by Peter Corris
PETER CORRIS is known as the ‘Godfather’ of Australian crime fiction through his Cliff Hardy detective stories. He has written in many other areas, including a co-authored autobiography of the late Professor Fred Hollows, a history of boxing in Australia, spy novels, historical novels and a collection of short stories revolving around the game of golf. He is married to writer Jean Bedford and lives on the Illawarra coast, south of Sydney. They have three daughters.
the coast road
A CLIFF HARDY NOVEL
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. There is no police station in Bellambi.
First published in 2004
Copyright © Peter Corris 2004
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Corris, Peter, 1942– .
The coast road.
ISBN 1 74114 384 5.
eISBN 978 1 74115 321 7
1. Hardy, Cliff (Fictitious character) – Fiction.
2. Private investigators – Fiction. I. Title. (Series:
Cliff Hardy; no. 26).
A823.3
Typeset by Midland Typesetters
For Heather Wearne and Kate Ravenswood
Contents
Acknowledgments
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
Acknowledgments
For help in the writing phase, thanks to Jean Bedford and my friends in the Illawarra. For editorial expertise, thanks again to Jean and to Jo Jarrah.
1
It had to happen sooner or later. The building in St Peters Lane where I’ve had my office for longer than I like to think about has come up for ‘restoration’. Read demolition maybe, with a retained façade. I knew the hammer was poised when my lease ran out and all I was offered was a fortnightly tenancy. I took it and hung on as long as I could, but the game’s up. The rent’s been cheap because of the condition of the joint. DDD, my ex and now late wife Cyn called it—dark, damp and dusty. And that was years ago. It’s had a few facelifts, paint jobs, rewiring, but the space had just become too potentially valuable to accommodate tenants like me.
We held a party—Stephanie Geller, astrologer, Frank Corso, antiquarian bookseller, Lucille Harvey, genealogist, Donald Carver, philatelist, Henri Baden, numismatist and a few others, some of whom imported and exported, and me. Strictly cheap wine casks, paper cups, Salada biscuits, cheese slices.
‘Usually they offer the existing tenants first option on the new offices,’ Don Carver said. Don looks like a bird, with a long nose and retreating chin. He’s slumped as if all those years of peering through magnifying glasses have bent him over.
Frank Corso held a three-tier Salada and cheese slice construction in one hand and a brimful cup of rough red in the other. ‘Hah, this’ll be apartments, mate. Bet on it. A couple of grand a month, no sweat. They know none of us are up for that so they didn’t bother with the politeness.’
‘Still, possible grounds for a legal challenge?’ Don said. ‘Cliff?’
I was watching Frank, wondering how he was going to negotiate the biscuits and cheese.
‘Sure, Don,’ Lucille Harvey said. ‘What d’we do? Club together and get a QC?’
Somehow, Frank handled it. He’s a big man with a wide mouth and he managed to absorb half of the biscuit sandwich in one bite, not many crumbs falling onto his bulging waistcoat. Frank maintains that people expect an antiquarian bookseller to wear a waistcoat. He washed the mouthful down with a slug of red. I nodded my congratulations and turned my attention to the conversation.
‘Don might be right,’ I said. ‘And Lucille’s right as well. Upshot is, we’re fucked.’
Don took a cautious sip of his wine. ‘Steph?’
Stephanie Geller, ruby-lipped, kohl-eyed, in a sequinned top and a long skirt festooned with tiny mirrors, was pissed. She’s short-sighted and won’t wear glasses because she thinks they’re bad for her image. She squinted and smiled lopsidedly. ‘Zee cards . . . zee cards say Cliff ’s right, even though he’s a fuckin’ sceptic’s sceptic. We’re fucked. Henri, get me another white.’ Steph forgets the accent once in a while.
‘You’re drunk, darling,’ Henri Baden said. Steph told me once that Henri is a con man who tells people what they want to hear. He’s one of those gays that seem to get gayer by the glass.
‘Don’t darling me, you poofter.’
‘Steph!’ Lucille Harvey snarled.
It went downhill from there. Goodbye St Peters Lane, goodbye central location, goodbye cheap rent.
I was working from home and not liking it. My place in Glebe doesn’t lend itself to being an office as well as a house. The front room’s too small; the living space is filled with books and now holds a couple of filing cabinets. You can’t escort people upstairs, not when the runner’s worn and the spare room holds a bed, a computer and more books. I was reduced to meeting my clients at places of their or my choice. I was to meet Dr Elizabeth Farmer in her room in the Linguistics Department of Sydney University.
A day in early spring, clear and cool. I walked. The linguists were housed in a building that looked like a cross between a Nissan hut and a school demountable. It was probably intended to be temporary, but a creeper had grown over it, trees and shrubs crowded close and it was there to stay in all its grey, small-windowed anonymity. From what I’d heard about the way things were going at universities lately, maybe a low profile was a good thing. The bean counters and productivity assessors just might leave you alone.
It was cold in the corridor—poor insulation and inadequate heating. It’d be an oven in summer. I found a notice telling me the number of Dr Farmer’s room and tracked it down. The door was open and I heard voices coming from inside. I walked past, slowly enough to see a young female dressed like a student sitting forward in a chair and an older woman behind a desk. They kept their voices low and I couldn’t catch what they were saying. Probably wouldn’t have understood anyway.
I was early as usual and it was one of those times I used to fill in by smoking. Now I wandered around looking at noticeboards, passing a couple of other open doors, drifting back to Dr Farmer’s room. Ten minutes past our appointed time the student hurried away, backpack over one shoulder, scarf dangling, muttering to herself. I knocked on the open door and presented myself.
She stood and beckoned to me. ‘Mr Hardy. Sorry to keep you waiting.’
I went in and took the hand she extended. She was tall and well built with thick dark hair going attractively grey. I must have gaped just a bit because she laughed as she pointed to the chair. ‘I know, I know. I look like Germaine Greer. No relation. I just do.’
I sat and then stood. ‘Can I close the door?’
‘Of course. Have you been around a university lately?’
‘No. Not as a student for a long time and not otherwise for quite a bit.’
We both settled into our chairs. ‘You can’t be in a room with a student with the door shut—male or female. Possibility of improper conduct.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Absurd, isn’t it? Conversely, you can’t leave your door unlocked when you go to the loo in case your bag gets nicked . . . or your computer.’
I nodded and looked closely at her while also taking in details of the room in a professional fashion. Rooms can speak about character. Books, books and more books, filing cabinets, stacked folders, audio cassettes. She wore what looked like a heavy linen shirt, white, with a string of dark beads around her neck. Dark skirt. I guessed her age at around forty and her character as strong. I wondered if I was being called in on one of those university political cases where factions develop in departments, insults fly and crimes are alleged.
‘Is this a university matter, Dr Farmer? I mean threats, harassment, that sort of thing?’
‘Shit, no,’ she said. ‘Anything like that I could handle myself or go through the union. No, this is personal and nothing to do with my profession. D’you remember Prof Harkness?’
I did. Harkness was an ophthalmologist who saved the sight of a Bougainville patriot who some others patriots were trying to kill. Harkness had needed some protection up to and during the operation. ‘Sure, I remember him.’
‘He operated on me a little while ago. Tied up a muscle to correct a squint. I used to have to wear these thick glasses. Anyway, apparently I babbled a bit under the anaesthetic and he was interested in what I said. We talked. He suggested I get in touch with you. He sings your praises.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Anyone who could’ve been making a million dollars a year in Macquarie Street and doesn’t impresses me. What were you babbling about, Dr Farmer?’
She paused before she answered. She was a very handsome woman, possibly well aware of it but it sat lightly on her. She had a slight frown mark between her eyebrows, probably a result of the corrected squint. Her eyes were large and grey and unwavering. ‘The prof took me seriously and I hope you will as well.’
‘You’ve got my attention.’
‘It’s a question of how to put it. We linguists sometimes get tongue-tied, you’d be surprised to hear. D’you play golf, Mr Hardy?’
I shook my head.
‘There’s a phrase—paralysis by analysis—when you think about technique so much you can’t actually hit the ball. What I’m talking about is similar. I’ll just have to stumble through it. I might say I want you to find out who murdered my father, but I think I know who. What I really want is to find out how she did it and make her pay.’
2
She might have had trouble getting started, but she’d rehearsed her story well and got it up and running smoothly. Frederick Farmer had been a successful real estate agent with offices in the western and southern suburbs, the Blue Mountains and the Illawarra. In his mid-fifties he’d sold out to one of the big franchises for several million dollars and spent the next fifteen years dabbling in the stock exchange and at his hobbies—gardening, fishing and golf. Elizabeth was his only child. His wife had died ten years ago and three years later Farmer, aged sixty-five, had married Matilda Sharpe-Tarleton, a divorcee twenty-five years younger than himself.
‘She calls herself Tilly,’ Elizabeth Farmer said. ‘That ought to tell you something. She’s about two years younger than me. Can you see me calling myself Lizzie?’
I could in fact. She was smooth-skinned and now that she was animated she looked younger and full of energy. I didn’t say anything because a reply wasn’t invited.
‘She married him for his money and led him a merry dance.’
‘In what way?’
‘Tried to make him do things he was past doing—overseas trips, gym workouts, golf pro-ams. She even talked him into opening up another real estate agency when he swore he’d done with all that. She’s running it now with all his capital behind her and doing very well. I know what you’re going to say.’
‘Don’t say that. I don’t know what I’m going to say, so how could you?’
She made a defensive gesture. ‘I’m sorry. I’m getting worked up. The police . . .’
‘I’m nothing like the police.’
‘Of course. Well, they automatically thought I was a kind of poor woman’s Gina Reinhart. But it’s nothing like that. My father had money but not Hancock-style billions.
We didn’t get on particularly well and it’s true that he left most of it to her. But I got some and I’m sure the will was kosher. It’s not about money. It’s about . . .’
I waited for the word, wondering—justice? revenge? vindication?
Suddenly she seemed deflated. She slumped back in her chair. ‘I’m not sure what it’s about. Call it closure.’
‘It won’t be closure if you turn out to be right. There’d be a trial of the person you have in mind, probably media interest, books, perhaps. Think of the Kalajzich case. You’ve already mentioned the Hancock circus.’
‘I know, I know. Call it jealousy then. She’s beautiful and rich and . . .’
I shook my head. ‘You’re not the type to be jealous of anyone. What’s your status here, senior lecturer?’
‘Associate professor.’
‘You don’t call yourself professor.’
‘I will when I get a chair.’
‘There you are. A successful career woman. I’ve known a few gung-ho academics like you and they all have one thing in common—when they get interested or involved in something they can’t let it go. They have to know.
’ ‘Prof Harkness was right,’ she said. ‘You’re the man for the job.’
Frederick Farmer had died when his weekender at Wombarra in the Illawarra had burnt to the ground. The house wasn’t new or fancy. It was an old weatherboard on ten acres that had once been mine land and later an orchard. Farmer, despite his wealth, wasn’t interested in high levels of personal comfort. He experimented with varieties of flowers, fished off the rock shelf and played golf at a nearby par 59 course. According to his daughter, he was spending more and more time at the coast and less with his wife, whom he’d come to dislike.
‘They investigate deaths like that pretty thoroughly,’ I said. ‘Especially when they produce young, rich widows.’
‘Of course. But on the surface of it everything appeared straightforward. Dad drank a bit at night and slept heavily. The old joint was full of stuff just waiting to give off toxic fumes—laminex, lino, vinyl, you name it. The wiring was ancient.’
I shrugged. ‘It happens.’
‘Not to him. He knew houses, he’d bought and sold them all his life. He was careful. He disconnected everything before he went to bed. Turned everything off and slept with a hot water bottle.’
‘What about the hot water service?’
‘Chip heater. He blew out the pilot light. Always.’
‘You told this to the police?’
‘Yes, but they took no notice. I think as soon as they saw the scotch bottles, the old two bar radiators and the chip heater they made up their minds. They said a radiator had been left on and a curtain had blown close to it and . . .
whoosh. But it’s not possible.’
‘What about the hot water bottle?’
‘Ah. Right question. They didn’t find one. I don’t know how hard they looked. It wouldn’t have survived the fire, but no one believed me when I said he used one. I ranted on about it and Tilly . . . Matilda said she’d persuaded him not to use it, that it was a fogey thing. She’s ly
ing. He loved his hottie.’
I liked her, I liked her honesty and the homey touches, but it sounded very thin. ‘How much money are we talking about? I mean, that your father’s wife inherited.’
‘Oh, the house in Wahroonga, the shares, the other bits and pieces, probably close to five million. I got the Wombarra place which I’d always loved, and some shares and things like my mother’s jewellery and some money she had. About three-quarters of a million.’
‘Big difference.’
‘Sure, but I’ve got a house in Newtown that I own and a job that I love. No dependants. I don’t need five million. She’s just got her face and her figure and her greed.’
‘Your father sounds like a pretty cluey guy. How come he went for a gold-digger?’
‘She’s a good actress, and she only showed her true colours after she got him.’
‘No pre-nuptial?’
She shook her head. ‘He hated lawyers.’
‘Can’t say I blame him.’
‘Look, I don’t expect you to work miracles, but surely you can look at the reports on the fire and the medical evidence and . . . do an investigation of some kind. And you could meet her and investigate her. See who she knows, what she does. If there’s anything . . . I know it sounds thin.’
‘Is she hands-on in the real estate agency?’
‘Oh, yes. She fancies herself a great saleswoman.’
‘It so happens I’m looking for office space. Where’s the agency?’
She grimaced. ‘Newtown. I see her far too often.’
‘I was in Darlinghurst. I wouldn’t mind Newtown.’
She smiled and the animation came back. ‘You’ll do it?’
‘I’ve got a feeling you’d sic Harkness onto me if I didn’t.’ I put one of my cards on her tidy desk. ‘I’ll take a look at it. Siphon off a bit of your money. Give me your number and I’ll fax you a contract. You can email me some of the relevant details—addresses, dates. People involved—like your father’s doctor, the police you spoke to, insurance and stuff.’
‘Thank you.’
‘No guarantees.’
