monty's face I saw the old guy react the way everyone did.
'This is just Monty. He's okay,' I said. 'He's my DOP, director of photography.'
Walenski's mouth twitched as if he fought a smile but he only nodded and stepped aside. 'Come in.'
But I didn't want to walk into that flat. The scar on my palm itched and a sick feeling settled in my stomach. The place felt claustrophobic. Stale air washed over me: onions, sausages, chips and something else, something I associated with Pop before he died. My great-grandfather passed on when I was seven yet I suddenly saw him vividly in my mind's eye, a grumpy old man, furious with the indignity of dying by degrees in hospital.
'Come in,' Joe repeated, directing us towards a narrow hall. 'This way.'
Rubbing my palm on my thigh, I stepped over the threshold and went down the hall to the living room.