Aftershock ch-14

by Peter Corris

  Horrie nodded vigorously. ‘That’s another story. Don’t get me started on that. Yeah, there were some balls-ups in the rescue job. Seems the cops went in a bit heavy-handed. It’s hard to say. They probably did their best and it can’t have been much bloody fun poking around in those buildings not knowing if a wall was going to fall on you. The whisper was the police knocked down a wall a bit early and might have made it harder to get some people out. I don’t know. But anyway, the last thing they wanted was someone saying everything wasn’t on the up and up as far as the dead were concerned…’

  ‘I see. There was some looting, wasn’t there?’

  ‘Right. Would you believe it? Some bastard pinched a few cases of beer out of the club where people had lost their lives. Bloody terrible. My point is, the whole town got its wits back pretty quick and started to pull together-committees, funds set up, relief centres, all that. I kicked in a few dollars myself. But no-one wanted to hear anything new or different. The whole thing was wrapped up, see?’

  ‘Yes. What would you want me to do, Mr Jacobs?’

  Horrie was agitated and suddenly looked his years. He took a cigarette now and lit it slowly, the way a tired person does. The first draw seemed to calm him. ‘Mrs Broadway said she wasn’t going to just drop it. Said she’d do some poking around, but she also told me how good you were at your job. She said you had a knack for talking to people and finding things out. I want you to find out about Oscar.’

  ‘You were his friend,’ I said. ‘You must…’

  He waved the cigarette dismissively. ‘I knew bugger all about him. What I can tell you’d take two minutes. But I know this-someone killed him and shoved him into that rubble. Did it bloody quick and smooth, too. He must’ve had an enemy. I want to know who it was.’

  I watched him as he puffed on his cigarette and resumed looking at my dirty window. I thought I knew what was going through his head. Sure, he wanted to know who had killed his friend as any normal person would. But there was more to it than that. An old, proud man had had his reliability, physical and mental, challenged and he wanted to meet the challenge. I judged that it had taken a lot of soul-searching for him to ask for my kind of help. I was in. I took the standard client form from the top drawer in the desk and scribbled in Horrie’s details while he continued to smoke and look north. In the space for nature of investigation I wrote: ‘O. Bach-circumstances of death of.’ I slid the form across the desk and he signed it. He wrote me a cheque for eight hundred and forty dollars and I agreed to meet him in Beaumont Street, Hamilton tomorrow, at midday. He collected his paper from the floor, his hat from the desk and put away his wallet and cheque book. We shook hands and he left.

  Down by the filing cabinet I had a case of Lindeman’s claret a satisfied client had given me three months back. That is to say, I had what was left of the case-three bottles. I uncorked one of them and poured the wine into one of the number of mis-matched glasses I keep around the office. This was a pub middy glass and I half-filled it. I sipped the drink as I sat at my desk with the evidence of a job in front of me-a story, questions that needed answering, conflicts, a signature and a cheque. Intriguing. Your lucky day, Cliff. And remember that you like Newcastle. I drank some wine but I wasn’t thinking about earthquakes and falling bricks, I was thinking about Helen Broadway.

  It had been three years since the last angry words, the last door slamming and terse telephone conversation. Since then, nothing. As far as I knew she was still with her husband, the gentleman vintner, still a part-time producer at Radio Kempsey, still a mother. Now it sounded as if she’d made a switch and was on the air herself. I could see it-she was well-read, insatiably curious and had a knack of making people feel good. I could imagine her getting some redneck National Party politician talking until he wished he hadn’t. I wondered if she’d made any other changes. Knowing that she’d recommended me to Horrie Jacobs gave me the best feeling I’d had in a long time. It frightened me, too. The pain of our break-up was still with me. Like the Malayan War and my stint in Long Bay, it wasn’t something I wanted to go through again. Then, I found myself thinking about the distance between Newcastle and Kempsey. Five hundred kilometres? Less?

  I finished the wine and pushed the cork firmly into the bottle. I tidied up the few bits of paperwork I had lying about and took Horrie’s cheque to the bank. His eight hundred and forty dollars didn’t have much company in my operating account, but my credit cards were paid up and I’d met the mortgage for that month. The Falcon was newly registered and I hadn’t been really drunk for a month. Things could’ve been worse. I strolled along Crown Street and down into Surry Hills to the office of the Challenger, an independent monthly started by Harry Tickener after he left the corporate clutches of the News organisation. Harry runs the tabloid with a skeleton staff from an office in Kippax Street, not far from where the big boys of the media game play. He’d recruited some of the best people he’d worked with in the palmy days of radical journalism and the Challenger looked fresh and exciting every month. So far. The paper was in its crucial second year, with a rising circulation, good advertising support but battling against the economic tides like everything else.

  I took the lift to the third floor and stuck my head inside the always open door. Everybody, that is the whole four of them, was on the phone. Harry beckoned me in and pointed me towards a stack of the latest issue of the broadsheet due out in a few days. The artwork was stark and dramatic-a map of Australia was being eaten away at the edges by some poisonous, corrosive substance. Cape York was half gone; the Great Australian Bight was gobbling the Nullarbor. The headline was THE DIRTY DOZEN-THE COMPANIES THAT ARE GIVING AUSTRALIA CANCER. I took a seat, nodded to the other workers and flicked through the paper. Harry’s own passions were to the fore: conservation, freedom of the individual, social and political satire, readable books, drinkable wine.

  He put the phone down and took a nicarette from a packet on his desk. Harry cold-turkeyed from sixty Camels a day when he started the Challenger. He reckoned one form of suicidal insanity was enough. He sucked unenthusiastically and pointed to the paper. ‘What would you say?’

  ‘Four bucks’ worth,’ I said. It cost five.

  ‘Bastard,’ Harry said. ‘That’s the best issue yet. I confidently expect six writs.’

  ‘Can you afford that?’

  Harry ran his hand over the thinning thatch of fair hair that always made him look like a country boy although he wasn’t. ‘We’ve got back-up. If we can get a couple of those fuckers into court we’ll make them look very silly.’

  ‘Good luck,’ I said. ‘I’ll renew my subscription if you think you’ll last.’

  ‘Do it. And with the pleasantries over, what do you want, Cliff?’

  ‘I want to look at the cuts on the Newcastle earthquake.’

  Harry’s laugh bounced off the far wall. Since he gave up smoking he’s got a lot more wind to laugh with. ‘What cuts? You think we can afford to clip papers and file them? Forget it. The cuts, mate, are over there.’

  He was pointing at several metre-high stacks of newspapers on a bench running the length of a wall. I glanced around the room-Pauline, the secretary and organiser was hammering at a keyboard; Jack Singer, the sub-editor, was reading a stack of faint faxes by holding them up to the light; Beth Lewis, the lay-out person, was sticking captions under photographs on a proof sheet.

  ‘No help there, Cliff,’ Harry said. ‘It’s all do-it-yourself around this place. December 28 and on. What’s the problem?’

  ‘I’m interested in the inquest, too.’

  ‘July and August. Go to it.’

  I groaned and got out of my chair to walk over to the bench. I heard a rustle of broadsheet and turned to see Harry smiling at me and holding out several sheets of typescript.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I said. ‘You look as if you’ve just won Editor of the Year.’

  ‘All in good time. I just thought you’d want to have a look at this. It was submitted for the Miscell
any page which, being a devoted reader of the publication, you’d be well up on. Can’t run it this month and it’ll need legalling. Writer says she’ll have to check with her sources but it’s an interesting piece.’

  I took the sheets and looked at the top page. The article was headed: EARTHQUAKE VICTIM? The writer was Helen Broadway.

  3

  Helen had written three pages setting out Horrie Jacobs’ story pretty much as he’d told it to me without the embellishments. A few quotes were included: ‘If that wasn’t Oscar then it was someone who looked like him and moved like him and wore the same sort of cap. And that cap was the only one of its kind in captivity.’ I’d have to ask about the cap. Some of the piece was in point form-questions, assumptions. Helen had attached a note to Harry stressing that it was a rough draft which needed a lot more work. She wondered if he was interested.

  When I looked up from the pages Harry was staring at me as if I was growing wings. ‘Are you?’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Interested. Apart from the prurient curiosity, I mean.’

  ‘Dunno,’ Harry said. ‘Reckon there’s anything in it?’

  ‘Could be. This guy Jacobs has hired me to look into it.’

  ‘On Helen’s recommendation?’

  I nodded. ‘Don’t make anything of it, Harry. She’s just doing her job. Tell you one thing she hasn’t mentioned though.’ I was suddenly reminded of Harry’s ruthless methods when he was a news hound. ‘Off the record.’

  ‘I’m hurt.’

  ‘Horrie Jacobs won the Lotto a few years back. He’s loaded.’

  Harry put his Nikes up on the desk. Since he quit wearing a suit he never wears anything else on his feet but sneakers. I think he’d wear them with a suit if he ever had to go formal again. ‘Now that is interesting,’ he said. ‘D’you think it’s some kind of scam to get at his loot?’

  ‘I hope you don’t let your writers use language like that.’

  He grinned. ‘Can’t help it-private eye on a big case, big money and a woman…’

  He let the last word hang in the air. Harry had liked Helen enormously and told me I was a fool to let her go. I told him it wasn’t exactly like that-more a matter of being wrenched apart, but he’d seen me stumbling around emotionally ever since and was too good a friend not to hope for something better for me. I said I’d keep him posted. Pauline yelled from across the room that she couldn’t keep holding off Harry’s calls any longer. Harry hit a button on his handset and picked up the phone.

  I went over to the bench and began to work through the Sydney Morning Herald’s account of the earthquake and its various aftermaths. The Newcastle broadsheet would have been better but the Challenger didn’t run to holdings of provincial papers. The pages seemed to grow heavy after a while: my mind wasn’t completely on the job. The thought that Horrie Jacobs was the target for some kind of confidence operation had occurred to me. It happens. People who get rich quick get blackmailed, kidnapped, threatened, tricked. For years after they have their stroke of luck they are besieged by begging letters and the creators of sure-fire schemes to double the winners’ money, who just need a little seed capital. It was something to consider along with the question of Horrie’s eyesight and mental state, the possibility of aftershocks and delayed wall-collapses. Also whether the body over which the inquest was held really was that of Oscar Bach. And who was he, anyway? Then there was the question of the involvement of Helen Broadway and whether we might be in what the sportscasters called a team situation, here.

  After an hour with the papers and photocopier I had a solid press record on the earthquake, the disputes between the rescue services, the conflicts between the conservationists and developers, the fund raising and the inquests on the dead. I put five dollars on Pauline’s desk. She shook her head and tried to give it back to me.

  ‘I’m on expenses,’ I said.

  Harry moved his mouth away from the phone. ‘Take it,’ he said.

  I gave them all a general wave goodbye and left the office. The ones that noticed smiled and waved back. A happy bunch. As I got into the lift I realised that I was feeling pretty happy myself.

  Back in Darlinghurst I collected the Falcon from the all-day car park that charges me more than I can afford. In the old days I parked my car on a cement slab made available to me by a tattooist in exchange for letting him share vicariously in the thrills of my profession. There never were many thrills, but now there’s no slab and no tattooist. The area’s changing-a one-time wine bar is now a fantasy lingerie shop, yesterday’s crumbling student slum is today’s smart financial consultant’s office. Depressing, especially if you’ve got no need for either service. I drove home to Glebe thinking about the time I bought Cyn, my ex-wife, a black silk nightgown in David Jones and how she’d exchanged it for something else.

  My work lately, before the present extremely dry spell, had consisted mainly of bodyguarding, interviewing witnesses to motor accidents and locating defaulters on maintenance payments. It was nice to have a case on hand with some corners and blind alleys. By the time I reached Glebe I’d succeeded in putting the past out of my mind and focussing on the future. I had a drink in the Toxteth and agreed that Balmain weren’t travelling too well. My drinking companion was Carl, who used to be called the Prince of the Anarchists before his heart attack. He was fifty-five and looked seventy.

  ‘Light beer’s tasting stronger and old sheilas are looking younger,’ Carl said.

  Even that couldn’t depress me. I shopped for the usual things and let myself into the house prepared for the brief, supercilious company of the cat. I’d feed it and myself out of tins and virtuously read over the photocopies and review the Jacobs case. The phone was ringing insistently when I entered the house. I hadn’t switched on the answering machine. That piece of carelessness threatened my good temper. I dumped the plastic bags on the floor and grabbed the phone.

  ‘Cliff Hardy’

  ‘Mr Hardy. My name is Ralph Jacobs. I’m Horace Jacobs’ son and I’d very much like to have a talk with you.’

  The voice was smooth and calm, well used to phrases such as ‘very much like’. He didn’t sound a bit like his old man. ‘I’m not sure, Mr Jacobs,’ I said. ‘What would you like to talk about?’

  ‘I think you know that.’

  ‘I’m certainly not going to discuss a client’s business over the phone.’

  A note of impatience crept in. ‘Fair enough. I understand you’re meeting Dad in Hamilton tomorrow?’

  I didn’t say anything, but I liked ‘Dad’ better than ‘my father’.

  ‘I rang him this afternoon and he told me, you see. He’s not a well man, Mr Hardy. I really think we should have a talk before you take this any further.’

  If Horrie Jacobs had told his son about our meeting, that let me off the hook. Maybe Ralph could give me something useful. I told him I was driving up to Newcastle in the morning but that I could let him have half an hour beforehand.

  ‘When?’ he said.

  ‘Nine o’clock, in Darlinghurst.’ I gave him the address.

  ‘I have to come in from French’s Forest.’

  ‘Nice early start for you, Mr Jacobs. See you at nine.’

  I poured a small scotch, flooded it with soda water, told myself that it was infantile to want to put something in my mouth, set fire to it and give myself lung cancer, and sat down with the earthquake clippings. It was almost as if the papers had followed an even-handed policy-the accounts of people crushed, trapped and buried were balanced out with stories of near misses, miraculous escapes and heroism. For Australia, it was a major disaster. The Workers’ Club on the corner of King and Union Streets had folded like a card house; several floors had collapsed down into the car park. Nine dead, dozens injured. Photographs showed Beaumont Street, Hamilton, looking like a war zone. Buildings had fallen as if they had been bombed; three people had died when shop awnings and rubble had fallen on them. Many more had been injured.

  In the case o
f the Workers’ Club there looked to be a fair degree of human error. The building wasn’t old, not the part that had suffered most damage. There were questions raised about the suitability of some of the construction methods. There were ifs and buts about the Beaumont Street structures, too. Were the tie-rods supporting the awnings properly anchored? Had renovations and tartings-up weakened the fronts of the buildings? But in Hamilton the main problem appeared to be geological. The area was a flood plain and Beaumont Street itself was an old bed of the Hunter River. Its basic composition was sand, and when the quake struck it shook like jelly on a plate.

  The shock had hit buildings sacred and profane-the Workers’ Club, the Newcastle RSL Club, the Kent Hotel, several schools, community centres and churches. Oscar Bach had allegedly died when a section of the wall of the Holy Cross church had fallen on him as he was preparing to treat the church’s foundations with a pest control chemical. There were other casualties away from the centre of destruction, spreading out into the nearby towns and suburbs like aftershocks. A locally renowned musician had died after the evacuation of the hospital where he had undergone an operation; a hospitalised woman whose condition may have been aggravated by the earthquake also died. There were several traffic accidents attributable to the quake. Horrie Jacobs himself could be considered a victim.

  I’d experienced a few earth tremors myself- in the Solomon Islands where I’d been investigating an insurance fraud and on the south coast where I’d been holidaying with Cyn in one of our many failed efforts to keep the marriage together. I remembered swaying lights, falling books, spilled drinks and the startled barking of dogs, but nothing like this. For weeks people all over Sydney were inspecting their houses for cracks. We got a lot of heavy rain early in the year and people complained about leaks caused by the tremor. I didn’t. I knew I had leaks before the quake. On December 28 at 10.27 I’d been swimming in the Leichhardt municipal pool and hadn’t felt a thing. I’d written the earthquake off as one of those disasters that hadn’t touched me. But now it had. It couldn’t have been easy for Horrie Jacobs to consult me with his private problem that no-one wanted to hear about. Maybe it wasn’t easy for Helen Broadway to give him my name, to probe at that wound.