by Peter Corris
6
CARMEL Wise’s flat in Randwick was near the Prince of Wales Hospital in one of those streets that took their names from the Crimean War. That was a pretty safe war to take a name from—nobody remembers who won or lost what. I parked outside the block, set back from the road with a nice stand of silver birch trees in front of it, and wondered what I was going to run into next. Another video freak? A landscape gardener? A lesbian builder? The middle class was getting more complicated all the time.
The day had turned cool suddenly. Clouds across the sun and an edge to the breeze. I took my jacket off the back seat and shrugged into it while I waited to cross the street. I thought a contemplative walk in Centennial Park might be in order after this call. Something to sharpen the already sharp appetite and stimulate the powers of observation. I didn’t expect much from this call. In this block of flats I had a name and a number. The next visit would be harder—to the flats flanking the Greenwich Apartments, where I had nothing to go on but the sound of a voice on the telephone.
I ducked across between a truck and a motor cycle and searched for a break in the silver birches. It took the form of a narrow brick path, artistically overgrown and lightly layered with dog shit. Small dog shit—there was nothing crude or obvious around here. I walked up the path, through smoked glass doors and up carpeted steps. No dog shit. Carmel Wise’s name was still on the tenants’ board, under glass, bracketed with that of Judy Syme—Studio Eight, Stage Three. Studio? Stage? Of course.
I ignored the lift and took the stairs. What, pass up a chance to ascend by foot to Stage Three? Not Hardy. As I was bounding up, almost bouncing off the walls, I was aware of someone coming up behind me. A young man, long fair hair, jeans and T-shirt. An artist, no doubt. I got to Stage Three and knocked on the door of Studio Eight. Before I’d regained my breath, I felt his hand on my shoulder. He pulled and I came around with the pressure.
‘What …?’ I said.
He punched me in the stomach, or tried to. There was some space between me and the door and I used it to shove my spine back as I saw the punch coming. That took some of the steam out of it but there was enough left to make it hurt in my slightly winded state. He was big, his biceps bulged in his T-shirt sleeves and there was no fat on him. But he was more used to standing or lying still and lifting things than to moving and hitting. He swung at me with his big right arm and I swayed away from it and hooked him in the ribs. Then he swung his big left arm, reasonable thing to do, but a bit obvious; I blocked it and spun him around so that he hit the door with his back stiff and his head thrown back. He hit hard and sagged. Then the door was pulled open and he pitched back. I stepped aside and watched him fall.
‘Michael! What are you doing?’ A woman with wet hair and wearing a white bathrobe stood in the doorway.
‘He’s looking for his contacts,’ I said. Michael started to struggle up and I put my foot on his back and pushed down hard.
‘Don’t do that!’ She shook her head and a spray of water covered me.
‘Tell him not to assault people who knock on your door then.’
‘Knock? It sounded like a horse hitting it.’
I lifted my foot and let Michael stand. He was red in the face and puffing. He flicked his fair hair back and brushed dirt off his T-shirt. Nothing looks sillier than a muscle man trying to think.
‘I thought … I thought he was one of them,’ he said.
‘One of who?’
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’ She took a step back and alarm showed in her face. Good face, as dark and intelligent as Michael’s was fair and stupid. I took out my stamped and signed ID and showed it to her.
‘Didn’t Mr Wise’s office phone to say I was coming?’
‘Oh God, of course. Michael, you are an idiot!’
‘Don’t understand,’ he muttered.
‘He’s here about Carmel.’
‘So were they,’ Michael said.
‘Now I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Can we go in and have a talk?’
‘Yes. Come on. I’m sorry.’
‘Me too?’ Michael said.
‘Definitely,’ I said. ‘Hope I didn’t hurt you.’
He looked glum and pushed past me following the woman. Studio Eight was a big room with a polished wood floor, white walls and huge windows. The trees of Centennial Park looked close enough to touch. There were posters on the walls, paintings and carvings. The cooking and eating went on at one end and there were two doors, evidently to bedrooms in the wall opposite the fireplace. Cushions and beanbags over by the windows, a big stereo, no television.
The woman pulled the sash of her robe tighter and held out her hand. ‘Judy Syme.’ She nodded at the man who’d thrown himself down on one of the big cushions. ‘This is Michael Press.’
‘Cliff Hardy.’
Press looked like a big, lazy dog lying on the cushion. ‘Who is this guy, Jude?’
‘You tell him. I’ll put some clothes on. I was having a shower when you two started to batter my door down.’
I walked over to the window and looked out over the park. I could see a bit of the racecourse too, but I preferred the park which is free—the racecourse costs you money. ‘Carmel’s father hired me to investigate her death. He thinks the police are on the wrong track.’
‘What track are they on?’ Press rubbed his ribs where I’d hooked him. ‘You a boxer ever?’
‘Amateur only. They think she was a porno queen. A peddler of smut.’
Press laughed. The laugher started and he couldn’t stop it even though it apparently hurt his ribs. He rolled on the cushion and slapped the floor. Judy Syme came out wearing a tracksuit and sneakers.
‘What now?’ she said. ‘Stop it, Michael, you fool.’
Press gasped and stifled the mirth. ‘He says the cops think Carmel was dealing in dirty movies.’
‘Huh.’ She took a packet of cigarettes from a slit pocket in the front of the suit and lit up. She was slim and nervous looking, too impatient to look pretty. ‘That’s nonsense. Nobody who knew Carmel could possibly think that. She regarded porn movies as …,’ she waved the cigarette, ‘… nothing.’
‘Did you tell the police that?’
‘They wouldn’t listen. They hardly asked.’
‘D’you remember the name of the policeman you talked to?’
‘No.’
‘Drew?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did he do here?’
‘Nothing much—looked in her room. There’s nothing to see—some clothes and books. You can have a look too if you like.’
I nodded. ‘Okay, in a minute. Tell me why Michael here got so heavy and who you mean by “they”?’
She dropped the cigarette into a dish on the ledge over the fireplace. It hissed and a curl of smoke floated up. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘I would,’ Press said.
‘Michael drinks light beer. I drink wine. Which would you prefer?’
‘Wine, thanks.’
‘Eight per cent,’ Press said.
‘What?’
‘Alcohol. That’s too much.’ He slapped his hard, flat stomach. ‘It’ll put the weight on.’
‘I worry it off,’ I said. Judy Syme came back with a can of Swan Light lager and two glasses of white wine. She lowered herself onto a cushion without spilling a drop. I crouched awkwardly, got my bum on the floor and let my legs move forward.
‘You’re stiff,’ Press said. He popped his can and I accepted my glass. First nourishment since breakfast.
‘Cheers,’ I said. ‘I may be stiff but I haven’t got bruised ribs.’
‘Stop it,’ Judy Syme said. ‘I wish Michael had been around in the time before Carmel got shot.’
‘Why? What happened?’
She took a sip. ‘Some men came here. Twice. Looking for Carmel.’
‘What did they do?’
‘Barged in, pushed me around. Trashed her room.’
‘What did they say?’<
br />
‘Nothing.’
‘Twice you said. When was this?’
‘The first time was a week or so before … before she got killed. The second time was the night before.’
‘Did you tell Drew this?’
She lit another cigarette. ‘Yes. He took down the descriptions, but he didn’t seem very interested.’
I got my notebook from my jacket pocket. ‘Give me the descriptions.’
‘One of them looked like you,’ Press said.
‘I thought you weren’t here.’
‘Judy told me about them. One was a thin, tall guy with a broken nose, hard-looking, like you.’
‘Thanks. Anything else?’
They looked at each other the way people do when trying to recall a conversation. Who sat where, who said what? ‘I don’t think so,’ Judy Syme said. ‘Oh, of course, he was a New Zealander.’
‘Who?’
‘The one that looked like you.’
I wrote ‘NZ’ beside ‘looks like self’. ‘What about the other one?’
‘Fatter,’ Judy said. ‘And fairer, less hair except he had a moustache. They wore suits. They looked like police but they weren’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’m a nurse, I’ve met a lot of police. I know.’
‘I see. Well, what did Carmel say about this? Where was she?’
‘She was working the day they came the first time. I told her that night and she took off. Packed a few things and took off. She didn’t come back. The same two came back later, like I say.’ She took a big drink of her wine and dragged on the cigarette. ‘And the next day I read in the paper that she was dead.’
‘Did these heavies ask you where she was?’
‘Yeah. I wouldn’t tell them.’
‘Did they threaten you?’
She nodded. ‘They hit me, but I wouldn’t tell them. Fuck them, I thought.’
Press drained his can and looked admiringly at her. I took a drink and privately toasted her courage myself. ‘Did Drew ask you where she’d gone?’
‘He might have. I forget. I didn’t tell him anyway. I got the feeling that he didn’t care. What you say about the pornography explains it. What a laugh!’
‘Will you tell me? I don’t think she was involved in pornography either.’
‘Sure I’ll tell you. She was with Jan De Vries. He’s a lecturer at the Film & Television School. They were working on something together.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. Something that took all her time and energy. Something very important to her. We shared here for nearly two years. I was around when she was finishing Bermagui, but I never …’
‘Sorry. Finishing what?’
‘Bermagui, her first movie. You haven’t seen it?’
‘No.’
‘It’s brilliant.’
‘Brilliant,’ Press said.
Judy stood and got rid of her cigarette in the same way as before. ‘This one would have been brilliant too. For sure. Christ, she worked at it. And now …‘ She wrapped her arms round her upper body and swayed. Press jumped up and took hold of her. She let him hug her. ‘I miss her. She was terrific. So intense. She never wasted a single minute. Not like the rest of us, drinking and everything. She could work for three days and nights straight. Does that sound like a porno freak to you?’
I shook my head. I was the only one sitting down but her anger was so strong that I felt she should have the stage, have the space to say what she wanted to say. ‘No,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m sure you’re right about that. Her father feels the same way.’
She detached herself from Press and turned to look out the window. ‘As fathers go he seems to be all right. Carmel loved him.’
‘Did she love anyone else?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
I looked at my notebook. ‘Jan De Vries?’
She grinned. ‘Wife and two kids. She fucked him but I don’t think she’d let a wife and two kids screw up her work.’
I pulled my legs up and got slowly to my feet. ‘Thanks.’
‘For the wine?’
I emptied the glass and put it on the ledge beside the dead butt dish. ‘Come on, Judy. You don’t have to be tough. You’ve lost your friend. I’ve lost a few in my time. It hurts.’
‘So what does her father want? Revenge?’
‘Partly, it’s natural.’
‘Right,’ Michael Press said.
I told her about Leo Wise’s wish to understand his daughter’s death. To see it as an accident. I mentioned the possibility of another child.
‘Oh, great!’ she said.
‘You don’t understand. He’s older than you, older than me. My grandmothers had about nine or ten kids each. Maybe five or six of them survived. Your great-grandmothers probably did the same. They expected some wastage. My father was the last in the bunch. Your grandfather might’ve been in the same spot. You mightn’t be here if they hadn’t operated that way back then. It was healthy in a way. Don’t knock it.’
She went very still and looked at me. ‘I never thought of it like that.’
‘Can I have a look at her room, please?’
‘Sure.’ She walked over and opened the door nearest the window. I went into a big room with plenty of light. Better view of the racecourse from here. The room held the usual things—double bed, chest of drawers, built-in wardrobe, bookcase. A big TV set and a VCR were on a trolley at the foot of the bed. A door led to an en suite bathroom. I glanced around but rooms give off an aura like people; I sensed that there was nothing to be learned here.
Judy Syme stood in the doorway smoking again. ‘Go ahead. Look through her undies.’
‘I don’t think so.’ I ran my eye along the bookshelf. Mostly titles to do with films, a few novels, a few left-wing political works. There was a cassette on top of the TV set and I picked it up. ‘Bermagui’ was hand-printed on a label stuck to the plastic case. ‘Can I borrow this? Her film?’
She shrugged. ‘Sure. I’d like it back. She gave it to me. It probably sounds sloppy but I was watching it in here the other day.’
‘I understand. Did she ever keep cassettes here?’
‘Oh, sure. She had them all here at first. But they just got to be too many. They were everywhere so she asked her father if she could use that flat in the Cross.’
‘Did you ever go there?’
‘Once. Creepy joint. This crazy old woman came to borrow sugar. Sugar!’
‘What old woman?’
‘From the flats across the courtyard. Weird old girl with purple hair. Carmel gave her some sugar.’
‘Hmm. Where did she do her work? I mean editing and all that?’
‘Various places. Studios. The equipment isn’t exactly stuff you have around the house. Jan De Vries would know.’
We went back into the other room. Michael Press was flexing his muscles in front of his reflection in a window. He didn’t seem to mind us catching him. I shook Judy Syme’s hand and gave her one of my cards.
‘Thanks for your help. Please call me if you can think of anything that might be useful.’
She held on to my hand a little longer than was necessary, as if I formed some sort of connection with her friend. ‘Okay,’ she said.
I turned just before I opened the door. ‘You don’t have any clues on what those men wanted, do you? Or on why she was killed?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
7
IT was late afternoon, the tree shadows would be long in the park and I could sit by the lake and look at the ducks. On expenses, not bad. First I called Helen from a public phone.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Where’re you?’
‘Randwick.’
‘Really? That’s where I might end up.’
‘It didn’t go too well, the flat-hunting?’
‘Lousy.’
‘I’m sorry. Look, I’ve got another call to make. I’ll be home around six or so. We’ll
go out. Okay?’
‘All right. Maybe.’ She hung up. After that I didn’t feel like the walk in the park anymore. I didn’t feel like tramping up and down stairs questioning people about a murder either, but I had no choice.
I drove in to the Cross but ended up parked close to White City. Some of the courts were in the shade, some were still fully in the sun. Be nice down there, I thought. Forehand, backhand, lob, smash. I could see people on the courts doing just that—small white shapes darting about. Doing something just for fun; should be more of it. But then, there should be more of a lot of things—rain in Africa, B. B. King cassettes and small flats in Glebe Point, evidently.
I put Bermagui in the glove box and locked it. I locked the car too, took an envelope with a selection of the photographs, including the one of Tania Bourke, and walked. Away from the sporting scene, business before leisure, past the temptation of the wine bar and up the lane to the Greenwich Apartments. A jogger swerved around me—a woman this time, with matching head and wrist bands. Nothing had changed in the courtyard; the arrangement of the flanking buildings allowed a fair bit of the late afternoon sun to penetrate. I sat on the empty pedestal and felt the warmth the bricks had retained. There were two apartment blocks to consider, maybe a dozen places with windows that permitted a view of the courtyard and activity in flat one of the Greenwich. I was there at the right time. It was odds on that the person I wanted was the weird old girl with purple hair. Do weird old girls go out to work? Not usually. I tucked my shirt firmly into my pants, pulled my collar straight and buttoned my jacket. Notebook and licence folder in hand, evidence in an envelope, the private detective goes to work. Bullshit. I went to the winebar and bought a packet of Sterling cigarettes and a bottle of Mateus Rosé. I was ready for the purple hair.
I drew six blanks in the building on the left. I tried every apartment with the right aspect: two no answers, two were occupied by young women who weren’t interested once they found I wasn’t there on business. The fifth resident was a middle-aged man who would have talked about anything from the price of gold to the Iran-Iraqui war. Loneliness wailed from the bare room behind him as he stood in the doorway. There was an old woman in the sixth flat; she had a raspy voice like the telephone caller, was about the right age and her windows were in the right place, but her hair was bright, buttercup yellow.
