by Peter Corris
‘What people, Regina?’
She slumped against me but not amorously. The gin was getting to her motor centres and she was starting to drift to another time and another place. She hummed a tune and then murmured the words, ‘Lloyd George knew my father, Father knew Lloyd George. Know that one?’
‘Yes.’ I hummed along.
‘Not Lloyd George, Lord George. They’re the people. Not nice. Not nice boys even. Not like Randall’s boys. Nice boys.’
‘Are you saying Ramsay’s with the Lord George Agency?’
That I knew about her recreational activities didn’t seem to surprise her by this time. She was past making judgements. Anything can connect with anything else when you’re in that state. Pressed hard against me, she shook her head violently and I got a whiff of gin and perfume and sweat.
‘No! No! He wouldn’t. She tried to entice him into joining them but he heard things. He saw things in her house and he got out. He came to me. He’s a lovely boy.’
It was about the last way I’d describe Ramsay Hewitt, but Regina Kipps was in a maudlin world of her own. She pushed away from me, reached her glass and knocked the contents back as if she knew the effect it’d have and wanted it.
I eased away on the couch. ‘Regina, I have to go.’
‘S’all right. Everybody’s gotta go. Know that one? Everybody’s gotta go. Rolling Stones. Great music, Stones. Hubby didn’t think so but hubby’s dead. Mick’s still alive. Good old Mick.’
She was slipping fast. I took the glass from her hand and put it on the table. ‘Where’s Ramsay now? Who’s he with?’
‘University,’ she said. ‘That university bitch. He’ll steal from ‘er. He’ll break ‘er heart. Bad boy.’
She slid sideways and her eyes fluttered, then closed. I put a cushion under her head and lifted her feet onto the couch. She wore silver ankle-strap sandals with very high heels. I undid them and put them aside. She looked comfortable enough but sad as a child’s coffin in her red silk robe on the tiger skin couch.
I did a quick recce of the house to make sure there was no gas leaking, no hot plates burning, no coffee maker simmering. I finished my drink and touched her on the top of her blonded head on my way out. She didn’t move.
19
Finding Ramsay Hewitt now became a matter of urgency. My two cases had merged. Surprising, but not entirely — the escort business unites the most unlikely partners across social and gender barriers and if you apply that ‘six degrees of separation’ stuff you’d come up with some amazing connections. I had to find Ramsay and grill him for what he knew about the Lord George operation because it looked as if blackmail and drugs were the forces that could make some sense of the murders of Jason and Samantha. To say I watched my back as I drove home from Concord would be an understatement. I’d seen the lengths the Lord George people would go to deter me from taking an interest in them and the stakes were higher now. I had to hope they didn’t know that and so far, so good.
When I reached Glebe I decided not to go home. The police might be there, wanting to press me for more of the information that they must know I held or maybe Mr Stivens had been taken off the leash. I booked into the Rooftop Motel where they know me and where they close the gates on the car park fairly early. If s a good hidey-hole and you can have a swim in the pool on the roof when you’re in the mood. No mini-bar though. I bought two packets of crisps from the machine and settled down with them and several coffee sachets and the little containers of long-life milk.
I unshipped my notebook and got to work on the diagram with the arrows and dotted lines and just before fatigue got me I reckoned I’d worked it out. I saw it so clearly that I thought there was no need to write it down. I put the air-conditioning on low, stripped off and slept in my boxer shorts. It’s a glamorous life.
I woke up at first light and had a cup of instant coffee and the complimentary biscuits for breakfast. I showered and shaved with the tackle I keep in the car and rang Viv Garner, an early riser.
‘Viv, it’s Cliff. I want you to do something for me.’
‘You always do. I have to tell you those coppers at Hurstville didn’t like the story too much.’
‘Doesn’t matter. They hauled me in anyway. I need to know the address of the faculty secretary in the Law School.’
‘Come on, Cliff. I can’t…’
‘You have to. It’s important. The guy I’m looking for has taken up with her but he’s involved in some pretty sticky stuff. I have to talk to him. I won’t let on how I got the address.’
‘Shit. All right. I’ll get it off the computer and ring you back.’
‘Make it quick, Viv and I’m not at home.’ I gave him the motel and room numbers.
‘That’s the Rooftop. What’re you doing there?’
‘Long story.’
‘The police want you?’
‘Possibly. I have to get this sorted first.’
He rang back in a couple of minutes. ‘Gwendolyn Carroll, 13 Sheedy Street, Lane Cove. She’s filling in for the secretary who’s sick. Ah.. she’s got most of a degree herself. Part-timer. She does a bit of research assistanting too. Ambitious.’
‘Busy woman, fitting in blond toy boys as well.’
‘Word is she has a private income of some kind and property. I don’t like her but I sort of respect her. Bear that in mind.’
I said I would and I checked out just as the news theme came on the ABC radio for seven a.m. I resisted the impulse to cruise past my house and headed for Lane Cove. Along the way I stopped for petrol and rang Price at home and on his mobile and got no answer. Looked like I’d have to learn Junie’s number to keep in touch with my client. I rang Danni and she picked up straight away.
‘It’s Hardy, Danni. Are you still in Hunters Hill?’
‘Why?’
‘Look, I know you’ve talked to your father and tried to settle things down.’
‘Yeah. Did you know the cops found my stash at home and want to talk to me?’
‘No. What did Marty say about that?’
‘He said he told them he didn’t know where I was.’
‘OK, well, that shows he’s on your side.’
‘Are you?’
‘I am. I’ve got some stuff on why Jason and Samantha were killed. Maybe. I’m working on it. If it comes out all right I don’t think anyone’s going to worry about your bit of dope.’
‘I told Dad I thought you were OK.’
‘He told me. Thanks. Just keep cool, Danni, wherever you are.’
‘Hunters Hill,’ she said and cut the call.
Going against the traffic flow I made it to Lane Cove in twenty minutes. Gwendolyn Carroll’s house was in a street off River Road in a bushy location where the houses would fetch three quarters of a million or more depending on the view. Hers was one of the more modest ones, maybe struggling to get much over the half million mark, but comfortable enough on a decent sized sloping block with a well-established native garden. The house was a white stucco job with a tile roof and plenty of windows. It looked as if it could do with a bit of work; a creeper of some kind was sneaking up towards the chimney and TV aerial and satellite dish. Something was sprouting in the guttering. Whatever else he was doing, Ramsay wasn’t rolling up his sleeves and getting stuck into his ladyfriends’ gardens.
It was getting close to eight when the garage door rolled up and a white Subaru backed out into the street. I was in a good position to see that the sole occupant was Ms Carroll. Back when I was briefly a university student I tried as hard as I could to keep Fridays clear for surfing and drinking and other activities not related to my studies. I had to hope that Ramsay was doing the same. I waited until the Subaru had left the street and then waited some more in case of last-minute rememberings before getting out of the car and crossing the street. No fancy security here. You opened the gate and walked up the path to the steps that led to an entrance at the side of the house. Classy. I kept on going; the garage roller door was still up and I
took a look inside. Nice car the Mercedes, my accountant has one.
I went to the door and rang the bell. Bare feet slapped on a wooden floor and the door opened. ‘Gidday, Ramsay.’
If I hadn’t been expecting him I wouldn’t have been sure the man I was facing was him. He was wearing white silk pyjamas; his hair was fashionably cut and he was clean-shaven. But he had the same aggressive, chip-on-the-shoulder manner and a slight whine in his voice.
‘What the hell are you doing here, Hardy?’
‘Tess was worried about not hearing from you.’
‘Well, you can tell her I’m all right.’
The screen door was a slider and I slid it. Ramsay stepped back half a pace and made to close the door but I braced myself and held it open. ‘You’ll have to do a bit better than that. We need to talk.’
‘I’ve got nothing to say to a thug like you, and if my slut of a sister…’
I gave the door a hard shove and he reeled back. He was young, tall and well-built but there never seemed to be any real strength in him. He retreated down the passage and I followed him.
‘You’re trespassing.’
I laughed and kept after him. We went through to an old-fashioned kitchen, not unlike mine. I backed him up against a bench.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Tess cares about you. I can’t see why because you’re a miserable bit of work in my book. But I have to talk to you about the Lord George Agency and what you told Regina Kripps.’
From being physically frightened he now seemed to be positively intimidated on a deeper level. The stammer I’d heard from him before when he was stressed broke in painfully. ‘W… what…?’
I backed up a bit in sympathy as he appeared to struggle for breath, for words, for his manhood, but I kept on. ‘You know what I’m talking about, Ramsay — blackmail, drugs, escorts, sex, rich husbands. It’s all connected with a case I’m…’
He gave a roar of terror and rage that froze me for a second. He grabbed a heavy wooden cutting board from the bench and launched it towards me. I tried to turn away and duck, but the solid chunk of wood caught me somewhere near the temple and I felt as though I’d stepped off a long drop into a dark, bottomless pit.
I don’t know how long I was unconscious or how long I stood at the sink, bathing the wound on my head and waiting for the dizziness to clear, but it was long enough for Ramsay to get dressed, go through his stuff and presumably take what he wanted and clear off in his Mercedes. Some of his clothes, a few books and magazines were strewn around in the room he’d occupied but he hadn’t been there as a lodger. The single bed in the room hadn’t been slept in but the double bed in the big bedroom had. A blue silk nightdress was folded on the pillow and Ramsay’s pyjamas were on the floor.
Simply looking about like this brought back the dizziness and I did some more head bathing in the kitchen. I found a packet of Panadol in a cupboard and took three with a glass of water. The headache that had started to throb cooled down and I gave myself a quick check for concussion: I knew who I was, what day it was, where I was and what had happened. I just didn’t like any of it.
My mere mentioning of the Lord George Agency had spooked Ramsay so badly it meant he was aware of the threat they were to him. Did he think I’d talked to them in my search for him and that made him fear they’d be after him? It was possible. I could’ve reassured him on that score if he’d given me a chance. Now he was running scared — of them, of me, of himself. It was a mess. Tess would not be pleased. A needy boy — who’d described him that way? My brain creaked but came up with the answer: Prue Bonham. What would a needy boy do? He wouldn’t go to the university and Gwen Carroll because he knew I’d found out about her. He wouldn’t run to poor Regina who couldn’t offer him anything. Tess had always been his lifeline but I’d queered that pitch for him. I thought of Prue Bonham, the strong woman who had been interested in him and not his body. If I was right she was involved in the deaths of Jason Jorgensen and Samantha Price through her connection with Lord George, but Ramsay wasn’t to know that. My guess was that in his desperation he’d go to her to try to put things right.
I seemed to be bouncing from one woman to another and not one of them having any interest in me or me in them, although I’d had some regretful moments about Tanya. With a ringing head and a dry mouth I went out to my car and contemplated what to do next. I didn’t have enough to appeal to the police for help and they were probably keen to see me for their own reasons anyway. It looked as if I had to hope my guess was right and that Ramsay was in Strathfield. Prue Bonham had increasingly become an unknown quantity. In the end I’d thought she was OK, but that was before I’d heard about blackmail and I’d never liked that. She’d struck me as strong, but was she ruthless? Maybe it was because I was bruised and battered that I got the. 38 in its light shoulder holster out of the glove compartment and put it under the driver’s seat.
The run to Strathfield was slow because of roadworks and heavy Friday traffic heading God knows where for God knows what reason. I felt light-headed and woozy and had to fight to keep my concentration. A danger sign was that I started to find it amusing that I’d lost blood on one side of my head from glass cuts and on the other side from a cutting board. A big four-wheel drive cut in, forcing me to swerve and control a skid. The adrenaline jolted me out of the mad mood and I found myself able to focus again on what I was doing and why.
As I was making a right turn into Henry Street, a car coming the other way, turning left but held up by a pedestrian, momentarily took my attention. It was past before I realised that the registration number had clicked. The car was the gunmetal Saab I’d guessed belonged to Lewis from Lord George and his heavy mate, Stivens. As soon as this hit me I realised that the car behind it was Ramsay’s Mercedes but the driver wasn’t Ramsay.
I made the turn and shocked two other drivers by throwing the Falcon into a U-turn that took me over the gutter, dug a groove in a manicured nature strip and put me in the right direction not more than fifty metres behind the two cars. I checked the time and tried to work out what could have happened. Poor old needy Ramsay must have done as I suspected — run to Prue Bonham, and she’d called in the heavy mob. Well, I knew where she stood now — she was all business.
20
Following cars is hard enough to do at the best of times. Following two is harder because there’s always the possibility that they’re going to diverge and leave you with a decision as to which one to tail. It’s tough, but with a sore head and a raging thirst it becomes even tougher. After a while I was praying they’d stop and give me a chance to get a drink and some more pain-killers but I knew it wasn’t likely. Also, I was out on a limb; I didn’t know for sure that Ramsay was in one of the cars but it seemed likely. I convinced myself of that and, Pollyanna-like, gave thanks for the overcast day. With the headache, a strong Sydney glare would’ve been too much to take.
The Saab and the Merc bowled along at a good pace but it wasn’t hard to keep up. What was hard was anticipating turns they might make, or stops. I couldn’t get too close. Stivens, the body puncher, certainly knew my car and on reflection I decided that he was the driver of the Saab. I’d only had a quick glimpse of him, but the set of the head on the wide shoulders had a familiar look. I risked getting a bit closer to the Mercedes, but I couldn’t tell anything about the driver except that he was male and tall and fair-haired. One of the Lord George escorts?
We’d joined the Hume Highway and were heading south. I had hopes of a stop in Camden but I was harking back to the old days and the Saab and the Mercedes took the bypass. I cursed modern road builders as we turned on to the Razorback Mountain. The Falcon chugged a bit but did what it had to do. There was enough traffic on the road to keep me hiding a few cars back and occasionally I got good cover behind a truck, but I couldn’t lose touch in case they took a turn-off. The longer the drive went on the more likely it became that I’d be spotted. If they’d been professionals they’d have picked up the tail by now. Evidentl
y they weren’t.
Mercifully, they made a stop in Mittagong. The Saab driver was indeed Stivens and he mounted a kind of guard while the other man fuelled them up and bought things at the service shop. I ducked into a milk bar across the road and bought the only pain-killers they stocked — soluble aspirin — and a couple of mid-sized bottles of Coke. When we were kids it was said that an Aspro and a can of coke could get you high. I’d tried it with no result and it wasn’t what I was looking for now. My father and I used to pull my diabetic mother out of her hypoglycaemic episodes with Coca-Cola so I knew the sugar content was high. I needed the energy. I took the tablets dry with a slug from the bottle.
The blond guy was taking his time in the shop and I watched Stivens smoke a cigarette and then reach into the Mercedes and pop the boot lid. He went back, took a look and slammed the lid down. That was enough. I took hold of the. 38 and was almost out of the car when the other man came smartly up, tossed a few things through the open window of the Saab and started the Mercedes. Stivens gestured angrily at him but jumped in the Saab and they were off again before I even reached the street. I swore and got back behind the wheel. For all my dislike of Ramsay, I wasn’t happy about him being dumped in the boot of a car heading towards a few million hectares of bushland. Was he dead or alive? The stakes had risen and there was no way to tell about the odds.
We went through Berrima where I’d spent some time as a guest of Her Majesty not so long back. It hadn’t been too rough, but the place looked a lot better from this side of the walls. Further south I saw a sign and I suddenly knew where we were going and why. The Belangalo State Forest stretched away to the west. It was the place where Ivan Milat had buried the backpackers he’d murdered between 1989 and 1992. There was plenty of room for one more body and if it lay there long enough it was possible it could be taken for another of Milat’s victims. The police were convinced that he, and possibly an accomplice, had killed more people than had come to light.
