by Peter Corris
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I got hit on the head. The light bothers me a bit.’
She drew some curtains and everything softened. ‘Not by Kristina, I hope.’
‘No. By a brick wall. Although she helped.’
‘Oh, my God. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right. Goes with the job. Nothing serious.’
I told her everything from Tempe to Paddington via Alexandria without pulling any punches. She sipped her coffee and her face remained expressionless although her dark eyes with the shadows beneath them seemed to become more hooded. My coffee was cool by the time I finished but I drank it anyway, along with a couple of painkillers from the supply in my pocket.
‘Fifteen,’ she said, ‘and a whore.’
‘For what it’s worth,’ I said. ‘It could be worse. The Alexandria place is well run. She seems to be able to look after herself. The guy there said she tested clear for drugs. I’m inclined to believe him.’
‘But at the house in Tempe they said—’
‘Could’ve been a pose. I’m not saying she’s not a very confused and conflicted young woman.’
She stood and began to pace around the big room, her high heels clacking on the polished floorboards. Watching her, I began to see similarities between her and her daughter despite the difference in size—the same mass of dark hair, facial refinement, grace of movement. She sat down and leaned towards me across the table, her eyes huge, her mouth trembling.
‘I wasn’t entirely honest with you, Mr Hardy.’
I tried a reassuring grin. ‘Like the knock on the head, it goes with the job.’
‘You say her clothes . . . the white clothes looked expensive?’
‘Very.’
She said, ‘Shit,’ pronouncing it almost like a foreign word. ‘I thought when I found the Tempe address and from the clothes she was wearing lately she was at least being . . . you saw the T-shirt—a pinball place.’
I nodded.
‘I thought you might find her working at a fast food place, smoking dope, taking ecstasy at dance parties. Bad enough, but not . . .’
She was shaking, coming apart. I moved around the table to the two-seater chair and put my arm around her shoulders. She drew closer, her small body seeming to shrink into my bulk.
‘What, Marisha?’
‘Not with . . . him.’
‘Who?’
She didn’t move away and she stopped shaking after a while. It was some time since I’d been that close to a woman and I enjoyed the contact. Her hair smelled of herbal shampoo and I wanted to stroke it.
‘I . . . there was a man. I was with him for a time. I thought he was a good man but one day I found him with Kristina. He had bought her clothes and makeup and shoes and she was all dressed up for him. I don’t think he had . . . what’s the word?’
‘Molested?’
‘Yes, molested. I don’t think so, but I wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was not the first time. I sent him away and I threw out the things. Kristina screamed. A big fight, but she calmed down.’
‘When was this?’
She pulled away then and I let her go. She turned her head to look up at me and there were questions as well as pain in her eyes. Something had happened between us, and it wasn’t to do with Kristina. The reaction I’d had to her at my place was back, stronger.
‘Two years ago. She was thirteen. She was always precocious . . .’
‘No,’ I gripped her wrist. ‘That’s wrong. With a kid of thirteen, the responsibility is always on the adult. Always, Marisha!’
‘Yes. You are right. He telephoned and I know she spoke to him again. I changed the number. We moved to this place. She saw a counsellor for a little time and I thought . . .’
‘Did he have money, this guy?’
‘Yes, he had money. I think so.’
‘You think so.’ I couldn’t help a critical note creeping in. ‘How long were you with him?’
She pulled right away and leaned back. A long breath, in and out. ‘It is difficult to explain, Mr Hardy.’
‘Cliff—my name’s Cliff.’
‘Cliff. You said you had a daughter you hadn’t raised—perhaps you will understand.’
I was willing. I eased away and nodded.
‘I came to this country twelve years ago. Kristina’s father had died, but his brother was here and he . . . sponsored me and my daughter. I had university degrees from Poland but they weren’t recognised. I had to study to get qualifications and to improve my English. I worked—cleaning, kitchens in restaurants, waitressing—it was very hard. But slowly I improved. I could speak English. An educated person in Poland speaks English.’
‘They teach languages better there than we do here,’ I said. ‘I can barely read a French menu.’
‘But I wanted to work with words, with language. Words are my passion, my . . .’
‘Talent,’ I said. ‘I can see that.’
She smiled. ‘Thank you. I got the Australian degree and I began to get translating work with different companies—leaflets, websites . . .’
‘You picked that up too?’
‘I did. It’s not so hard. What’s wrong?’
‘Not a thing. I’m impressed.’
‘I don’t understand that. I still have difficulties. But with all this work I neglected her, Kristina. I tried, but I failed. She began not going to school, missing . . . ?’
‘Wagging, we used to say. Then it was jigging, now I think it’s ditching.’
‘English is such a strange language. Yes. I was worried. Then I met Stefan, Steve as he called himself. Swedish, handsome. He said he had heard I had a number of languages and he wanted something translated from Swedish. I know Polish, German, French and Russian. Not much Swedish, but . . .’ Her elegant shrug filled in the gap.
‘This is him?’
‘Yes. Stefan Parnevik. I’m still not sure what he did for money, but he had a lot. A car, clothes, credit cards. All these were things I wanted and would work to get, but they were still not there yet for me. He gave me money. Enough to put a deposit on a little flat. He was there often. He took me to dinner. I . . . felt stronger. I had more time. I got more work at better pay. I paid off as much of the mortgage as I could, very fast. Then I found Stefan and Kristina together in the way I said.’
Telling the story was exhausting her and I told her to stop. There was still coffee in the pot and I took the cups and microwaved it. A Hardy special, never mind if it makes it bitter—good excuse for sugar.
She’d composed herself when I got back with the coffee and the haunted look had receded a bit. ‘I didn’t think I’d ever have to talk about this,’ she said.
‘You say there were phone calls after you kicked him out. Was there any face-to-face contact?’
She shook her head. ‘With me, no. I thought he was ashamed, perhaps fearful of what I would do. I did nothing, partly . . . partly because I didn’t want to make it too big for Kristina. She said nothing happened. Perhaps I was wrong to . . .’
‘Hard to say. Do you think he saw her, met her?’
‘I don’t know. After a time she calmed down and began to seem normal. But normal for Kristina was not normal as for other girls. Oh God, what am I going to do?’
‘Find her. And give him to the police. If this is all the way we think it is, he’s connived at having an underage girl work as a prostitute. And it’s more than likely that he . . .’
‘Yes.’
‘So where is he? Where does he live?’
She’d taken a decent swig of the coffee as if to prepare herself for something. And here it was. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Don’t say it like that, Cliff, please. I never went to his place; he always came to mine. I didn’t ask any questions. I was looking, hoping for someone and he was . . . charismatic.’
‘Charismatic.’
‘Yes. Yes. Good-looking, kind, generous. And funny.’
‘Funny’
ll do it.’
‘Do it?’
I knew what I meant—funny is hard to compete with—but I didn’t want to lay it out for her because I knew I’d sound jealous however I put it and she’d know. ‘Well, finding people is my speciality, so I guess I’ll just have to set about it.’
She took in more coffee and didn’t say anything. I felt wrong-footed and fidgeted with the coffee mug, waiting for her to speak. When she didn’t I moved back close, put my hand to her face and turned it towards me. Her skin was soft against my hard, gym and tennis-calloused palm.
‘Marisha, I want to help you.’
‘You despise me.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You despise me for letting my daughter fall into the hands of such a man.’
‘No.’ I had one hand on her cheek and the other on her shoulder and I drew her towards me. I bent and she strained upwards. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was opening. I felt I had to stop her speaking, saying no. I kissed her and she returned the kiss fiercely and gripped me with a strength I wouldn’t have thought possible. The kiss lasted so long I was struggling for breath when it ended. I realised we were both panting and we reached for each other again, colliding rather than embracing.
Her bedroom was dim and smelled of incense. The bed smelled of her. She eased herself off from where she’d straddled me and rolled to one side. I put out my arm and she shaped her small body to mine, clinging close.
‘Was it wrong?’ she said.
‘Didn’t feel wrong to me. Felt very right.’
‘No, I know it’s not like a doctor and patient. I meant with Kristina . . .’
I loved her smell—the combination of shampoo and perfume and her body. I inhaled, buried my face in her hair, kissed her ear. ‘I read that in the London Blitz, in the war,’ I said, ‘people made love where they were sheltering, in cellars, the tube stations, with other people around. Sometimes with strangers. Stress broke down barriers. That’s really something, given that we’re talking about the English.’
‘You say the English like that, but you’re English, surely?’
‘Only half on one side—the rest’s a mixture of Irish and French and God knows what. My maternal grandmother was a gypsy. She’d have said you had gypsy eyes.’ I ran a finger lightly across the dark skin under her eyes.
‘No, no. No Romany that I know of. But in Europe, who knows? Jewish certainly, on one side as you say. Cliff, you think this is just . . . stress?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think so.’ And I meant it, although the speed of our coming together like that was a little surprising. But the times are strange and everything’s speeded up.
10
I spent the rest of the morning with Marisha Karatsky, interestedly if not productively. I inspected the room that had been Kristina’s. Marisha had said she’d shown me everything useful on our first meeting, but parents only ever know part of their kids’ stories. The quick look I had confirmed my impression—that the girl I’d been looking for hardly bore any resemblance to the young woman I’d found, and lost. Except for one thing. Kristina had had a hiding place—a gap between the skirting board and the wall. It was only wide enough to contain a few small things—a couple of joints maybe, money, condoms. I probed it with my Swiss army knife and came up with a five dollar note and a card. The card had a name scrawled on it, Karen Bach, and an address. No phone number.
Marisha’s work room was a mass of books, keyboards, screens, tape recorders and other machines I couldn’t identify.
‘Everything is digital now,’ she said. ‘Or will be soon.’
‘So they tell me. I’m barely analogue, myself.’
She laughed. We drank more coffee and made love again.
‘I only had two condoms,’ she said afterwards.
‘Just as well. Twice in eight hours is my total limit. Plus I have to go to work.’
My mobile rang in the pocket of my jacket, lying on a chair under her smock. As I bent to find it I realised that I hadn’t been aware of my head hurting for hours.
‘Hardy.’
‘Mr Hardy, this is Detective Sergeant Aronson at Glebe. I believe we’ve met.’
Aronson. I tried to place him, put him in context. A case about a year ago when my investigation of an attempted murder and suicide had crossed with that of the police. We’d remained mutually civil, just. ‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘I’d like you to come to the station as soon as possible, please.’
Marisha was looking enquiringly at me by this time. I tried to mime business, but probably didn’t succeed. She shrugged and went away.
‘About what?’
‘I’d rather tell you when you get here.’
‘And I’d rather you told me now or at least gave me a hint. Otherwise, I’m on to my lawyer and we talk about it.’
‘Feeling threatened, Hardy?’
I noted the dropped mister and wasn’t surprised. Police courtesy to people in my trade is always skin deep.
‘It’s to do with one Adam Ian MacPherson.’
It seemed a long time ago and a lot had happened since, so my confused response was genuine. ‘I’m not sure—’
‘Come on, Hardy. You were asking about him in a Wollongong pub last night. He was found shot dead in Fairy Meadow today. The locals want to talk to you. They’ve been on to me. I said you were more or less civilised for a bloke in your game and that you’d come in. I’ve got one of them on his way now.’
‘That wouldn’t be Barton of Bellambi, would it?’
‘Hardy . . .’
‘I’ll play. Just give me that much.’
‘I remember what a tricky bastard you were, always fucking around to get an edge.’
‘You’d do the same in my place.’
‘I hope to Christ I’m never there. Okay, this isn’t Barton. How long?’
‘An hour.’
‘Pull your finger out—half an hour.’
He hung up—last-word Aronson.
I found Marisha in her work room fiddling with a tape. I put my arms around her from behind and felt the resistance.
‘I have to go,’ I said. ‘That was the police. Something else I’m working on.’
The stiffness went out of her like wine from a bottle. She somehow managed to twist in my arms, turn and get free of the chair. She leaned into me, her small, firm breasts pressing against my stomach. ‘I thought it might be a woman.’
Despite what I’d said earlier, I felt myself responding to the warmth and tautness of her body. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t have a woman.’
I got there forty-five minutes later on the dot. The detectives’ room at Glebe is upstairs, open plan with a couple of interview rooms off to one side. Nothing fancy. Aronson, in his trademark black leather jacket, was sitting in a corner drinking coffee with a man in a suit. Nice suit, too. He stood as I approached but Aronson didn’t.
‘Hardy, this is Detective Inspector Ian Farrow up from the ’Gong. Sir, this is Cliff Hardy, licensed private nuisance. I’ll leave you to it.’
Farrow and I shook hands and he sat down in the chair Aronson had vacated. I took the other one. Farrow was youngish for his rank with fair hair and a fresh complexion. He looked fit, as if he took exercise and ate the right foods. Social drinker at most. He took out a notebook and looked down at it for a second. When he looked up I was blinking at a stab of pain in the back of my head.
‘Something wrong?’
‘Took a knock to the head last night. Hurts a bit. What’d you want from me, Inspector?’
‘You were in Wollongong yesterday and in the Keira Hotel last night enquiring about Adam Ian MacPherson. You left your card with, ah . . . Margaret Fenton, asking her to give it to him when he came in. She did.’
‘That all sounds correct.’
‘MacPherson’s been murdered.’
I jerked my thumb at Aronson, who was on the phone a few metres away. ‘So he told me.’
‘You don’t seem concerned.’
> ‘I am. I wanted to talk to him, but I never met the man.’
Farrow looked me in the eye and suddenly he didn’t seem young and fresh-faced anymore. There were lines of experience around his eyes and mouth and a sceptical frown mark between his eyebrows. ‘Didn’t you?’ he said.
I had to smile. ‘Are you new at this?’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘The hard stare and the threatening tone. If you really thought I’d killed him you’d hardly invite me here so politely. And if I had killed him would I be likely to leave him with my card, or be hanging about, having chatted to the barmaid like that?’
‘Good point. No, I think we can say we’re asking you to help us with our enquiries.’
‘That’s usually code for being a suspect. You mean in the true sense of the words?’
‘Exactly.’
I had no real reason to be concerned. My client wasn’t compromised in any way. I gave him a selective version of my investigation for Elizabeth Farmer. Farrow took notes but didn’t seem very interested. I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t mention Matilda’s interest in buying the Wombarra block, nor Lucas’s hint about why insurance claims are sometimes settled quickly. If there was a connection between MacPherson’s death and the Farmer matter, I wanted to see it for myself before I let the police in on it. Unfortunately, Farrow was a good actor and he’d been faking.
‘You’re full of shit, Hardy. I’ve spoken to a detective at Bellambi.’
‘Barton,’ I said.
‘Right. He says your client thinks her dad was murdered. You go down and sniff around and the guy who sold the insurance on that particular house gets shot after you shout his name about.’
‘Not exactly.’
‘I doubt that anything’s ever exact with you. You’re slippery. But we’ll try—what did you want to talk to him about?’
‘Look, I was just going by the book. My client hired me to investigate the circumstances of her father’s death. The death was by fire. The house was insured. So you talk to the insurers. Routine.’
