Blood Guilt. Lindy Cameron

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СКАЧАТЬ her surveillance of Geoffrey Robinson at 6 o'clock. Parked three sweeping drives away from the Robinson residence, she had watched Celia and Geoffrey return from their afternoon of tennis at 6.15. He had emerged again, driving a dark green Bentley, at 7 and driven from Toorak to The Patrician with only one stop, at the South Yarra post office where he checked a private post box. He'd entered The Patrician a little after 7.30 after exchanging a few brief words in the doorway with an elderly gent who was on his way out.

      'God, this is so boring,' Kit complained to the brick wall beside her. The radio was caught in a time warp, playing the same songs over and over and over, and if she heard one more rap tune she was going to shoot the bloody thing. The huge door in the lane opposite swung open and Kit caught sight of Geoffrey amongst the group of Patricians who seemed to tumble from the club as if they'd been regurgitated.

      Several minutes later Kit was following the green Bentley down St Kilda Road. Her renewed hopes of a reasonably early night, however, were dashed as he ignored the last possible turn-off for home, took a right turn at the Junction and a left into Grey Street, slowing down as he got to the sexual hub of downtown St Kilda.

      'Oh great Geoffrey! So this is what you do with your spare change,' she said as she too had to slow to cruising speed to maintain a sensible distance behind OHP's business manager as he perved at the short-skirted, red-lipped scenery. He pulled into the curb four or five times and, though apparently hard to please, was caught for posterity in full colour by Kit's motor-driven Nikon. She was confident she'd managed to get at least one profile, his unmistakable ears fairly flapping in the breeze as a charming blonde put her best tit forward in her bid to bonk in the back seat of his Bentley.

      'No deal, sweetheart,' Kit said aloud. 'Our Geoffrey seems to be looking for something special tonight.'

      Geoffrey turned down the next street on the left and Kit had to slam on her brakes to avoid ending up in his boot as she rounded the corner. The Bentley was curbside again and this time Geoffrey was consulting with a young punk whose black jeans were so tight he must have sprayed them on. Kit had no choice but to drive on. She pulled in a little further up the street and looked back to see Geoffrey park the car on her side of a large elm tree, out of the full glare of the street light on the corner.

      In her struggle to get into the back seat Kit missed getting a photo of Master Snake-hips opening the passenger door of the Bentley and getting in. The telephoto lens could not pick up any detail from that distance but Kit could make out that the young man did not remain in view for long, and that for some reason Geoffrey had tilted his seat back - just a little.

      'I wonder if this is the kind of floozy Celia had in mind,' Kit thought. She was quick off the mark when the Bentley's interior light came on a few minutes later as the passenger door opened. She got a couple of good shots of man giving boy money, before Geoffrey's hand shot up to cover the light.

      'Bourke Street, Monday night. 11 p.m. to be exact. 26 degrees and no breeze.' Kit switched the walkperson's record button off while she argued with the top of the esky which was sitting on the passenger seat beside her. 'For God's sake I just want a drink, let me in.' She thumped the lid with one hand at the same time as her jiggling of the handle with the other released the catch. The lid leapt out the open window and landed in the gutter. 'Oh fine, if that's the way you feel,' she said getting out of the car to retrieve it.

      'Right now, where was I?' she said, settling back in the driver's seat. She twisted the top off a bottle of mineral water and switched the record button back on.

      'Monday night, 11.05. Still no breeze. Geoffrey Robinson, the portly Miles Denning and Mr Zaber Ink himself were the first to arrive for what appears to be a purely social evening. They were joined over the next 15 minutes, by Marjorie Finlay - the power-dressed marketing director desperately in need of sensible shoes; Greg, the blimp, Fulton - desperately enamoured of Marjorie Finlay; a tall, elegantly-dressed, grey-eyed woman who was obviously desperately interested in everything that went on around her, despite her detached manner; and a petite blonde who, although obviously desperate about her life in general, made only a few half-hearted attempts to distract Fulton's attention from the impressive Marjorie F, who in actual fact was directing all her attention towards Geoffrey. Here they come. End transmission!'

      Kit turned her attention to the doorway across the street. The Stone Garden was one of those first floor city restaurants accessed by a long flight of stairs from an inconspicuous door at street level. Staking out such an establishment was next to impossible unless all you wanted to do was record the comings and goings and not the goings on. So Kit had reserved a table for two and, after convincing her brother Michael that getting a free meal would be worth the effort of finding a clean shirt, she had arrived a good fifteen minutes before the group from OHP.

      While Michael had pushed sushi around his plate and discussed his ideas of light, colour and the cosmic inspiration of his latest painting, Kit had kept her eyes and half her mind focussed on the Robinson entourage. Apart from giving her a chance to see the public, or rather socially acceptable, side of Geoffrey it had also made it easier to know who to photograph leaving the restaurant. Which was what they were doing now, a good hour after Kit had sent Michael home in a taxi.

      The first to leave was the grey-eyed woman who strolled up the street alone and climbed into a Stag. Next to emerge was Greg Fulton and the little blonde, followed shortly after by the rest of the group. There was a lot of laughing and shaking of hands in the street before Marjorie Finlay and William Zaber set off in one direction and Geoffrey and Miles Denning the other.

      Kit started her car but waited till they had walked round the corner before making a U-turn to follow Geoffrey. Denning was standing beside the Bentley waiting for Geoffrey to unlock the doors. Next stop, The Patrician. The alley Kit had used on Saturday was occupied by a beat up old Holden so she had to park down the street a little in a No Standing Zone.

      Half an hour later Kit grabbed her camera to get a shot of one of the city's new breed of boy wonders leaving one of the city's oldest boys' clubs. Kit recognised Ian Dalkeith from two photographs she'd seen in the weekend papers. One had shown him hobnobbing with all the right people at a recent polo match, obviously trying to polish off a few of his rough edges. The other had accompanied a short article describing in typically vague terms the re-development plans for Dalkeith's latest acquisition. Several hectares of disused docklands would eventually be transformed into 'a state of the art integrated business and residential district worthy of Melbourne's position in the international market place' - whatever the hell that meant.

      It appeared the young property developer was cultivating a public persona. Two years ago the press would have said 'Ian Who?' But now there were two things about the boy-from-Nowhere, that mythical place not found on any map, that the social pages at least could not ignore: he was very, very rich and very, very handsome. For the life of her Kit couldn't work out how a 40-year-old parvenu from the world of real estate had become friends with a 54-year-old wanker from the publishing industry. Unless of course they had first met in the front seat of Geoffrey's Bentley! But that would be too weird.

      Kit was beginning to wonder just what went on amongst the Patricians that prompted Geoffrey to follow a couple of hours at his club with a few quick thrills in St Kilda. For there he was again, cruising along the gutter, checking out the local merchandise. The punk from Saturday night, or at least it looked like the same guy, stuck his head through the open window of the Bentley but was obviously not the desired flavour for the night. He stepped back from the car and pointed down the street, whereon Geoffrey pulled out into the traffic and then parked one block further down.

      Kit watched as Geoffrey just sat there, waving off the approaches of a couple of perfectly acceptable sex workers, until a tall redhead sashayed passed his car - expertly ignoring him. 'Hooked you, you jerk-off,' Kit said with a laugh, as she saw Geoffrey lean across the passenger seat.

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