by Peter Corris
I printed out a few copies of the pictures, made some notes and handed the reels back to an attendant who gave me a tired, sceptical smile. The whole operation had taken less than an hour and I hadn’t used a single stick of gum. Outside the air was warm and still; I took a walk along the edge of the lake and tried to think about genetics and blood tests and whether it could be proved that one person was the child of another. I had a feeling that you couldn’t and all the tests could establish was that some people could not be the progenitors of others. Maybe it wouldn’t come to that, maybe it wouldn’t come to anything. It was still a paper chase, the pictures in my pocket were like a talisman but, for all I knew, the man himself could be manacled to a prison wall in Bangkok for heroin dealing.
Wandering around the big, grey complex of government buildings I tried to push the whole thing aside. The letter I’d got from Keir Baudin was calling me to Sydney, to Honey of Darlinghurst whoever she was, but Kay kept breaking in on my thoughts. Ailsa and I had been on and off lovers, a night here, a night there; I tried to think when I’d last slept two nights in succession with a woman—it was a long time ago.
17
It was a good night. I ran the Falcon through a car wash just to kill some time while waiting to pick up Kay. I felt young again, transported back to when cars and girls meant everything. We had a couple of drinks and ate in a restaurant that had once been an old house—we took our own wine and I wasn’t the only man not wearing a tie. Around ten o’clock we were standing in one of the pedestrian malls and her hips were pressing into me and we were kissing like I was leaving for the front the next day.
We broke apart. “Come to my place,” she said, “I can’t wear the same clothes three days in a row.”
I smoothed her hair. “I often do.”
“That’s because you’re uncivilised, a predator.”
“You disapprove?”
“No.” She kissed me quickly. “The world’s full of desk-sitters who smell of shampoo and soap. You smell of . . .”
“Alcohol and sweat?”
“A bit, not too much.”
Her flat was in Ainslie, close to the centre of the city. It was the top half of a house which we reached down a side way pushing through an overgrown garden. Inside the colours were cream and brown and there was a comfortable amount of untidiness. I automatically browsed through her books while she showered; there was a touch too much philosophy for my taste, but the novels were sound—Hemingway and Waugh, Keesey, and Amis, a sprinkling of Hammett and Chandler. I was reading Fussell’s The Great War and Modern Memory when she came out wearing a Chinese dressing gown. Her hair was wet and spiky and gave off a smell of apples. We kissed hard and leaned into each other, needing and giving support.
“Great book,” she said.
“Yeah.” Then we were kissing again and soon after that we were on a big low bed under a window. We satisfied the first, hard, need quickly and then lay close and talked and let a slow warmth creep over us. The second time was slower and I was conscious of the whole of her body and her experience; her slim, strong arms and the long legs that trapped and held me lightly. I lay there in the dim light listening to her breathing and then my breathing fell into synch with hers and I slept.
I woke at five o’clock and got up quietly. I dressed and was copying down the number of her phone when I heard her move in the bed.
“What are you doing?” She sat straight up and I could feel a wave of tension flow across to me. I leaned down and kissed her bare shoulder.
“I have to go Kay. I’ve got your number. I’ll call you.”
She grabbed my hand. “When?”
“Tonight and every night until this is fixed. Then I’ll come back here.”
“When you’ve finished the job?”
“Yes.”
“Business first.”
I knew what she meant the way I’d always known what Cyn had meant—the missed meetings and the professional drinking and the sleep binges. She flopped back and curled up the way she had in the motel.
“Canberra specialises in quick affairs, Cliff,” she said. “I’ve had men propose to me over breakfast and fly to London at lunchtime.”
“I’ll call you tonight at eight. I promise.”
“I hope so,” she whispered; she rolled over away from me, twisting the sheet around her.
I let myself out quietly and negotiated the sideway; the dew was heavy and the overhanging branches dripped on me as I pushed through them. It wasn’t like walking away from a good, quick roll in the hay, it wasn’t like that at all.
I made myself unpopular at the motel by hauling the manager out of bed and paying my bill. From the look he gave me I would’ve bet the first thing he did after I’d gone was check the towels. It was going to be a hot one in Canberra; the sky was a blank blue and a heat haze was forming over the mountains. The air was still cool but a west wind was promising to make it dry and gritty within an hour. I cruised through the quiet streets along with the dogs and joggers and gave my newly cleaned car its head when we reached the highway. The drive from Canberra to Sydney has gotten easier in the last few years. They’ve punched through some hills and by-passed some of the towns. A good drive in a good car can do it in under four hours. It took me nearly five.
I was dry and hungry when I reached Glebe. I collected the mail and newspapers and went into the house; dust drifted about in the beams of light, and the cockroaches, blissfully undisturbed for a few days, ran for cover. I cleaned myself up and made a meal with limp things from the fridge and plenty of cold wine. The papers carried a lot about the economy, all lies, something about prison riots, mostly lies, and profound analyses of events in the Middle East. There was no mention of Henry Brain. Four bills almost cancelled out the Chatterton money and as far as I could remember there was nothing else coming in. I called my answering service and learned I’d had two callers—Cy Sackville and Verna Reid.
I phoned Sackville who told me not to get into any trouble for a few weeks because he was going to a conference in Athens and planned a trip around Europe for a bit afterwards.
“Who pays?” I asked.
“You do mate, the taxpayer. Now about this Chatterton business. I couldn’t get a lot on Henry Brain. He was a barrister, a good one, and he got struck off for drunkenness in court. That’s going back a bit; he never applied for reinstatement.”
“He stayed drunk.”
“There’s a lesson in that for you,” Cy said primly. “On the Chatterton estate I can’t help you much. Young Booth didn’t know who gets the dough, Dad hasn’t told him. There are a few funny things about it though.”
“Like?”
“Well, the secrecy for one thing. Booth junior says it’s unusual for Booth senior to be so close-mouthed. It might mean that the estate is tied up in some way. Also, someone else has been asking about it.”
“Who?”
“Booth doesn’t remember his name, some bloke who scraped an acquaintance with him at a squash court. Big chap was all he said, looked as if he needed the exercise. That probably made Boothie feel smug—he’s in great shape.” Cy himself is as thin as a stick of spaghetti which he eats in large quantities. He never exercises; he’s a workaholic who burns the weight off by mixing ambition with performance.
“What did this big bloke say?”
“Not much I gather and Booth probably didn’t give a lot away. He’s with an old firm, a conservative one, and Boothie knows that he’s not the brightest. He plays it pretty cagey.”
“When was this and are you sure that’s all?”
“A couple of weeks ago it was. Only other thing Booth recalled was that mention was made of the old lady’s companion—Miss Reece?”
“Reid.”
Cy grunted, he wasn’t used to getting things wrong.
“D’you want to be filled in on all this Cy?”
“Not really. It’s bound to be sordid and I’m trying to clear my head for the holiday. I’ve got a lot to do, I’ve got
to check on Greek scuba gear and I’m thinking of buying a Citroen over there and shipping it back . . . what do you think?”
“Great idea,” I said. “Give me the old one.”
“I’ve seen your car, you don’t deserve a Citroen.”
He gave me the name of the man who would be filling in for him and a run-down on his prejudices—they seemed to cover everything I did and stood for. He sounded like the right man to brief the prosecution if I got into trouble.
After hanging up I went to the car and dug out my notes on the case and added a few more facts. I sat and thought; I had a cigarette and some more wine; I wrote Kay Fletcher’s number in my book. When I couldn’t stall any longer I rang the Chatterton number. Verna Reid’s voice came over the wire like a chill Melbourne wind. She didn’t seem to want to connect me with Lady C. but I insisted and the line stayed live. While I was waiting I wondered whether Miss Reid was in line for the money, a heartbeat away from a fortune, and where her boyfriend and Richard Selby fitted into the picture.
The phone crackled. “Mr. Hardy, are you there?”
I said I was.
“I expected to hear from you sooner. Where have you been?”
“To the south coast and Canberra.”
“What have you learned?”
“Henry Brain is dead—you know that. Nurse Callaghan is dead too.”
A long sigh whispered through. “So you have nothing to report?” Her voice was empty of any interest in the lives and deaths of Brain and Callaghan. She’d known them both but they meant nothing to her except as stepping-stones to what she wanted. It reminded me that the Chattertons were ruthless elitists, not humanitarians. There was no point in caring whether the old woman got what she wanted or not. It was a job.
“I didn’t say that,” I said soothingly. “I spoke to Brain before he died and I may have spoken to the doctor who delivered your grandson. I’m in the process of tracing that person now.”
“Who is he?” she said excitedly. “Tell me about him.”
I stalled. “I don’t think that would be wise; he may not be the right man and it may not be possible to locate him.”
“I’ve never heard so many may nots. I hope you’re not covering up a failure, Mr. Hardy.”
That caustic arrogance in the voice made me want to slam the phone down but I took a breath and used the only weapon I had.
“I’ll give you one more may not,” I said harshly. “You may not like him when and if you meet him.”
“If he is the right man, Mr. Hardy, he will have character, he will be fundamentally sound.” Her tone was less confident than the words. “Perhaps you can tell me one more thing: since you are determined to play cat and mouse, has the man in question been brought up by . . . respectable people?”
It was easy to see what she was thinking. A man of thirty is fully formed or should be. She could do some polishing, and a bit of money spent properly could do wonders, but she couldn’t make a judge’s grandson out of a brickie’s mate. I put the needle in by delaying the reply.
“Very respectable.”
“Thank you, that is good.” Her voice sounded younger, lighter, and I wondered if she was patting her iron grey hair. It would be interesting to see how she’d tackle the future heir if I could produce him. I tried to tell her about some of the obstacles I’d encountered but she’d turned off. I wanted to ask about her will and maybe I could have got an answer; I was the life-jacket of her hopes and this could be used to control her natural tendency to treat me as a chattel. But I didn’t know who could be listening on other phones in the house, so I asked her for more money instead.
“Verna will attend to it,” she said. “Press on, Mr. Hardy. When you have a definite result we will have another meeting. Goodbye.” She was playing it cautious again, I thought, and regretting the outburst of enthusiasm. The boy would just have to learn that Grandma didn’t let it all hang out.
Miss Reid came back on the line and I told her that Lady C. had given the OK for some money. She didn’t question it, which might have meant that she’d been listening. I asked her for three days’ fees and seventy-five dollars in expenses.
“Have you receipts for the expenses?”
“Some,” I said, “bars and massage parlours don’t issue them. I’ll send you a list.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said crisply. “I’m authorised to pay you. A cheque will be sent today.” She hung up.
I squinted out the window at the day which had turned grey and ambiguous. There was a broad, pale band of sunlight across the wall of my neighbour’s house and a fine vapour was lifting off his elegant ferns. My own garden is low and scrubby and features plants renowned for their ability to withstand neglect. I locked up a couple of copies of the photographs of Warwick Baudin, pocketed a set, and left the house. Clark Street in Darlinghurst is narrow and dog-legged so that, at the bend, the high terrace houses seem to lean over it the way houses do in Europe. The traffic runs only one way and the street rises sharply at the end where it meets Oxford Street. It was the middle of a warm, still day and the air was heavy with motor fumes and dust. The street was cluttered with illegally parked cars and barefoot people in jeans and men in three-piece suits.
A girl was sitting in the fitful sun in front of number eight. She had on a yellow, Chinese-design, silk dressing gown which had fallen open to the waist; her breasts were pale and heavy with pink, spreading nipples. She was filing her nails and her tongue was caught between her teeth in concentration. She looked at me with just the merest flicker of interest, the way an old dog looks at an old bone. I put my hand on the gate of number ten.
“They won’t be up yet,” she said in a heavy accent, Dutch or German, “can I help you?”
“I want to see a girl named Honey,” I said. “Am I at the right place?”
“Yah.” She stopped filing. The dressing gown slipped open around the narrow tie belt and I could see a swelling of white, soft belly and the top of a thatch of blonde pubic hair. “She lives there but she is not a girl. Do you like it with old women?”
“Not really. Miss . . .”
“Inge.” She shrugged, her plump breasts shook like blancmange. “You’re about thirty years too late then.” She laughed and loose flesh moved under her chin, on her chest and down her hairless white legs.
“Don’t listen to her, dear.” The voice came from above our heads and I looked up. A woman was leaning over the rail on the upstairs balcony of number ten. Her hair was purple and she was wearing a purple dressing gown. Her voice was low-pitched and the vowels were over-careful. “Wait there dear, I’ll be right down. Be careful of that sun, Inge, you don’t want to ruin your complexion.”
Acne scars pitted the blonde girl’s face. She saw me noticing them, turned pink, and went back to filing her nails.
I opened the gate and approached the door of number ten. The house was an old two-story terrace; the brickwork had been rendered over and marked to simulate sandstone blocks. It had had at least three earlier paint jobs and now it was a flaking, dusty green with the window trimmings picked out in yellow. There was an iron-framed garden chair on the porch and two pot-plants—the pots overflowed with cigarette ends.
The door opened and the woman in purple struck an attitude in the doorway; she was tall and thin and used to making the most of her figure. She cocked one hand up on her hip and let the other drift out aristocratically towards me. I put one of the cards in it.
“That’s me,” I said. “Would your name be Honey?”
“That’s right darling, I’m Honey Gully.” She peered at the card and the set smile faded. “Trouble?” The careful control peeled away like the paint from her house and the word came out harsh and anxious.
“I don’t think so, Miss Gully, can I come in?”
She hesitated. “It’s early, place is a mess.”
“I don’t mind,” I said. “It won’t take long and I’ll pay you for your time.”
She brought her face up
to mine and squinted to focus on it. A network of lines around her eyes and mouth had flecks of make-up embedded in them. Her mouth was wide and just beginning to fall in; she could have been a beaten-up forty or a well preserved sixty. She drew back and her eyes relaxed into a pale blue myopic vagueness.
“I don’t like this,” she said. “I’m not paid for my time, what do you want?”
I bustled up close and forced her into the hallway. She gave way and I bustled some more and closed the door behind me. Her forward drifting tendril of a hand became a nervous thing that plucked at the neck of the velveteen dressing gown, drawing it higher and safer.
“Where’s your room, Honey?”
Maybe she liked my honest face, maybe she thought that if I’d been going to hit her I’d have done it by now; she shrugged. “Top of the stairs,” she said. “On the right.”
“Let’s get up there and talk.” I took hold of her upper arm and my fingers met around it; she had bones like a factory-bred chicken and skimpy flesh to match. I propelled her in front of me up the stairs, using my weight. The stair rail was draped over with female clothing and there was a smell of stale scent, sweat and cigarette smoke in the air.
