The Dying Trade

by Peter Corris

  “But Haines wouldn’t be in it?”

  “That’s so, he wouldn’t play in teams outside the orphanage grounds. In home matches of football and cricket he’d score goals and runs all over the place, but he wouldn’t play the away matches. Dropped him from the teams as discipline, all that, made no difference. He hated stepping outside the place, excursions were a nightmare to him, eventually we stopped taking him. He’d stay behind and read or train for some sport or other. Probably haven’t made it clear: he was a great reader, read everything and he retained it. They wanted him for a television children’s panel game, brains trust sort of thing, you know?”

  “Yes, I think they’re ghastly.”

  “Just so, but some children thrive on them in a way. Haines went white when it was put to him, he refused to consider it. He was violent.”

  “How did the suggestion come up in the first place?”

  “Haines had been entering competitions in newspapers, puzzles and general knowledge things. He was an omnivorous newspaper and magazine reader, devoured the things. Won prizes all the time.”

  “What sort of prizes?”

  “Book vouchers mostly, money too, small sums. It was banked for him. The newspaper people must have talked to the television people, same crowd I expect, and they approached us about him. Well, he reacted as I told you, he threw things, went into one of those rages that he used to display in fights. And he stopped entering competitions, never touched them again. He seemed to ease back on everything, he’d pass his subjects at school and do respectable things with the bat, but all the brilliance was gone. Sometimes it would flash out, so would the ungovernable temper, it was all still there but he kept it completely under control. He could probably have got a scholarship to go on studying but he had a horror of competing. He opted to go to work at fifteen or so, gardening I think it was?”

  “That’s right.”

  “He left us when he was sixteen, he was earning a wage, boarding with a respectable family, time to go.”

  “Did you ever see him after he left, or hear from him?”

  “Never.”

  “What was your relationship with him like?”

  “Quite good, as far as he’d let it be. I used to nag him a bit about not trying his best, but I gave that up. He was his own man from a very early age.”

  “At some time he discovered who his mother was, or became convinced he knew. Could you pin-point a time when that might have happened?”

  Cavendish looked across at his wife. “You remember Haines dear,” he said, “can you help with this?”

  She took off her gold rimmed spectacles and polished them on the sleeve of her cardigan. “Yes,” she said quietly, “I believe I can.” She replaced the glasses precisely. “Haines was involved in the office incident, wasn’t he? About the same time as the television idea came up. He was in a state over that and his part in the affair was never clear.”

  I sat up, this sounded like it. “Could you please explain, office breaking . . .?”

  “There was what I believe is called a sit-in at the orphanage,” said Cavendish. “Some of the boys were protesting about being denied access to their personal records. They aren’t permitted to see them, that’s the law. Right or wrong, that’s the law. Some of the older boys broke into the office, barricaded themselves in there and ransacked the filing cabinets.”

  “Haines was one of them?”

  “No, his part in it was curious. He volunteered to act as negotiator. The boys were on hunger strike in the office. Haines went in and talked to them and they came out. He was in there for about an hour. It wasn’t a popular act.”

  “Why not?”

  “There was some talk that Haines had put the others up to it. He denied it and it was never confirmed, the accusation was put down to spite. But there were whispers. Some of the boys were eager for a fight, and the intermediary was seen as something of a spoilsport.”

  “Haines could have seen a file on him when he was in the office?”

  “Yes.”

  “What information would that carry?”

  “Date and place of birth, parents’ name or names if available, medical details.”

  “Haines’ file, did that have his mother’s name on it?”

  “I don’t know but almost certainly it would. Such records are very precise and very private.”

  “And a marked change in Haines’ behaviour dates from this time?”

  Cavendish spread his hands out on the table, there were fine white hairs across the backs and the nails were broad and strong, no nicotine stains, no tremors.

  “It does, Mr Hardy. We put it down to the idea of going on television. The impact of that on him seemed more dramatic than the other affair which only lasted a couple of hours. But it could have been due to the discovery of his mother’s name.” Cavendish paused, then he rapped his knuckles against the table. “No, no, how stupid of me. Those records were all computer coded in the late sixties. Haines couldn’t have got a name from his file, just a number. Still, that might have been enough to set him off, certainly the psychologists said he was obsessed with the parentage problem.”

  I leaned forward grasping at it. “Just a minute sir, two things. How could a number set him off?”

  “Some of the files would have had a multiple zero number—parents unknown.”

  “I see. Now, Haines was examined by psychologists?”

  “Yes, several times. A team from the University was working on a study of orphaned children, their psychological problems and so on. They were very interested in Haines and examined him at some length. I can’t remember the details, I recall one of the team telling me that Haines was positive that his people were wealthy, substantial citizens, but that’s a very common complex I gather.”

  “Was this examination done before or after the office sit-in?”

  He raised his eyes to the sky, then glanced at his wife.

  “Dear?”

  “After, I think,” she said, “soon after.”

  “I really can’t remember, Mr Hardy. I’d trust my wife’s recollection though, steel trap mind she has.”

  I smiled. “I can see that,” I said glancing at the blocked in crossword. “It’s interesting, and fills in a lot of gaps.”

  “I don’t know whether it will help you much though. Haines was a very complicated boy, an unusual individual in every way. I’m sorry to hear he’s in trouble, but I can’t say I’m surprised.”

  I was only half-listening now. “Oh, why’s that?”

  “Colossal determination combined with a very passive, yielding streak. Very odd combination, unstable elements I’d say. No, I shouldn’t say that, that’s what the psychologist said.”

  I nodded. “Were the results of this study ever published?”

  “Yes,” he said, “in something called The Canadian Journal of Psychology. I understand it’s a periodical of repute. I’ve never read the paper, should have I suppose, but it was a full-time job running that place.”

  “Will you have some coffee, Mr Hardy, or a drink, it’s after eleven?” Lady Cavendish obviously thought it was time to wind the show up.

  “No thank you, I’ve taken up enough time and you’ve been very helpful.”

  There must have been an inconclusive note in my voice because Cavendish leaned forward with a quiet smile on his face.

  “But you haven’t finished?”

  “No. You might think this impertinent, but I must ask you something else.”

  “Let me guess,” he said. He got up and took a few springy steps across to where the lawn began, he bent down, picked up a pebble and juggled it up and down in his palm. “When we live in such style why did I spend twenty-five years running an orphanage?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Easy,” h
e looked at his wife and they exchanged smiles, “we’ve only had this place for a couple of years and we’ll only have it a couple more the way the rates are going. I inherited it from an uncle, title too, the old boy lived to ninety-six, still thought of Australia as a colony. When I left the army, Mr Hardy, the deferred pay was negligible and I had a large, bright gaggle of a family to educate. The orphanage directorship was the best thing offering. I tried to do it in an intelligent fashion, it wasn’t always easy.”

  “I’m sure you did,” I said. I got up and shook hands with them.

  Cavendish flicked the pebble away, he looked sad. “You might drop me a line to let me know how it works out,” he said quietly.

  I said I would. They walked with me down an overgrown path beside the house and we said our goodbyes near the front verandah. I went down the path to the gate and looked around before I opened it; they’d half-turned and he had his arm down across her thin straight shoulders.

  CHAPTER 27

  I drove back into town and checked out of the Colonial. The Avis people took their car back and gave me enough refund money to pay for a bottle of beer and a sandwich in the airport bar. I killed the waiting time there, pouring the Cooper’s ale carefully so as not to get the sediment, and pushing the crumbs of the sandwich around on my plate. I watched the sediment settle in the bottle thinking that the bits and pieces of this case were starting to settle into place, but not satisfactorily. The whole thing needed a violent shake if it was going to be resolved in the Gutteridge woman’s favour. I might have to give that shake myself, but I had a feeling that it might be done for me and pretty soon.

  I finished the Forsyth book just before we landed at Mascot. I settled back into a taxi seat and almost fell asleep on the ride to Glebe. I kicked an old clothes appeal and several monster sale leaflets out of the doorway and stomped through the kitchen to make some coffee. I dumped the overnight bag under the table knowing that it’d stay there for days and hating myself for it. A newsboy yelled out in the street and I went out to the gate and bought a paper. I read it while I drank the coffee—the election was still in doubt, there was an earthquake in Greece, a cricketer had his shoulder packed in ice and Dr Ian Brave was still being hunted by the police. I finished the coffee and the telephone rang. I grabbed it and got Ailsa’s voice, panicky and barely coherent over the wire.

  “Cliff, Cliff, thank Christ, I’ve been ringing for hours and minutes . . . no . . .”

  “Hold it, Ailsa, hold it. Where are you?”

  “Hospital. I’ve seen Brave.’’

  “What!” I shouted. “Where?”

  “Here, right here. I saw him when I was going to the toilet. He didn’t see me, but Jesus I went cold all over. It took me a while to calm down and ring you and you weren’t there!” Her voice went up to the panic level again.

  “I’m just back from Adelaide. Look, when was this?”

  “I don’t know, I didn’t know the time. Half an hour ago?”

  “What was Brave doing?”

  “He was leaving, but I know what he had been doing.”

  “What?”

  “Seeing Susan.”

  I let out a breath and my mind went blank.

  “Cliff, Cliff!”

  I came back and muttered something into the phone. She almost screamed the thing apart.

  “What are you going to do?” Her anger and fear pulled me together. I got some control into my voice, told her I was getting a gun and lots of help and that everything would be all right. She wasn’t happy but she rang off after I promised to call her as soon as anything happened.

  I got the Colt out of the oilskin cloth I’d wrapped it in and pushed the cloth back behind the bookshelf. I grabbed an old army jacket with deep zipped pockets and headed for the back courtyard. Before I reached the door the phone rang again.

  “Sweet suffering Jesus,” I shouted into it, “what?”

  “Hardy, it’s Tickener. I’ve just seen Brave.”

  “Shit, not again, where? No, don’t tell me, at the hospital.”

  “Right, how did you know?”

  “Never mind, how did you get on to him?”

  “I’ve been following that black girl, you know, Pali?”

  “Yeah, and . . .?”

  “She came streaking out of her flat, first time she’s been there in days. I picked her up in Redfern, spotted the car. Then she drove to the hospital and picked up Brave. I’ve got them both in sight but they’re going to split. He’s hiring a car. Who should I stay with?”

  “What else have they done?”

  “She went to a bank.”

  “Who’s holding the money?”

  “He is, she handed it over to him.”

  “Stay with him, he’s going for a fix. I know where she’s going. See you.” I hung up and belted out to the car. In the rear vision mirror I saw a drawn, yellowish face that looked tired and frightened.

  A different black kid was playing ball against the same wall when I pulled into Haines’ street. I drove around the back and saw that his car slot was occupied by a white Mini. I parked up near the end of the street beside a set of sandstone steps which led up an embankment and ended with an iron railed landing a good thirty feet up from street level. I got the jacket from the back seat of the car and the Colt from under the dashboard. I put the gun in a pocket, slung the jacket over my shoulder and went up the steps. The landing was overhung with shrubs that had rooted in the thin soil of the embankment. It was after six o’clock and the sun was just starting to sneak down to the high points of the building line. I hung the jacket on the railing, rolled and lit a cigarette and waited.

  Half an hour and two cigarettes later, a red Volkswagen turned into the street. It did a circuit of the block the way I had and stopped opposite Haines’ house. A girl got out. She was wearing pink slacks and shoes and had a lacey, fringed poncho affair over her shoulders. From where I was crouched I could see that her skin was the colour of polished teak and the inky frizz of her wig stood out a foot from her head. I started down the steps as she went through the front gate. I stumbled on a step and my jacket hit the metal rail with a terrific clang. I swore and crouched down but the sound hadn’t carried far enough to alarm Naumeta Pali. I crossed the street and went up the side of the house to the back stairs that led up to Haines’ door. I heard the door close above me and climbed the stairs quietly taking two at a time. I heard the sound of voices in the flat and then the ringing click of a telephone being lifted. The girl spoke again but what she said was inaudible. I pressed up close to the wall beside the door and tucked my ear into the doorframe. The receiver banged down and I heard the girl speak in her smoky, French accented voice.

  “Come on, Rossy,” she purred, “we’re going to the mountains.”

  I took the steps four at a time on the way down.

  I was down behind a car parked twenty feet away from the Volkswagen when they came out. Haines was walking a little ahead of the girl with his hands in the front pockets of a windcheater jacket. Pali had her arms under her cloak but from the way it bulged out about waist high it was obvious that she was holding a gun on him.

  There were a few people in the street but she ignored them. She walked Haines to the driver’s door and said something to him, emphasising the words by moving her hands under the poncho. Haines opened the door and got in, another gesture from the girl and he buckled on the seat belt. She moved around the front of the car with the gun held up chest high and levelled at Haines’ head through the windscreen. She’d handled a gun before. She opened the passenger door and got in. She sat slightly swivelled round. I heard the engine kick and saw a puff of smoke from the exhaust. The car started off in a series of kangaroo hops. Haines was nervous and who could blame him? I kept low and under the protection of other cars as much as possible and ducked and swerved my way bac
k to the Falcon. I slung the jacket into the front seat, started the engine and was moving up the alley in time to see the VW making a right turn out of the street into the main road.

  The mountains were probably the Blue Mountains which meant that we had a couple of hours driving ahead of us. The route the VW took along the roads in this part of the city seemed to confirm that destination. I had plenty of gas and plenty of gun, I should have felt reasonably confident but I didn’t. Pali’s phone call from Haines’ flat nagged at me like a hangnail. I supposed it was to Brave and it was reasonable to assume that he was coming to the party too. I was covered there to some extent, by Tickener, but I couldn’t be sure that the reporter would be able to control the junkie psychologist in a tight spot. Then again, Brave and Pali could have agreed on the meeting beforehand and the phone call could have been to a third party who I didn’t have covered at all. I couldn’t call for police help unless the VW stopped and even then my story was thin and only Grant Evans could help me. I didn’t even know if he was back from his enforced leave.

  This potentially dangerous loose end kept worrying and distracting me as I drove so that I almost lost the Volkswagen at a three way junction. I pulled myself together and concentrated on keeping back and varying my lanes and position among the other cars in the traffic stream. Haines was driving better now, quite fast and tight and making good use of the gears. We hit the Katoomba road as the last flickers of daylight died in the trees beside the highway.

  The easy time to tail cars is at dusk and later. There’s not much possibility of them spotting you or of you losing them if you stay alert, but there is a kind of lulling feeling about it which introduces the chance that you might ram your subject up the back number plate while in a hypnotic trance. I fought this feeling as I trailed up the hills and coasted down the “use low gear” grades. The traffic thinned after Penrith but there was enough of it to provide cover and the winding road and glaring oncoming headlights demanded concentration. We passed through Katoomba after eight o’clock; the real estate agents had closed so half of the town’s business was under wraps, only the usual pinball places and take-away-food shops kept the neon going in the streets. The pubs emitted a soft, alluring light through the lead-glass windows which reminded me that I hadn’t had a drink in hours and was heading away from sources of it fast.