Call for Simon Shard

by Philip McCutchan

  Shard smiled. “I’ll be seeing it for the first time,” he said.

  “Well, good on yer. Emigrating, are you?”

  “Business.”

  “What business?”

  “I’m a commercial philatelist.”

  “Eh?”

  “I buy and sell stamps.”

  “Oh. Money in that, is there?”

  Shard said modestly, “I manage.”

  “Good on yer,” the Australian said again, vaguely. “Me, I’m in shipping.”

  “That’s why you travel by air?”

  “Eh? What’s that meant to mean?”

  “Sorry. Just a sick joke. You’ve been drumming up trade, have you?”

  “You could call it that. Well, thank Christ.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  The man nodded towards an illuminated sign over the door to the flight deck. “Release seat belts and smoke. Care for a fag?” He offered a packet.

  “Thanks.” Shard took one and let go his seat belt. He flicked his lighter.

  “Done Europe,” the man said, sounding satisfied but glad it was all over now. “Britain, Scotland, the Continent. The bloody lot. Edinburgh Castle, the tattoo, Westminster Abbey, St. Paul’s…Stockholm, Paris, Rome, you name it, I done it. They can keep it all. Give me the Cross.

  And bloody Flemington, even if it is in bloody Melbourne. Look, you never been to Australia, “I’ll tell you all about it, tell you what to see and do…”

  After a while Shard closed his eyes. The man droned on enthusiastically and never even noticed. Half an hour later, Shard, aroused by some sixth sense, suddenly opened his eyes. He saw the sharp-faced man pass by his seat and momentarily he caught his gaze. The eyes flicked away on the instant; but the interest had been quite plain. There was no further reaction: the man went on, making towards the toilets. The Australian, meanwhile, was continuing, revealing some fairly simple and basic Australian facts.

  “I’m sorry,” Shard broke in. “I should have said. I have been in Australia.”

  A wide, hurt stare. “I thought you said — ”

  “I know I said. But I did once go to Perth and Adelaide.”

  The jaw sagged. “Mean you never went to Sydney?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Shard said apologetically.

  “Well, would you bloody believe it?” the man said. It had been the greatest mistake: there was a lot to tell, about Sydney.

  *

  Two days later, the height loss for Sydney’s Mascot airport: a distant view of the splendid twenty-mile harbour of Port Jackson, extending inward from the Heads, shimmering under a ferocious hot sun. It looked like being all Shard’s informant had promised. Shard took the opportunity of saying so, complimentarily, but he had no audience. Home was right at hand now, and was being busily peered down for. Later, going in sweltering heat through Immigration, a big hand dropped on Shard’s shoulder and the Australian, his face one big smile, shouted good-bye and that was the last Shard saw of him, not without some relief. No-one met Shard: he entered the Southland unhonoured and unofficially, no fanfares, no men from Canberra: that was how Hedge had wanted it, and how Shard had wanted it too. In the meantime he had a place to go, and he was going there direct in a hired car, self drive: the sheep station at Warrandarrah, the Gilder station. And he would go with no ahead announcements: if the Gilders, all the lot of them, were out on the range driving sheep, or whatever you did on these big Australian holdings…well, too bad! Either he would wait, or he would drive out and find them.

  The sharp-faced, well-dressed man, the hitherto interested man, was last seen beating it into town in a taxi. Shard looked after him, shrugging. Maybe he’d been wrong; maybe he hadn’t. If he wasn’t wrong, the chances were the man knew where he was going anyway. Despite his lonely arrival, Shard had a feeling he wasn’t going to be lonely too long.

  The Gilder place was only just out of town: a little under three hundred miles north-west — in Australia’s vastness, just around the corner. In the hired car, a fast mover, Shard reckoned to do it easily inside six hours, and never mind the State of New South Wales and its prima facie speed limit of 50 mph — a limit that could be exceeded only if you accepted the onus of proving your speed was not dangerous to the public. In any case he would be travelling mainly on the Western and Mitchell Highways and these, they told him, were good. In the event he found them excellent: the driving, despite the intense heat of the day, was incomparable with Britain. Right across the mountains of the Great Divide under summer — Australian summer — skies, along river valleys, heading out towards Narromine, beyond Dubbo. Good air in the high ground and a sense of total freedom, a feeling you were driving high and wide for the world’s end with the pink-feathered galah birds for company, driving into the heart of the breathtaking, unforgettable Western wheatlands that stretched to far horizons of waving corn, driving with a song in your heart and all your cares isolated — though preserved for future reference — in a plastic bag that you’d left locked up somewhere way behind in London. Simon Shard had felt this before, the last time he’d visited Australia. Feeling it again was nice. Life shouldn’t be all care.

  *

  The Gilder homestead, by its very nature, was isolated. Sheep stations were big, even here in what was predominantly wheat country. As evening shadows settled over the land, Shard, in a rising cloud of dust for the last God knew how many sweat-soaked hours, drove in through a gate, which he had to get out to open, in a kind of stockade: anyway, a tough fence that put him in mind of cowboys and Indians. Asking the way in Narromine, he’d been told he couldn’t miss: just pick up the first gravel road off the bitumen and then the first natural-formation track right, and it ran slap into the Gilder lands. Gilder, they also told him gratuitously, bred the select Narromine First Cross ewes — NFX for short, animals in great demand in New South and Victoria. Around a half-dozen miles inside the fence, he came to the house and its outbuildings. A family house, sizeable, homely, built of wood. Shard crunched to a stop among a carelessly-strewn assortment of wheeled vehicles: two Land-Rovers, a Fairmont Estate, a little thing like a beach buggy, and a child’s tricycle. A scooter leant against board steps leading to the front door, which stood open.

  Slamming his door, Shard climbed the steps and yanked at an old-fashioned bell-pull. There was a clang from somewhere inside. A few moments later an old man appeared, an aboriginal, wiping his hands on a cloth.

  Shard asked, “Mr. Gilder?”

  “He’s home.”

  “I’d like to see him.”

  The old man nodded. “Who do I say’s asking?”

  “The name’s Shard. I’ve come from London.”

  There was a stare. “To see Mr. Gilder, you come from London?”

  “That’s right. If you’d just tell him.” Shaking his head, leaving Shard on the step, the old abo turned away. He went out of sight, but not far away: Shard heard voices — a mixture of them, a man’s, a woman’s, some excited tintinnabulations from small children: maybe there were not so many visitors in the outback, though Shard thought this was bush rather than proper outback — a mere three hundred miles from Sydney. The man’s voice overrode the others, “Why, come now, Tommy, ask the fella in, why don’t you? Wait, I’ll go myself.”

  The speaker appeared, wiping the back of a hard hand across his mouth, smiling when the operation was complete.

  He said, “Pat Gilder,” and reached out his hand.

  “Simon Shard.” Shard’s hand felt squeezed bloodless.

  “From London, Tommy said.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I dunno. Don’t know any Shards, but come on in, we’re having supper. Reckon you’ll join us.” He turned away; Shard put up a polite protest but was shouted down. Gilder looked a good sort: tough but kindly. A big man in a sweaty working shirt of loud stripes and rolled-up sleeves. Hairy arms, thick short fingers, a competent-looking boss. However kindly, could maybe turn hard and nasty once any law fingers were point
ed — if they needed to be — at his wife. He could be in for some shocks, and Shard hadn’t too much time for gloss and featherbedding. Back in Cornwall, a body still waited. So did a pack of heroin, and so did Hedge. Shard followed the station owner into the dining room, into the family scene. A boy and a girl, looking like seven and five respectively, stared with much interest at the newcomer. Somehow in the outback, or bush, you didn’t feel like an interloper: out here, friendliness was all. You might feel a draught when you stated your business, but for now you were a cobber and welcome at the feast.

  At one end of the table, Gilder’s wife, the former, and the real, Yvette Casabon, very much alive. And a charmer, too: big violet eyes, skin basically pale but now kind of gilded…with that unique brand of female sunburn that you found only in Australia and New Zealand, a sort of dusting, a look as though the gold of the sunlight was shining through from inside. She was fragile, too — much too fragile for the Australian bush. And very, very French

  “Simon Shard from London,” Gilder was saying. “Me wife, Yvette. Hughie and Karen. Seen a bloody ghost or something, have you?”

  “Not a ghost — a vision.” Shard looked away and became correct. In Australia, compliments could be misunderstood: the nearest the Australian male got to compliments was to call his best pal you old bastard, and often his wife too. “I’m sorry to butt in, Mrs. Gilder. Don’t let me put you out.”

  “Oh, it is all right,” she said, smiling softly. “Please, won’t you sit down, Mr…Shard, is it?”

  “That’s right.” Shard returned her smile, feeling like a raw boy, feeling oddly bashful. Gilder indicated a chair with a jerk of his thumb, and Shard took it, sitting between Gilder and his daughter, Karen.

  It was Karen who started the conversation after that. Staring at Shard she piped, “Does the man come from London?”

  The man, smiling down, said, “Yes, that’s right.”

  “All the way from London, to see Daddy?”

  “Yes”

  “By boat?”

  “No. By plane — and car.”

  Smiling, Gilder gently remonstrated. “Shut it, Karen. Let the man alone.” He turned to Shard. “Hungry, are yer?”

  “Well — ”

  Gilder shouted for the abo, who came in with another plate and cutlery. Gilder carved lamb, generously. Shard felt more and more awkward, more and more the spectre at the feast, the man who had come to talk about death and possible involvement of this family. He was reluctant to begin, to state his business: for which, as yet, no-one had asked him. When Gilder said, “Tell us about London,” Shard took the respite gratefully.

  “You’ve been in London, Mr. Gilder?”

  “Yeah. Once. I’m Australian born and bred, not a pommie immigrant, but my grand-dad came from London. East Ham. Came out and settled, back in 1911, when’e was twenty-seven. Now, granddad, ’e was a pommie bastard!” Gilder gave a roaring laugh and slapped his thigh. “Don’t take that literally, of course. Reckon East Ham’s changed a bit since then.”

  “Quite a lot, I’d say.”

  “Well, so’ve we, out here — in the cities, anyway. Granddad, ’e wouldn’t recognise Sydney.” Gilder glanced across at his wife. “Yvette, she comes from France. French, she is.” He said it with innocent pride: he, a big Aussie hunk, had landed a small French flower.

  Shard nodded. “Yes.”

  Gilder, about to say something different, paused with his mouth open. Then, in a suddenly quiet voice, a puzzled voice, he said, “You knew that, eh?”

  Shard looked down at his plate. “She has a slight accent still, you know. Right, Mrs. Gilder?”

  She smiled at him. “Oh, yes, I think so. I hope so. I am French, I would not like to lose it all, Mr. Shard, like the English do so soon. Not the Scots, not so much the Irish, but the English, yes, always, very soon. Is this not right, Pat?”

  “Why, yes,” Gilder said shortly. “Reckon so.” Conversation lapsed into an awkward pause: even the children seemed affected. Maybe, Shard thought, his “yes” to Mrs. Gilder’s Frenchness had been too formal, too official, too knowing: it had, for some reason, cast a blight. Suddenly Gilder said, “Not told us your business yet, have you, eh?”

  Reluctant still, Shard said, “Oh, it can wait.”

  “It’s brought you all the way from London, so I reckon it must be important. You can start in when you like.”

  Shard smiled. “I’ve had a long drive from Sydney — well, you wouldn’t call it long, but…if you don’t mind, I’ll finish eating first.”

  Gilder waved a hand, but there was a difference in him. “Why, sure thing. Like a beer, eh?”

  “Thanks.”

  Another yell for the abo: beer came, Australian beer, Swan beer from Western Australia, very pale yellow and tasting of straw. Shard, who brewed his own, dark and strong, when he had the time, was unimpressed but grateful: it had been a hot and dusty drive for too much of the way. All at once, thinking of his home brew, he thought also of Beth. Worry nagged into him: he hoped she was all right, hoped the doctors wouldn’t be doing anything drastic while he was twelve thousand miles away.

  Supper over, and full dark now outside, with low-slung stars like a bright canopy visible through the windows over limitless land, the children were sent to bed. By themselves — no fuss from their mother: Australians were taught independence early. Shard and the Gilders went into another room, a sitting-room with a veranda giving onto what Shard supposed would be the stockyard. There were sheds, dimly outlined in the light streaming from the veranda, and farm-looking vehicles. Though it was night it was warm, hot even, as the Australian summer mounted: four weeks to a boiling hot Christmas, with all the dressed-up dads sweating powerfully into the red coats and the cottonwool.

  They sat on the veranda. Gilder offered Shard a shorty thick, black cheroot. The two men lit up.

  “Now let’s have it,” Gilder said.

  “All right. I told you, my name is Shard. I am a Detective Chief Superintendent of the Metropolitan Police.” Shard saw no reason, as yet anyway, to divulge his special-duties secondment. The shock-effect of the Met., the Met., reaching its long arm twelve thousand miles, was enough to go on with. And shock it was — that was plain. Gilder gave a sort of croaking, shaken laugh and made a joke of it. “Christ, what am I supposed to have done? Murdered me granny by post? She’s dead anyway, poor old soul!”

  Shard shook his head. “It’s your wife I’m interested in, Mr. Gilder.”

  Shock again, and a protective arm around her shoulders, an instinctive warding off of any blow. “Ah, come off it, Mr. Shard. What’s a girl like her done to anyone, eh?”

  “Nothing to my knowledge. I’m here for possible information.”

  “Oh. Get asking, then.”

  Shard went straight to the point. “Mrs. Gilder, do you know anyone of the same name as your own — your own, that is, before you married? Do you know another Yvette Casabon?”

  She stared at him, shaking her head. “No, I know of no-one.”

  “I want you to be very certain, Mrs. Gilder.”

  “I am certain. There may be others of the same name, but I myself know of no-one.” She looked up at her husband: Shard saw the protective arm tighten.

  “Then do you know of anyone who might perhaps make use of your name?”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Let’s say…to cover their own identity?”

  Yvette Gilder frowned, shook her head again. “No…no, I do not think so, Mr. Shard. I can think of no-one who would do such a thing.”

  “I’d like you to take time to think deeply.”

  “But I am quite sure — ” Suddenly she seemed to catch her breath in a half-stifled gasp, and Shard saw her twist her neck and look up at her husband. Somewhere, a point had been scored — a remembrance, perhaps, stirred? Yvette Gilder went on, “Why would anybody do that, Mr. Shard, why would they use my name? This is a case of a crime?”

  Gilder said in a growl, before Shard could answe
r, “’E wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t, Evie.”

  Shard nodded. “Your husband’s right, Mrs, Gilder. Right in basis, that is…though we don’t yet know what the crime is, or is going to be. I’d appreciate any help you can give me, Mrs. Gilder. You may be able to help me stop something very nasty. You see, a person appears to have been taking your identity, and it’s very important we know who she really is.”

  “You are looking for her?”

  “Not exactly…no.”

  “Mean you’ve got her in custody?” This was Gilder.

  “You could say that. Then again, you couldn’t.”

  Gilder’s anxiety flamed. “Christ, bloody conundrums — ”

  “All right, all right.” Shard held up a hand. “I’ll give you the facts. She’s dead.”

  “Dead, eh. Murdered?”

  “Not murdered. For my money — misadventure. The inquest hasn’t been held yet.” Shard explained about Bodmin Moor, the discovery made by the party of ex-soldiers. Then he reached for his wallet and brought out a photograph of the dead girl, one of those taken after death, and handed it to Yvette Gilder.

  “Do you know this woman?” he asked.

  She took the photograph and glanced at it, looking white about the jaw. Her expression changed: there was a gasp. It was clear she knew. She looked up at her husband, who was staring at the photograph over her shoulder. In a puzzled voice he asked, “Do you know’er, Evie? Me…I’ve never seen’er before.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Oh yes, I knew her quite well…years ago, before we were married. It was when I was studying, Mr. Shard…at the Sorbonne, in Paris. She was a fellow student, you understand, not an intimate friend, but a friend nevertheless. Her name was Gorukin. Tanya Gorukin, a Russian. I believe her father was an important man in Russia, but she spoke little about her family, or about Russia.” Yvette Gilder leaned forward, her face troubled. “I am sad to hear she is dead. She was very beautiful”

  “Yes, she was. Now: you’re absolutely certain of your identification, Mrs. Gilder — that the girl in the photograph is beyond all doubt Tanya Gorukin?”