by Peter Corris
‘Mrs Kipps?’
I’ve met a lot of different receptions on doorsteps, from passionate embraces to kicks in the teeth, but this was a new one. Every muscle in her face registered disappointment. She glanced at the small gold watch she wore before answering.
‘Yes, I’m Regina Kipps. You’re not … I’m sorry. Who are you?’
I showed her the folder. ‘I’m making enquiries into the whereabouts of Ramsay Hewitt.’
Small cracks seemed to appear around her mouth, leading me to think that the make-up was laid on pretty thickly. Her eyes crinkled and the same thing happened there. She drew in a deep breath. ‘You’re a policeman?’
‘No, not exactly.’
‘Worse luck.’ She looked at the watch again. ‘I’m sorry. I’m expecting a visitor. I can’t …’
‘Is he here, Mrs Kipps?’
‘No, thank God.’
‘When can we talk?’ I got out my notebook. ‘Can I have your number? I’ll call you.’
She went up on her toes in her high heels to look over my shoulder. ‘I want him in gaol.’
‘That could happen,’ I said. ‘Your number?’
She reeled it off and I scribbled it down. ‘I’ll call later today.’
‘I don’t know where he is.’
‘That doesn’t matter. I want to hear what you have to say. Thank you.’
She was looking anxious and I didn’t want to press my luck. I scooted down the path and drove away briskly but U-turned further up the street and parked on the other side about fifty metres away from the house. Within a few minutes a taxi pulled up and a man got out. He was dressed in a suit and was a tailor’s dream—tall, broad-shouldered but slim everywhere else, with a glowing head of fair hair. He walked up Regina Kipps’ concrete path in a stride that was almost, but not quite, a swagger. Hot to trot.
Catching up with Ramsay Hewitt was proving to be tricky. If he kept on the move like this I could be at it for weeks. But I thought it’d be worth giving Mrs Kipps a ring later on. She’d said she didn’t know where he was but with Ramsay it was more a matter who he was with, and Mrs Kipps just might have some ideas about that. Her remark about wanting him in gaol might be something I’d have to edit out when I next talked to Tess.
I drove back towards the city at a leisurely pace, turning things over in my mind. I’d decided there was no one out to kill me just now so I didn’t pay much attention to the traffic around me until I spotted a police car some distance back and weaving through other cars. Being a mostly law-abiding citizen, I eased my way over to let the car get through to wherever it was going.
It drew alongside of me and the uniformed cop in the passenger seat waved me into the kerb. The Falcon is a bit shabby but has no obvious unroadworthy features I was aware of, though who examines their tail-lights on a daily basis? There was nowhere to stop so I cruised along until there was. The police car stayed right behind me and I could see the one who wasn’t driving talking on his two-way. Not a cracked light or a bald tyre then. We were in Queens Street heading for Drummoyne and I pulled over into the car park adjacent to a small reserve. I did a quick mental check: no opened bottles containing alcohol, no concealed weapons, no bodies in the boot.
I sat there while they approached and when I saw they were both young I got nervous. Ninety per cent of police shootings are done by an officer under thirty—something like that. I wound the window down and put both hands on the steering wheel. See, no gun.
One approached and the other hung back with the two-way in his hand, as per regulations.
‘Mr Hardy?’
‘That’s right. What’s up?’
‘Step out of the car, please.’
Things are looking up. The old-style cops would have said, ‘Out!’
‘You open the door,’ I said. ‘If I drop my hand you’d have an excuse to shoot me.’
He nodded and opened the door. Serious guy. I climbed out slowly, partly not to alarm him with any sudden movement, partly because with a still bruised stomach and a few years on the clock, that’s how I felt like getting out of the car.
‘Could I see some identification, please?’
‘You think I’ve stolen my own car?’
He was young, nervous and lacked a sense of humour, bad combination. He put one hand on his pistol and held out the other. I gave him my driver’s licence and he examined it closely before handing it back. ‘You’re wanted at Hurstville Police Station, Mr Hardy.’
I shook my head, ‘My lawyer phoned in early this morning.’
He spoke to his mate with the two-way. ‘The gentleman says his lawyer … made representations.’
The other cop spoke into his radio and then indicated in the negative. ‘Still wanted.’
‘Are you going to take me or can I drive myself?’
‘You can drive.’
‘Going to give me an escort?’
I said it partly to get up his nose, partly to get an idea of how serious this was. Predictably, he took it seriously and had to check with his mate again. More two-way talk and the second cop approached, looking relieved. My guess—no escort.
‘They say it’s in the nature of a request, but if the gentleman shows any signs of resistance we’re to escort him.’
I held up my hands in surrender. ‘I’ll go. I wouldn’t want to take you blokes from Drummoyne to Hurstville. What’s Hurstville got?’
The two-way cop grinned but the other one seemed to be considering the matter. ‘C’mon, Charles,’ two-way said. ‘He’s said he’ll go in.’
Charles, he would be a Charles, looked at his watch. ‘I’ll advise them of the time you started. Drive carefully, Mr Hardy.’
‘Always,’ I said and got back in the car. It was lunchtime or close enough, and I’d be buggered if I’d turn up at a police station for how long I didn’t know without having had lunch and perhaps a couple of quiet nerve-soothers.
Inspector Beth Hammond leaned forward slightly across the desk that separated us. ‘Would you mind telling us why it took you three hours to get from Canada Bay to Hurstville?’
‘I stopped for lunch.’
‘This isn’t a joke, Mr Hardy.’
‘I agree with you. I don’t find anything funny about being stopped by policemen and ordered to go somewhere without being told why.’
Stankowski stood against the wall of the bare and cheerless interview room. Perhaps their version of good cop, bad cop was standing cop, sitting cop. ‘It was a request.’
‘The man making the request put his hand on his pistol.’
The two detectives exchanged a glance before Hammond got back to business.
‘Your client, Mr Price, has made a statement in which he says he hired you to investigate his daughter because he feared she was getting into bad company.’
‘That’s true as far as it goes.’
‘He says as far as he knows you’ve never been to his house. Your fingerprints were found in the house in association with some of Mrs Price’s blood. Coming on top of you being one of the last people to see Jason Jorgensen alive and the professional at the golf club identifying you as a man who misrepresented himself as a sports agent, I think you have some explaining to do.’
I said nothing and thought about it. I was still thinking when Stankowski spoke up. ‘Getting your lawyer to phone in some cockeyed story about your phone being tapped doesn’t help your credibility.’
‘Yours isn’t so hot either, Detective-Constable. I don’t know the status of this interview. You don’t seem to be making a record of it unless you’ve got some sneaky device and I haven’t been told of my rights. If you think I’m involved in a couple of murders …’
‘You’re helping with our enquiries,’ Hammond said.
I nodded. ‘That makes it sound voluntary.’
Stankowski lost patience first which might help to explain why he was out-ranked by Hammond. He pushed off from the wall and would have loomed over me if he’d been a bit taller. ‘Come on, Hardy.
You’ve been around. You know the ropes. Something’s going on with these people, this Price and his family and friends. Two of them are dead. Someone brained that kid and dumped him in the river and someone shot that woman up with pure heroin.’
That was news. Hammond gave him a furious look and I knew why. I shook my head and made a movement to suggest I was going to get up from the chair, if not immediately then soon. ‘No way. You’ve got me implicated in two murders. I’m not going to answer any questions without my lawyer present.’
‘We can hold you for a time,’ Hammond said. It was warm in the room and she was beginning to look a little uncomfortable in her suit. Same style as yesterday, blue instead of black.
‘You won’t,’ I said. ‘You know it isn’t worth your while.’
‘I’d do it to take you down a peg or two,’ Stankowski muttered.
‘But you’re not the boss.’
It was the second time I’d faced Hammond down and she didn’t like it. Stankowski liked it even less. In the old days they’d have locked me up, planted something on me or verballed me, had their way. But times have changed. I almost sympathised with them. Almost.
I pushed my chair back. ‘Will that be all?’
They didn’t answer and I walked out of the room. I got to the car and dialled Price’s home number. No answer. I tried the office with the same result. Hope I get you as you’re just about to slip it in, I thought as I punched in the numbers for his mobile.
‘Martin Price.’
Martin now—widower, serious man. ‘This is Hardy. We need to talk.’
‘Yes, we do. Did you find Danni?’
‘I did. Look …’
‘I thought you would. Those police are hopeless. I want to hire you to find out who killed my wife.’
18
‘That’s a crazy idea,’ I told Price. ‘I can’t question people who don’t want to be questioned or get warrants to search places, or offer immunity to informants who might be involved. That’s how it’s done and it’s police work.’
We were in a pub in Bankstown, not far from Price’s office. We were both drinking Scotch and water and I’d told him about finding Danni and how she’d reacted before we got on to his idea.
‘I know that,’ he said. ‘And I don’t mean for you to make a citizen’s arrest or anything.’
‘Then what?’
He had a drink and fidgeted. Off the smokes again. ‘You must have some ideas you could follow up. You’ve been right in the middle of this thing. Anything you come up with could point the police in the right direction. They haven’t got a clue.’
I drank some whisky and thought about it. It was tempting to keep on earning money from something that had twisted and turned and was far from resolved. ‘Let’s clear a few things up first. I believe Danni when she says she didn’t supply your wife with drugs. She said your wife had been using them for years, since her modelling days. But, with one thing and another, it’d got out of hand.’
‘Jesus. But Jason told me …’
‘I don’t think we can put too much faith in Jason. He wasn’t very bright and my guess is that your wife told him that because she hated Danni so much.’
‘I knew they didn’t get along but … hated? Why?’
Was this the time to tell him? I thought it probably was. He was hardly the grieving widower. When we’d shaken hands on meeting I’d noticed a faint perfume on him and it wasn’t his aftershave. In fact he hadn’t shaved and with the stubble and in jeans and a Sydney 2000 Olympics T-shirt he looked younger than in his business gear, despite the haggard face and sleep-deprived eyes.
‘Your wife was having an affair with Jason, or had had one. She kept a photo of one of their meetings among her things. Danni has a photo of Jason as well. Those two women had reason to hate each other. Danni seems to have some special reason she sort of taunted me with. Any idea what that might be?’
‘No. None. This is all news to me. God, what a fuck-up.’
‘When did the police search your house?’
He scratched at the stubble as if doing it would scrape away an unpleasant memory. ‘They arrived just as I was leaving to go and make my statement. I let them go ahead. I didn’t think there was anything to hide.’
‘There’s always something to hide. They’ll have found those photos and be interested in them and in you and in me. I know they’re interested in me.’
Price drained his drink and got up for more. We’d been there a while and he was on his third while I had a fair bit left of my second. He was buying and I suspected that his were doubles. He came back and plonked the drinks down. Maybe he’d skolled one at the bar because he was suddenly aggressive.
‘How’d you know about what’s in Sammy and Danni’s bedrooms?’
I told him about my visit and Samantha’s injury and Dr Cross. The aggro drained away from him as he listened and he seemed to lose interest in his drink. When I’d finished he ran his hand over his hair and looked desperate.
‘Go and buy some fags,’ I said. ‘It’s not worth the grief.’
‘No! Look, Hardy, I know it’s all a fucking mess but I need to feel I’ve got someone on my side.’
‘What about your lady lawyer?’
‘She’ll do everything she can but …’
‘Did you tell them you were with Junie that morning?’
‘No. I said I was at work.’
‘Great. They’ll blow that open very bloody soon. They’re not as dumb as you think, Marty. They’ve got us both in their sights.’
‘All the more reason to stick together.’
It was a pretty good line to come up with at that point, but it wasn’t what convinced me. As I’d said to Danni, with cuts on my head and glass on the kitchen floor, I was personally involved. I agreed to stay with the case and to follow up on a couple of ideas I had. Price didn’t even ask what they were. He said he’d put a cheque in the mail and then he noticed his almost untouched drink. He picked it up, took a moderate sip and pulled his mobile out of the sports jacket hanging over the back of his chair. He dialled and got an answer and I turned away politely but kept listening while he said a few words I couldn’t quite catch.
He put the phone on the table and took another pull on his drink. ‘Danni,’ he said. ‘She answered. Said she thought you were okay and she’ll stay in touch. Thanks, Cliff.’
First good news of the day.
Price left and I got a hamburger from the snack bar and ate it with a cup of coffee. I decided that I’d pursue the relatively straightforward Ramsay Hewitt matter and let the complex Price case swill around a bit in my brain. I washed my face, rinsed my mouth and combed my hair in the pub toilet and was ready for work. I called Regina Kipps on my mobile and hung up when she answered. Concord it was.
It was almost dark when I arrived at Mrs Kipps’ house but quite a few interior and exterior lights were on. Odd. I bowled up to the front door and stood, bathed in light on the porch, thinking that if someone really wanted to shoot me this’d be the moment. The thought was so strong that I span around and looked at the street, but it was quiet. Still, I was spooked and moved a little to get protection from one of the porch pillars. I rang and heard the footsteps as before and there was Mrs Kipps, wrapped in a red silk Chinese robe looking at me through the metal mesh. She had a glass of clear liquid in her hand in which ice tinkled as she stood, not all that steadily. Gin and tonic maybe, but where was the lemon?
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Kipps, I called earlier. I want to talk to you about Ramsay Hewitt.’ I showed her my licence folder and tried to look serious.
‘Oh, yes. The sort-of policeman. I suppose you’re really a debt collector or something.’
‘Among other things. May I come in?’
‘I don’t know. I’m on my own.’
The way she said it made it sound like the worst thing in the world. Maybe it is. I tried to seem harmless—a bit difficult looking the way I do. I gestured at the floodlit porch. ‘We coul
d talk out here. It’s about as bright as the Olympic Stadium.’
She giggled, fine for Cathy Freeman, but an unfortunate sound coming from a middle-aged woman. ‘I’m being silly. Of course you can come in, and if you rape and strangle me what would it matter?’
She opened the security door, backed up cautiously on her high heels, and invited me in with a movement that caused the ice in her glass to tinkle again. She walked away with a sway of the hips that was more alcohol-induced than seductive. She shot me a look over her shoulder and tried to toss her long bleached hair aside at the same time and almost lost balance. She steadied herself against the wall.
‘I’m drunk,’ she said.
‘I’ve been that way myself, Mrs Kipps. It isn’t terminal.’
‘Misery is. Call me Regina.’
We got moving again and went through to a sitting room that looked like something out of a pornographic movie—the carpet was snow white, the couch and chairs were covered in fake tiger skin and the cushions were black satin. A bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin sat on the low table along with an ice bucket holding a tall bottle of Schweppes tonic water. She slumped down on the couch and pointed at the empty glass on the table. ‘Help yourself, but I’ve run out of lemon.’
What can you do? I made myself a drink and sat in one of the tiger chairs. I raised the glass to her. ‘Cheers.’
‘Huh,’ she said.
I tapped my glass. ‘You were expecting someone?’
She swigged and had almost nothing left. ‘No.’
‘Ramsay’s got a sister …’
‘Poor thing.’
‘Yes, well. She’s concerned about him.’
‘Should be,’ she slurred, ‘he’s headed for gaol or worse.’
‘Worse? What’s worse than gaol, Regina?’
Her eyes narrowed the way they can with drunks who know their faculties are impaired but want to get something straight. I know the feeling—it’s like looking back at a building wave and wondering whether you can catch it. But being drunk makes it harder to come at something directly.
‘Who told you about me?’ she asked.
‘A woman I met at Prue Bonham’s place.’
