by Peter Corris
He consulted his notes. ‘You talked to the investigator—Lucas. What did he tell you?’
‘Nothing much. He signed off on the claim. Couldn’t find anything dodgy. One thing he told me was how to find MacPherson, which was to hang around in that same pub.’
‘Sounds to me as if you were just going through the motions.’
There was contempt in every syllable and I struggled to keep my response under control. I studied Farrow closely and decided that he knew he wasn’t on firm ground. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Aronson watching us. This wasn’t a confrontation I wanted to lose.
‘I’m guessing MacPherson was a drunk,’ I said as I got to my feet. ‘I’m guessing he was sacked by the insurance company and probably had very dirty fingers in lots of pies. You need to find out who killed him. I don’t. So unless there’s something else, I’m out of here.’
‘Intending to go back to Wollongong?’
‘Are you offering me a lift?’
‘Don’t press your luck, Hardy. Obstructing a police investigation is a crime.’
So it is, I thought, but there’s nothing to say I had to help it along. I left, nodding to Aronson as I went. I had things of interest to report to Dr Farmer but not all of them reflected well on me—to get both the Bellambi cops, who’d played a part in the fire investigation, and a senior Wollongong policeman offside wasn’t good going.
Glebe doesn’t quite have the variety of ethnic food Newtown boasts, but it’s not too bad. After my emotionally stirring time with Marisha Karatsky and a three-round no-decision bout with canny Inspector Farrow, I needed some fuel. I bought a can of Guinness at the bottle shop a block from the police station and took it into the Italian joint across the road where I ordered veal parmigiana. It was the sort of meal I bought to impress women in my brief student days—with chianti and Peter Stuyvesant, the height of chic.
By the time I’d finished eating it was after one. I rang Elizabeth Farmer who told me she could see me between classes a little after three o’clock. Not enough time to reconnect with Marisha. Nothing to do but linger over a couple of long blacks and think. Trouble was, I was trying to think of two matters at the same time and as far as I know that can’t be done. So I just drank the coffee.
Dr Farmer had suggested we meet at the coffee shop just across the Broadway footbridge. Said she needed fresh air at that time of the day. The air wasn’t all that fresh, with the traffic flowing past twenty metres or so below, but the breeze was in the right direction at least. I was there first and saw her walking along beside one of the ivy-covered walls. In long blue coat, scarf and boots she looked the part and it occurred to me that Germaine Greer would’ve walked along the same road, probably dressed in much the same way. Forty years ago. This coffee place wouldn’t have existed, nor the footbridge, but not much else had changed.
We went through the she-sits-you-stand routine, and I asked her what she’d have.
‘Long black,’ she said. ‘I’ll be paying, won’t I? You being on expenses.’
‘I don’t always keep the receipts. Might let you off this one.’
The coffee came in plastic cups but tasted okay. She took a drink and leaned back. ‘Had to get out of that room. It’s a bit claustrophobic.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a touch of asbestos around as well.’
She grinned. ‘Thanks. So, Mr Hardy, how do things stand? But first, what happened to your head?’
‘What?’
‘Your hair’s all matted at the back. I notice these things. I look for bald patches, comb-overs . . .’
I shuddered. ‘Comb-overs. Yeah, I bumped against a wall. Nothing to do with this.’
‘But to do with something. You’ve got a look in your eye. You’re uppish, despite the injury.’
‘I thought you were a doctor of philosophy, not—’
‘You’re right. You’re right.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘Down to tintacks. Shit, what good would tintacks be? Sorry, I’m . . . Never mind, I haven’t got long, let’s get on with it.’
I filled her in, telling her the things I hadn’t told the police. There’d been no need for her to complete the sentence she’d interrupted. Elizabeth was wired, high on something chemical. There was a brightness to her eyes and a sheen to her smooth skin and her hand, as she raised and lowered the coffee cup, wasn’t entirely steady. Her body was betraying her. Maybe you needed something chemical to survive in the university scene these days. She unwound the scarf and let it hang down. She’d already undone her coat, and now she sat there in a quite cool breeze with nothing between it and her except a silk shirt. But her brain was working and she reacted sharply when I got to the bit about MacPherson being killed.
‘Jesus, is there a connection?’
‘Don’t know. Possibly not. I’d have to find out more about him and what happened.’
‘How would you do that?’
‘I’ve got ways.’
She accepted that but still shook her head. ‘I can’t see it. I can’t see some developer killing two people to get hold of that land. It’s all subject to slip, it’s honeycombed with mine workings.’
‘So Sue Holland said. There’s an entrance on her property.’
She blinked at the name. ‘Mine too. But as well as that, there’s a height limit to any buildings. Where’s the profit?’
‘Why did Matilda offer to buy it?’
‘Just to screw me’s my guess. Pick it up cheap. Although come to think of it, the offer was on the high side. It’s a great spot, as you must’ve seen.’
I nodded. ‘Pretty good. Bit cold under the scarp in winter I bet.’
‘Barbecues, wood fire inside. Lovely.’
‘Could the land have any other value?’
She laughed. ‘I suppose you could grow a lot of dope there, but it’d be a bit obvious. The spotter planes go over all the time and with the yuppies moving in there’d be dobbers galore. In case you’re thinking otherwise, I don’t consider myself a yuppie blow-in. I’ve been going down there for more than twenty years.’
‘You’ll rebuild then?’
‘You bet. Something as close to the original as I can.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I have to get back. You’re not going to stop are you? There must be something behind this.’
‘Sue Holland said zoning could be changed. It’s happened before.’
She shook her head. ‘Not down there. No way. Something else.’
‘I’ll stay with it. I’ll run checks on Matilda, find out what I can about MacPherson, see if there’s some big money around taking an interest. But . . . no promises.’
‘Fair enough.’ She stood, formidably tall in her boots, and I immediately thought of Marisha Karatsky, who wouldn’t have come up to her shoulder. We shook hands and she wound her scarf back, buttoned her coat. ‘And mind your head.’
11
I’d outsmarted myself. The two cases I thought wouldn’t amount to much and could be run parallel had turned out to be more involved, both requiring time and attention. And there was the extra factor of the emotional involvement with Marisha. That probably tipped the balance, but I decided that the hunt for Kristina had priority anyway. The question of who wanted the Farmer land, why and what they were prepared to do to get it wasn’t going to go away and was unlikely to change shape quickly. Or so I reasoned.
I dug out the material Marisha had provided and looked at the list of Kristina’s alleged friends. In my experience, young women with a secret admirer feel the need to confide in someone. I rang Marisha, told her the police business had resolved itself for now, and asked her which of the names she’d given me was most likely to be Kristina’s confidante.
‘Cliff, it’s hard to tell. How would I know?’
‘The most mature one. The most . . . experienced, say.’
‘I see.’ She paused. I could imagine her in her silk smock standing by the phone, her hand up to her tangled hair. My juices flowed and I realised I wanted to find Kristin
a, not out of professionalism, but to impress her mother. Not a good reason.
‘I think Lucy Kline,’ Marisha said. ‘I gave you her address. She left school or was expelled, I’m not sure. She has a flat with other young people.’
‘I’ve got it. One more thing. That stuff you were asked to translate by Parnevik. What was it about? Might help me to trace him. I should have asked you before, but we got sidetracked.’
Her throaty laugh was like a caress. ‘Skiing. I could follow just enough to know it was about skiing. When am I going to see you, Cliff?’
‘Very soon,’ I said. ‘Probably tonight. I’ll try to find Lucy Kline and talk to her and see what comes of that.’
‘Good. My daughter is in danger and I have made love to the man who has put her there and the man who is trying to save her. Life is strange, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ I said.
Lucy Kline’s address was in Petersham but I was more interested in Karen Bach. Kristina tucking her name and address away in her hidey-hole had to mean something. Karen Bach’s address was in Five Dock, in a street running down to the canal that threads through the area. As I drove I tried to figure out why a place would be called Five Dock when it had no docks at all. I didn’t come up with an answer, but with all that’s happened to Sydney Harbour since 1788, anything is possible.
The flat was in a nondescript block not far from the canal and the stretch of park running alongside it. Cream brick, no balconies, aluminium windows, cement paths—a 1960s suburban dream. Connections of my father, who were better heeled than him, took this route. They bought an old house, knocked it down, built the four flats, lived in one, rented the others. They either died of boredom or got tired of paying to fix the leaking roofs and dodgy plumbing and sold out.
There was no security. I went up to the door of flat 2 and rang the bell. The young woman who answered looked at my licence folder short-sightedly through thick glasses. She had a paperback book in her hand with a finger marking her place.
‘Really?’ she said. ‘A private detective?’
‘That’s right. No gun, no trench coat.’
She giggled. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Are you Karen Bach?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know Kristina Karatsky?’
She shook her head.
‘Can you tell me where to find Ms Bach? No trouble for her—a missing person enquiry.’
She pointed towards the canal. ‘She’s walking her dog.’
‘Okay, thanks. What does she look like? What sort of dog?’
A kind of shadow passed across her face. She was plain with mousy hair and sallow skin. She was shortish, neither fat nor thin. She wore a sloppy Joe and baggy jeans, socks, no shoes. ‘Karen’s a tall blonde,’ she said. ‘You’ll find her.’
The light was dropping as I walked down to the strip of green. It made the scene softer, more attractive than it would look in the clear light of day. There were a few people around—joggers, dog-walkers, aimless strollers. A tall blonde woman wearing tight red pants, snowy sneakers and a faded denim jacket was striding along the path by the canal with a prancing white poodle on a lead. I like dogs but I don’t like poodles—don’t know why.
I trotted across the grass and fell in beside her. ‘Ms Bach?’
‘Go away,’ she said.
‘I can’t, sorry. I’m a private detective looking for your friend, Kristina Karatsky. I have to talk to you.’
‘She’s not my friend. Never was.’
‘We still have to talk.’ I could handle the pace, but it was brisk. ‘Looks to me like Fifi there needs a rest. I suggest you slow down.’
That got her attention. ‘Her name’s Tasha and she could outrun you any day.’
‘No doubt about it, but she must be due to find a tree. Come to think of it, I am too.’
She laughed and that brought her to a halt. With Tasha skittering at the end of the plaited lead, she turned and faced me. She was young, late teens at most, and beautiful, but there was something older about her. Her big blue eyes had seen more than they should have.
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I knew this’d happen one day. An underage, child molestation, minister of religion thing, right? That’s all I fucking need right now.’
We were standing in the middle of the path with joggers bearing down on us. I took her arm and steered her towards a park bench. Tasha tugged at the lead but came along.
‘Nothing like that,’ I said, lying. ‘Nothing to involve you directly. I just need information about . . . I guess you know who I mean?’
‘Stefan.’
I suppressed a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Right. Stefan Parnevik. Do we talk here or back at your flat?’
Inside, the flat was surprisingly well furnished and appointed. It had been thoroughly renovated and redesigned. Tasha had the run of the place so there were dog hairs on the rugs and the sofa and chairs and probably in other places. Karen Bach introduced me to Becky, the flatmate, who promptly disappeared into a bedroom.
‘Becky’s shy, I’m not. Want a drink, Mr Hardy?’
‘Sure.’
‘Vodka and tonic okay?’
She’d shed the denim jacket and her figure was on display in a tight fitting top. She sliced a lemon, broke out ice cubes and prepared the drinks like someone who knew what she was doing. She noticed me noticing.
‘I did a bar course. Kris did it with me.’
‘She’s fifteen.’
‘So? Here’s your drink. Have a seat.’
We sat opposite each other at a low table with a glass top. The drink was excellent. ‘What about school?’
‘Neither of us was big on school.’
‘Her mother—’
She almost snorted and stopped herself because it didn’t fit her sophisticated image, an image I was sure she was working at constantly. ‘Her mother didn’t know shit. Anyway, she’s nuts.’
‘Why d’you say that?’
She shrugged, reached for a packet of cigarettes on a ledge under the table and lit one. She took a long drag and expelled the smoke theatrically. ‘Look, Mr Hardy, I’ll come clean with you. I agreed to talk to you because I thought it’d be interesting to meet a private eye. I’m an aspiring actress, presently working as a barmaid, sort of.’
I worked on the drink. A refurbished two or three bedroom flat in Five Dock, however plain the building, wouldn’t come cheap these days. Karen Bach, even with a flatmate, wasn’t just pulling beers.
She reached to the ledge for an ashtray and butted the two-drag cigarette. ‘Topless,’ she said. ‘Lap dancing.’
‘Someone has to do it. Kristina . . . and her mother.’
‘Kris talked her way into the course, fake ID and that, but she couldn’t get a job. All the makeup and come-on in the world didn’t help. Just too fucking young. I did. She freaked. She ripped off my first pay. I told her to fuck off.’
‘You said something about her mother.’
‘You’re working for her, right? Don’t. She’s a monster.’
‘Come on.’
‘True. She used Kris to attract blokes. Started when Kris was just a kid. You’ve seen that place she lives in. How d’you reckon she got that?’
‘You tell me.’
She emptied her glass. ‘Jesus, I shouldn’t be talking about this. I dunno . . . But it’s hard stuff to know and hold in.’
I could feel something like a chill starting in my spine and spreading out. ‘Tell me.’
‘I’ll deny I said anything about this if the law gets involved.’
‘Right.’
‘As I say, she used Kris as bait for blokes to get her jobs and then . . . to blackmail them. She’d be using you the same way, I reckon.’
I sat back and let it hit me hard. Then I thought about it. I was alert, keyed-up. A little alcohol doing no harm to the synapses. ‘Her mother steered me to someone named Lucy Kline. Who’s she?’
‘Fucking hell,’ she said. ‘A nerd who happened to get cau
ght smoking a joint. Probably her first and last. Kris’s mother only ever saw me in school uniform. Kris never let her fucking mother know she knew what was going on. She got all she could out of it herself. She’s a better actress than Meryl Streep. Come to think of it, they both are—her and her mother.’
12
As I’d expected, Kristina had talked to Karen Bach about Stefan Parnevik. She hadn’t met him but had seen him from a distance.
‘Big, fair-haired bloke. Lots older than her, but that never worried Kris.’
‘Do you know what he did for a living?’
She thought, or tried to look as though she was thinking. Maybe practising her acting. ‘Skiing,’ she said. ‘Something to do with skiing.’
‘No idea where he lived or where his business was?’
She shook her head. ‘Sorry. Look, I’ve got to get to work.’
‘Give you a lift?’
‘Thanks. No, I’ve got a car. Hey, that’s something. I saw his car. I know cars—silver grey Saab, beautiful.’
I thanked her and got to my feet with my head hurting a little, but whether from the injury or what I’d been told I didn’t know. ‘Say goodbye to Becky for me.’
‘Goodbye from me as well. I don’t want to see you again. Hey, you think I’m a dyke?’
I shrugged. ‘No opinion.’
‘Becky’s going to be my manager when I get into movies. She’s a fucking genius.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘We need a few of them the way things are going.’
Karen didn’t quite know what to make of that. Tasha was spread out on the imitation leather couch. She lifted her head and watched me all the way to the door.
It was dark by the time I got back to the car. I sat there for a while trying to tell myself that Karen, the wannabe actress, was acting, and that everything she’d told me about Kristina and Marisha was bullshit. Maybe the two young women were still friends, working some kind of rip-off of vulnerable older men. I couldn’t convince myself, and when I followed her Honda Civic to a pub in Erskineville that advertised ‘topless and titty’, I gave the idea away. She wouldn’t be working there if she had anything else going.
