by Peter Corris
At seven-fifteen Claudia Vardon, wearing a blue silk dress and a white jacket, arrived at my door. An hour later the jacket was on the back of a chair at the Flavour of India restaurant in Glebe Point Road and we were looking at the menu and drinking Wolf Blass chablis. Two hours after that she took off the blue dress and her black underwear and lay down on my bed. Half an hour after that, give or take a few minutes, we were lying under the covers with sweat drying on us and our bodies still locked together and our hands still wandering.
‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘I can still feel you in there.’
I pressed close to her and felt her muscles grip and hold me. ‘I’m staying, too.’
‘Can you come again?’
‘I think so.’
‘Go on, then, Cliff. Please go on. It’s lovely.’
We did it again, less athletically but with more skill. I came in a long, almost painful shudder and didn’t mind a bit when her fingernails sank into my shoulders.
‘You didn’t,’ I said when I’d recovered.
‘No. Catch you next time. Lovely, though. Lovely.’
I eased myself out of her and she put her hand down as I did, controlling the withdrawal. ‘Easy, boy,’ she said. ‘Don’t want any leaking. Let me do it.’
She rolled the condom off, reached for a couple of tissues, wrapped it up and dropped it on the floor. She brushed her hands together.
‘That’s it for those little Cliffords. Are there any little Cliffords or Cliffordettes by the way?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘What about you?’
‘Uh uh, left it till late in the piece and then I met Mr Wrong.’
‘What would you like to drink?’
She moved away and slid out of the bed. ‘A big glass of mineral water would be good, with lots of ice and just a little bit of wine. After I have a piss.’
I watched her as she headed for the bathroom. In the half-light her body looked dark and strong. Her waist was a bit thicker and her buttocks and hips fuller than current fashion dictated, but that meant nothing to me. I remembered the weight of her full breasts in my hand and the slight swell of her belly and felt myself getting hard again. I jumped up, wrapped a length of trade cloth brought back from New Guinea many years ago around me and went down to get the drinks. Her recipe sounded pretty good to me and I filled two schooners, but I had a decent swig of the wine as well, just for luck.
‘D’you like being a private detective?’ she said when I got back into bed.
I drank deeply. Her hand moved under the covers on to my thigh. Instantly, I forgot what she’d said a mere second ago. ‘What?’
She laughed and took her hand away. ‘Can’t talk and get erect at the same time.’
‘Try it again.’ Her hand returned and stroked up towards my groin. ‘Mostly I like it,’ I said. ‘Not as much as that, though.’
‘Concentrate. Compartmentalise. Do you make a lot of money?’
‘That’s easy. In a word, no.’
‘That’s smart. Keep your responses short and you’ll do fine.’
‘I could turn the tables.’
‘Why don’t you?’
Things went on from there very pleasurably. We drank our mineral water and eventually fell asleep. Normally, I sleep deeply for the first few hours, then I get restless and often wake up and read for a while, fending off worries about money or what I’m working on at the time or deeper questions. The reading does the job, and I can mostly get back into a light sleep for a few hours. This night, despite its unusual features, was no different. I found myself awake at about 4 a.m., lying on my side with Claudia’s arm across my waist. I was cramped and uncomfortable with a slight case of what used to be called shagger’s back. It had been a while since I’d exercised those particular muscles, and a long time since I’d exercised them so thoroughly. She muttered something that might have been gibberish or in one of the many foreign languages I don’t understand as she rolled into a new position.
I didn’t want to read or to get up to drink water or piss or do anything, I was happy just to lie there with the warmth of her next to me. The street light is almost immediately outside the house and it penetrated the rice-paper blinds to some extent. The room wasn’t in total darkness and I was able to examine Claudia’s hair, spread out on the pillow beside me. It was thick and lustrous and quite white. As far as I could tell, it was the same colour from the tips to the roots. Curious.
She muttered again. The sheet fell away and I lifted it back to cover her smooth, brown shoulder. The softness of her skin was a delight and I found myself wanting to stroke her all over. I made do with kissing the shoulder. Her presence soothed and comforted me and I slid back into sleep without a thought of poor, dead Barry White or Max Savage or any of the rest of it.
‘You haven’t made me an offer on the house,’ I said as Claudia and I drank coffee and ate toast in the courtyard.
She shook her head and the white hair flew. She was wearing just her blue lace petticoat with the white silk jacket over it and I was having difficulty keeping my eyes away from her breasts and legs. ‘Like I said, you’ll never leave unless they decide to put a freeway, or a bridge approach through it.’
‘I’ve thought about Bondi.’
‘You’re not the Eastern Suburbs type. Too rugged.’
‘So what’re you going to do, Claudia?’
She took a good bite of toast and chewed enthusiastically. ‘Keep looking for a house. Keep thinking about going back to work. How come you haven’t got a lawyer?’
I told her about Cy and what had happened and she made sympathetic noises. She hadn’t heard about it although it had made a big splash in the papers because she’d been overseas for most of the year, recovering from the break-up with her husband.
‘So is Vardon the maiden or married name?’
‘Detecting, are we?’
‘Shit, sorry, no. I just . . .’
‘It’s okay. I’m a bit defensive, that’s all. Vardon’s his name. I’m going back to my name as soon as the settlement’s through.’
Which was a way of saying don’t ask too many questions. Glen Withers had said I exhausted her with questions and that I’d found out too much about her too soon. Left nothing to be surprised about and that was part of the trouble. I didn’t believe it, but here was a chance to play it another way. I got on with eating toast and drinking coffee and let the moment pass, although it was hard to do. I wanted to ask where she grew up, what her husband did, about the white hair . . . Maybe Glen had had a point.
She finished eating and carefully brushed the crumbs from her plate into a pile on top of where the bricks are built up around the grapefruit tree so the birds could get them. ‘You’ve gone quiet,’ she said.
‘Just keeping myself from being nosy. I’ve got to work today. Is it too pushy to ask if I can see you again tonight? I really want to.’
She got up from the plastic chair and squatted down in front of me. Her breasts were loose and heavy under the petticoat and I put my hands down and held them. Her face came up and we kissed hard.
‘I like you more than your house,’ she said. ‘But I’m glad I stopped to take a look at it. Of course I want to see you, but you have to understand that I’m coming off a bad time, a couple of bad times. I don’t trust my judgement.’
‘Claudia, I . . .’
‘Ssh. Don’t come over all masterful. Men have to learn to let things happen. Now, you stay here and finish your coffee. Thank for a terrific night. I’m going to have a shower and then I’ll go. I’ll take down your phone number and I’ll ring you soon. Okay.’
It wasn’t, but what could I do. Protest? Sulk? Reluctantly, I took my hands from her breasts. ‘Okay,’ I said.
10
Well, I certainly wasn’t going to sit around waiting for her to call. No percentage in that. I was eager to get up and go on the Beckett case, to be doing something so that romantic involvement didn’t soak up all my energy and attention. That had happened a few times
in the past with disastrous results—I either burnt the whole thing out too quickly or got let down badly. Not this time. I left the dishes in the sink, the empty bottle on the bench, the glasses where they sat and I didn’t make the bed. I rang the number Max Savage had given me.
‘Max Savage’s phone.’ A pleasant, young female voice, a big improvement on the usual response to a police number. Suddenly, I didn’t quite know what to do next.
‘Ah, my name’s Hardy, Cliff Hardy. Can I . . . ah, leave a message for Mr Savage?’
‘Max is here, Mr Hardy. I’m Constable Draper. I can act as relay between you if you wish.’
‘Well, how does that work?’
I could hear a short, barking laugh on the line. Savage, for sure.
‘You tell me what you want to say to Max and I’ll tell him what you said. Then he speaks to you and you respond. It’s very simple really. Just collect your thoughts.’
‘Not very secure.’
‘Don’t be insulting. Do you want to talk to Max or not?’
‘I’m sorry, Constable. Yes, please tell him I’d like to speed things up. I’d like a meeting today to work on the material we discussed yesterday.’
A pause, then Savage came on the line. ‘Don’t worry about Penny, Cliff, she’s a heroine. I think we should get together today. Will Barry White’s murder be on the agenda?’
‘For sure, Max. I’m sorry if I offended her. Can you bring the notebooks?’
A pause, and I could hear Constable Penny Draper talking fast, verbatim as far as I could determine.
‘Yeah,’ Savage said, ‘leastwise, photocopies of the interesting bits. What about your office in an hour and a half?’
‘Will you be bringing Penny?’
I heard a peal of female laughter before she relayed what I’d said to Max.
Savage came back on the line and his voice was softer, without the cop edge. ‘Penny’s a paraplegic, Cliff. She got shot in the spine by some redneck dickhead who was beating the shit out of his girlfriend. She does the work of three people around her now. See, us handicapped aren’t being tucked away in corners any more. No need to say anything. Your office, ninety minutes, okay?’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Penny.’
‘Have a good meeting.’
All of which left me feeling grateful that all my bits and pieces still worked despite the efforts a few people had made over the years to change that. I fetched the paper in from the front step and flicked through it. Barry White had made page three. A brief article, very light on for facts about his death, reviewed his inglorious career and implied that something from his past had surfaced and dragged him down. For all I knew, that could’ve been true.
Max Savage dumped a thick wad of photocopy paper on my desk and took the top off one of the two takeaway coffees I’d bought. ‘That’s for you,’ he said. ‘Any sugar?’
I reached into the bottom drawer, produced three packets and a wooden stirrer and passed them over. I rifled through the paper. ‘Give me the gist.’
‘Lazy bugger.’ Max stirred briskly, sipped and sighed appreciatively. ‘Ah, that’s good. You must’ve had a big night?’
I was feeling a bit weary and hoped the long black I had would revive me. ‘Why d’you say that?’
‘Your face muscles are tired. You’re not moving your mouth as much as usual when you talk. Makes it harder to read you.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, grimacing. ‘That better?’
‘Don’t get shirty. Do you want to talk about this first, or about Barry White?’
It suddenly occurred to me that I’d lied comprehensively to one police officer and now was on the point of telling the truth to a man who was something like a cop himself. Max saw my hesitation and pointed his stirrer at me like a pistol.
‘Let me guess, you didn’t tell all to the Redfern Ds. And you’re wondering where my priorities lie.’
I drank half of the very hot coffee in a gulp, hoping that it would give me a hit. ‘Right.’
‘It’s an open case on my books. That’s all I care about. Any perjury or misrepresentation by you doesn’t interest me. How else could you operate? It’s understood.’
Unbidden, an image of Claudia Vardon came into my head. She was getting back into bed after going to the toilet. Her whole body was silver-coloured in the dim light, like her hair. I’d forgotten that I’d seen this and I smiled. I felt better, despite a scalded tongue. ‘Sorry, Max. I’m stumbling around a bit this morning. Right. I lied to Fowler. I said it was a prearranged meeting with Barry. It wasn’t. He rang me in a panic. He needed help. No details. I was about half an hour too late. The other thing is, someone had been through his stuff before me and taken everything personal.’
Max nodded and finished his coffee. ‘Ringing you suggests it was all to do with the Beckett case, but not necessarily.’
‘The Beckett case could all be bullshit. Grogan’s a drunk. He could be making it up. Maybe Barry was just looking to hire some protection and it didn’t quite work out.’
‘Finish your coffee. It’s doing you good. Nice try at devil’s advocate, Cliff, but it won’t wash. There’s stuff in Hawkins’ notebooks and the other reports on the file that back up what Grogan says.’
‘Like?’
Max had changed his suit, shirt, tie and shoes from what he’d been wearing the day before. Only the briefcase was the same, and the keenness. ‘How many police notebooks and internal memos have you seen?’
I grinned. ‘I can think of a few I’d like to have seen, but I haven’t actually seen any. None.’
‘I’ve seen bloody thousands, a lot of ’em mine. I can read between the lines. Hawkins interviewed everybody—the father, the stepmother, the half-sister, the half-brother, the servants. He talked to everyone who sighted her in the last couple of days. But he didn’t push anything. You can tell from the notes. He went through the motions, quite skilfully really, but it’s there to see if you can read it. He was playing a dead bat.’
I thought about this. ‘You said everybody—what about friends?’
‘Ah, you’ve put your finger on something there. Not a single friend or acquaintance was talked to. Hawkins says that she didn’t have any. That seems to me unlikely. He could be covering something up here.’
It sounded possible. Everyone has friends, don’t they? Then an image of Ramona Beckett came to me: she was reaching out to tap ash off her cigarette. Her dress stretched tight over her hard, small breasts and the look on her face was predatory. Her style was to use people rather than befriend them. It was sad, but I could believe that she had no friends. ‘What about a doctor?’
Max put the top back on his coffee cup and balanced the stirrer on top of it. ‘Hawkins talked to the family GP. He hadn’t seen her for years. Same with the dentist. As far as anyone knew she was in terrific health.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Are you sure Hawkins didn’t just get discouraged by running into all these negatives?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Well, the next question is, on the basis of his investigation such as it was, can you make a guess at who might have nobbled Johnno?’
‘No. Not really. He goes easy on them all. You’d expect that he’d be careful about that, wouldn’t you?’
‘This is not very helpful, Max.’
‘Oh, I’ve been giving you the bad news. Get out your notebook. I’ve got a couple of names.’
I did as he said and stagily poised a pen over the page ‘Shoot!’
Max looked at me strangely. ‘There’s something different about you today. Are you given to big mood swings, hmm?’
‘It’s the thought that you’re about to steer me towards that reward.’
‘All right. Keep bullshitting. Now, you remember I was to look for anyone who might have been in it with Hawkins? Well, there’s two candidates. Colin Sligo and . . .’
‘Sligo! Shit, I remember him. He was a hard bastard. What happened to him?’
‘He was a super at the tim
e we’re interested in. He’s a deputy commissioner of police in Queensland these days. Due for retirement any day.’
I wrote the name down. ‘That’s interesting. And tricky.’
‘All of that. The other starter is one Andrea Neville.’
I wrote this in block capitals as well and looked at the words. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘She was the policewoman who went with Hawkins on his first visit to the Beckett house in Wollstonecraft. It isn’t clear from Hawkins’ notes who they saw first, but if it was the person with an interest in suppressing the ransom note, they were in the box seat to help out.’
‘Come on, Max. That’s stretching it.’
‘I’m reliably informed that Neville was Hawkins’ girlfriend. About six months after the Beckett case went quiet she resigned from the force. I’ve asked around about her—the word at the time was that she’d inherited a lot of money.’
‘I see. Where is she now?’
Max shrugged. ‘I’m working on it. Ex-coppers can be tricky to find.’
‘Right. Sorry for the scepticism, Max. This is solid stuff. You must have been a hell of a good detective.’
Max tapped his nose. ‘I had a sort of an instinct. I could smell things almost. Lucky that, because it’s still there and it’s helped me to cope with the hearing loss. Like, for instance, this new manner of yours . . .’
I laughed. ‘Okay, okay, you’re right. I’ve met a woman and I’m keen on her, very keen. I’m hoping that something comes of it.’
Max smiled. ‘Do you know, I’d have guessed it was something of the sort. Good luck to you. Now, about this matter on hand. I’d say your priority is locating Neville—that’s worth a day or two. Failing that, or maybe leading on from that, we should talk to Peggy Hawkins asap . . . What’s wrong?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m used to working on my own. I’m not used to having a schedule laid out for me by someone else. Back off a bit, Max.’
He bit his lip and stared out of the window. He was a proud and stubborn man, struggling to overcome a disability, and backing down wouldn’t be easy for him. But I meant what I said. My methods might be rough, even chaotic, but they’ve worked for me and I wasn’t going to throw them overboard to suit Max Savage. Eventually he turned his head to look at me. ‘Sorry. Still behaving like the boss. Consider me backed off. How d’you see things?’
