by Peter Corris
‘I’ve forgotten what we were talking about.’
I put the photograph on the table beside my bottle and tapped it. ‘Him.’
‘Oh, yes. Well, if you say he’s not in trouble. I wouldn’t want to dob the boy in.’
I shook my head. ‘No trouble.’
‘I’ve seen him a few times. He comes and goes. Stays in that big, flash place a few doors away. The one with the high side fence and everything just so.’
‘I think I’ve seen it.’ As soon as I said that I wondered if he’d set a trap for me. If he’d spotted me the day before he’d know I was lying. But he didn’t react.
‘Spent a lot of money there she did.’
‘She?’
He drank some more beer and warmed up to the work of gossip. ‘Husband died a few years back. About the time my wife went. No, a few years after. I had my eye on her for a while but then she really went to town — new clothes and hairdo, facelifts, all that. She’s ten years or more older than she looks.’
‘I see. What’s her name, Tom?’
He shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’
I nodded and had a drink, momentarily saddened. The old bloke had looked for a replacement wife and she’d suddenly put up a generation gap to add to the financial gap between them. He’d probably never even spoken to her.
‘And this young bloke comes and goes. He stays overnight d’you mean?’
‘For sure. Drives that Merc right in,’ he winked.
‘Not the only thing he drives in, I reckon.’
I fished out my notebook and scribbled. ‘Old Mercedes, eh? I don’t suppose you got the number?’
‘Old, nothing. Bloody new or near enough. Silver-grey. No, I had no reason to get the number. All I can tell you is that it’s got a sticker on the windscreen — sort of parking permit like for doctors and nurses and that at hospitals.’
Tom would know more about hospitals than universities but his information sounded spot on. I asked him when he’d last seen the man and his Merc but he was vague. ‘Couldn’t say. Last week, week before, last month? Find it hard to keep track of time nowadays. It was before the last party anyway.’
‘Party?’
‘Didn’t I say? She throws these big parties every Wednesday. Be on tonight, I reckon. Lots of people, lots of cars. Quiet though, no trouble. I have to say that.’
I finished the beer and thanked him for it and the information. He went to stand up but decided against it and sank back in the chair. ‘Are you going to pay her a visit?’
The lonely, long past it, voyeur in him was showing. ‘Maybe. I’m not sure.’
‘He’s not the only one you know.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘There’s a few of them like him — young blokes with flash cars. Six footers with fair hair.’
8
The mobile rang as soon as I got back to my car and switched it on. Price.
‘I’ve been ringing for an hour.’
I was in no mood to be stood over. ‘We need to talk.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
I stuck to my plan. ‘I’ll tell you when I see you. Where and when?’
‘Jesus, can’t you…?’
‘No.’
‘OK. I’m bloody busy but if you can get here quickly I can give you — ’
‘Listen, Mr Price, is this matter important to you or not?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘Right. Well I’ll be there as soon as I can and our business’ll take as long as it takes.’
I hung up and started the car. His office was in Bankstown, no great distance, and I was there inside the half hour. The business centre had a scrubbed up look as if it had all recently been renovated. The railway station had had a complete make over and was now super-modern with lots of glass and aluminium, fresh paint and elegant paving. Asian faces dominated in the streets and a good number of the stores had their names and signs printed in Asian languages. The High Fliers had flown as high as the tenth floor in a Cubist-style green glass building named the Bankstown Civic Tower. Several of the floors were taken up by municipal offices and others housed the usual run of professionals and a couple of dot coms whose names gave no indication of their business. You could get just about anything done there from your tax return to treatment for your ingrown toenails. Price had a small suite of three rooms and a modest reception area, all outfitted in fake teak panelling. Pot plants.
The receptionist was everything she should have been and more — young, pale, with Dusty Springfield eyes and a pointed chin that made her better than pretty. Pink silk blouse. I gave her my name and she said she’d see if Mr Price was free. She lifted the phone, but as his door was only three strides away I thought I’d save her the bother. I went past, knocked and walked in.
‘It’s not the girl’s fault,’ I said as she hovered in the doorway just behind me. ‘I barged in.’
Price was sitting behind a desk about the same size as mine but about fifty years younger. Unlike mine, it held a computer, In and Out trays and all the
paraphernalia of a busy executive. He was in his shirtsleeves and looked harassed. ‘It’s OK, Junie,’ he said. ‘It’s OK.’
Junie gave a sigh of relief and closed the door. I sat down in a chair near the desk and tried to figure out what was surprising me about the office. It was conventionally appointed with a serviceable grey carpet, some nondescript prints on the walls along with some framed certificates and citations. The desk, two chairs, a bookcase with more magazines and folders than books and a photocopier. Then I got it. The air, conditioned to a comfortable temperature, was clear. No ashtray on the desk. Probably accounted for the harassed look.
‘Given it up?’ I said.
He nodded. ‘Trying to. Did it once, I can do it again. What’s up, Hardy? You scared young Junie out there.’
I gave it to him between the eyes. ‘Jason Jorgensen has been murdered. Strangled. Dumped in the Georges River at Lugarno.’
He was shocked to the core, or he was a better actor than Brando. His face lost colour and his jaw dropped. He reached for the cigarettes that weren’t there and when he realised their absence he made two hard fists and put them on the desk in front of him. ‘Murdered!’
‘Right. I saw him yesterday and gave him my card. It was found on his body. The police paid me a visit first thing this morning.’
Another chance to check on how genuine he was — would the threat of my seeing the police erase the shock? It didn’t. ‘That poor kid. Do they know why or who…?’
I shook my head and watched him while he processed the information. The phone rang; he unclenched one fist, picked it up and spoke without looking at the instrument. ‘Take a message, Junie. No calls for a while.’ He hung up and sat back in his chair helplessly. ‘I can’t believe it. I saw a bit of him while Danni… A nice kid. What did you think of him? God, could it have anything to do with this business?’
Price was scoring points with me. His concern about the dead boy looked authentic, and he hadn’t yet transferred his attention fully to how it might affect him. He was getting there, but not straight off. I told him I’d found Jason a bit dim, and hadn’t got very much out of him. I said I didn’t know whether his death had anything to do with the Prices, but I hoped not.
‘What else?’
I shrugged. I had thoughts on that, sparked by the expensive car and suit and Stankowski’s throwaway remark that Jason might not have been as squeaky clean as he looked, but I saw no reason to tell Price. He fidgeted with things on the desk, got himself back under control and then it got through to him. ‘You say the police got to you. What did you tell them?’
‘Next to nothing. No names.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘Not for long if they don’t come up with something. If they run out of ideas they’ll come back at me.’
‘And then?’
I explained that our business wasn’t confidential in the legal sense and that they could search my
records if it came to that, or they could charge me with obstructing justice, which would force me to talk.
Again, this was the sort of thing he could handle; propositions, possibilities, options. Then he surprised me. ‘What if Jason’s death is connected to the drugs thing? It’s likely isn’t it? If your enquiries turned up evidence on who killed poor Jason… I don’t mean to sound opportunistic, but it’d give me something more to work with. You follow?’
I had to sit back and think about that. Trying to get the dirt on some suburban drug pushers was one thing, investigating a murder was quite another. Price saw me hesitating but misinterpreted it.
‘I know it’s more than we contracted for, but I can make up any differences.’
I was tempted to tell him about his wife’s infidelity, just to lay all cards on the table, but I resisted. ‘It’s not that.’
‘What, then?’
‘Jason was worried about talking to me. He said he’d been threatened.’
“There you are.’
‘No. He made a slip of the tongue. He said she had threatened him. She.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know. Your daughter or maybe your wife.’
‘Sammy? That’s ridiculous, and Danni’s just confused and stumbling around. She’s in bad company probably.’
I wasn’t sure about either of those conclusions but I let them pass. I told Price I’d keep the cops at bay for as long as I could and that I had a police contact who might be able to fill me in on the drug boys’ operations in the Georges River area.
‘Good. Good. That sounds very professional’
And that’s fuckin’ patronising, I thought. Price was the sort of client who won and lost points with me by turns and I tended to react to how the ledger stood at the time.
‘So what’ll you do now?’ he asked.
‘I’ll follow Danni for a bit. Is she likely to be at home?’
He shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
‘Where else then — friends, interests?’
‘Friends, I have no idea. Interests — would you believe rollerblading and skateboarding? She goes to this skateboard park in Kingsgrove, or she did. I picked her up there a couple of times when her car was in dock. It’s near the railway station.’
‘Just out of interest, why’re you located here? It’s not exactly the business hub of Sydney.’
‘There’s more going on here than you’d think, particularly among the Asian community. I can speak Chinese. Studied it at university. Some of our best clients are Asians. They’ve got some good ideas. Keep you on your toes.’
I nodded, stood up and winced as my bruised stomach twinged sharply.
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Come on, Hardy, I did a stint in the medical corps. You’re hurting.’
‘Pulled a muscle in the gym,’ I said. ‘Stay off the smokes. ‘
I went out and apologised to Junie for my high-handedness earlier. She nodded but couldn’t contain her curiosity and her concern. Price wouldn’t have too many roughnecks like me calling on him.
‘I hope Mr Price’s not in trouble,’ she said.
‘Who isn’t?’
‘Well, I suppose… yes, all right. Thank you, Mr Hardy.’
And that told me something new. Junie had the hots for Marty. But Marty had Sammy and Danni to worry about. I rode down in the mirrored lift and didn’t once look at my reflection. I was afraid I’d think of how my anti-godson, Clifford Parker, had tried to call me Cliffy until I’d paid him enough money not to.
I had lunch in a Bankstown cafe — gnocchi and a salad and a glass of red — and deliberated whether to go back to Strathfield and tackle the woman who’d got away from Tom Bolitho or try to locate Danni Price and see what manner of young woman she was. So far I’d divided the day pretty evenly between the paid and unpaid work. Time to go for the money. I drove to Lugarno and parked outside the Price gates. The button I pressed got me a muzzy female voice.
‘Yes? Who is it?’
I don’t know what made me do it, but on an impulse I ventured an imitation of Jason Jorgensen’s voice. ‘It’s Jason.’
‘Oh, Jason. Thank God. Come in. Please hurry.’
She sounded desperate and I pushed open the gate and sprinted up the path to the house. She came staggering through the door to meet me and shrieked when she saw me. Her face and skin were colourless and I could see a good deal of skin because she wore only a sleeveless white lace blouse hanging open and a pair of knickers to match. Her left arm was bloody from the elbow to the wrist and blood had run down her blouse to her legs. Both of her hands were dripping blood and there was more on her face and in her hair. When she saw me she tried to turn back into the house but sagged at the knees and I stepped forward and caught her.
Her beautifully sculpted face was like a death mask as she looked up at me. ‘You’re not…’
‘No, but I’m here, Mrs Price. What’s happened to you?’
Then I saw the deep cut in her arm below a fresh puncture mark in the spot where injecting drug users probe for a vein. It looked as if she’d hit the vein for her shot and then somehow gashed her arm. Blood was rushing from the wound and she was fighting the fatigue and helplessness that comes with blood loss. I lowered her onto a padded bench seat on the porch, pulled off her blouse and made as tight a tourniquet as I could around her lower arm. The blood seeped, then stopped. She lay back with her head turned to one side and one arm up behind her. I placed the wounded arm across her body just below her breasts.
I stood up and swore as the bruised stomach pinched me.
She opened her eyes. ‘Who’re you?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m calling an ambulance.’
‘No!’ The ferocity of her delivery stopped me dead.
‘Your life’s in danger, Mrs Price. You’ve lost a lot of blood.’
She had guts or enough desperation to amount to the same thing. ‘Not so much. Mostly shock. Call Dr Cross. I was trying to call him when you… but the blood made the phone slippery. The number’s by the phone. Please, please…’
I felt her pulse and found it was quite strong. With the bleeding stopped some colour was returning to her face and she struggled to sit up. I eased her down.
‘I’ll be all right. Please, call the doctor and get me a cigarette.’
Strong voice now, in control and searching for normality. Good signs. I pulled a pillow from the bottom of the bench and propped her up. I went into the house and negotiated a trail of blood down a long, polished wood passageway, past an alcove where the phone and fax machine sat, to the kitchen where I filled a glass with water. I brought it back to her and she took a sip while I held it.
‘Cigarette.’
‘Where are they?’
She hesitated but the need was too great. ‘In the bathroom. Have you called the doctor?’
‘Next thing.’
I went back to the phone in the alcove off the main passage. A teledex was open with Dr Cross’s name showing. Both the teledex and the phone were covered in blood and there was more in heavy drips on the floor before the trail leading to the door. My hands were bloodstained already so what the hell. I picked up the phone and punched in the mobile numbers.
‘Cross.’
‘I’m calling for Mrs Price in Lugarno, doctor. There’s been an accident and she’s cut her arm severely. She asked me to call you. She needs attention.’
‘And you are…?’
‘Never mind. Are you coming or not?’
He didn’t like it. A lot of doctors become unused to being spoken to as if they’re just other members of the human race and at a guess he was one of them, but he confined himself to being abrupt. ‘Ten minutes,’ he said and cut the connection.
I found the blood trail to the bathroom and took in the scene without any trouble. The uncapped syringe was there, along with two squares of silver foil and a small silver dish about the size of a fifty cent piece and a centimetr
e deep. There were a pair of brass tongs, a cigarette lighter and a packet of cigarettes. So far, just a fancy shooting spot. But there was also a long champagne flute lying on the tiled floor with shards of glass all around it. The room was awash with blood.
I picked up the cigarettes and lighter and went back to the porch. She was sitting propped up and had drunk some more of the water. Her eyes were open and she grabbed at the cigarettes. ‘You took long enough.’
I helped her get one to her mouth and she wasn’t going to object to the damp blood from handling the slick packet. I lit it for her and she dragged in the smoke.
‘How’d it happen?’
‘What?’
I realised then that Samantha Price was as tough as they come. The vacant look I’d seen in the passport photo was misleading, something she did for the camera, any camera. She was very beautiful and any photographer would have had a field day with her bone structure and the balance of her features — wide mouth, big eyes, straight nose. But up close, with at least some of her defences down, she showed character and intelligence as well. Those big blue eyes had seen a lot and recorded it all, and that luscious mouth was poised for cynicism. The realisation took me back a bit and I was suddenly aware of her naked breasts and my reaction.
‘I’ll get you something to wear.’
Her high, lilting laugh followed me into the house. I stepped carefully, trying to keep clear of the blood although I’d already trodden in a fair bit of it, and went into the kitchen for a glass of water for myself. I washed my hands at the marble, twin-bowl sink and dried them on a linen tea towel. I had blood on my shirt, trousers and shoes — Price was up for a hefty dry cleaning bill.
I went off in search of clothes. The house had three operational bedrooms as well as a dining room, sitting room and a study cum den. Sammy’s room was the one with the pale blue decor, queen size bed, ensuite and French windows out to the pool. More polished boards and a couple of deep pile rugs. I stayed on the boards and took a linen shirt from a hanger in her closet, wet a hand towel in her bathroom and went back to the porch. She’d smoked one cigarette, left the butt burning a mark into the white tile border of the porch and was working on another.
