She sets off early the next morning, stopping on Liverpool Road to pick up a roll and coffee at a café, then continues to Strathfield South, where the parklands along the Cooks River form a boundary with Belfield, and finds Dogwood Avenue. She drives slowly, spotting the empty park bench beneath a dense canopy of mature trees. Beyond, the open field sloping down to the river is empty apart from a jogger in a purple tracksuit and a man walking a dog. She continues around the block, getting her bearings, then returns to the street that borders the park and finds a space from which she has a clear view of the bench, about a hundred metres away. It is 7:23. She lowers herself in her seat and eats her roll, drinks her coffee, and waits.
The sun glistens on tile roofs, a plane out of Mascot draws a white line across the pale blue sky, people come and go from the small villas along the street. A woman pushing a baby stroller, an old man on an electric buggy.
At a quarter to ten Kelly sees the jogger in the purple tracksuit again, at the far end of the street. He is wearing a cap on his head and dark glasses and is walking slowly towards her, glancing into each parked car he passes. Kelly’s heart gives a jump.
He stops at a white van and as he circles it Kelly quickly opens her door and runs, crouching, into the drive of the nearest house. She slips in behind a dense privet bush and looks around, praying no one’s seen her from the houses.
After a few minutes she catches a glimpse of purple through the hedge, a flash of white trainers. She holds her breath as they stop at her car for a moment, then continue.
She stays where she is, motionless until her aching knees force her to straighten cautiously, just in time to see the jogger returning, glancing this way and that. She ducks down again, her mind filled with the image she has just seen, of a white bandage visible beneath the left lens of the dark glasses.
When he has passed she edges forward and sees that he has crossed to the park side of the street, where he is checking a couple more cars. Then he puts a phone to his ear and moves on towards the bench. Kelly slips back into her car again. Two minutes later a green Barina drives slowly past and stops beside him.
A woman gets out, long blonde hair, dark glasses, shoulder bag. Karen Schaefer had a brown bob, but the build is the same. She goes over to the bench and sits down, while the jogger gets behind the wheel of the car.
Ten minutes pass, twenty. The woman gets to her feet and begins to pace, peering up and down the street. It’s the same posture, Kelly thinks, that same inquisitive forward stoop. The recognition makes her heart pound.
Thirty minutes, forty, then the woman jumps up and strides to the Barina. She says a few words through the window and gets in. Kelly watches the brake lights come on, the car pull out and move away. She starts her car and waits until the other reaches the end of the street and turns out of sight, then she follows.
It’s not easy. Even with relatively light traffic it’s a series of hair-raising choices between getting too close and losing it. The Barina makes a right at traffic lights up ahead. Kelly follows and is blocked on the intersection by oncoming cars. By the time she makes the turn there’s no sign of a green car. She puts her foot down and almost misses the glimpse of green on a side street to her left. She pulls in, waits for traffic to pass and does a U-turn, back to the side street. Again no sign of the green car until she’s right on top of it, parked in the narrow driveway of a small bungalow. Kelly continues past and pulls in fifty metres on.
She wonders what to do now. She’s toying with her phone when a figure appears at the gate of the bungalow, hauling a garbage bin out onto the nature strip. It’s Craig Schaefer, sure enough. Still wearing his dark glasses, but dressed now in jeans and a lightweight jacket. He turns back to the house and a moment later a taxi turns into the street and pulls up outside. Now Craig and Karen, blonde wig abandoned, emerge rolling two large suitcases. The cab driver lifts them into the boot and sets off, past Kelly lying flat across the front seats, and disappears over the crest of the hill.
It’s a little easier to follow the white cab with the distinctive sign on its roof as they thread their way through suburban streets south and east, then following signs to the airport. She tails them up the departures ramp of the international terminal and drives past as they get out of the cab. She has to go some way before she finds a parking spot. By the time she gets out the cab is moving off and the Schaefers have disappeared inside the terminal. The concourse is packed. Kelly works her way through the crowd, searching, but finds no sign of them. After ten minutes she gives up and returns to her car.
She goes back to the Strathfield bungalow. The street is quiet, no one around. She parks outside and walks quickly in, past the green Barina, to the small garden at the rear. She looks through the kitchen window and sees clean benchtops, vacant shelves. Through another window she sees a bed neatly made up, bedside tables bare.
Kelly walks back out to her car. Notices the bin standing nearby. She opens the lid and there’s a plump black plastic bag inside. She hauls it out, throws it into the back of her car and drives away.
She comes to the car park of a small supermarket and pulls in to check the garbage bag. She’s disappointed—no bank statements, emails, photographs. Just an empty milk carton, a half-finished tub of butter, a browning banana and a few other perishables. Some of the items are instructive, though. A bottle of barbecue sauce, a jar of peanut butter—things that you wouldn’t need to throw out if you were planning to return any time soon. And then, at the bottom of the sticky interior, a business card for Luc’s World Travel in Strathfield. The name ‘Lexie’ written on the back.
The shop has the logo of a Greek flag above a window filled with bright posters. Kelly goes in and asks the woman working a computer at a desk if Lexie is around.
‘That’s me. How can I help?’
Kelly shows her the business card. ‘Karen told me about you—Karen Schaefer?’
‘Mrs Schaefer, yes, of course.’ Lexie checks her watch. ‘She should be at the airport now.’
‘That’s right, I saw them off. It was a bit of a rush. Karen was going to give me the details of where they’re staying before they left but we forgot. I wondered if you could help me, you know, a telephone number, email address?’
‘Of the Grand? Sure.’ She taps on her computer and reads off a phone number.
Kelly repeats it as she writes it down. ‘Six-seven-eight, is that the country code?’
‘Of Vanuatu, yes.’
‘And how long are they there, if I need to reach them?’
‘Just the one night. After that, when they meet their friends for the cruise, I’ve no idea. They arranged that themselves. Have you got Karen’s mobile?’
‘Um, oh hell, no.’
More tapping. ‘There we go.’
‘Oh, thank you so much.’
‘How about an Athens package?’
‘Sorry?’
‘We’ve got a great deal on at the moment.’
‘Oh, I wish. Thanks so much for your help, Lexie.’
‘No worries.’
When she gets back to her car, Kelly murmurs to herself, ‘The Grand Hotel and Casino, Port Vila.’ She gets on the phone to Brad.
60
On the phone Amber sounds brisk, businesslike. ‘Harry, can you come down to Sydney? There’s a member of our family you should meet.’
‘I’m pretty busy at the moment, Amber.’
‘It’s important, Harry. You’ll find it worthwhile, I promise.’
‘Who is it?’
‘My uncle.’
‘Konrad?’
‘No, my other uncle, his brother Bernard. There were three brothers—my father Martin, then Bernard, and then Konrad. When I told Bernard about you he said that it was time he met you. I think he can help.’
Harry checks his diary. ‘Okay. Nine o’clock tomorrow. Where?’
‘Sydney University. I’ll meet you at the Parramatta Road footbridge.’
Harry googles Bernard Nordlund. He’s a pr
ofessor of economic history at the University of Sydney; the pictures show a balding and bespectacled man, chubby face, rosy cheeks, at various cultural events in the city, a patron of the Art Gallery of New South Wales and Opera Australia.
Amber is standing in the middle of the footbridge, hands on the rail, looking as if she might be about to leap down into the traffic roaring below. Harry sees the breeze catch her hair and press the light fabric of her dress against her body, her fragile sex appeal.
‘Hi.’
‘Hello, Harry.’ A wide smile. ‘It’s great you could make it.’ She takes his arm as they walk towards the green lawns of the campus. ‘Bernard’s the exception in the family. He doesn’t own any companies, gives his money away to causes that interest him, and devotes himself to his studies. I don’t think he even owns a car. He has a lovely art deco flat at Potts Point and spends his holidays poking around in old ruins.’
They reach the entrance to the quadrangle and make their way through into the cloisters.
‘I always feel intimidated coming here,’ Amber says. ‘Because I never made it to university, I suppose. Bernard says I have a natural unspoilt mind, open to the world.’ A half smile. ‘Of course he’s just trying to be kind.’
They reach the dark entrance to a staircase and climb a couple of floors, then along a short corridor lit by a window at the end overlooking a narrow courtyard in which young people are sitting, drinking coffee in the sun. They come to a door labelled Prof. Nordlund. Amber knocks and opens the door.
A figure seated at a desk in front of the window turns and gets to his feet. He hugs Amber and shakes Harry’s hand.
‘It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Harry. I followed your father’s career with great interest,’ Bernard says, beaming. ‘I don’t think we ever met, but I remember attending his honorary doctorate award ceremony here at the university. His speech was inspiring. And Amber tells me you’re a detective.’
‘Harry’s hunting for the Ash Island murderers at Newcastle.’
‘Ah! Fascinating. I’ve had occasion to study a few murderers in my time—Mengistu Mariam, Leopold the Second, Mao Zedong. But I find it dispiriting. In real life evil is as depressingly banal as Arendt believed. Have you come down from Newcastle this morning? You must be ready for a coffee. Look at my new machine, Amber. Isn’t it smart? You put these little capsules in. My students find it only too agreeable—they won’t leave me in peace.’
While Amber makes the coffee Harry looks around the cramped room, enclosed by shelves packed tight with books. He notices a small print in one corner of a man in traditional Chinese costume seated on a throne. Amber says, ‘Bernard is a China specialist.’
‘Oh yes?’ Harry says. ‘Your brother Konrad must find that useful. I understand he has business interests over there.’
‘No, no! I’m no use to him at all,’ Bernard says. ‘My interests are strictly historical. That venerable gentleman, for instance…’ But Amber interrupts, bringing over coffee cups.
‘Come on, let’s sit down. About Konrad, Bernard,’ she prompts.
‘Ah.’ He gives a regretful frown. ‘I don’t like being disloyal to my family, Harry, but we don’t always see eye to eye. They have all been great capitalists—my brothers, our father, his father—the kind of ruthless entrepreneurs upon which our country depends, I suppose, and without which parasites like me would not have the time for idle speculation. But we could never get beyond that question—why? Why make great fortunes? What was the point? For them, the purpose was the game itself, the accumulation, the success. My brother Martin, Amber’s father, acknowledged that there had to be a social purpose to his gains, and he did a number of useful things, especially in the region around Kramfors. But Konrad has no interest in that. He is a ruthless businessman first and last. In my cups I might call him a predator.’
‘The judge, Bernard,’ Amber prompts again. ‘What you told me.’
‘Yes, yes. Amber explained about your desire to discover the truth about your parents’ deaths and your poor wife’s injury, and your consequent interest in their staying at Kramfors that night. I mentioned to her something that struck me at the time, and she felt I should tell you. It’s this: about a month before the tragedy happened, I had lunch with Konrad. I was trying—without much success—to persuade him his company should sponsor a symposium I was organising, when his phone rang. He answered it and became visibly agitated. At one point he said something like, “Well he has to be stopped then.” When he finished I said, “Bad news?” and he replied angrily, “That bloody judge…” before he pulled himself up and changed the subject. Well, I had no idea what he meant and he wouldn’t elaborate. But a month or so later when I heard the news, the words came back to me, and I had a terrible feeling. I couldn’t help asking myself, was Danny Belltree that judge?’
Harry says, ‘You believe your brother was responsible for my parents’ deaths?’
‘Oh…’ Bernard winces. ‘No, I couldn’t possibly say that. He might not have been referring to your father at all. But clearly someone—perhaps the person Konrad was speaking to—felt that drastic action needed to be taken to prevent a judge doing something. Might that have been your father? It’s worried me a great deal since then.’
‘Why would Konrad want them dead?’
‘Well, I know Amber has her theories, but I have no idea. I suppose judges must upset a lot of people when they have to make decisions that touch on their lives. And I know only too well what Konrad’s like when someone tries to block his plans.’
There’s something almost gleeful in this, and he reminds Harry of a mischievous schoolboy, standing at the back of the mob, urging the others on to a fight. He wonders why he’s doing it.
‘You don’t look convinced,’ Amber says as they walk back across the quad.
Harry shakes his head.
‘Okay, let’s find a seat and talk.’
When they’re settled she says, ‘It’s the missing link, isn’t it? The proof that Konrad had prior knowledge of your parents’ visit to Kramfors.’
‘It’s not proof of anything, Amber. And the thing that worries me most is your attitude.’
‘My attitude! What the hell do you mean?’
‘You obviously hate your uncle. Every time you mention his name you curl your lip. It prejudices everything you say. It’s some kind of family quarrel, and it makes it impossible for me to get a balanced picture.’
‘Some kind of family quarrel!’ she explodes. ‘A balanced picture!’
She pushes her face forward across the table to Harry and says intently, jaw stiff, ‘On the ninth of August 2002 my father flew his plane back to Kramfors from Sydney and disappeared somewhere in the forest near Cackleberry Mountain.’
‘Yes, I…’
‘No, listen. For three weeks they sent out search parties, helicopters. People came up with different theories—had he diverted north of the mountain, or south? Had he managed to land safely somewhere miles away from the search zone—maybe he was lying trapped somewhere out of radio contact? Try to imagine it, can you? I was fifteen, my mother had died three years before, and I was hearing all these stories about how my dad was either dead or dying alone, in agony, at the bottom of some hidden gully.
‘When they finally abandoned the search, Konrad came to comfort me. He gave me a hug, and he stroked my hair, and then he raped me. It happened a number of times.’
She pauses, trembling. Harry says, ‘Did you—’
‘I was in shock. I didn’t tell anyone. Then I discovered I was pregnant. I kept it a secret until Christmas, and then they sent me to Switzerland. Two years later I came back with Dylan.’
Amber sits back, calm now. ‘So yes. Ten out of ten for observation. I hate Konrad. I hate everything about him. I know him, and I know that if anyone was capable of the cold-blooded murder of your family it was him.’
They’re silent. Then Harry says, ‘I’m sorry. That’s a terrible story.’
‘You must hear terrib
le stories all the time. The point is, what are we going to do about it? You know people in the media, don’t you? Investigative reporters in newspapers or on TV?’
‘Why?’
‘I want to go public. I want to get someone to take up the story and tell the world the truth. I can’t do it on my own, that would be just another wealthy family breakdown story. But with your parents’ murder it becomes something much bigger and more serious.’
He shakes his head. ‘No, Amber. You’ve given me some circumstantial detail, that’s all. Nothing concrete to link Konrad to my parents’ deaths. No one will touch it. If we tried to go public now he’d call in a heap of lawyers and smother it.’
‘But making it public will bring out the evidence, Harry! We can begin with the rape; then what Konrad is doing to the farmers in the Hunter Valley and wants to do to Kramfors; then your father’s involvement with the native title owners. A step at a time. It’s a great story, Harry! Konrad won’t be able to stop it. Everything will come out.’
‘Everything? Does Dylan know that Konrad is his father?’
‘No, but he’s got to know sooner or later. He’s old enough to understand now.’
‘You’d use him to get Konrad?’
She flushes. Raises her fists for a second before she collects herself. ‘I want justice, Harry,’ she hisses. ‘I thought that’s what you wanted too.’
‘I want to find the truth, not get tangled up in libel suits.’
She stands abruptly, unable to suppress her anger. ‘Well, good luck with that. I know what the truth is, and I’m going to do something about it.’
Harry watches her stalk off towards the street, then gets to his feet and follows. He sees her in the distance, hurrying away. Shrugs and turns and hails a cab to Central Station.
As the train heads through the northern suburbs he gets a call from Kelly.
‘Harry, I’ve got a lead on Karen Schaefer.’
He takes out his notebook and jots down names as she tells him about the meeting in the park, the Strathfield house and the flight to Vanuatu.
Ash Island Page 19
