by Peter Corris
The light went out and with it a sour breath from me. Peeper Hardy strikes again. I waited long enough to be sure he wasn’t just there to hand out a How to Vote card and then I drove home. The water was over the hubcaps in several places between Woollahra and Glebe, and the rain fell hard all night. I drank wine and watched Gene Hackman and went to bed with Helen and didn’t hear the rain. Somehow I thought Ian Winslow wouldn’t be hearing it either.
‘Poor woman,’ Helen said as she buttered the toast. The rain had stopped but big, black clouds hung over the city. We had the lights on at nine o’clock in the morning.
‘Which one?’ I said.
‘The wife.’ She passed me the toast and I poured coffee for us both.
‘What about the other one?’
‘Hmm. He’s the Minister for Ethnic Affairs, isn’t he? God, it’s like that Shirley Maclaine joke about Peacock. He was the Minister for Foreign Affairs so I gave him one to remember.’ She bit into her toast, dropped crumbs on her silk dressing gown and brushed them on to the floor. ‘I don’t find Shirley Maclaine all that funny, do you?’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t find Peacock all that funny either.’
‘He’s funny compared with Fraser.’
‘It’s raining again,’ I said.
‘What’re you going to do?’
‘Take another look at the place.’
‘What good will that do?’ Helen pushed her chair back and reached for her packet of Gitanes. She smoked one a day, sometimes first thing in the morning, sometimes last thing at night. You could never tell which it would be. She didn’t know herself.
‘Hardy’s law,’ I said. ‘Put off doing an unpleasant thing if you can. Something worse might happen and then the first thing won’t look so bad.’
Helen smiled and lit her cigarette.
I’d wasted most of the morning waiting for the rain to stop. It didn’t, so now it was early in the afternoon and I’d been watching the house in Woollahra for an hour. In that time I’d seen four women. One was the person who’d greeted Ian Winslow so enthusiastically the night before. She looked even more exotic in the daytime. She’d run down to the corner shop when the rain stopped briefly. She moved like a dancer, long legs, lithe body in tights and a loose sweater. Her hair was piled up on her head like a high, black turban revealing a long, slender neck circled by a white ribbon. Another of the women, who also ran a short errand, was almost as dark but had a different cast to her features, less African, more Indian. The other two were Asian or Eurasian, possibly Filipino. Dressed for the wet weather, they left in taxis.
On a dry day I’d have felt conspicuous. The other cars in the street were younger and better bred than mine; the houses all had that heavily mortgaged but well cared-for look, and there was no soggy rubbish in the gutters like in Glebe. It wasn’t a place for loitering in. I had my hand on the ignition key when the door of the house flew open and a woman ran out on to the street. She threw her head back and screamed up at the leaking sky as she ran. A man charged out of the house but was checked by a passing car. The woman ran down the footpath towards me, still screaming, bare feet flying and one arm flopping oddly as she moved. I got out of the car and she almost fell into my arms. The blood on her rubbed off on me. The man came on; he was dark and big but flabby. There was blood on his white shirt. He stopped and the three of us stood there in the rain.
‘Come,’ the man said. He beckoned with an impatient flick of his fingers.
The woman shivered and shrank closer to me.
‘She doesn’t want to come,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you go?’
‘Wife,’ he said.
‘No! No!’ She gripped my arm. Blood dripped on to the wet footpath. He reached for her and I stepped forward and chopped at the muscle of his extended arm. He yelped and swung at me but he had to move his feet to do it. One foot came down on some Moreton Bay mush and he started to slip; I helped him with a shove to the shoulder. He slithered and crashed into the side of a car. His leg twisted under him as he went down hard.
The woman was small and light; I half-carried her to my car, pushed her across to the passenger side and got behind the wheel. As we turned the corner out of the street I looked in the rear vision mirror—the dark man was lurching across the road towards the house and the African Queen was rushing out into the rain to meet him.
‘You need a doctor.’ Blood was welling up from a slash across her right forearm; her left arm was giving her pain. She winced as she tried to straighten it.
‘Yes.’ Her voice was just above a whisper, hard to hear with the noise of my old engine, old wipers and the hiss of traffic on a wet road. She was young and pretty with delicate features and a pale amber skin. Her black hair had been held up by combs one of which had fallen out so that she had a half disordered look that would have been very attractive if it weren’t for the blood and the trembling spasms that shook her. Her thin dress was soaked.
A kilometre from the Woollahra house, I pulled up outside one of the twenty-four-hour clinics that have sprung up around the city in recent times. She glanced out the window and shrieked. Her hands clutched for a hold on the dashboard.
‘No, no, not here! No!’
Jesus, what is this? I thought, but I got moving again.
‘Okay, okay, I’ll get you to my doctor. All right?’
She nodded and slumped down in the seat. When I could spare attention from the treacherous roads I glanced across at her. She wasn’t dead and she wasn’t asleep—half-alive would about describe it.
Ian Sangster stitched the cut in the right arm and eased the dislocated shoulder back. He put the left arm in a sling. The woman took it all without a murmur.
‘Bad cut, Cliff,’ Ian said.
‘Dangerous place, the kitchen; almost as bad as the bedroom.’
Ian sniffed. ‘She’s got some nasty bruises too. There was a big, strong man involved.’
‘He’s limping now,’ I said. ‘Tell me, Ian, what d’you think of these clinics—the joints with the leather lounges and cocktail cabinets?’
‘A few of them’re all right, some’ll be video shops in six months.’ He snorted. ‘Come to think of it, that’s about what they are now, some of ’em. Why?’
‘No reason.’
‘If you’re sick, come to me.’
‘I haven’t been sick since I stopped smoking.’
‘Wise, very wise.’ Ian smoked fifty a day.
She gave me a name on the drive home, Lela Somosi, and told me she was a Filipino. That’s all; she was almost unconscious. Shock and exhaustion, Ian had said. I squelched up the path to the front of my house half-carrying her as before—great stuff for the neighbours. Helen let me in and didn’t ask any questions. She put Lela Somosi in a warm bath, gave her a dressing gown and made her some tea. The woman clutched the mug and took a sip. She smiled at Helen.
‘Thank you.’
‘We’ll show you where you can sleep in a minute,’ I said. ‘But will you tell me about that house first?’
She nodded. ‘Women come there from overseas. We are not here legally. We work as prostitutes. For those who are most . . . happy and the beautiful ones, it can be only three months. For others it can be six months or a year.’
‘For what?’ I said.
‘To get papers. Real papers. Legal papers for Australia.’
‘And what happened to you today?’
‘I am not happy. The men do not like me. Richard tells me I will never get the papers unless I change. We fight.’
‘Richard?’
‘Richard da Silva, he is the boss. He is from Brazil.’
‘Who’s the black woman, the tall one?’
‘She’s tired, Cliff. Let her sleep,’ Helen said.
‘No. I will tell you. She is Riki Marquand, from Brazil.’
‘And that doctor you wouldn’t go to.’
‘He does things for Richard. I thank you for helping me. I would like to know why you do it, but I am tired now.’
/> ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘Have some sleep. More talk later.’
Helen took her into the spare room and I made some sandwiches and got out the flagon. I put one glass down quickly and poured two more as Helen came in.
‘Saw you,’ she said.
‘I’ve earned it, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Mm.’ She drank and took a bite of tomato and cheese. ‘Your client’s hubby’s in the shit, isn’t he?’
‘Could be.’
‘What do you mean? A Cabinet minister in some sleazy girl immigration racket? This has to go to the police or the Crime Authority or something.’
‘Client comes first.’
‘Explain.’ She took a long pull on her wine and nibbled at a crust.
‘I wasn’t hired to blow the whistle on Winslow. I just have to report to his wife on what he’s doing.’
‘That’s passing the buck to her. She won’t do anything.’
I shrugged. ‘If I go around reporting to the authorities on everything I find out about people no one will hire me. I’ll be out of business.’
‘This is different.’
‘Yeah, it is. But the principle remains the same.’
‘Principle!’
We argued it back and forth for a while, drinking wine and getting nowhere. We got heated and exasperated. At about five o’clock Helen looked out the window; there was a fitful glow in the pale sky about where the sun would be, if it ever came back.
‘I’m going to a movie,’ she said. ‘Romancing the Stone, want to come?’
‘No thanks. D’you want the car?’
‘No thanks. See you.’
She went and I wandered around the house for a while. I put the wine away and had some coffee; then I got the wine out again and had some more. I looked in on Lela—she was deeply asleep with both damaged arms lying free and looking comfortable. At seven o’clock I walked along Glebe Point Road, stretching my legs for the first time in days and thinking about food and principles. The footpath was drying out in patches and the air smelled and tasted clean. I had some food in one of the coffee shops, bought gin and Gitanes as a peace offering for Helen and came back with the same principles I’d started out with.
For some reason the gate to my place opens outwards so I always close it when I leave. As I turned into the street I could see the gate hanging over the footpath. I ran. The door to the house was open and banging against the splintered jamb. I raced up the stairs to the spare room. The bed was almost undisturbed but Lela Somosi was gone. I stood in the room blaming myself and building up a head of anger. When I got downstairs Helen had just walked in. I nodded to her, grabbed the phone and dialled Barbara Winslow’s number. I was still carrying the shopping and Helen came across and took it gently from me.
‘Mrs Winslow?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Cliff Hardy.’
‘Who?’
‘Cliff Hardy. I have to talk to you.’
‘You must have the wrong number.’ She hung up. I looked stupidly at the receiver, shook my head and pressed the redial button. The phone rang and rang until the connection was broken by the automatic cut-off.
I stumbled out to the kitchen and watched Helen pour gin over ice. I took the glass and drank half of it in a gulp.
‘Don’t say it,’ I snarled.
‘I wasn’t going to.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. I’m sorry, love. I’ve been so dumb. Bastards!’
‘Have you got her cheque?’
‘Cash.’
‘What do you think happened?’
‘Somebody’s worked fast—put me in Woollahra and connected me to Winslow’s wife. God knows how. Ian must’ve got a scare and promised her he wouldn’t do it again.’
‘What about Lela? . . . What are you doing?’
I was getting my Smith & Wesson and the holster from the locked drawer under the hi-fi. ‘I’m going out there to get that da Silva guy. I’ll bend him until he gives me the girl.’
‘Go to the police.’
‘I’ve got nothing to tell them—no witness, no evidence.’
‘You’re being dumb again.’
‘Probably.’
I drove like a madman to Woollahra, at speeds that would’ve killed me and others just hours before on the wet roads. But the roads were dry now and the night sky was clear and starry. I held the gun in one hand and wrapped the other in an old sweater. I planned to go through the window and break anything else I had to on the way to da Silva. But Helen had been right. The house was dark and quiet. I let my pulse slow, put the gun back in the car and took out some picklocks instead.
Inside all that remained was a strong smell of perfume. There was no furniture, no books, no newspapers, no people. The cover-up had started and I knew how it would go on from there. The neighbours would know nothing; the estate agent would have dealt with intermediaries; the property would be owned by a company which was owned by another company and so on.
I drove to the clinic and parked outside. Now that the rain had stopped and my windows weren’t misted I could see through the plate glass doors. There was a statue inside—Michelangelo’s ‘David. There was also white carpet and Scandinavian furniture—I wondered how David felt about that. Lela had said that the doctor here did things for da Silva. As I understood it, these places had a fluid casual staff. Did she mean the Boss Doctor or Doctor Smith who worked on Wednesday nights? Nothing here either.
‘Nothing,’ I said to Helen.
‘I found this in a pocket of her dress.’ She held out a scrap of paper which was still damp from the rain. On it was written ‘Luis 818 2456’.
‘A friend?’ Helen said.
‘That’s what she needed.’ I dialled the number.
‘Yes?’
I covered the receiver. ‘How d’you pronounce it?’ Helen shrugged.
‘Lewis?’ I said.
‘Yes. Who is this?’
‘I’m a friend of Lela Somosi; I’d like to talk to you.’
‘Is Lela there?’ The voice was young, quick and excited.
‘No. Can we meet?’
‘You are not the police?’
‘No.’
‘Immigration?’
‘No. I took Lela away from the house in Woollahra today.’
‘Where is she?’
I drew a deep breath. ‘I don’t know.’
‘They have taken her back?’
‘I think so, yes.’
There was a sob in the voice. ‘Then she is dead.’ The sound of weeping, deep and racking, came over the line. I held on to the phone, feeling useless and guilty, until he composed himself. I told him what had happened. He wept again. He told me that he had met Lela at the house where he had gone in the company of his boss. He named him, a union leader I had read about. Luis had tried to persuade Lela to get away from da Silva. She was afraid and had resisted. He’d written out his name and number for her.
‘How do you know she’s dead, Luis?’
‘I know. I can show you.’
He named a place. I met him there. The rain had started again and it kept up, slashing through the dark night sky, while a quiet little Latin American showed me how murder and disposal were done, Sydney style, 1984.
The next day the harassment began. A cop stopped me and went over the Falcon with a microscope. He found the unlicensed gun and declared the car unroadworthy. I got a three month suspension of my investigator’s licence for the gun. I got unpleasant phone calls and the clicks and rattles that punctuated calls I made from my home and office phones practically drowned out conversation. Winslow was showing me what he could do. I hated it, but I got the message.
Halfway through the suspension I was sitting in my office writing out cheques of doubtful authenticity when Barbara Winslow walked in. I looked at her and so far forgot my manners that I didn’t even ask her to sit down. She looked ghastly, pale and thin; her fashionable suit hung on her like an op-shop rag.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.<
br />
‘For what?’
‘I know that Ian has been giving you a bad time.’
I shrugged. ‘He’s a murderer. It could be worse.’
She shuddered and dropped into the chair. ‘He promised he would stop seeing her. He said he could get clear of all that . . . mess. He hasn’t done . . . anything.’
I put a cheque in an envelope and didn’t speak. I searched the desk for a stamp and didn’t find one.
‘A murderer,’ she said.
I nodded.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ I looked out the window. The sky was dark and threatening; by the time we got there it’d be raining for sure. I stood. Come on, I’ll show you.’
On the way I filled her in on the Winslow-da Silva connection and what had happened the night she’d told me I had a wrong number. I took her to the building site on the edge of the Darling Harbour development. The rain started to slant down and the light dimmed. We stood where Luis and I had stood a few weeks back and I pointed things out to her. ‘See the crane there? You get the body, in this case it was a Filipino girl named Lela. She’d have been, oh, maybe twenty, and you attach it to this mechanism at the end of the crane. You can release it from the cabin.’ I traversed the muddy landscape with my finger. ‘See the dark smudges, beyond those mullock heaps? They’re holes for foundations and underground installations. They go down a long way. Lot of water in them now. You can’t approach them on foot; it’s all honeycombed under there, not reinforced yet. Are you following me?’
Her face was wet with rain and tears. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Okay. You swing the crane out over the hole and you drop the body. You have to be good at it but the men who do it get some practice, courtesy of animals like your husband. Eventually a million tons of concrete and steel complete the job.’
We walked away, both coatless and hatless and soaked to the skin. I hailed a taxi and Barbara Winslow got into it, moving like a shocked accident victim. Abruptly, she wound the window down.
