by Peter Corris
‘That’s difficult,’ I said.
‘The media vultures’ll eat this up.’
There was truth in what he said. Everything Jade Delaney did or touched was newsworthy and a sister involved with a drug death was about as bad a story as her handler could dream of. Or maybe not.
‘A nine-day wonder maybe,’ I said. ‘All publicity is good publicity for pop stars isn’t it? Look at Keith Richards.’
‘That was then, this is now. It’s all different. Drugs are out, God is in.’
‘Well fuck that.’
Price was pulling himself together again and he helped the process along with a cigarette. ‘Easy for you to say. Junie idolises her sister. The thought of damaging her in any way would tear her apart. And she’s just on the brink of starting a singing career herself.’
None of this was cutting much ice with me. Presumably Junie volunteered to screw the boss whom she knew was married. No happy ending guaranteed. It seemed to me that Price had more important things to worry about, like who might have had a hand in his wife’s death and what he was going to do about his daughter. I got up and sat on the end of my desk, a move calculated to budge him from the seat he’d settled down into with despair in his body language.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘What you have to do is contact your lawyer. I assume you have one?’
He nodded. Blew smoke.
‘Talk to him and…’
‘Her. Cathy Jacobsen.’
Great, I thought, I hope you’re not screwing her as well. ‘Her then. Tell her everything that’s been going on, or as much as you feel able to. You know, about your wife’s behaviour and what you suspect about Danni.’
‘Suspect bullshit, I know! Jason…’
‘Yeah, well you might not know as much as you think you do. You’ve admitted that you had poor communication with Danni. Leaving each other notes you said. And I think there were sides to Jason that weren’t obvious. He wasn’t the most truthful kid in the world. I think he got you in. I suspect he was a bit of an actor for one thing.’
He leaned forward, interested now. ‘And what else?’
Like he was fucking your wife as well as your daughter, I thought. ‘He had more money than he should have for a start. And as you know I followed Danni this morning.’
‘And found her celebrating her stepmother’s death.’
‘I didn’t say that and I don’t know that she’d think of her as a stepmother,’ I said. ‘But she didn’t look like a freaked-out druggie to me. She’s hell on wheels with those rollerblades and a skateboard.’
He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up, rubbing his bristled chin. ‘I’m too buggered to think. I’ll do what you say — ring Cathy for some legal advice — and go home and knock myself out.’
‘What about Junie? You should warn her.’
He moved towards the door like a man who’d just experienced bad cramp in both legs. ‘You’ll look for Danni? I’m good for whatever it’s costing.’
I nodded. ‘And what do I say to her when I find her?’
Price shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said and went out the door.
I opened a window and waved at the fug of smoke Price’d left in the air. I had the office repainted a couple of years ago but old stains had seeped back through and as a good many of my clients seem to be smokers the ceiling has taken on that brown-grey look cigarette smoke leaves behind. What with a bit of mould, dead insects and spilled coffee and red wine, the place had quickly re-acquired the worked-in look I quite like.
I went back behind the desk for some more doodling on my diagram. Question marks dominated now. Had the police forensic team found traces of blood and glass in the Price bathroom? Whose fingerprints had they found apart from those of the family members? Jason Jorgensen’s? Dr Cross’s? The mystery emergency number caller? Mine? They certainly had mine on file from the brushes I’d had with them over the years and could run a computer check. Would that information get to Detective Stankowski?
Another question I had was: would Samantha Price shoot up again carelessly after her experience of yesterday? If she needed the fix wouldn’t she at least go cautiously with the stuff? Give it a trial run? Or maybe it was a suicide. She seemed to have had the reasons — a failed pregnancy and depression, a drug habit, an unfaithful husband, a hostile stepchild, a dead lover. But if it wasn’t suicide or an accident, who would want to kill her? I put the notepad on the desk, unplugged the recharged mobile and was up and about to leave the office when the phone rang. I grabbed it.
‘Cliff? It’s Tess.’
‘Tess? Oh, right.’
‘Shit, you sound as if you don’t recall the name.’
‘I’m sorry, love. It’s this thing I’ve got on. It gets curlier by the minute.’
‘I’m sure you’ll cope. What’ve you found out about Ramsay?’
I sat down and tried to collect my thoughts. Ramsay was a long way from the top of my mental agenda and I had to struggle to recall where I was with him. I could feel Tess’s impatience.
‘Is there someone with you?’
‘No, of course not. It’s seven o’clock and I’m still in the bloody office.’
‘Don’t snap at me. I’ve had a hard day, too. I had to massage a one hundred and twenty kilogram monster. I’m aching all over.’
‘I hope he enjoyed it.’
‘She. Cliff, I’ve got a glass of wine here. You tap your cask of red and we can start again.’
I did as she said and told her all I’d learned about Ramsay and his comings and goings.
‘Do you believe this Bonham woman?’
‘I do, yes.’
‘And where does his so-called “sugar momma” live?’
‘Concord.’
‘God, what address?’
I dug out the phone book and looked the name up. I read out the address.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Tess said, ‘that’s only one street away from where we used to live. What do you know about her, this woman he’s supposed to be with?’
‘Virtually nothing.’
‘What does she look like?’
‘I’m told she’s fat.’
‘Thank God for that. I was thinking he might be finding substitutes for me. The other one, Bonham, doesn’t look like me, does she?’
‘Not a bit.’
‘Okay. It’s’ still a bit weird that he’s back in Concord but not as weird as it might be. I suppose it figures — Ramsay’s never had a normal relationship with a woman. This sort of stuff might be something he can handle. I don’t like the sound of him stealing from old women though. That’s a shitload of trouble waiting to hit.’
I was almost through the cup of red and thinking about another. ‘What d’you want me to do?’
‘I can read you like a book, Cliff Hardy. I know that tone of voice. You want me to say let him alone to go to hell in his own way.’
‘I’ll do whatever you want.’
‘I’ll have to think about it… How tough is the other thing you’ve got on?’
I usually only told Tess the funny bits, if any, or the barest outline of whatever I was doing and I saw no reason to change. I told her the case had taken me to parts of Sydney I didn’t know well and that a male escort agency was involved.
‘I hope I never have to resort to one.’
Awkward. We made some uncomfortable noises and she rang off.
No listed Larson had the number Price had given me so the phone was either unlisted or in another name. I didn’t have access to a reverse telephone directory and it was too late to call my Telstra contact who did. I could get, for a price, an address to equate with the twins’ telephone number. That’d be first cab off the rank in the morning. The Ramsay Hewitt matter was on hold. I was facing at best some pub companionship followed by an empty house, some radio or television and a book and, unless I watched out, self-pity. Be positive, Hardy, I thought. At least you ‘ve got a house.
I skipped the pub. Not in the mood. Instead I bought a
bottle of decent white and some takeaway Lebanese in Glebe Point Road and headed for home. It’d been an early start and an eventful day and I was tired. I turned into my street and swore when I saw that the parking spot outside my house was occupied. I drifted on down the street and parked between a BMW and a sleek looking something-or-other — the street has gentrified since I arrived and I wasn’t keeping pace.
I set the crook-lock — which any decent car thief can crack in about ten seconds — and hauled myself and my wet and dry dinner up the footpath. When I got to my front gate the door of the car parked in my spot opened and a tall woman stepped out.
‘Mr Hardy? Inspector Beth Hammond. I’d like a word.’
15
I walked up, juggling food, wine and keys. ‘I’ll be happy to oblige, Ms Hammond,’ I said. ‘But I had an early start and a hard day and I haven’t eaten since this morning. I’m going to eat this food and drink some of this wine and nothing’s going to stop me. You can watch or join in if you want.’
She wore a black pants suit with a white blouse and her dark hair fell to her shoulders. The light in the street isn’t great and I couldn’t tell much about her features. Held herself well. “We’ll see how it goes,’ she said. ‘If I have to arrest you at least you’ll have eaten.’
She looped the strap of her purse over her shoulder, opened the gate and winced a little at the squeak. I went up the path, opened the door and stepped aside.
‘After you,’ she said.
Assertive. I turned on a light and got my first good look at her. She had regular, unremarkable features and wore no make-up that I could see. Her expression was determined and her movements were the same. She followed me down the passage to the kitchen where I turned on more lights and plonked down the food and wine. ‘Have a seat.’
‘Thanks.’ She squatted on one of the stools at the breakfast bench. Me, I need to lean back against a wall for support when I do that but she looked comfortable enough as she was, ramrod straight.
I opened the wine and picked up two glasses from the draining rack.
She shook her head. ‘Not for me.’
I poured a glass full and drank half of it, topped the glass up. I put the felafel and kebabs on a plate with the flat bread and opened the containers of hommos and tabouli. I extended a plastic fork to her. She half smiled and shook her head. Good smile and the hair swung nicely. She was a potentially attractive woman trying not to be.
‘Excuse me. I’m hungry.’ I pulled the stool nearer the wall and sat down and began to eat. She took a gold pen from the breast pocket of her jacket and a notepad from her shoulder purse.
‘You don’t seem surprised to see me.’
‘I was told about you.’
‘By whom?’
Great grammar. ‘I forget. Detective Sergeant Stankowski maybe.’
‘I hope you’re not going to make this difficult, Mr Hardy.’
I chewed and swallowed, drank some wine. ‘No more than it has to be, Inspector.’
She glanced at her notebook although I could tell she didn’t need to. ‘You interviewed a man only hours before he was murdered and your fingerprints have been found in a house where a woman died under suspicious circumstances. That puts you uncomfortably close to two deaths in the space of two days.’
‘I’m certainly not comfortable about it myself.’
‘Your attitude isn’t helping,’ she said. She seemed to think she’d scored a point though. ‘But at least you don’t deny being in Mrs Samantha Price’s house. What is your connection with these people?’
I ate some more of the food and drank some wine although my appetite was fading fast. ‘As I told your colleague, I’m pursuing an investigation and I’m not at liberty to talk about it.’
‘You won’t be at liberty at all if you don’t.’
Nice comeback. ‘Still no clues on the Jorgensen thing, huh?’
She glared at me. ‘I’m questioning you, not the other way around.’
‘I thought perhaps an exchange of information might be in order.’
‘Certainly not.’
I shrugged. ‘Mexican stand-off then. Why a Mexican stand-off, have you ever wondered?’
‘I advise you to take this seriously.’
‘I do. I only met Jason Jorgensen and Mrs Price once. They were young and not bad people as far as I could tell. If I find out what happened to them before you do I’ll let you know, but I’ve got a client to protect.’
‘I could arrest you for obstruction.’
‘You won’t do that. You know that my lawyer’d have me out in no time and you’d have gained nothing.’
‘Your last word?’
‘Not at all. I’ll talk to my client in the morning and see what room there is to manoeuvre in.’
She stood up and tucked her pad and pen away in her purse. I guessed her age as early thirties and her IQ as high. Also her ambition. ‘You’ll be at Hurstville Police Station at nine-thirty tomorrow morning, with or without your lawyer, to make a statement. Otherwise, a warrant will be issued for your arrest.’
I nodded and followed her down the passage towards the door. She walked tall but I had a sense that the interview had disappointed her and she was re-grouping. Before she reached the door she spun around and sucked in a breath. It wasn’t deliberate, but her breasts rose, her lips parted and there was colour in her smooth-complexioned face. She hated to do it but she said, ‘You made a remark about an exchange of information?’
I opened the door and motioned her forward. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘The moment passed.’
My finest hour: two cops pissed off at me and a client who didn’t know what he wanted to happen next. I put the leftover food in the fridge and poured a last glass of wine. I didn’t blame the police for coming after me but I knew I couldn’t help them in any substantial way and they threatened to be a hindrance to the job I had on hand. I settled by the phone, rang Viv Garner and told him the state of play.
‘I take it you didn’t kill them?’ he said.
‘Ha, ha.’
‘If they’ve tapped your phone, mate,’ he said, ‘you’ve told them all they’d be likely to get. True?’
‘I suppose.’
‘When did you last have it checked?’
‘Yonks ago.’
‘So it could be tapped?’
‘What’re you getting at, Viv?’
‘I take it you don’t want to front up in the morning?’
‘That’s right. I’ve got other things to do and I owe you too much money as it is.’
‘Didn’t you hear a funny clicking then?’
‘C’mon, Viv.’
‘I could ring them tomorrow and say you’ve instructed me that your phone has been tapped and that they therefore know all you know. That’ll surprise them and set the cat among the pigeons. Should buy you some time. With any luck Stankowski will suspect Hammond of stealing a march on him and vice versa.’
‘You didn’t learn that in law school.’
‘I’ve forgotten most of what I learned in law school. Have you caught up with the bloke enrolled at Lachlan yet?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘What about the rich woman paying his bills?’
‘I talked to her. Apparently he’s moved on to another one.’
‘And no-one in that connection is dead yet? Not bad. I’m moving around a bit tomorrow, Cliff, but you’ve got my mobile number. Call me if they throw you in the cells.’
I rang off and hoped that was it for the day. I didn’t need any more phone calls or visits. I collected the book about the Burns-Johnson fight from the bedroom and settled down in the living room in the only comfortable chair in the house to read and unwind. There’s nothing like an account of two blokes pummelling the shit out of each other to make you feel relaxed. Except that in this case the pummelling was all done by Jack on Tommy.
I read until loss of concentration told me it was time to stop. Just for that moment I was back in the Sydney of nearly a hundre
d years ago when the men wore waistcoats in summer, the papers called Johnson a ‘nigger’ and Hugh D ‘Huge Deal’ Mcintosh, the promoter and referee of the fight, carried a pistol. A different world and not a better one.
I put the book on the stairs and carried the wine glass out to the sink. I rinsed it and moved away to put it on the draining board. The glass in the louvred window shattered and I was sprayed with fragments which mostly caught me on the side of the head and high up. I dropped to the floor with the glass still in my hand in case there was another shot and felt blood dripping into my ear. I stayed down and watched the blood drip onto the lino. The thought came into my shocked and tired brain that louvred windows and linoleum dated back to the time of the Burns-Johnson fight.
16
My house is overlooked at the back by a tall block of flats and that’s where the shot must have come from. By the time I felt ready to stand up he would have been well away. I mopped at my head with the dishcloth, not a hygienic practice but the glass hadn’t hit me anywhere vital. I was cut in several places on the ear and higher up but my hair had taken the brunt of it. Thank you Grandad. At a guess the bullet must have struck in those couple of centimetres where a set of louvres overlapped and been deflected. With the kitchen well lit and me standing relatively still at the sink in front of the window I would’ve made a good target. I couldn’t say how many times people had told me to get the daggy louvres replaced and I’d resisted, more out of inertia than aesthetics. One up to inertia.
The surge of adrenaline that the near miss had pumped through me started to ebb away almost immediately, leaving me drained and spent. I’d been shot at before, hit before, but not by a sniper in quite that clinical way. More than once my ex-wife Cyn had said, I wish you were dead. Well, now there was someone out there prepared to grant her wish. Except that she was dead. I wasn’t thinking straight. How prepared was I for such things? For a man in my business, my security alarm system is lousy, apt to be short-circuited by cockroaches, but I set it and checked the doors and windows.
