by Peter Corris
I called on Harry after I’d read the article. I knew the protocol now.
‘Great piece,’ I said. ‘Your idea?’
‘Partly.’
‘Any reaction to it?’
‘A lot. Plenty of denials, advice from doctors about the perils of addiction, worried letters from employers who suspected their staff and from staff who suspected other staff. Lots of defensiveness and paranoia.’
‘Police response?’
‘Complete silence. Before you ask, Cliff, I checked the files on the two people Artie named. Nothing on Gamble, minor item on the woman. She was attacked outside her flat a few months ago and got cut up a bit. Claimed to have no idea of the reason.’
‘Thanks, Harry. With all this information at your disposal, why don’t you write a novel? They say there’s big dough in it if you get it right.’
Tickener rubbed the smooth shiny skin on the top of his head. ‘Fuck you, Cliff. I’ve written six, can’t get ‘em published. Now that you’ve thoroughly depressed me, you can piss off.’
I went, leaving him to rub his shiny head. Maybe if he rubbed it the right way it’d conjure up a genie who’d help him get his novels published.
An instinct told me that this was something like the right track. Dealing with the young, upwardly-mobile drug-interested sounded just like Mountain’s style, and the subject seemed like a good fresh one for popular fiction. One article in The News was hardly over-exposure.
It was late in the afternoon, with heavy traffic building. The weather had turned uncertain; the sky was a leaden grey, purplish in the distance, and the wind was an irritable, swirling thing that seemed to be snapping at the nerves of the people in the street. More than usually, they were jay-walking, misjudging speeds and mouthing obscenities at the drivers, me included.
Part of Elizabeth Street was being torn up and, with the number of lanes reduced, the cars moved along in snarling, resentful jerks. It took me almost an hour to get from Broadway up to St Peter’s Lane, and I had an aching head and a dry throat when I got there. An hour of swearing and being sworn at is bad preparation for anything; the stairs up to the floor where my office is seemed to have doubled and got steeper, and the corridor looked longer and gloomier than usual.
I opened the door, and the letters inside skittered across the floor. I left them there and ran the answering machine tape. The first two calls signified nothing; the third was crisp and to the point:
‘Hardy,’ the voice was light, neutral-sounding-possibly Grey’s. ‘Message: call 827 3410 before midnight without fail. Whether you have anything to say or not.’
I wanted to talk back to the voice, ask it to be reasonable, enter into dialogue, maybe work out a deal. But the message was as brief and uncommunicative as a classified ad. Grey had a sound psychological grasp though. After another business message the voice came through again:
‘The girl is in good health.’
Unless Hardy screws up. I thought. I ran the rest of the tape in hope that there might be some good news on it. The last message was a somewhat breathless one from Lambert, the literary facilitator, asking me to call him urgently. I got Maud first, but she put me through without any chat. When Lambert answered, I imagined I could see him twisting his head in that nervous, persecuted manner. I felt like doing some head-twisting myself.
‘Oh, God! Thanks for calling, Hardy. Another section of the synopsis has just arrived.’
I thought I’d ask the sleuthly question first this time. ‘How was it delivered?’
‘What? Oh, by mail. Special delivery or something.’
‘Posted in Sydney?’
‘How do I know? Oh, I see, the envelope. I’ll get Maud to look. Does it really matter?’
‘Don’t know,’ I grunted. ‘Well, what does he say?’
He wasn’t a complete fool, and he remembered that he was getting my time for free. ‘What have you come up with?’
‘Some things, some names. I could be getting closer. But what he’s writing is still crucial. I need to know.’
‘Of course. Well, it’s frightful, gripping stuff… but very disturbing.’
‘Can you still hear the cash registers?’
‘I’ll ignore that. I’d be a hypocrite if I said it wasn’t commercial; but the disturbing thing is that the suicide motif seems to be getting stronger. The hero…’ he broke off and coughed, ‘well, the protagonist is well and truly hooked on the drugs he’s selling, and he’s developed a new interest.’
‘Hold on, I’m more interested in threats. He’s still being threatened by the original crims, the car people?’
‘Umm, he feels so, and also by people involved in the drug business. He’s stepping on toes there, but there’s something worse.’
‘Jesus, worse?’
‘It’s another level of threat, really, and coming from himself. He’s sort of splitting into two personalities and the one threatens the other with physical extinction.’ I could hear the excitement in his voice; maybe the breathlessness had come from ringing me while reading the last few words. ‘It’s extraordinary. I’ve never read anything like it-very contemporary and powerful.’
‘You’re writing the reviews, Mr Lambert. I wouldn’t if I were you. Any note with it?’
‘No.’
‘I’m going to need to see this. Can you run me off a copy? I’ll come by and get it now.’
‘I can do that, yes. Do you really think you’re getting somewhere?’
Oddly, I thought I was. I had a feeling that I was gaining on William Mountain, but I also had a feeling that he knew he was being gained on. I made encouraging noises to Lambert, and left the office. On the stairs I remembered that I hadn’t made a note of the contact number Grey, if it was Grey, had left. I swore, and went back and wrote it down. On the stairs again and I realised that I hadn’t looked at the mail; this time I just swore and kept going.
Maud was waiting for me just inside the door at Brent Carstairs. She handed me a manila envelope, ritually, as if it contained the Bruce-Partington plans, and waited for me to make a smart remark. I fooled her.
Lambert evidently didn’t want to see me, and I could live with that. I wanted to think of the synopsis as cards in my hand and Erica’s safety as the pot. I didn’t want to see Lambert’s bow tie or the best-seller-at-risk look in his eyes.
When I got back to Glebe, Hilde was there collecting some pot plants from the garden and some other things she’d left behind in the house. She was about four months pregnant, very happy, and had never looked better. She kissed me and stood back.
‘You look like hell, Cliff. What’ve you been doing to yourself?’
I tried to review my day-Grey, Tickener, Henderson, Lambert: unloving company-no wonder I wasn’t looking my freshest. I grunted something unintelligible, and peered through the dusty window at the backyard, which looked a bit more dusty itself now that a couple of the pots had gone. Hilde pulled at the envelope in my hand.
‘What’s this?’ Her tolerant, amused curiosity about my work was one of things I liked about her. One of them; there were plenty more. I gave her an abbreviated account of the case while she made some coffee. I didn’t give her the details about the night with Erica, but I didn’t need to-Hilde’s antennae for sexual signals were highly tuned.
‘What will Helen think about that?’
‘What can she say? Do I object to her giving ol’ Mike his conjugals?’
‘You do, but you don’t say. It’s not quite the same, somehow.’ She bent down and stroked the cat. ‘He’s sleek, looks like you’re taking better care of him than yourself.’
‘He runs the show. How’s Frank?’
‘He’s fine, working hard what with all this hood-killing going on.’ She patted her stomach and looked proudly at her big breasts. ‘He’s looking forward to it like mad. I hope he’s there on the day.’
‘He’ll be there. I’m sorry, love. I’ve got to read this.’
‘That’s all right. If you find out any mor
e, you can go on with the story. I know you always keep back the nasty stuff anyway.’
I grinned. ‘That’s true.’
‘I’ll collect up some more of my junk. What happened here? Everything’s all messed up.’
‘I had visitors.’
‘Nasty stuff.’
She went upstairs, and I turned my attention to the manuscript. The new sections were calculated to give Lambert cardiac arrest. He was right about the drive and intensity; Mountain seemed to be constructing the thing in a series of cliff-hangers, a series of climaxes building towards a grand climax as he drew the threads together and hurled characters into collision. The self-destructive theme, hinted at earlier, became an obsessive, schizophrenic battle heightened by drugs. I read with fascination, until I remembered that I was supposed to be reading for enlightenment and information about the writer. Even in its sketchy form the account of the social drug scene, and the woman the protagonist involved himself with, jelled with Artie Henderson’s information The woman had rape fantasies, and it appeared that the book would delve into her real life encounter with a would-be rapist and its effect on her sexual psychology. And on the hero’s. Some of the language suggested that Mountain had read a bit in the field, or listened closely to Dr Holmes.
‘Elizabeth Groves’ was Deirdre Kelly and ‘Morgan Shaw’ was William Mountain, but who else was he?
I was re-reading intently when Hilde came back. She coughed politely.
‘I’ve got to go, Cliff. How does it look now?’
‘Bloody sticky. Didn’t do any psychology along with the dentistry, did you, love?’
‘Not much. Why?’
‘Are schizophrenics suicidal, d’you reckon?’
‘God, is it that heavy? I suppose so-some of them.’
‘Know anything about rape fantasies?’
‘Ugh, no. My fantasies are a lot more gentle.’
‘You must tell me about them some time.’
‘If you go first.’ She hefted a bundle of clothes onto her hip as if she was practising for motherhood. I grinned at her.
‘I’d have to think about that. Is Frank at work now?’
‘Should be.’ She blew me a kiss and went off down the passage. I missed her as soon as I heard the door close. I got my notebook and took it over to the phone.
‘Parker.’
‘Gidday, Frank, it’s Hardy. I’ve just been talking to Hilde.’
‘That puts you up on me, I haven’t seen her for nearly twenty-four hours. Is she okay?’
‘Never better. I need some help, Frank.’
‘Jesus, Cliff. It’s a bad time.’
‘Quick file job. Policewoman Bennett could handle it.’
‘She’s moved to Vice. Never mind, I’ll get someone. What is it?’
I told him as much as I needed to get the files checked and he said he’d get back to me in half an hour or sooner. That gave me time to make a sandwich and re-heat some of Hilde’s coffee. I’d taken two bites and was adding the milk, when the phone rang; he’s a fast worker, Frank, and he likes to have fast workers around him.
‘There’s not much on it,’ he said.
‘Anything.’
‘Your voice sounds strange.’
‘I’m chewing; excuse my manners. I promise I won’t spit. I’m also drinking some coffee Hilde made for me.’
‘That doesn’t sound right; I’m at work and doing little chores for you and you’re drinking my woman’s coffee.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Just be eternally grateful to me for bringing you two together.’
‘I am. Well, wanna hear it?’
I swallowed for an answer.
‘Okay, Deirdre Kelly, age thirty-six, Montague Street, West Pymble, lives alone, divorced, no kids, runs a travel agency in the city. Doing well, blah, blah. She alleged she was attacked in the car park… quoting now, she presented with hysterical symptoms, unquote. She was a bit scratched up, nothing serious. Assailant had a knife, didn’t want money. She didn’t say what he did want.’
‘How did she get clear?’
‘Screamed the place awake, ran around a bit. A neighbour came out and helped her. Do you want the resident’s name?’
‘Is that the neighbour, the resident?’
‘Yeah. God, I’m out of line giving you this.’
‘Don’t think I need the neighbour’s name, or the resident’s. Did this person see the attacker?’
‘Ah… no.’
‘Who filed the report.’
‘Christ, the signature’s written in Martian. Constable Selwyn. He seems to be the one with the medical grasp, talks about contusions, would you believe.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Scouted the vicinity, interviewed a few residents
‘And?’
‘Found nothing.’
‘Action?’
‘None. Only odd thing detected, and I use the word advisedly, by the alert Selwyn, was that Kelly said she’d driven herself home, but one of the residents had the impression that another car had come into the car park just before the ruckus.’
I grunted. ‘Kelly sticks with “unknown assailant”?’
‘Yep. Dr Selwyn has an opinion, of course. He opines that Kelly suffered a “hysterical fantasy”, probably brought on by rejection.’
‘He sounds like a useful bloke, save you a lot of work.’
‘I don’t know; work is what turns him on. He goes on to say that he thinks Kelly could be dangerous.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Ah, she described the knife in detail and later said she wished she could have turned the knife on the…’
‘Alleged assailant.’
‘Yeah, thank Christ the press didn’t get hold of that.’
‘Ah-hah,’ I said, ‘the fourth estate.’
‘Yeah. Some reporter picked up the story. Probably got tipped off by a resident. There was a little piece in The Globe that tried to tie it in with a few other attacks up there, but it died. No good asking you what you’re poking into I suppose?’
There was nothing to be accomplished just then by search warrants, arrests or formal charges. All the criminality-Mountain’s, Grey’s, possibly Kelly’s, possibly my own-was relative. I thanked Frank, and said I’d see him soon. He heard notes in my voice I wasn’t aware of.
‘Be careful, Cliff. These are violent, times.’
‘All times are violent, but some times are more violent than others.’
‘Must keep your head down. My kid needs an uncle.’
He rang off and I looked down at my notepad. I underlined Kelly’s name and addressed and boxed it in; then I shaded around it; I drew a triangle on top of the box and cross-hatched the triangle. The doodle might have meant something to Dr Holmes but it didn’t mean a damn thing to me.
20
Pymble is a long way off the track I beat. By reputation, it is inhabited by people who feel good about their big mortgages and tax shelters. They write letters to the papers about capital gains tax and abuses of the welfare system. It is a place light on pubs, corner shops and cars parked in the street-not one I had much impulse to visit, and especially now, with a hard Friday behind me, a phone call to make by midnight, and no very good ideas.
I had a shower and shave in honour of the money in Pymble, and I had a beer and put my gun in the holster under my armpit in honour of Glebe. I was wearing a blue cotton shirt and pants and a denim jacket Hilde had bought me. She said the style was blouson; I said it was good for concealing a gun.
The drive to Pymble took an hour plus. I had to battle against the North Shoreites who were coming into town for a good time. For company, I had the people who were going up to their hobby farms for the weekend. It was like struggling in a river of money with the current going both ways.
In the directory, West Pymble appears as part of the peninsula of residential land that sticks out into the green belt of the Lane Cove river park. The streets were tree-lined with wide, grassy strips outside the broad
frontages. To the south, the park was like a dense, dark, whispering sea. The daylight was finished when I arrived at Montague Street, and excessive street lighting must have been considered vulgar in those parts, because I found myself squinting and peering through the gloom trying to spot the apartment block.
I located it towards the end of the street; it was a new building, set back and masquerading as a hide-out in Sherwood Forest. The architect must have been given plenty of space to play with, because he’d arranged the three-storey structure around a courtyard with subsidiary gardens and discreet car parks. There were no obtrusive, high brick walls, no foot-high letters reading ‘The Gables’, no concrete patches for rubbish bins. It was all so pricey and in keeping with the stately houses in the street that the old-time residents couldn’t have objected.
Kelly’s address was Apartment Seven, another nice touch; no suggestion that there would ever be another apartment block here but this monument to good taste. I parked across the street and approached the entrance to what I was privately calling flat seven. I was behaving completely instinctively, with no plan, and only the vaguest idea of what I was looking for or what I might say.
The cars parked in the area that serviced numbers five to eight were a Honda Accord, a Ford Laser and a Citroen. One empty space; no Audi. Kelly’s apartment had a basement section that took advantage of the sloping land; there were slanted windows, like skylights, to let light into it, on either side of the entrance to the ground floor section, which looked to comprise three bedrooms at least, with plenty of space around them. Patio at the back with French windows; side door letting
out onto a flag-stoned path and vine-entwined pergola. Pretty nice if you could afford it, and didn’t mind living this far from the GPO.
There were some lights showing in the apartment, and I thought I could hear a murmur of voices. I went under the pergola and took a peep up at a window; the junction boxes and cables indicated medium-heavy security. I went up the wide brick steps and banged on the door. Nothing happened to the lights or the voices. As I retreated to the steps, a car swung in off the road, mounted the grass at the side of the gravel path, found the path again and skidded into the courtyard. It was a silver VW with a soft top and a left hand drive; the driver swung the wheel hard at the last moment and the car ended up skew-whiff, half in and half out of the empty parking bay.
