by Peter Corris
The Bellambi police station was next to the courthouse on the highway, both solid old structures reflecting an investment in law and order. I went through the door of the cop shop and got what I expected—an old shell, new fittings. Air conditioning, computers, bulletin boards bristling with pinned-up papers. An outer office for the uniforms and civilian support staff and an inner sanctum for the detectives. A fresh-faced young constable left his desk and approached the chest-high counter. Counters in police stations are always higher than elsewhere. Don’t know why. Must ask.
‘Yes, sir?’
I showed him my licence folder, let him discover that I had clean fingernails and didn’t smell of alcohol and asked to see Sergeant Barton. For a minute I thought he was going to get me to fill in a form, but he didn’t.
‘What is it regarding, Mr Hardy?’
Quick study. ‘Arson,’ I said. ‘Possibly.’
He nodded and picked up the phone. ‘Door on your right. Down the passage. First left.’
I went as directed. The building had been worked on over the years to provide private offices. I knocked at the door with ‘Detectives’ stencilled on it, got the call and went in. Biggish room, big windows, skylight, three desks each with a computer, filing cabinets, shelves stuffed with paper, photocopier, wastepaper baskets spewing. The carpet was dirty, likewise the windows. That didn’t mean anything—my office carpet hadn’t been too clean and the windows were opaque unless there’d been heavy rain. There were two men at their desks. The one who looked up was beefy and balding with a bull neck. Had to be Barton. I wondered if his first name was Bruce.
He beckoned me over. ‘Let’s have a look at the credentials.’
I handed him the folder, pulled up a chair and sat down without being asked. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like my licence folder or anything about me. He dropped the folder on the desk where I’d have to stretch to retrieve it. I didn’t.
‘To what d’we owe the honour?’
‘Oh, I’m just letting you know I’m around. In case anything happens. You know.’
‘Smartarse. Specifically?’
He sat very still, didn’t fidget and kept his eyes focused on my face. I got a sense that, while he might have been rigid and narrow-minded, he wasn’t incompetent.
‘I’m working for Dr Elizabeth Farmer.’
‘Oh, yeah? Doing what?’
‘Enquiring into her father’s death.’
He smiled, showing expensively capped teeth. He liked showing them. He’d had good advice about his hair; it was on the retreat but it was dark, clipped closely and didn’t look sad. I noticed that his shirt wasn’t from the bargain bin, nor his tie. His suit jacket was draped on a wooden hanger from a stand behind him. Hung smoothly.
‘On a daily rate, are you? Expenses and all? That’d be a nice money-spinner. Good luck.’
‘Nothing else to say, Sergeant? No doubts?’
‘There’s always doubts. I’ve got more than a few about you.’
I took my notebook out and flipped it open. ‘A witness reported a suspicious person on site before the fire.’
‘So you didn’t check in first before you started snooping around?’
‘Checking in’s the second thing I did.’
For the first time he shifted his considerable weight in his chair. He was either bored or good at seeming to be. ‘Unreliable information. Vague, unsubstantiated.’
‘So much information is, until it’s investigated and . . .
put together with other things.’
His colleague, who’d seemed to be concentrating on his paperwork, shot a look across at us, but dropped his head again immediately.
‘You’re wasting your time and your client’s money, Hardy,’ Barton said.
He pushed the folder across to me. I stood up and collected it.
‘Thank you for your time,’ I said.
‘Not a problem. Make sure your vehicle’s roadworthy.’
I drove into Wollongong and located the offices of the Illawarra Mutual Insurance Company. I was told that Mr Lucas was out of the office. I got his mobile number and rang him. The background noise was unmistakable—Mr Lucas was in the pub. I told him I was a private investigator and his enthusiasm almost welled out of the phone. Meet me? He’d buy me a drink, several drinks.
The hotel was down near the railway station. It was old-fashioned with the stylised beer advertisements showing flappers and men in flannels still in place, though badly faded. You could almost see the ghosts of the weary travellers who’d trudged up the steps from the sunken station to find comfort there. For the time of day there was good activity in the bar of the old kind—drinking and yarning—rather than the new sort—pool and pokies. Lucas had described himself as stunningly handsome with a body like a Greek god. I said I was middle-aged, tall, greying and with a broken nose.
I took a few steps inside and a small, slight young man with gelled fair hair wearing a dark suit that was a bit too big for him hopped off his bar stool and came towards me. He had a schooner of beer in his left hand. He extended the right.
‘You’d be Hardy.’
I shook his hand. A firm, dry grip, stronger than I’d expected from someone his size. ‘I would,’ I said.
‘Good to meet you. Come and have a drink. Had lunch?’
I shook my head.
‘They do a great steak sandwich here. I’ve ordered. Want one?’
‘Sure.’
We reached the bar and he signalled with two fingers to the woman working at the counter-lunch section. She nodded and forced a smile.
‘What’ll you have?’
The orange juice and coffee at the motel and the coffee at Sue Holland’s place were a distant memory. Since then I’d swum, been given the cold shoulder and driven a bit. I hadn’t spent much of Elizabeth Farmer’s money yet. ‘Middy of old,’ I said.
He was about to signal to the barman but I reached over, put a five dollar note on the bar, and gave my order.
Lucas sighed and took a pull on his beer. ‘Like that,’ he said. ‘Okay.’
‘I’ll let you buy the lunch,’ I said. ‘Where can we talk?’
We went through to a saloon bar where the food was served. Using one hand, Lucas deftly gathered up napkins and cutlery and dumped the lot on a table. He went back for salt and pepper and hot sauce. I sat down and worked on my drink.
Lucas patted his pockets and then shook his head. ‘I forgot. Can’t smoke in here now. Probably better. What d’you want to talk about . . .’ he glanced down at the card I’d put on the table, ‘. . . Cliff?’
‘A fire insurance claim you investigated, allegedly.’
He lowered the level in his glass substantially. ‘Are you trying to piss me off?’
‘No. I’m just letting you know there are questions to be asked.’
‘Aren’t there always.
I—’ ‘I was in your game for a while,’ I said. ‘Quite a few back, but in a small firm, like yours. I know how things work.’
‘Okay. Name of claimant?’
‘Farmer.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’ He expelled a long breath and looked down at his almost empty glass. High heels clacked on the floor. ‘Good, here’s the tucker.’
I let him have his moment of respite as the woman expertly slid the plates onto the table. Two toasted slices of grainy bread with thick slabs of meat between them, surrounded by a mass of lettuce and slices of tomato and beetroot with piles of chips taking up the rest of the space on the plate. A very honest serve.
‘Complimentary glasses of wine, sirs?’ the woman said. She was in her thirties and looked tired, but she was close to chic in her tight black dress, cropped hair and heels.
I nodded. ‘Red, thanks.’
Lucas emptied his schooner in a short gulp and handed it to her, ‘Thanks, Maggie. Same for me.’
I picked up a perfectly crisp chip. ‘Most days, this’d do me for lunch and dinner.’
‘It does me,’ Lucas said.
‘Come on,’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘Well, you say you know how it goes. Some claims you get the word to go full bottle on and some you don’t.’
‘That was the case with the Farmer claim?’
‘Yep. It’s nothing obvious. Just how quickly the paperwork gets to you, how clear it is that everything’s kosher administratively. A hint that quick clearances are desirable this month.’
I thought that over while I ate. The meal was good and I was enjoying it. Lucas didn’t look as comfortable. He dribbled hot sauce on his food.
‘So why?’ I said.
‘I’d be speculating.’
‘Speculate.’
‘What’s in it for me?’
‘A clear conscience.’
He laughed. ‘You watch Yes, Minister?’
‘Sure.’
‘Sir Humphrey says a clear conscience is a luxury.’
‘Two hundred, two fifty—depending on the quality of the speculation.’
He took a mouthful and chewed deliberately, swallowed. ‘That as high as you can go?’
‘I’m being generous. I can speculate myself.’
‘Usually,’ he said slowly, ‘this kind of . . . understanding results when a party that puts a large amount of business an insurance company’s way has an interest in the outcome of the claim in question.’
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ I said.
7
That was all I could get out of him on the subject. If Carson Lucas knew or suspected which clients of Illawarra Insurance had an interest in the Farmer claim he wasn’t going to tell me and there was no way I could make him. Not that I could think of at the time. I’d certainly give it more thought. A developer of some sort seemed most likely given what Sue Holland had told me, but developers come in all shapes and sizes and their company names don’t always give a clue as to what they are or do.
‘Cunt of a job, this,’ Lucas said as he finished his food.
‘Investigating insurance? Better than selling it.’
‘I dunno.’
‘Work on commission, don’t they? No sale, no dough. That’s a point. Who sold Frederick Farmer his insurance?’
Lucas found a last chip or two among the lettuce he wasn’t intending to eat. ‘Bloke called Adam MacPherson. Used to drink here. Haven’t seen him for a while.’
‘Is he still with the company?’
‘How about my two-fifty?’
We went to an ATM near the bank of pokies and I drew out the money.
‘MacPherson?’
‘The answer is no.’ Lucas plucked the notes from my hand and strode away.
I went to the toilet and freshened up. Then I went back into the lounge and ordered a cup of coffee. The waitress in the black who’d served the food and drink worked the machine like an expert and I told her so.
‘Should be. I’ve been here long enough.’
‘Ah, Maggie, did that bloke I was with give you a tip?’ I asked.
‘Never does.’
I paid for the coffee with a twenty-dollar note. ‘You can keep the change as a tip and for a bit of information.’
She shot a look to right and left before taking the money. A lifted eyebrow indicated agreement.
‘Adam MacPherson. Drinks in here, I’m told. Do you know him?’
‘Yeah, he’s a regular. Not in the daytime, but.’
‘So he’s in, what? Most nights?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Last question—what’s he look like?’
She wasn’t dumb. ‘Who are you, then?’
I showed her my licence and gave her a card. ‘This is nothing heavy. I just want to ask him a few questions.’
I grinned. ‘I’m big on questions. Might be worth money to him.’
‘He could use it.’ She described MacPherson to me, slid the coffee across and slipped away. Not a bad morning’s work, I thought. Good coffee, too.
I walked back to the car park where I’d left the Falcon and called Elizabeth Farmer on my mobile.
‘Dr Farmer, this is Cliff Hardy. I’m in Wollongong.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Are you making any progress?’
‘Possibly. I met your neighbour, Sue Holland. She told me she saw someone mysterious around the house before your father died. I’m wondering why you didn’t tell me about that.’
‘Because I didn’t know.’
‘Ms Holland didn’t tell you? I had the impression you were friends.’
‘Were friends. Not for some time. Is this necessary? If that information is accurate I expect you’ll follow up on it.’
I thought I got the picture. ‘Okay. A few more things. Am I right in thinking the insurance claim was settled quickly?’
‘Do you mean on the property or Dad’s life?’
‘The property.’
‘Yes, quite quickly. I know because that involved me. I don’t know about the life insurance. You’d have to ask Matilda. She was the beneficiary.’
‘Okay. Last thing. Have you had any offers to buy the Wombarra block?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who from?’
‘From whom. Sorry, I’m being a shit. I just feel a bit besieged by all these questions. I could’ve filled you in on all this beforehand if I’d known.’
‘I understand, but the questions come up as things move along. And that’s the last one. From whom?’
She laughed. ‘Fair enough. From Matilda, who else? And before you have to ask another question, I can tell you I told her to go fuck herself.’
‘Thank you, Dr Farmer. I’ll be in touch.’
It was one of those situations. Could Lucas be trusted to keep my interest in the Farmer matter to himself? Could Sergeant Barton be trusted? Lucas, maybe, because I’d given him money. Barton, only if he was honest. If either or both of them had agendas of their own I could be in for some trouble. Nothing new.
I pulled out of the car park and drove to where I do my best thinking—the beach. Wollongong City Beach had a long sweep south of Flagstaff Point. The shoreline had been modified by an extensive breakwater, a common feature on the Illawarra coast, where the sea resists human activity. I parked opposite some up-market apartment blocks and sat in a small park that boasted some old guns that predated the artificial harbour where classy yachts rode at anchor. At a guess, the guns had been placed in the 1890s to repel a Russian attack that never came. Along the street I found an undamaged telephone directory at the bus shelter. How many A. MacPhersons could there be in the area? As it turned out, none. Worth a try.
The day had warmed up considerably and I shed my jacket and walked along the beach. The sky was cloudy and the water was greyish-looking. Not a picture postcard vista, but still, for an industrial city, not a bad stretch of sand and water. I could see boats heading in and out of the harbour, yachts and fishing boats. The freight activity would be further south at Port Kembla and there were container ships on the horizon.
I reached an outcrop of rocks and squatted. I was having trouble concentrating on the Farmer business. Something about this beach and seascape was getting to me, drawing me. Wollongong was a city with a history—union struggles, political battles, environmental issues and plenty of crime. I dimly recalled cases involving a predatory rapist, a headless corpse and, more recently, revenge killings of alleged paedophiles. It wasn’t everybody’s set of positives, but for a man in my line of work . . .
My mobile broke into this reverie.
‘Hardy.’
‘This is Phil at Silken Touch. Kristina’s phoned. Says she’s coming in tonight.’
‘Shit.’
‘What’s wrong? I thought you wanted to see her.’
‘Yeah. Right. What time’ll she be there?’
‘With these bitches who can say? Eleven, midnight?’
‘I’ll be there.’
He r
ang off. Suddenly, working two cases at once didn’t seem like such a good idea. I could get back to Sydney in an hour and a half, more or less, depending on the traffic. That meant I’d have to leave the ’Gong at nine-thirty at the latest. Would MacPherson show up at the pub by that time? Would he show up at all? I had hours to kill before following up on something that was by no means a certainty. One of those times when an assistant would have come in handy. I had one of a sort in Hank Bachelor, who was on a small retainer to provide backup from time to time. But this wasn’t the sort of thing I could hand over to him.
I got up and stretched, feeling less flexible than I liked to feel. A legacy of neglect of the gym and accumulated birthdays. I mooched along the sand, kicking at plastic bottles and bits of driftwood brought in by the tide. A rogue wave rose abruptly and washed over my feet and I swore. Suddenly, I was much less enamoured of the Illawarra. Sydney was my go, along with the pollution and the traffic, aggro from the likes of Harry and the phoney glamour of places like The Silken Touch. I realised I was veering towards self-pity and shook the feeling off. I left the beach, found a park bench, took off my shoes and wrung out my socks. A passer-by smiled at me and I smiled back.
At 7 pm, back wearing my jeans, sneakers, T-shirt and a denim jacket that lives mustily in the car, I was in the bar of the pub nursing a schooner of light. Maggie had described MacPherson in detail—stocky, fortyish, red hair and beard, a smoker and Guinness drinker. Loner. I stayed in the bar where smoking was permitted, at least for now, ate some crisps, played the pokies without concentration or luck, tried to show some interest in the soccer on TV. Hard to do. I went through the saloon bar to the toilet and saw that Maggie was on duty.
