by Peter Corris
She gave me a card with her contact details on it and we shook hands. She had a strong, cool grip and there was a faint tang of something astringent about her. Standing, she was tall, in the 180 centimetre bracket. I wondered about the no dependants. I wondered about a lot of things to do with her. I always do. People who hire private detectives aren’t like the normal run. They want to know other people’s secrets and they usually have some of their own, sometimes harmless, sometimes not. It makes the work interesting. Anyway, I did need to think about office space.
. . .
Whatever chicanery goes on inside the buildings, the grounds of Sydney University are still pleasant to walk around. I drifted up from the old linguistics building, past something new and soulless and then strolled by the Fisher Library to the new set of wide steps put in to run down to Victoria Park. There used to be a gap in the fence and a rough track up from the park worn by feet that wanted to go in the logical, short-cut direction. The authorities eventually recognised the reality and they’ve done a good job. In a few years the steps and rails will look as if they’ve always been there.
A cold breeze had got up and I was underdressed in a light jacket, shirt and jeans. Some of the students on the steps had taken a better reading on the day and wore or carried coats. They probably had umbrellas in their backpacks. Spring in Sydney.
I went down the steps and decided to walk a couple of k’s around the paths. I’d neglected my gym-going lately and a brisk walk to raise a sweat might help me to re-dedicate myself. The pool wasn’t open yet but pretty soon the lappers would be at it in the early morning before work and the mums and dads would be hauling the kids in for lessons at twenty bucks a half hour. I’d been taught to swim by Uncle Ian, who I realised much later was no kin but a man having an affair with my mother. It hadn’t exactly been a ‘chuck him in at the deep end’ kind of instruction, but near enough. I got the hang of it quickly enough and survived the surf at the south end of Maroubra beach for many years. I hadn’t been in the water much in recent years and I could probably do with a few lessons. Maybe, I thought, but let’s not make too many good resolutions all at once.
I stepped it out around the park for half an hour with my mind running over the few minor cases I had on hand, how much I disliked working from home, and what I had begun to think of as the enigma of Dr Elizabeth Farmer. By the time I’d walked home I felt sufficiently virtuous and energised to knuckle down to the computer and complete reports on the current cases—resolving a couple, opting out of one, putting another on a low heat backburner. I had my standard contract on file. I printed one out, found Dr Farmer’s card and faxed her a copy. She’d be up for an eight hundred dollar retainer and a daily rate of four hundred, plus expenses. Nice to know she could afford it. I guessed that a nearly professor was on a pretty good screw and her inheritance wasn’t peanuts. Nice to think of some of it coming my way.
After faxing I went back to the email and found that she’d sent a brief message to say that she’d assemble the information I wanted when she got home and send it through. A big plus that, an efficient client, especially one who looked like the Germaine Greer of twenty-five years ago with a cool grip developed by hitting woods or metals or irons, or whatever they call them. But I had the idea that Dr Farmer wasn’t interested in male partners at golf or anything else. Just a feeling.
I was scribbling down a few points on the interview with Elizabeth Farmer, working towards drawing up a list of things to do and the order to do them in, when the phone rang. I let the answering machine pick it up.
‘Mr Hardy, my name is Karatsky, Marisha Karatsky. I’m in desperate need of your help. My daughter is missing. She’s only fifteen and I’m very troubled about her. I . . .’
The desperation was evident in the shakiness of her voice and the shortness of her breath. I picked up the phone.
‘Hardy speaking. Try to calm down, Ms Karatsky. I know it’s hard. Maybe I can help. Where are you?’
‘I . . . thank you, Mr Hardy, I’m right outside, on my mobile.’
Reluctantly, I’d scribbled my home address on a few cards I’d left here and there after losing the Darlinghurst office. I said something encouraging and hung up. I went downstairs, opened the front door and ushered the woman in. She was small and dark with thin features and what my gypsy grandmother called gypsy eyes—dark and hooded with the skin below them looking bruised. Grandma Lee had them, so did I to a degree. Ms Karatsky wore a long leather coat buttoned to the neck and boots with medium heels. Her hair was a wiry tangled mass. No makeup. There were no rings on her hands and she was shaking with tension as she leaned against the wall.
‘Thank you. Thank you.’
The spring wind had brought spring rain and the shoulders of her coat were wet.
‘Come in and sit down. Can I get you something? Coffee? A drink?’
‘I’m sorry. Have you got any cognac?’
‘I’ve got brandy.’
‘Brandy, yes, of course. Some brandy, please.’
Cheap stuff for lacing coffee, but with the wind busy outside as the light died and the rain spattered on the roof, just the thing. She took off her coat and I hung it over the stair rail. She was wearing a red silk blouse and an olive green knee-length skirt. One sleeve of the blouse was buttoned at the wrist and the other had apparently lost its button and flapped freely. Happens to me. Gold watch, light gold chain around her neck.
I got her seated in the living room after clearing some newspapers from a chair and brought in two wineglasses and the bottle. I haven’t got any snifters. I poured the drinks, handed her one, pulled over a stool I use for reaching the higher bookshelves, and sat. It felt more professional than slumping into one of the saggy armchairs.
Marisha Karatsky took a good pull on the brandy and let it slide down. She didn’t exactly shudder but I got the feeling she was used to something smoother. I had a slug and it tasted okay to me as the first drink of the day. But that always tastes good, whatever it is.
‘Take your time and tell me what’s happened.’
She told me she worked freelance as a translator, providing subtitles for German, Russian and Polish films and television programs. Her father was Polish, her mother Russian and the family had lived in East Germany before immigrating to Australia. Her daughter, Kristina, was wild and easily influenced, she said. She’d left home two months before. Her mother had traced her to a shared house in Tempe from a scribbled note she’d found in Kristina’s room. She went there but the place was empty, apparently uninhabited. Neighbours said it was a house where people came and went. She hadn’t contacted the police.
‘It’s not easy for people like me, East Germans, to deal with the police. Also, Kristina uses drugs. I want to find her but I don’t want to put her in prison.’
‘What about her father?’ I said.
She shook her head and took another drink, as if the mention of the word needed a defence. Then she smiled, showing perfect, small white teeth in a broad, thin-lipped mouth. ‘A youthful indiscretion. Nothing more.’
It sounded like a subtitle.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘If you can give me a photograph and description of her there’s a few moves I can make. I can go to the Tempe place and ask questions. I know people who . . . monitor the sort of scene Kristina’s got herself into. I can ask around and try to pick up a trace, but I probably don’t have to tell you it’s a dangerous world with many casualties. And this is a big country with lots of ways to lose yourself. Some of them safe, some not.’
She put her drink carefully on the floor, went across to her coat, took a manila envelope from an inside pocket and handed it to me. Inside was a photograph of a dark-haired girl heading fast towards young womanhood. She looked quite like her mother with slightly broader features and a sulky expression that was perhaps trying for sultry. It was only a waist upwards shot. She wore a black T-shirt with ‘Heart Ache’ printed on it in pink. Earrings, several, nose-ring, one.
‘She could b
e beautiful,’ Marisha Karatsky said, ‘but she can be a devil. Do you have any children, Mr Hardy?’
Not something I talked about much but this seemed like an appropriate time. ‘A daughter. I didn’t raise her but we got together later. She’s in America and doing okay, last I heard.’
‘You are lucky. There is more information for you.’
I shook out a page of typescript. Kristina’s date of birth was given, her height and weight—175 centimetres, 56 kilos—much taller but skinny like Mum—and a short list of names and places.
‘Those are some of her friends and some of the places she went to. I’m not sure if they are all still . . .’ she waved her hands expressively. ‘Around.’
I nodded. ‘What about school?’
‘Ah, another reason for no police. She stopped going to school last year. The truant service can’t be very good because no one has contacted me. I must tell you that she never stayed at any school very long—always absent, pretending . . . I love my daughter, Mr Hardy, and I believe she could become a successful person. She is musically talented and can dance like a thing on fire. But she is lost at the moment and I don’t want for her to be lost always. Will you help me? I can pay you. I earn good money.’
‘I’ll be honest with you, Ms Karatsky. A resourceful young person with experienced friends can be impossible to trace—even with a fairly warm trail. In cases like this, what I do is try very hard to learn something useful very quickly. If I do, there’s some hope and I ask for a retainer and a contract is signed. If not, I think it’s unfair to take any money beyond the initial expenses. I’m sorry if it sounds severe, but . . .’
She rose smoothly from her chair and moved towards me and I felt impelled to stand. She gripped my upper arms, raised herself on tiptoe and kissed me on both cheeks. I felt her firm breasts press against me somewhere above my belt. She smelt slightly of brandy. There are some people you meet and forget instantly and others who make such an impact you know they’ll stay with you. It’s a matter of looks, voice, smell and more. It had been a long time since I’d met a woman who stamped herself on me in that way and Marisha Karatsky was just such a one.
‘Not severe,’ she said. ‘Not at all. Thank you. Thank you very much.’
3
Two clients, two cases—well, maybe two half cases, because I didn’t really expect too much to come from either of them. Still, income is income and there were interesting aspects to both matters. When I checked the email the following morning, I found that Elizabeth Farmer had come through with a mass of information as well as names and addresses. Insurance documents relating to the house, a recent pest inspection, electricity bills showing very low consumption, her father’s note rejecting a bottled gas offer and newspaper clippings on her father’s career as a real estate agent and minor property developer. Frederick Farmer had obviously been a pretty shrewd customer who, without setting the world on fire, had built a prosperous business and sold out at the right time.
The only false note was the wedding coverage in the Sun-Herald of seven years back. Elizabeth must have got her good looks from her mother, because Fred was no oil painting. At sixty-five he was balding, slightly stooped from what had been a good height, and his nose and jowls betrayed the habitual heavy drinker. For all that, he looked vigorous and happy, if slightly embarrassed by the frilly shirt and tux. Happy with good reason. Matilda Sharpe-Tarleton was a stately blonde, elegant in a sheath dress with discreet jewellery and accessories. Low key in a way, but nothing could tone down the effect of her cheekbones, swan-neck and lissom figure. She was a beautiful woman, perhaps just past her prime but not letting go one millimetre. Diet, aerobics, massage, anti-oxidants.
‘Viagra,’ I said to myself as I looked at the photograph again.
Dr Farmer had provided the names and phone numbers of her father’s doctor and lawyer, the insurance assessor of her claim for the fire at what had become her property, and the Wollongong detective who’d headed the enquiry until Farmer’s death had been pronounced accidental by the Coroner. I checked the dates and found that the whole thing had been wrapped up pretty quickly. Couldn’t ask for a better briefing, and it all indicated how serious she was and therefore how seriously I should take the case. Had to take precedence over Ms Karatsky with the gypsy eyes and, as I made that decision, I felt regret. Not that I like looking for teenage runaways particularly, I just liked the gypsy eyes.
I’d decide later how to play it—give them a day at a time, or move between the two cases as circumstances dictated. It’d be partly a matter of geography probably. I reread the material Elizabeth had forwarded until I was thoroughly familiar with it. It’s a good rule to start at the top. I picked up the phone and called the Matilda S-T Farmer real estate agency in Newtown. I gave the person who answered a fictitious name and said I was interested in renting office space in Newtown and possibly buying some property.
‘I’m sure one of our people can help you, Mr Lees. I—’
‘No,’ I said, trying to sound as abrupt and objectionable as possible. ‘I prefer to deal with principals. I’d like to speak to Ms Farmer.’
The temperature dropped but I got the result I wanted. ‘Please give me your number, sir, and I’ll have Mrs Farmer ring you when she’s free.’
She rang ten minutes later. Throaty voice, careful vowels, cool tone. I got an appointment for eleven thirty, two hours away. Time for me to iron a shirt, brush my suit, get a haircut.
Newtown has changed dramatically since I first moved to the inner west. Then it was rough, grubby, neglected, now it’s gentrified, clean, well-tended—a lot of it anyway. King Street has restaurants offering the cuisine of most of the nations of the world, coffee bars with internet facilities, health food stores and natural therapists, all with advertised websites. I was a little early and I wandered, looking for signs of the bad old days, but I found few. The Hub theatre looked in need of work and was up for lease; a few moneylenders suggested something other than universal affluence. But the bookshops and recycled clothing stores talked the language of now. Posters for the Enmore Theatre announced rock groups I’d never heard of. Not surprising. The Stones played there a while back, but the posters must have been souvenired.
Matilda Farmer’s place of business was a surprise. It was in a huge terrace a stone’s throw from the main drag. No shopfront window advertising properties, no metre-high signs. A discreet notice attached to a wrought iron fence out front and a brass plaque beside the front door and that was it. If you knew the address you could find it, if you didn’t, you’d struggle. A novel approach. I began to suspect Tilly of having brains, or good advice, or both.
I went up the sandstone steps and through the open door. A buzzer sounded. The ground floor had been gutted to the back wall, leaving a large space for a modern-looking office with a number of desks, computers, faxes, photocopiers—the works. Five people working the computers and phones. Three others with real live clients at their desks. The stairs to the upper levels were wide with a handsomely polished handrail. The lighting was subdued and the ceiling roses were intact, ditto a couple of marble fireplaces. I got the idea: if you were looking to buy and restore but keep the Victorian charm, this was the place to shop.
A sleek young woman sitting at the front desk rose smoothly and gave me a sceptical smile. My suit might’ve been brushed but it wasn’t Italian.
‘Can I help you?’
I handed her a card that said I was Gerard Lees, Security Consultant. It gave my address as the defunct office in Darlinghurst. A check would confirm my story of needing office space. ‘Mr Lees to see Mrs Farmer. I have an appointment.’
She recognised the name. This was the woman I’d spoken to on the phone. She hadn’t liked me then and she wasn’t about to change her mind. She avoided looking at me altogether.
‘This way, please.’
We went up the stairs. Figured. The boss lady wouldn’t be down at ground level with the peasants. My guide tapped at a door that was standing
ajar.
‘Mr Lees, Mrs Farmer.’
The easily identifiable voice said, ‘Yes. Show him in. Coffee in five, Phoebe.’
The newspaper photographs hadn’t done her justice. In them she looked pampered but in the flesh she looked harder, more resilient. Less beautiful, perhaps, than when tricked out for her wedding, but handsome and arresting. She glided around her desk and held out her hand.
‘Mr Lees. Glad to meet you.’
A firm, businesslike shake.
‘Mrs Farmer. I have to say I’m a little worried about your security—that open door.’
‘Take a seat, and don’t worry. It all locks up tight enough at night. There’s a concealed camera running twenty-four hours a day with a hook-up to a security firm. Plus one of those men downstairs is a highly trained—’
I held up a hand. ‘Okay, okay, I’m convinced. Anyway, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I’m buying, not selling.’
‘Good.’
‘I haven’t been in Newtown for quite some time. It’s changed.’
‘For the better, I’m sure. Ah, here’s the coffee.’
Quick five minutes. Maybe Phoebe knew five meant two. After the coffee routine, Matilda quizzed me about my needs and I cooked up a story that had some elements of the truth. The rent I said I was prepared to pay was pure fiction. She reeled off a list of places that might suit, referring only occasionally to the computer. She pretty much had the information down pat. I hummed and hawed a bit and then said I was impressed by her place of business and wondered if I could get something like it. Perhaps combine office and home.
She smiled, and for the first time I saw something of the shark in her expression. Just a flash. You didn’t need a realtor’s licence to know that the real money was in big terraces in almost any condition as long as they had walls and a roof.
‘It’s a sound idea,’ she said. ‘I have an apartment here on the upper level and I find it very convenient. As an investment, property in Newtown can scarcely be beaten.’
