Salt and Blood

by Peter Corris

  This was dangerous ground after the performance of a few days back but I risked it. ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Lucille and I weren’t getting on. I was drinking too much. Did you have another question?’

  Not bad, I thought. He handled that moment pretty well. I asked some meaningless question, got a reply and then he went back to his writing. I sipped the hot coffee and wished I’d had another drink. The flat was well insulated, double-glazed and there was nothing to be heard except the scratch of Rod’s pen, so the sudden ringing of the phone startled us both.

  ‘Who’s got the number?’ Rod said.

  I considered. ‘Your brother, I guess. And Glen.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk to Warren.’

  I nodded and picked up the phone.

  ‘Cliff? It’s Frank Parker.’

  I’d forgotten that I’d given Frank the number. When I said his name Rod looked at me enquiringly. ‘It’s all right,’ I said.

  Frank sounded puzzled. ‘What’s all right?’

  ‘I’m talking to someone else, Frank. What’s new?’

  ‘I’ve got the name of the detective who arrested Rodney Harkness and interviewed him. He’s retired. I’ve had a word with him and he says he’ll talk to you. I’ll give you the details.’

  ‘Great.’ I pulled out my notebook and a pen and scribbled down the name and address.

  ‘He’s a good bloke,’ Frank said. ‘He retired on a disability pension. Took a bullet in a bank holdup. He seems to remember Harkness pretty clearly so there must be something noteworthy about it.’

  I thanked him and then had a thought. ‘Not wanting to lay too much on you, but do you know anything about a former member of the force named Doug Schirer?’

  Rod was staring at me now and the silence at the other end of the line was heavy. Eventually Frank said, ‘Do I ever. He’s involved, is he?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘That’s bad news. He’s a real bastard, Cliff. Got kicked out for corruption and brutality. No, I think he resigned before he could be kicked out. Then he had something to do with television.’

  ‘That’s him. Do you know what he’s doing now?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘No, I never heard of him until just lately. What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve no idea how it happened but somehow he got a private enquiry licence. He’s a member of your bloody profession, Cliff. That is, nominally.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The word is he’s been a hit man in his time. A pricey one.’

  9

  I figured to spend a few more days making sure Rod was settled in and on the straight and narrow before taking a look at Doug Schirer and Barney Nugent. When I checked with Glen she said she’d established that Lucille Hammond and her daughter hadn’t left Australia around the time specified.

  ‘That’s unless they had false passports, credit cards in another name and such,’ Glen said. ‘Which doesn’t seem likely. Don’t think she’d have known how to go about it. She seems to have been a handful and not very bright.’

  ‘What did she do before she got married?’

  ‘Aerobics instructor—a gym bunny, starving herself and exercising her tits off, literally. Apparently she had a hard time giving birth and suffered a bit of post-natal depression.’

  We were in a coffee bar opposite the computer store where Rod was buying his machine. He’d consulted with Glen about the purchase, listened intently to her advice, but insisted on doing the buying himself.

  ‘A good sign, that,’ Glen had said. ‘Wants to make his own decisions. A lot of recovering drunks become completely dependent. They substitute one addiction for another.’

  ‘And how are you doing?’

  She flapped her hand noncommittally. ‘So-so. Have you told him about me?’

  ‘No. Why would I do that?’

  ‘Never mind. Anyway, I’m waiting to hear back on the bank and credit and car registration enquiries. If they turn up blank then she’s really gone to ground.’

  I told Glen about the possibility of there being money held in trust for Rod from his TV commercial. Glen looked thoughtful. ‘Lucille didn’t have any money of her own as far as I can see. Warren says she made no approaches to him. And there’s the kid to support. Did Rod make this commercial before the break-up?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘Then she must have known about it. It’s strange she didn’t look for support. File for divorce. She’d have walked it in. Got child support, custody, the lot.’

  Rod emerged from the shop and crossed the street looking pleased with himself. He waylaid a waiter and ordered more coffee. ‘An iMac,’ he said as he plonked himself down. ‘As you recommended. Laser printer and a scanner. Plus I’ve put in an order for the software. There’s only one thing.’

  Glen leaned forward. ‘What?’

  Rod grinned. ‘I’ve never used a computer. Wouldn’t have a clue how to fly one.’

  ‘I’ll show you,’ Glen said.

  The computer would be arriving the next day and they made an arrangement to have a training session. Glen went off about her business and Rod said it was time for him to try the surfboard. He was energetic, jumping out of his skin, and I knew enough about rehabilitation to know that it was a dangerous state. Hyper up can lead to hyper down and listening to the siren call of booze or drugs. A good dose of surf exhaustion could be just the ticket. We headed down to the beach, Rod in his new boardies and wetsuit vest, and me in jeans, sneakers and a T-shirt with the Chow Hayes book, a peaked cap, shades, sunblock and two cans of light beer in a plastic bag.

  It had turned into one of those days Sydney can supply at almost any time of the year. The sky was clear and the breeze was light with no bite to it. The water was an intense, sparkling blue and the breaking waves were a laundry detergent seller’s dream. I knew that the water contained concentrations of chemicals unknown in Sir Joseph Banks’ time, and that the air held particles toxic to human tissue. But that was laboratory stuff. To the naked eye, Bondi Beach was perfect.

  ‘South end I think,’ Rod said. ‘Waves look better. More of a challenge.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  We walked along the concourse and down steps to the sand. The place had changed a little in recent times although the stadium erected for the Olympics beach volleyball seemed to have left no scars. A new lifesaver lookout post being built on the concourse was a bit of an eyesore and the post-mounted rubbish bins on the beach were an innovation, probably necessary. The rails that ran around the concourse had rusted out and been removed sometime in the seventies if my memory served. Now they were back. I found a spot, scooped up sand for a backrest and lowered myself. Rod dropped his towel, kicked off his sandals and trotted down to the water with the big board firmly in his grasp. He went in without hesitation, waded to waist deep, straddled the board and started paddling. Paddling a surfboard looks easy but isn’t, and just about anyone who tries for the first time falls off. Again, for a novice, the arm and shoulder muscles start to hurt after fifty metres. Rod Harkness didn’t fall off and he looked as if he could just about take the thing halfway to New Zealand. He reached the breakers very quickly, well before two other surfers who’d started out at about the same time.

  I put on my sunglasses against the glare and squinted. There he was in classic mode, bobbing in the swell, looking back to read the waves with an occasional sidelong glance to monitor the traffic. It made me remember my surfing youth at Maroubra when I’d spent hours in the water risking skin cancer and shark bite and paraplegia, all things that happened to other people. In a way I envied the aging rock stars who flew their helicopters and the middle-aged journalists who went on smoking thirty a day as if it couldn’t happen to them. I knew that it could.

  A decent wave built up behind Rod and he propelled his board forward, caught it at the first strong movement of the water, and stood up. Immediately, he lost balance and fell off. Neatly, though, and he was back up and pad
dling out again before another two waves had passed him. I found myself hoping he’d catch the next one and he did. Whatever wrong move he’d made on the first wave he eliminated, and he rode this one conservatively but with a lot of skill until it carried him to every last metre of its energy. A confidence builder.

  I watched him ride another couple and then turned my attention to the beach. Nothing suspicious in sight. I read a few pages about the old gunman who, to judge by the photographs, spent his whole time, summer and winter, in a suit, collar and tie with hat. Did no work on Bondi Beach. I yawned, cracked a can and drank it slowly. Nice work if you can get it. I read a bit more and then looked up to see Rod ride a long, curling one right into the shallows. He slipped from the board and undid his leg rope. He lifted the board clear and left the water. He waded ashore and raised his fist in a triumphant salute.

  As he was trotting up the sand, a man who was adjusting his balls inside his togs blundered into Rod’s path and caused him to lose balance and drop the board.

  I watched lazily until I saw Rod pick up the board and swing it hard against the man’s back. He went down and I was up and running towards them. The man was big and well-built but quick on his feet. He sprang up and moved aggressively forward, well balanced. Rod jabbed the board hard into his chest and the man went down again. He was a street fighter. He scooped up sand, threw it at Rod’s face and came in low, bullocking. Rod dropped the board and waited for him.

  The question that was skipping in my brain as I raced across the sand, dodging people and trying to keep my balance was, Is this it? I had almost reached the pair as Rod misjudged the force of his opponent’s rush and the level of his head. He took a heavy butt to the mid-section, lost his footing and went down. Then the man made the mistake of swinging a foot at Rod’s head. A barefoot kick won’t hurt much unless delivered by an expert, which this guy wasn’t. Rod was adrenalin-pumped. He took the blow, grabbed the foot and twisted. The man roared in pain and went down on his knees as Rod got quickly to his feet. He drove a knee into the guy’s face, held him by the hair and got into position to deliver a karate chop. I grabbed his forearm and stopped the swing. Rod struggled; he was stronger than me but unbalanced and I held him there long enough.

  ‘Stop it, you bloody idiot,’ I hissed in his face. ‘Pick up that fucking board and let’s get out of here.’

  His eyes were starting from his head and a vein was throbbing in his temple. I bore down on his arm, locking it against his body. He sucked in a breath and the force seemed to go out of him.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ he said.

  I let him go. People had gathered to watch the fight, but at a respectable distance. Rod and I avoided eye contact with them and the man he’d beaten. He was still on his knees with blood dripping from his nose to the sand, but he didn’t seem to be seriously hurt. Rod picked up his board and we moved back up the beach.

  ‘Jeez,’ I heard one of the spectators say, ‘that guy’s got a murderous temper.’

  I collected my things and Rod’s sandals and stuffed them into the bag. Rod was standing and looking down at the sand, breathing hard. I threw his towel at him and he fumbled the catch. He looked diminished and afraid, nothing like the athlete who’d ridden the waves so triumphantly. ‘Let’s go.’

  He looked at me and his eyes had lost their fire and were soft and pleading. I almost felt sorry for him. ‘Did you think it was another serious go at you?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I just lost my block. But you’re supposed to be on my side.’

  I shoved at his shoulder and got him moving. ‘I am,’ I said. ‘Maybe you’d have liked being charged with assault. That’d put you back in Rutherford House faster than you can shit.’

  He plodded across the sand with his shoulders slumped like a schoolboy caught shoplifting and going home to tell his mum. ‘I didn’t take the Valium this morning,’ he said. ‘I felt good and didn’t think I needed it. Not a good idea in the surf anyway.’

  We reached the concourse and I directed him to a shower. He was obedient. He washed the sand from his legs and back. Then he rinsed down the board and the leg rope. He seemed childishly pleased to have these tasks to perform. I sneaked a look back at the beach, where the disturbance caused by the fight seemed to have faded away. Lucky. If there’d been an inspector around or some officious type with a mobile phone …

  When he was dry I gave him his sandals. ‘They never told us what medication you were on.’

  ‘Just Valium.’

  Just Valium, I thought. Great. And without it…? I couldn’t count the number of mood swings I’d seen courtesy of Valium. The comment from the beach hit me again: That guy’s got a murderous temper.

  10

  The computer arrived at ten the next morning and Glen showed up soon after to give Rod his lesson. He hadn’t said a word about the fight on the beach and seemed to have forgotten all about it, perhaps in the excitement of getting the computer. When we had a moment alone as he was unpacking the thing she handed me an envelope.

  ‘Copies of the wife’s letters.’

  I pocketed the envelope. ‘Looked at by whom?’

  She spoke, quoting, ‘Police experts confirmed that they were in the hand of Mrs Lucille Harkness and written in a state of extreme distress.’

  ‘As you’d expect. Have you turned up anything else?’

  ‘Some stuff about her. Bit of a good-time girl, apparently.’

  ‘Okay, here’s something for you.’ I gave her the bullet. ‘Dug out of the upholstery of my car. As I said, I thought you could use your old contacts to find out a bit about it.’

  ‘Why’re you being so shitty?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know. I can feel the chill coming off you.’

  I wanted to tell her what I’d seen on the beach and about the Valium and the misgivings I was starting to entertain about Rod, but I didn’t. I hadn’t the heart. She was smartly turned out again though less formal than last time. Her hair gleamed; her clothes became her; she smelled good, but it was more a matter of the way she moved and the gestures she made. A survivor of a few relationships, I knew the signs. No matter how intelligent and wary, a woman who’s interested in a man gives off certain vibes. The object of her affection may not pick them up but an observer, especially a slightly jealous one, can.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s nothing. I’m off to see this bloke who may possibly have been the shooter and …’

  ‘You didn’t tell me about this.’

  I grabbed my keys. ‘No time. Rod’ll fill you in.’

  Glen put the bullet in the pocket of her pink linen jacket. ‘I’m right. You are shitty,’ she said.

  Douglas A. Schirer, PEA, advertising himself in the Yellow Pages as ‘former NSW Police Service senior detective—3 citations for meritorious action’ plus ‘discreet and hi-tech enquiries’, had an office on the Great Western Highway in Five Dock. Not far to go. But Doug’s ad included his phone number, fax number, mobile number and email address. After getting back from the beach yesterday and seeing Rod off to a late afternoon nap thanks to his Valium, I’d rung the phone numbers and been shunted from one to the other. Then I went to an Internet café and sent Schirer a message suggesting a meeting to discuss a professional matter. He also had a website with his photograph—wavy hair grey at the temples with the regulation copper’s bristly moustache, also with a touch of grey. Hard to judge from a head and shoulders shot, but he seemed to be on the large side; he hailed from the era when there was a height requirement for police. Now I was on my way back to my office to check the state of play generally with my business, but mostly to see if Doug had responded.

  Darlinghurst changes only subtly, a touch here and a touch there. The email addresses and websites have sprouted on every second shop front and I fancied there were a few more fetish clothing stores in recent times. The street people cleared away for the Olympics were back, perhaps in greater numbers. It was said that the safe injecting room had cut down on street sh
ooting-up but I hadn’t been to that end of the Cross lately to find out. St Peters Lane, which my building backs onto, gets a clean-up from time to time but the old look—cardboard boxes, discarded implements, broken plastic milk crates—always creeps back in.

  I went up to the office, checked the answering machine and fax and found nothing important pending. I made a cup of instant coffee and sat down at the computer. While I waited for it to boot up, I examined Lucille Harkness’s letters.

  Rodney

  I can’t take any more. I’m leaving with Rose. Please don’t try to stop me.

  Lucille

  Rodney

  I know you’ve been trying to find me. I told you not to and I mean it.

  Lucille

  Rodney

  Don’t make me hate you. Please. Please. Please.

  L

  Rodney Harkness

  It’s no good. You’ll never understand. I’m sorry but there’s nothing left.

  L

  The script was loopy, almost childlike, and the pressure on the ballpoint pen had varied almost from word to word. The last letter in particular was written in something between script and the printing of individual letters as if the writer was ready to stop at any time. If the police expert said this was evidence of extreme distress I was ready to believe it.

  I folded the letters and put them in a folder with the copy of the contract I’d signed with Glen and the other papers she’d provided. The photographs of Lucille Hammond and Rose Harkness I kept tucked inside my notebook. I turned my attention to the computer and logged on for my email. Along with a routine message from the server, one from the bank about getting online and one from my accountant suggesting that I make an appointment to see him to discuss my GST obligations, there was one from Schirer sent in the early hours of the morning:

  Hardy

  Heard of you. I’ll be in the office for half an hour around 1 pm today.

  The man worked long hours. I tapped out a reply that I’d be there, ignored the other messages and logged off. I had some time to kill so I looked up the document from Dr Jerry Weir, the psychiatrist. The address was a clinic in Mosman. I read recently that the mean price for a house in the suburb was now over a million dollars. Good place to do business. I rang the number and asked to be put through to Dr Weir.