by C. A. Larmer
The hostel van was just pulling out as she made her way back onto the main road, and she noticed it turn down a side street towards what looked like a small park at the other end. Roxy decided to follow it and watched as it parked in a loading zone and the young man jumped out and stepped around to the back. He opened the van and dragged out a few of the blankets and then secured the van again before heading into the park.
Roxy reclaimed the photo and then secured her bag before crossing the street and entering the park behind him. It was barely a park, just a grotty patch of dirt and some scratchy grass where half a dozen homeless guys were now lying on old sleeping bags, or sprawled under trees with makeshift cardboard canopies overhead.
The teen was handing out the blankets to several of the men, and she stood back and watched for a few minutes, assessing the situation. Everyone seemed fairly sedate—she regularly encountered homeless types in Elizabeth Bay and they were sometimes aggressive, swearing and spitting and cursing the world at large, and she didn’t blame them, but this lot looked relatively relaxed. She took a deep breath and walked up to one elderly man in a jumble of stinky clothes who was just shoving the blanket into his swag. Closer, she realised he was probably more like fifty, but life had taken its toll.
“Hi there,” she called out, holding a hand up to show that she meant no harm.
He glanced at her and away again, then dropped back onto his bum beneath a tree.
“I’m looking for Gordon Reilly. Known as Gordo? Do you know anyone by that name?”
She held out the photo but he didn’t even look at her this time, so she tried a different tack, reaching into her coat pocket and producing the brown paper bag of muffins.
“Are you hungry?”
This time he stared at her like she’d just offered him poison and turned away, growling something she couldn’t quite make out. She knew a bottle of vodka might have been more welcomed but that felt too much like a bribe and it didn’t sit comfortably with her.
She glanced around and noticed the hostel worker was already exiting the park and, not comfortable with the idea of being here alone, she considered giving up completely when someone called out, “Oi, lady, whadyawant?!”
Roxy swung around to find a short, fat man staring at her from a dilapidated park bench with colourful graffiti all over it. She walked towards him slowly, realising as she approached that he was actually a she, and a very scary looking she at that. The woman was dressed just like the men around her, in a shabby black coat and boots, and her hair was cropped short, a stream of rings up her ears, and a smudged tattoo down her neck. It looked like someone had taken a bottle of black ink and flung it at her.
“Hi there,” Roxy said, trying to pull off a mixture of friendly and confident. “I’m looking for Gordon Reilly.”
“Never heard of ’im, ” the woman replied, her eyes dancing with delight.
“Okay, just through I’d try.”
“I’ll ’ave the cake though.”
Roxy glanced at the muffin bag and back at the woman. She handed one of the muffins over.
“What d’ya want ’im for?” the woman said, taking a large, wolfish bite.
She wondered how to play it and eventually said, “Um, his wife is worried about him, that’s all.”
The woman cackled. “Then I definitely don’t know ’im.” She cackled again.
“I just want to speak with him for two minutes. Then I’ll leave him alone. I promise.”
“Said I don’t know ’im.”
She had stopped cackling and was already moving away, stuffing the remains of the muffin into her coat, when Roxy said, “I have a picture!”
She held the image out with one hand, her other pointing at Gordon Reilly, and the woman turned back and snuck a quick look at it, then went to look away when something stopped her. She snatched the picture out of Roxy’s hand and stared at it.
“Surly the Surveyor? That who you’re lookin’ for?”
Roxy held her breath. “Yes, I guess so. I know him as—”
“Boring as bat shit is what he is. Always goin’ on about his bloody survey days out in bloody wherever. Best years of his bloody life, yada yada yada. Why don’t he fug off and go back there then, eh? Got any more food? Grog? Spare a tenner?”
Roxy smiled. She knew how this went, and found the spare cash she’d placed in her pocket for just such an occasion. She held it up for the woman to see.
“Know where I can find him?”
The woman eyed the money hungrily. “Yeah, at Matt’s place.”
“Matt?”
“Matt Talbot’s Hostel. Where else you reckon he is? The Hilton?” She cackled again.
Chapter 19
The Surly Surveyor was up on the roof terrace of the hostel, hunched over at a table reading a book when Roxy finally found him. The same weary manager had walked her up and pointed him out.
“Sorry, sweetheart, but he’s never used the name Gordon, far as I know. Had no idea.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Do you mind if I speak to him?”
He shrugged. “It’s a free world. This one don’t bite, but you’ll be lucky to get much out of him. Quiet type. Unless you bring up Indonesia, then you can’t shut him up.”
She smiled. “So I hear.”
“Call out if ya need me,” he said, and left her to it.
Gordon Reilly was a gaunt, almost ghostly looking figure, his eyes like hollows in his head, his long, thin neck as scrawny as a plucked chicken’s. He had a bald head and a smattering of stubble across his bony chin, and was clad in the homeless uniform: oversized black jacket and trousers and lumpy old boots. He was also wearing a thick, fraying, green scarf flung several times around his neck and, she noticed, a thick, tarnished silver wedding band on his left hand.
She stepped towards him. “Gordon Reilly?”
For a few moments he didn’t say a thing and she was wondering how to play it when he finally said, “Who wants to know?”
His voice was soft and well spoken but his eyes did not leave the ratty, yellowing pages of what looked like pulp fiction in front of him.
Roxy pulled the picture from her jacket and placed it beside the book. “Berny Tiles. Or, his daughter, Sondra, to be more precise.”
That got his attention and he shot a quick look at her before looking at the picture.
“May I?” Roxy indicated the plastic chair in front of him and when he didn’t say anything, she pulled it out and sat down slowly. She didn’t want to spook the guy, but she was sick of the wild goose chase and was determined to get some answers, today if possible.
“Is that you?” she said, indicating the G. Reilly in the photo. He still didn’t speak so she tapped on Betty’s face. “And that’s your ex-wife.”
“Wife,” he said, glancing at her quickly and then away. He began playing with his ring, turning it round and round on his bony finger. “We’re not divorced.”
“She’s worried about you.”
“She shouldn’t be. I’m perfectly fine.”
“You call being homeless fine?”
His brow furrowed but he still didn’t meet her eyes. “Who says I’m homeless?”
She stammered, “I just thought ...” She waved a hand around the roof top that was bustling with men of all shapes and sizes, ages and ethnicities hungrily tearing into hot meals or sharing games of chess and dominoes.
“I work here, you know. I’ve got a job.”
“Sorry, I didn’t realise.”
Still he didn’t meet her eyes, just stared down at the table, whether focused on the photo or the book she could not tell. He had stopped playing with the ring.
“I was ... on the streets. Matt’s took me in. Cleaned me up. I’m 443 days sober.”
“Congratulations.”
He didn’t acknowledge this. “I do odd jobs now and again, pick ups and deliveries mostly, occasionally help out in the kitchen, that sort of thing. It’s not survey work but it’s honest work
. Pays my board up at a bedsit on Challis Avenue. You go back and tell that to Betty and Berny. I’m fine.”
Roxy’s eyebrows shot up. “Berny? Berny’s dead.”
She hadn’t meant it to sound so blunt, and she couldn’t tell if this was news to Gordon or not, but his demeanour did not alter one bit.
Eventually he said, “Oh well, that will happen.”
“He was killed in a car accident on Father’s Day. Police suspect he was deliberately hit.”
That didn’t seem to surprise him either and he still didn’t look at her. “Is that why you’re here?”
He flashed her a very quick glance then before turning his eyes back to his book. Roxy tapped on the picture beside him.
“I’m here to ask about this photo. It seemed to mean something to Berny. He gave it to me for a book I’ve been writing and was desperate to get it back before he died. His daughter wants to know why.”
“Book?”
“Yes, about Sir Wolfgang Bergman.”
He hunched over even further towards the table and she couldn’t make out his expression at all. He had begun playing with his wedding ring again.
“I’m trying to find out why Berny wanted this picture so badly. Do you have any idea why it was so important to him? If there’s anything particularly special about it?”
She was deliberately keeping things vague so as not to scare him off. If Betty really did have an affair with Berny that night, he wasn’t going to want to chat about it.
“Can’t think why he’d want that photo,” he said eventually. “It would just remind him of all that he lost.”
“Lost? What do you mean?” Was he referring to Betty, she wondered?
He lapsed into silence again so she tried a fresh angle.
“How well do you remember that Congress? The day that picture was taken?”
His jaw tensed. “Like it’s been tattooed to the back of my brain.” He paused. “It was the day my life fell apart.”
It was a startling statement but his matter-of-fact tone had not changed and he simply pushed the photo back towards Roxy and returned to his book. Throughout this entire exchange he did not meet her eyes once and she wanted to scream, “Why?! What happened?!” But she had to play it cool, so she produced the final muffin and placed it on the table.
“Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?”
He looked at the muffin and then, finally, at her. “No thank you, but I’ll have your paper.”
He indicated the newspaper that was poking out from her backpack and she pulled it out and handed it over.
He pounced on it, stashing it under his novel. “Nothing decent to read around here.”
“Nothing decent to read in there either,” she said, nodding at the paper and he smiled suddenly, revealing a mouth full of discoloured teeth. He was obviously a smoker, although she noticed there were no ashtrays or smokers about. It was probably banned up here on the roof, and she couldn’t help wondering why. Lung cancer was surely the least of their worries.
Feeling encouraged, Roxy said, “It’d really help me, Gordon, if you could tell me about that Congress, what happened, why everyone’s being so secretive?”
He looked down at the table again. “Betty didn’t tell you?”
“Not really, no.”
“Then I certainly won’t. But I will say this. My life fell apart that day, so did Betty’s. It was the beginning of the end. A dreadful, dreadful day.”
Again, his tone was flat and unemotional, as though he was merely discussing the weather, and she felt like giving him a good shake. Instead, she decided to shake things up.
“Was Berny to blame?” she said, thinking of the words “Beautiful Bett”.
He nudged an eyebrow at the photo. “Berny had his own problems that day.”
“Such as?”
“Wolfie didn’t give you the juicy details for his fancy book, then? Didn’t tell you all about it? What a surprise.” His voice was now laced with sarcasm and there was an edge she didn’t like but she was getting increasingly confused. Were they even discussing the same subject?
“Tell me what? I’m not sure what you mean. Gordon, what happened at that Congress?”
He glanced up at her again. “What happened to Berny?”
“Yes!”
He shrugged and said matter of factly, “He got played. Simple as that.”
“Played? By whom?”
“Wolfgang, who else?”
Her head was starting to ache and she must have looked as confused as she felt because he added, “It was the oldest scam in the book. Wolfie made Berny look like a fool at that Congress, which is why I’m bloody surprised to hear he wanted the picture. If I was him, I’d burn it.” His eyes clouded over. “Wolfie made fools of us all that day, but I was also a coward and that’s worse. Much worse.”
Then he turned back to his book and continued to read.
Roxy tried several more angles but Gordon Reilly was done and didn’t acknowledge any of her questions. “Can you tell me any more?” she pleaded. “It would really help Sondra.”
He continued to ignore her as though she wasn’t even there and eventually she gave up, taking the photo and getting to her feet. She was just reaching into her backpack when he finally spoke again.
“How is Betty? My boy?” Gordon’s hollowed eyes looked up at her imploringly.
She gave him a reassuring smile. “Betty seems good. I haven’t met Brian, but she said to tell you they’re both doing well. She said they’re anxious to find you.”
Gordon’s eyes brimmed with tears suddenly which surprised her and she stepped towards him, wanting to comfort, but he shook his head firmly as if warning her off, and looked back at his book. She pulled Betty’s business card out of her pack and placed it on the table in front of him.
“She asked you to get in touch.” She tapped the card. “Call her on her mobile.”
He didn’t take the card, nor did he look at it, so she took this as her final exit cue and left him there, lost in his thoughts or his hard - boiled mystery or both, the swirl of sad and lonely men around him. Gordon Reilly might have cleaned up his act, but he was still as sad and lonely as the rest of them.
And Roxy was nowhere closer to clarity.
Chapter 20
All Roxy wanted was a long, warm bath, but what she needed was to have another little chat to Wolfgang, and soon. She wanted to know what Gordon was talking about. How exactly had Berny been “played” by his old billionaire mate? What was this scam, and could it have something to do with Berny’s violent death?
She retraced her steps, back through Woolloomooloo and up the grinding stone steps to Potts Point, cursing her lack of fitness yet again. At the top her phone rang and she answered it, panting hard as she did so.
“Jesus, Parker, you’re a hard woman to track down,” Max said. “How are you?”
“I’m great.”
“You don’t sound great.”
She gulped in more air. “Just puffing, I’ve been out power walking,” she lied. “How’s the advertorial going? Bored yet?”
“No, I’m actually really enjoying this one. In fact, I’ve got a spare minute and I wanted to talk to you about something—”
A sudden “beep beep” sound could be heard in the background and Roxy groaned. “Sorry, someone must be trying to get through. Just ignore them, what were you going to say?”
“It’s just that I have some news.” The “beep beep” sounded again.
“What news?” she asked.
“I’d better let you get that. Don’t worry, it’ll keep. I just wanted you to know I miss you and I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
That’s right, she thought, I’d better not forget to pick him up.
“I’ll text you the flight deets now, okay?”
“Great, yep, I’ll be there.” The “beep beep” sound persisted and she said, “Bugger it, I’d better go.”
The impatient caller turned out
to be Sondra, looking for another update. As Roxy continued walking back to her neighbouring suburb, she filled her in on all she had found, including the phlegmatic Gordon Reilly.
“What did this man mean about my father being played?” Sondra asked. “Do you know? Do you have any idea?”
“Not yet, no. He was a man of few words, but he did say your dad got the raw end of some deal.”
“And he knows all the details of this ... deal, does he?”
“I suppose so, but he wasn’t giving anything away. Everyone is ridiculously secretive about that Congress, which makes me think you are definitely on to something. I mean, why all the secrecy? As soon as people start putting up brick walls, I start wondering what’s behind them.”
By now Roxy had reached Elizabeth Bay and was leaning against her car, catching her breath. “I’m off to see Sir Wolfgang now, maybe he can help me dismantle a few of the bricks.”
Not if Ginny Bergman had anything to do with it. Wolfgang’s wife was clearly not happy to see Roxy again so soon and told her as much.
“Look, Roxanne, I do not like all these visits, you are not welcome to just drop in whenever you please! Who do you think you are? The Queen?!” She bat her thick black eyelashes at Roxy and folded her arms across her ample breasts, pushing them up and out of the skin-tight, black Lycra jacket she was wearing over leopard print leggings. “I told you before, he is very, very sick!”
Roxy apologised. “But I wouldn’t be interrupting him, Ginny, if it wasn’t extremely important. I won’t take more than a few minutes. I promise.” She tried batting her own eyelids innocently and when that didn’t work she added somewhat cryptically, “I’ve got some questions that absolutely need answering. If Sir Wolfgang can’t or won’t answer them, I’ll have to find someone who will.”
That did the trick. Ginny’s eyes narrowed and she sighed dramatically before leading Roxy through the house and, this time, out the back into the sprawling back yard. Roxy had interviewed Wolfgang out here several times before, but it still took her breath away each time she saw it. It was a truly stunning garden, much like an English country estate, transplanted to the Australian landscape. There were immaculately clipped hedges, one in the shape of a dove, another looked a little like a turtle. There were numerous pebble pathways winding through pretty clusters of lavender and camellias, violets and rose bushes, a spouting fountain against a rock wall at one end, a lacy pergola at the other. And right in the middle, surrounded in fresh green lawn sat a towering weeping willow under which several wrought iron chairs and a table had been placed.
