by Peter Corris
Viv has a modest timber house in an elevated street that happens to command a view of the city. His wife, Ros, is a keen gardener and their two kids have embarked on professional lives, so they’re left in leafy splendour in a house worth ten times what they paid for it. Viv, who’d recently got some sort of an appointment at Lachlan University, is a socialist and admits that property is theft. ‘Still, it’s nice to have some,’ he once said to me.
I arrived with a bottle of red and Ros laid out some biscuits and cheese, took a glass for herself, asked how I was and pleaded with me not to take Viv out that night.
‘His asthma,’ she said.
‘Not to worry, Ros. We’ll do our business right here.’
‘I’ll leave you to it. Don’t excite yourself, Vivian.’
Viv took a gulp of his red. ‘She thinks you equal excitement. She doesn’t know it’s mostly humdrum stuff.’
‘Don’t disabuse her. You’re something at the Lachlan Law School, right?’
He thumped himself on the chest. Viv is a little guy but trim and the broad chest of the lifesaver he once had was not turned to flab. Sandy hair, half-glasses. ‘Adjunct Professor. As soon as I got the appointment I emailed all the arseholes who taught me and said I’d never make it through the degree.’
‘In victory, malice,’ I said. ‘Right on. How far inside the system does that put you?’
‘I’m top dog in charge of one particular section.’
‘And that is?’
He drank some wine and nibbled on a biscuit. ‘I’d like to say civil liberties research or international covenants, but it’s more humble—professional placement. I told you something about this once when you were thinking about getting a law degree.’
‘Yeah, and they told me I’d get credit for one and a half units for the stuff I’d done at New South Wales.’
‘Cliff, it was twenty years ago, and you didn’t do all that well. And it was more than one and a half units as I recall. And now that you’ve been convicted of a serious felony and done time …
‘Yeah, yeah. Anyway, does this give you access to student records?’
‘I should’ve known. No way.’
I gave him the facts and he kept a sceptical face while I recited them, only showing some expression when I mentioned the secretary.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘Ms Gwen Carroll. No, she wouldn’t fancy you at all.’
‘Why’s that particularly?’
‘Never mind. Go on.’
I gave him the rest and he relented. He got up and gestured for me to follow him. I did, with my glass topped up. We went into his study and he turned his computer on.
‘What’s this?’ I said.
‘I can access the student records from home by remote access. It’s one of the perks.’
The screen glowed and images on it flickered into life. ‘What are the others?’
‘Room, computer, free email and Internet, photocopying, library.’
‘I could use all that.’
‘Yeah, but I don’t get paid.’ He seated himself in front of the computer and began tapping the keys. ‘OK, full name and student number.’
I gave them and he tapped the keys and clicked the mouse. ‘Here he is—Hewitt, Ramsay Stefan …’
‘Stefan?’
‘That’s what it says. You want the address?’
‘Yeah. Hold on, does the file have his student ID photo?’
‘Sure does. The way things are at universities these days the teachers are lucky to know half their students by sight before the semester’s over. Have a look—this’s him.’
I craned over Viv’s shoulder to look at the small photograph on the screen. It was Ramsay Hewitt all right. He had the long jaw and lean features and pale eyes, but the scruffy beard was gone and he wore a blue business shirt and a burgundy tie. His once dirty, stringy hair was cut and styled and fair, very fair.
‘Model citizen,’ Viv said.
‘Can you print that page out?’
‘I shouldn’t.’
‘I’ll crop it down to the picture. No one will ever know.’
Viv did some more clicking and the page shuffled through the printer. I took it out and swore.
‘What?’
‘The address—it’s a post office box in Strathfield.’
Viv clicked a couple of times and the screen went blank. ‘Are you going to stake it out, like in the movies?’
‘No, I’m going to send him a threatening letter made up of newspaper headlines.’
He got up and stretched. ‘Ask a silly question.’
7
Before I left I asked Viv again what he’d meant by the crack about the secretary not liking me. We were standing by the front door and he leaned back against the wall as if he was doing an isometric exercise. Maybe he was.
‘Our Gwen’s a strange one. Word is she has money and doesn’t need the job, but she’s got a thing for lawyers, especially fair-haired ones.’ He ran his hand over his own sandy crop. ‘Not like this, I mean thick and fair like, say, Greg Norman when he was young.’
‘Staff or students?’
‘Well, she’d taken notice of your guy, hadn’t she?’
That gave me something to think about on my careful drive home. People can change but they mostly don’t, at least not very much. Not as much as Ramsay Hewitt appeared to have done—from hippie greenie activist to would-be lawyer. A semester of university fees wasn’t cheap nor was the sort of grooming he appeared to be going in for. As the politicians say: ‘Where was the money coming from?’ With the Scotch before my light dinner, a glass or two with it and a couple with Viv, I was probably somewhere near the limit. But the roads are quiet on a Tuesday night. The Falcon protested in second gear a couple of times, otherwise, no trouble.
The Perfect Storm got me off to sleep in the sense that I had to finish it and by then it was late and I was tired. I made a mental note to catch the movie—it was hard to see how they could fuck it up, but interesting to see if they managed it. There must have been a cool change during the night because I woke up cold under the sheet, pulled up a blanket and slept deeply after that. Too deeply. The ringing of the door bell dragged me up from well down and I was surprised to see that it was close to nine o’clock when I surfaced.
I hauled the pants of the tracksuit I sleep in when it’s cold up from the pile of clothing detritus that lives in the corner of the bedroom between clean-ups, pulled them on, and went down the stairs to the front door. Pulling on the pants hurt my bruised mid-section and so did going down the stairs.
‘Mr Hardy?’
A new-breed cop, no question—lean face, blue business shirt, white linen jacket, no tie. I didn’t need the open ID folder to confirm it and didn’t even look at it.
‘Come in.’
‘Just like that?’
‘I’ve had more cops through this door than good-looking women. I don’t like it much, but that’s the way it is. I’m just up and need coffee. You?’
I retreated and he came in and closed the door quietly behind him. Nice manners. New breed. ‘Thank you. Hard night?’
‘Up late reading.’
He took that with a grin and followed me down to the kitchen where I put the coffee on to perk before going upstairs to put on some clothes. The physique these days isn’t so impressive that I can stand around half naked with well-dressed cops and feel in charge. He was sitting relaxed at the breakfast bench when I returned. If he was thirty that was all but he had a knowing look to him that they get after attending traffic accidents and domestics and telling lies in court. The coffee came through and I poured two mugs full. I got milk from the fridge and pushed the bowl of raw sugar towards him.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I missed the name. And what’s this about?’
He wrapped his hands around the mug the way I do myself, whether the morning is cold or not. This morning wasn’t particularly, but it’s a comforting thing to do.
‘Stankowski, Detective Constable. Major Crim
es, southern area.’
I raised my mug in a salute. ‘And …?’
‘Do you know a person named Jason Jorgensen?’
‘Well, I’ve met him. It was just yesterday, so I wouldn’t claim to know him.’
‘What was your business with him?’
I tried the coffee—too hot for a good slurp but okay for a judicious sip. ‘Come on, Constable. You obviously know the game I’m in. You can’t expect an answer.’
‘I do though. Mr Jorgensen is dead. He was murdered. Your business card was found on his body. So yes, Mr Hardy, I do expect an answer.’
It hit me harder than I’d have expected. I was still feeling some guilt about hurting the kid and I’d sort of liked him. I’d thought he had promise with his athletic good looks and his mostly polite behaviour. He’d had enough aggression in him to make him a good competitor, and that’s something I admire. Against that, I’d had my doubts about his honesty and had made a mental note to talk to him again. All snuffed out.
‘How?’ I said. ‘And when?’
‘You haven’t answered me.’
‘Tell me a bit about it and we’ll see how far I can do that.’
‘You think you have a choice? You’re not a lawyer or a priest.’
‘I’ve still got a choice. The thumbscrew went out a few years ago.’
I could tell he’d been considering not drinking the coffee to give himself the edge of austerity and self denial, but he changed his mind and went the whole hog, adding milk and sugar and taking a fair gulp. ‘OK, we’ll play it your way for a bit. Mr Jorgensen’s body was taken out of the Georges River late last night, strangled and battered.’
‘Where?’
‘At Lugarno, around there. The body was weighed down by a set of golf clubs.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true. A full set of clubs with a top quality bag and all the shit they pack in—balls, towels, drink bottle, wet weather gear, shoes and Christ knows what else—and you’re up to around thirty kilos. The bag was tied to the body with thick cord. Fills up nicely with water. Would’ve worked okay except that a houseboat came along, anchored for a bit, pulled up the anchor and snagged the bundle. A ferry used to run from there and they hauled the body and the bag up onto the dock.’
‘The best laid plans,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Never mind. When d’you calculate he was killed?’
‘Haven’t got that information as yet.’
‘And you wouldn’t tell me if you had because you want me to account for my movements from the time I met him to, let’s say, an hour before they found the body.’
‘You’re paranoid. I checked up on you before coming here. I don’t think you go around killing people. Not that you haven’t killed a couple.’
‘Self defence.’
‘Yeah. What I want you to tell me is why you saw Jorgensen yesterday, where and when.’
I drank some more coffee. ‘Get out your notebook. The where and when is easy. It was at the Milperra Golf Course, mid-morning. He was practising some shot or other. We talked and I gave him my card. He stuck it in the pocket they have in those shirts.’ I touched my chest on the left, high up.
He made a note. ‘OK, but what did you talk about?’
I sighed as I drained the mug. I got up and went to the stove for a re-fill and to buy time to think. I was in a bind. My client was expecting to negotiate with the police prosecutor and if I spoke about the matter he could probably kiss that hope goodbye. And I could do the same with the case. Couldn’t do it.
I came back to the bench with my coffee and lifted it in an inquiring gesture. He shook his head, all business.
‘I can’t tell you what we talked about. It concerns a client and his affairs and in my business that’s the bottom line.’
‘I see. Do you have any reason to believe that your … business could be related to Mr Jorgensen’s murder?’
Nicely put, I thought. Of course my head was buzzing with just that possibility. Had my talking to Jason put him in the river? Not a comfortable thought. I tried to keep both face and voice neutral. ‘I’d be lying if I said no. Truth is, I just don’t know. And I’m very sorry. He seemed like a decent kid.’
He snapped the notebook closed and stood up. ‘I’m not so sure about that from what we’ve heard, but I won’t give you any more than you’ve given me which is not fuckin’ much.’
Tough now, but not all that convincing. I didn’t respond.
He put the notebook away. ‘Thanks for the coffee. I think you’d better talk to your client. Unless we make some progress on this pretty soon we’ll have to circle back to you as one of the last people to see him alive and that’ll mean more pressure than a chat over a cup of coffee.’
I nodded and shepherded him down the hall to the door. Before he left he handed me his card, not without an ironical twitch.
I flicked it with a finger. ‘I’ll make sure to keep it on me at all times of the day and night. I’ll tell you something, Stankowski. Whoever strangled that kid would have to be strong. He was as athletic as hell and big with it.’
He went through the door and turned back before he stepped carefully across the lifting tiles on the porch onto the cracked concrete path. ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you? His head had been laid open to the brain matter by a blunt object.’
I phoned Price at his office and was told he was out. I left a message for him to ring me on the home number or the mobile. I wanted to see him in person to gauge what impact Jason’s death had had on him, if he knew about it, and to see for myself if I was the bearer of the news. Stankowski was right that I could only fend off police questioning for so long and I needed to talk to Price about that too. I’ll go a long way for someone who has a serious problem, but there comes a point of self-preservation. With Jason dead, the first line of attack on the drug supplier, not that it had looked very promising, was cut off. Maybe Price would have some other ideas.
As I showered I inspected the bruise on my stomach and tightened the muscles that should tighten better than they do. Thinking back, I realised that Baldy probably hadn’t put quite all he had into the punch and that was why nothing was damaged inside. I didn’t feel like giving him another go because what he’d done was quite enough. Bending hurt and so did straightening up.
I shaved and had some more coffee and ate some toast so that I wouldn’t be putting the pain-killers straight in on the stomach lining. By the time I was dressed and ready to face the world it was mid-morning and Price hadn’t called back. I felt I couldn’t make a move without talking to him first so I turned my attention to the other matter on hand—Ramsay Hewitt.
I took the postage stamp size photo of Ramsay Hewitt down to the graphics place in Glebe Point Road that provides my business cards, both kosher and false. Daphne Rowley, who regularly beats me at pool in the Toxteth Hotel, shook her head when I showed her the photo and asked if she could blow it up.
‘It’ll be grainy.’
‘It’s not going in HQ. It just has to be recognisable.’
Daphne scratched the ear of the dog she takes into the shop with her every day. The dog is big and black and fierce if Daphne tells it to be. As a friend and long-time customer I get a tail wag and a yawn. ‘Good-looking fellow,’ Daphne said. ‘I like blond men.’
‘Thanks.’
She gave out a sound peculiar to her, something between a laugh and a grunt. She lets it go when she sinks a tough shot and earns another free drink. ‘I’ll digitalise it and I could touch it up a bit.’
‘Just as long as it still looks like him and not Lleyton Hewitt.’ Daphne is a big Lleyton fan.
She touched her ample chest where ‘Daphne’s Graphics’ fits easily on the T-shirt. ‘He can ace me anytime. Go for a walk, Cliff. Coupla minutes.’
I went down the stairs to the street and wandered along enjoying the familiar sights, sounds and smells. At times like this I know I’ll never leave. Dave Sands’ memorial is up at th
e Broadway end and I sometimes think I’d like them to scatter my ashes in Blackwattle Bay at the other end. I went into the Gleebooks second-hand store where I spend much more time than in the new books shop, and browsed for something to read after The Perfect Storm. Hard act to follow. I bought a copy of Jeff Wells’ Boxing Day, all about the Burns-Johnson fight at Rushcutters Bay in 1908. I sometimes play a game with people: What three historical events would you like to have witnessed? Myself, I always go for the execution of Charles I, then the landing of the First Fleet and I waver between Burns-Johnson and the second Darcy-McGoorty fight.
Daphne did a magnificent job as always. Ramsay Hewitt, postcard size. The new Ramsay with the clean shave and the trimmed and washed locks and minus the look of angry disappointment he used habitually to wear. Like this, the resemblance to Tess was stronger—the straight nose, high cheekbones.
‘Hunk,’ Daphne said. ‘I suppose he’s five foot two?’
‘Six one at least.’
‘Ooh. Bring him around when you find him.’
‘I like the “when”. How much?’
‘I’ll figure it out and fax you the invoice, plus GST.’
Strathfield again on a day that promised to be changeable. Cloud was building up in the west and the wind had a fluctuating feel to it. I had on a blue button-down shirt, dark trousers and my Italian shoes with a shine. This time I looked the street over more carefully and revised my first impression. There was money invested here but also possibly a lack of cash flow. Some roofs and windows needed attention—I should know, mine are the same. Not all the front gardens were well-tended and some of the driveways featured oil spots and stains, indicating that the resident cars weren’t in the very best of condition.
I started about ten houses away from the target house, on the other side. In my respectable outfit, freshly shaved and with my hair tamed and carrying the photograph and my licence folder opened, I reckoned I passed muster as a responsible Private Enquiry Agent on a missing person case.
Some doors didn’t open, others did a fraction and all my spiel got was a shaken head. When I was ten houses past I gave up on the other side and crossed the street. I got similar no-shows and head shakes at three doors and then something else. This was one of the less affluent-looking numbers. The guttering sagged a bit and sun and wind had done a job on the woodwork. No security bars. Still, efforts were being made to keep up. The grass had been cut fairly recently but the garden beds needed weeding. This was one of the few without a garage and the Toyota parked out front wasn’t a recent model. The man who answered the door was elderly and a bit stooped but with bright blue eyes. I gave him the story.
