The January Zone

by Peter Corris

  ‘My brain’s seized,’ he said. ‘I’m right at the top, did what I wanted to do most and now this has to happen.’

  The paper was the rough stuff of the previous threatening notes. The crude printing was the same also: ‘I HAVE takeN MRS Weiner. I will kill HEr if you do not DO what I SaY. No POlice. I will Telephone at 7 p.m. today.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Trudi said. ‘Have you tried to reach her?’

  January took a gulp of his drink. ‘I haven’t done anything! You’ve been with me the whole time for God’s sake. What can I do?’

  ‘Ring her,’ I said.

  ‘I might get her husband, or what if the police are already involved? I could…’

  ‘Yeah. Give me the numbers. I’ll ring.’

  He clicked a pen and was about to scribble numbers on the envelope the note had been in when I snatched it away. ‘Not on that. Something else.’

  Trudi gave him a slip of paper. ‘That’s home, that’s her city apartment and that’s her office number.’

  ‘What kind of office?’

  ‘It’s a…sort of travel consultancy. They advise business people on travel deals. Small show, just her and two others.’

  I took the paper. ‘You really like to fraternise, don’t you? Back in a minute.’

  The phone sat beside a vase of flowers in front of a mirror. The flowers were faded and drooping and I had to brush some petals aside to use the phone. At the home and apartment numbers I got no answer. A woman answered the office number and told me that Mrs Weiner had gone interstate.

  ‘Are you sure of that?’ I said.

  ‘Why, yes. She telephoned from the airport.’

  ‘This wasn’t a scheduled trip, then?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  I hung up and went back to the table thinking that I’d handled something that already looked bad very badly.

  ‘What?’ January said.

  ‘They say she’s out of town.’ I picked up the note. ‘I’m sorry, Peter, but it looks like there could be something to it.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  They looked at me as if I should have the answers. I didn’t. ‘It’s almost 6.30. We don’t have any breathing space. You’d better do as it says.’

  ‘The women,’ Trudi said. ‘The earlier note said something about the women.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s been watching.’ I read the note through again. ‘It doesn’t say which telephone.’

  ‘Christ, that’s right! I’ve got home, office, Canberra…’

  ‘Ten to one on the office.’ I finished the drink. ‘This is the bomber and the sniper for sure. He’s got local knowledge. Where does she live?’

  ‘Vaucluse. The apartment’s in the city.’

  ‘You’ve gone there with her?’

  January nodded.

  ‘You’ve had company. C’mon, we need a taxi.’

  We got to the office a few minutes before seven. Trudi bustled a late-working staffer out and pulled a tape recorder from a drawer. She hooked it up to January’s personal phone and got ready to route any incoming call to the number. We sat and waited.

  The phone rang and January snatched it up so quickly Trudi hardly had time to activate the tape recorder.

  ‘January.’

  ‘I hate you, Mr January.’ The voice was muffled but not faint. ‘I hate you and by the time I am finished with you everybody in this country will hate you.’

  ‘Where’s Mrs Weiner?’ January’s voice was surprisingly strong and firm. The needle jumped on the recording dial.

  The caller laughed. ‘Mrs Weiner? Your whore, your adultress? She’s here with me. If she’d stayed with her husband she wouldn’t be in such terrible danger now. And believe me, January, she is in terrible danger.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want revenge on behalf of all husbands. For all the women you’ve dirtied…’

  ‘You’re mad!’

  ‘No, I’m not. I advise you not to say things like that to me. I can destroy you by making one telephone call. I can produce evidence of your adultery with Mrs Weiner. If I was to tell the newspapers about it or the men who come to your office, the Party men, what would happen to you and your January zone then?’

  January grimaced at me. I mimed talking to him and moved my hands to suggest drawing out. January nodded. ‘I don’t understand. Are your motives political or…’

  ‘No! Politics is shit! You are shit! The thought of someone like you as the member for this area makes me sick.’

  ‘I haven’t dirtied any wives.’ January was using his sincere voice.

  ‘You have dirtied mine.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s a misunderstanding.’

  Meeting, I mouthed.

  ‘If we could meet…’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Let me talk to Mrs Weiner—Karen.’

  ‘No!’ There was some hysteria in the voice now and I motioned to January to slow things down.

  ‘Tell me what you want. Anything reasonable…’

  ‘I want you to suffer. I’ll call again in 24 hours. No police or I’ll kill her and tell the newspapers and everybody what a piece of shit you are. What a coward, what…’

  ‘Listen to me!’ January shouted. ‘You are sick! You need help! It’s not too late, don’t do this. I can…’

  The line went dead. Trudi stopped the recorder. January sank back in his chair; his body had been rigid and sweat was breaking out under the bandage around his forehead. He put his hand up to wipe it and winced when he touched the injury. ‘Jesus Christ. We’re dealing with a madman. You couldn’t reason with someone like that.’

  ‘You did fine,’ I said. ‘We got a lot.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Trudi said. ‘He didn’t talk any sort of term or anything.’

  ‘We’ve got a voice. He let the handkerchief or whatever he was using slip a bit near the end and we got a clearer sound. He’s a local—he talked about “this area”, as if he was a bloody ratepayer or something. He’s watched your office. He knows the comings and goings. It’s something.’

  ‘For the police, maybe,’ January said. ‘But it cuts the other way—if he can watch us he can see the police.’

  ‘He has to be the bomber.’ Trudi re-wound the tape. ‘That means he’s got nothing to lose. He killed the kid.’

  ‘That’s the bad part,’ I admitted.

  ‘What’s the good part, for Christ sake?’ January had opened his drinks cupboard and taken out a bottle of Scotch.

  I put my finger on the Play button of the recorder. ‘That we’ve got 24 hours. Put that stuff away and let’s get some coffee. We’ve got a hell of a lot to do.’

  23

  TRUDI got the job of copying the tape of the telephone call and trying to locate someone discreet who could advise on accents and speech patterns. The caller had some distinctive quirks of speech, a strange rhythm when he was in full flight. It meant nothing to me but it seemed possible that an identification of accent or background could narrow the field. January was making a list of ‘possibles’—married women with whom he’d been associated who might possibly have psychotic husbands. We looked up from the sheet of paper.

  ‘I can’t think of one.’

  ‘Try,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve got to talk to Hogbin and some others.’

  ‘And the press,’ Trudi said.

  ‘Christ, yes. They’ll be at me soon.’

  ‘You’re an old professional at that, Peter. I saw you at work in America. You can handle it.’

  ‘What’re you going to do?’

  ‘See if I can track Karen Weiner a bit. What’s the address of the city flat?’

  He told me and I wrote it down.

  ‘What does she drive?’

  ‘Yellow Gemini.’

  ‘Where’s the hubby?’

  ‘Could be anywhere.’ January wrote a name on the page.

  ‘See if you can find out.’

  ‘We need Gary,’ Trudi said. ‘When’s he due back, Peter?�
��

  ‘Could be tomorrow.’ He wrote another name.

  ‘I’m off. I’ll stay in touch. You can go to my place to sleep if you like, Trudi.’

  ‘Thanks. What about you?’

  ‘We never sleep. See you.’

  Karen Weiner’s flat wasn’t what I expected. No doorman or security system, no closed-circuit TV. It was in an old building, recently renovated, close to the Darling Harbour development. Four storeys, sandstone blocks, big windows, a bit of last century elegance in the middle of this century vulgarity. The building had been a bank or commercial house of some kind; the upstairs windows were narrow but long and they opened out onto small balconies around which some new ivy was twisting.

  I had the taxi circle the block a few times while I weighed up the situation. A busy working day was coming to an end; parking spaces were starting to appear in the street. Pretty soon they’d fill up with movie-goers and recreational eaters. I got out around the corner and went down a lane behind the flats. From the top floor there’d be a good view of Darling Harbour; from the bottom the view would be of the lane and the yellow Gemini with the parking infringement notices on the windscreen.

  The notices dated from two days before. Parking was allowed in the lane only between 11 pm and 6 am. It told me something but not much. The lane was narrow, flanked by the backs of buildings on both sides. There were doorways and recesses, a few rubbish bins and a skip carrying the debris from some renovation. No dog shit, no lolly wrappers, an area taking pride in itself. The entrance to the flats was adjacent to where the car was parked.

  I tried the heavy door; it was locked but not fitted with anything complicated. A latchkey situation, more olde worlde charm. I used an illegal tool and had the door open inside a minute. Mrs Weiner’s apartment was on the top floor at the back; her door would have given me a lot of trouble if it had been properly locked but it yielded to a push. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. It was a solid door with a peephole, a deadlock, a heavy chain and a bolt. A quick look around the flat told the story: Mrs Weiner had been interrupted while she was having a cigarette and a drink and reading a report on oil futures. She had let someone in; the someone had come into the sitting room and there had been a scuffle. A Persian rug was rucked up and a pot had fallen from a stand, spilling dirt and rubber plant across the polished floor. The someone had taken Mrs Weiner into the bedroom and pulled clothes and shoes from a cupboard. She had resisted; a handmirror and some bottles of perfume and face lotion lay on the floor. A thick, dark stain on the pale grey carpet and some brown smears on a yellow pillow case were dried blood.

  I went into the bathroom but there were no messages in soap on the mirror, no maps traced in blood on the toilet paper. I went back into the living room, trying to think. It was dark outside but lights were on in the flat. That meant the abduction had happened at night. Brilliant, Hardy, I thought. You get better all the time. I went to the window and looked out. A plane roared across, low in the sky and not far away. The view was west—over the dusty ditch where they were building the arcades and casino, over the freeways and the water, towards where Mrs Weiner’s lover’s constituents lived. I guessed that this was as close as she’d care to come to them.

  Everything in the flat was expensive. It was a good bet that there’d be some fine liquor about. I was out of ideas and tempted. I resisted temptation in favour of routine.

  My knock on the door of the other west-facing flat brought a round red face into the few inches between the edge of the door and the jamb. The space was spanned by a heavy chain at about eye level for the man inside. I heard a growl and looked down. A bulldog was thrusting its ugly face through the gap.

  ‘What do you want?’ He was short and probably fat to guess from the shape of his head. He had wild, woolly hair and popped eyes. I showed him my licence folder, quickly.

  ‘My name’s Hardy. I’m a private investigator. I wanted to speak to your neighbour, Mrs Weiner, but she isn’t in. Could you tell me when you last saw her?’

  ‘How did you get up here?’ The dog made a lunge at my leg but I could see it wasn’t going to make it and I stood firm.

  ‘I had a key, Mr…?’

  ‘I’ve told them we need a security door. All kinds of people wandering in and out, it’s crazy.’

  ‘What kinds of people, Mr…’

  ‘Willowsmith, Roger Willowsmith. All kinds and Mrs Weiner’s the big attraction. I suppose I shouldn’t have said that. Is she in trouble?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Willowsmith. When did you last see her?’

  ‘Yesterday or the day before. Back, Winston!’

  Winston came forward, if anything. ‘Are you saying she had unusual visitors?’

  He shrugged. The eyes seemed to protrude further with any movement he made. ‘Perhaps not. Just a lot of them. I’m very quiet myself. I’m nervous too. That’s why I have Winston.’

  ‘I see. So you didn’t see or hear anything unusual in the last few days? I mean to do with Mrs Weiner?’

  ‘No-o.’

  ‘You don’t sound sure, Mr Willowsmith.’

  ‘Well I don’t know whether it was to do with her or not.’

  ‘What? Look, could I come in so we can talk more comfortably?’

  He pulled back and the chain went taut. For a moment I thought he was going to close the door, but the impulse to talk was stronger. ‘Are you crazy? I don’t let anyone in here! No one! You might be a mugger.’ He peered more closely at me. ‘Oh, my God! You’re carrying a gun!’

  ‘Easy,’ I said. ‘I could’ve shot you and Winston by now and bitten through the chain if I’d wanted to. Tell me about the something unusual.’

  ‘There was a man watching the place.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Where was he?’

  ‘Down in the lane. Along a bit from where her car is parked. In one of the doorways.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘Nothing. Just watched. Everyone in the flats uses the door into the lane. I don’t know who he was watching for.’

  Winston growled and strained the chain. ‘Show me where from your window,’ I said.

  ‘Oh no, I won’t. I’ve said all I’m going to say. You go away before I call the police.’

  He closed the door and Winston yelped as it caught his nose before he could withdraw it. The door was too thick for me to hear anything more. So Willowsmith might not have heard Mrs Weiner being forcibly taken away. I went down the stairs to the lane and checked the doorways near the parked Gemini. In the second one I found a greasy bag that had contained chips wedged into a crack in the bricks. The door was dusty and unused. In front of it, sitting on damp, rank smelling concrete, I found two Diet Coke tins. One had a straw tied in a series of knots stuffed down inside it. The other was full to overflowing with urine.

  I breathed out trying to keep the smell at bay. ‘Sammy Weiss pissed here,’ I said.

  24

  I was sagging with fatigue when I got to Glebe. My back hurt when I straightened up after getting the letters from the box. Nothing from Helen and nothing else that mattered. Trudi hadn’t arrived and the place had a smell of stale air and drying out rising damp. I opened a tin of food and a window for the cat who looked a bit thin from hunting and gathering while I’d been gone, and got under a long hot and cold shower. After that I put everything I’d been wearing that was washable in the machine and dumped the rest by the door to be dry cleaned. I felt I was back on my pitch with a lead to follow and I needed a fresh start. I certainly needed fresh socks.

  I phoned January’s office and got Trudi who was still trying to locate a voice expert. She told me that January had gone off to meet his political cohorts.

  ‘You’re not there alone, are you?’

  ‘No. Peter sent Julian over from the pub.’

  ‘Who’s Julian?’

  ‘I don’t know. He plays Rugby Union, he tells me.’

  ‘Rugby Union. Where’s he from?
’

  There was a pause while she interrogated Julian. ‘He’s from Wanganui. He’s a Maori.’

  ‘He’ll do. How’s Peter?’

  ‘Confused,’ she said. ‘I think he really cares for Karen, I know he really cares for himself. He says you’re a professional and the kidnapper is an amateur. He has high hopes of you.’

  ‘That’s nice. Anything else?’

  ‘Not much. Gary’ll be back tomorrow which could be a help. I’ve heard that bloody voice on the tape so many times I think I know it.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I think I’ve heard it for real. I might be imagining it. I’m tired.’

  ‘Come here and sleep on it. Something might occur to you in your sleep.’

  ‘Okay. Can I bring Gunther?’

  ‘Is he afraid of cats?’

  ‘Gunther’s afraid of nothing.’

  ‘He hasn’t met my cat. Sure, bring him. But don’t go to your place. This freak might try to make it a pair.’

  ‘Will you be there?’

  ‘No, I have to talk to Sammy Weiss. Wouldn’t happen to know where he lives, would you?’

  ‘I do. Well, I heard some of the journos talk about it at that office conference. They said he lived at the Beta House—I don’t know what it means.’

  ‘I do. Get some rest, Trude. I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘What about you? You must be bushed.’

  ‘I’m going to drink a gallon of coffee, take some caffeine tablets and brush my teeth. I’ll be okay.’

  ‘How is Weiss involved?’

  I told her quickly what I’d learned and instructed her what to tell and what not to tell January. She told me to be careful. I hung up and put the coffee on; while it perked I got dressed in jeans and a jacket and sneakers; the only thing I wore that I’d had on before was the gun. I drank the coffee scalding hot and took the tablets. The cat ate the whole tin of food and looked at me reproachfully as if it knew that I’d invited a dog into the house.