Salt and Blood

by Peter Corris

  ‘What is it concerning?’ the receptionist asked.

  ‘A patient.’

  ‘Are you a practitioner?’

  Sure, I thought. ‘A consultant.’

  A short pause and then a cool female voice came on the line. ‘This is Jerry Weir. Who am I speaking to?’

  I tried to keep the unjustified surprise out of my voice. ‘My name’s Hardy, Dr Weir. I’m a private investigator. I understand you gave an opinion recently regarding a Mr Rodney Harkness.’

  I don’t know whether or not I controlled my surprise but she certainly didn’t. ‘Rodney? Yes, I did. Why, what’s happened to him?’

  Rodney?

  ‘Do you expect something to happen?’

  ‘Mr … Hardy, was it? I don’t think I can discuss a case over the telephone.’

  ‘That’s right. Could we meet?’

  ‘I don’t know. This is most unusual.’

  ‘So’s Rodney Harkness. It’s important that I talk to you.’

  ‘There’s very little I can say.’

  That wasn’t what she meant at all. She just needed another gentle push. ‘A number of disturbing things have happened, doctor. I’d greatly value your opinion on some of the things that’ve been said and done regarding Mr Harkness.’

  ‘That’s very shrewdly put, Mr Hardy. All right, I suppose I could see you. When do you suggest?’

  I told her I had an appointment in the early part of the afternoon and suggested that I come to Mosman around 4 p.m.

  The cool voice was amused. ‘Oh, God no. I’ve got appointments myself until 6.30. Shall we say 7.45?’

  Douglas A. Schirer’s set-up, on the second floor in a modern office complex, bore very little resemblance to mine. These days I at least have my name and business stencilled on the door, replacing the filing card I used to have tacked there. But Schirer had gone the whole hog, with an opaque glass pane in the door carrying his name and occupation in gold lettering. Inside was a small reception area with a desk and receptionist. At my place you open the door and you’ve got me. The receptionist was a young, dark-haired woman who was busy at a word processor when I arrived. She seemed to be good at it and it held, or rather divided, her attention.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a moment, sir,’ she said, her hands still dancing over the keys.

  ‘Carry on.’

  She did, looked satisfied, and then looked up. ‘Mr Hardy?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Go in, please. Mr Schirer is expecting you.’

  I’ll admit I was impressed. The young woman knew her business and there was no pretentious buzzing or announcing or offering of coffee. I knocked on the door to the left of her desk and went in.

  The website photograph had flattered Schirer. He was florid and quite a few kilos overweight. If anything there was less grey in his hair and moustache than the photograph had showed, which seemed to point to vanity or concern about getting older. His handshake was a touch stronger than it needed to be.

  ‘Glad to meet you,’ he said, waving a hand at a chair and sinking back into the one behind his desk. ‘Have a seat. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  The office was well appointed with serviceable furniture—filing cabinets, three solid chairs, two well-stocked bookshelves and a large-screen television with VCR. Decent carpet. Schirer’s desk held a computer and assorted papers, magazines and what looked like company reports.

  ‘It’s a matter of who,’ I said. ‘Rodney Harkness to be precise.’

  I watched closely for his reaction to the name.

  ‘Jesus Christ. That’s a blast from the past.’

  Was the surprise genuine? I couldn’t tell. Police detectives, some of them, get good at acting from interviewing cunning suspects and being grilled in court. Schirer could easily be one of those.

  ‘You remember him, then?’

  ‘Sure. Poor bugger. Bloody good actor but he got on the piss and went nuts. I heard he was put away.’

  ‘He’s out now.’

  ‘Is he? Good on him.’ He was in his shirtsleeves with his tie loosened. He seemed relaxed.

  ‘No hard feelings, then?’

  He spread his hands. ‘What? About that fight? Naw, he licked me fair and square. Mind you, I was probably drunker than him.’

  It was my turn to conceal surprise. I nodded my acceptance of what he said and went on as if following the same train of thought. ‘Mr Harkness seems to think there could be some money for him from television commercial residuals.’

  Schirer shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know. I got right out of that cunt of a business.’

  I felt I wasn’t getting anywhere and couldn’t get a good handle on Schirer. I decided to backtrack and try to catch him off guard. ‘Tell me about the fight.’

  ‘What I’ll tell you is that if you’re doing anything with Rod you’d better watch yourself. That guy’s got a temper like you wouldn’t believe and the least thing can set him off.’

  ‘Least thing? I thought there was a fair bit of money involved.’

  ‘Well, there might’ve been but, hey, I was doing all right at the time from my other irons in the fire. Anyway, it wasn’t the money that set him off.’

  Slippery stuff. Rod had said Schirer was on the skids. I wondered which of them was lying. ‘What, then?’

  ‘Shit, it was dumb of me I know, but we were having this … discussion about the nature of our contractual relationship and I got a bit annoyed and made some remark about it being only a bloody commercial, not real acting. He blew up and it was on. Another weird thing is this, I saw Rod some time after and he seemed to have forgotten all about the stoush. I said something and he acted like he didn’t know what I was talking about. I wasn’t surprised when I heard he was in the nuthouse.’

  ‘Or distressed.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘Not really. I’ve been through too much myself to worry about what happens to other people. I’m sorry, I’m afraid I have to go.’

  He reached into a drawer in his desk and took out a bottle of pills and a small V-shaped plastic container of liquid.

  ‘What’s that, if you don’t mind me asking.’

  ‘Medication for glaucoma, mate. I’m going fucking blind. See what I mean about not giving a shit about other people?’

  PART 2

  11

  I had time to kill before my meeting with Dr Weir so I drove to Wesley Scott’s gym in Leichhardt. I keep a pair of shorts, a T-shirt and some sneakers in the car with a threadbare towel for just such spur-of-the-moment decisions. I’d been missing sessions since starting on the Harkness case and it doesn’t take long to lose the edge. I did a 15 stint on the treadmill and then went through my routines on the machines and free weights—nothing too taxing. I was back on the treadmill for a warm down when Wesley approached, interrupting my train of thought about Rodney Harkness.

  ‘You’re bludging, Cliff,’ Wesley said. ‘You should put another couple of plates on those machines.’

  Wesley is a former champion body builder who works out himself before the mere mortals arrive. I once caught him at it, working with the full load of plates on a machine where I go less than halfway down the stack. I had the treadmill on 6 with an incline of 3.5, taking it easy.

  ‘Don’t want to bulk up,’ I said.

  ‘Huh. Haven’t seen you for a bit. Busy?’

  ‘Yes and no. I’ve got a babysitting job, but the baby’s proving a bit of a handful. Have you ever heard of anyone with a hair-trigger temper who explodes into violence and then seems to forget he’s done it?’

  Wesley shook his shaven, gleaming head and smiled. His skin is the colour of dark chocolate and his teeth are as white as a brand new golf ball.

  ‘Roid rage?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sounds dangerous. Big guy?’

  ‘Big enough.’

  ‘Pent-up aggression?’

  ‘Hard to say.’

  ‘Bring him around. Let him work it off with the weights.’

&n
bsp; ‘What if he throws one at somebody?’

  ‘I’d keep an eye on him. He might cock it, but he wouldn’t throw it.’

  If a million bucks is the mean price in Mosman Dr Weir must’ve paid well above that because there was nothing average about her house. Given the elevation she’d have a view out over Middle Harbour and the flotilla of boats. Probably a glimpse of Balmoral Beach as well, except it was too dark now to tell. The land would have gone a bit above the quarter acre and a bit under half. It was sloping and irregularly shaped, allowing the big brick house to settle in nicely among the trees and shrubs and lawn behind high sandstone walls.

  I was early but I didn’t care. I parked outside behind a grey Audi, opened the gate and walked up the cement path to the house. Nothing pretentious; triple-fronted, just twenty or so rooms with a wide verandah, bay windows, slate roof, a bit of ivy here and there. Maybe Dr Weir was an earth mother type with a dozen kids.

  I approached what looked like the front door on the left side of the house and saw a door away to my right open and a man come out. He walked briskly down the path and out. The Audi started up and purred away. A well-heeled patient.

  I pressed the buzzer and waited. After a minute or so a light came on overhead and I saw movement behind the peephole. The telephone voice sounded close to my shoulder.

  ‘Mr Hardy?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The door opened and a woman stood framed against the light behind her. She was tall and slender, wearing loose dark trousers and a cream silk shirt. Medium heels. A thin gold chain. Trained observer.

  ‘Won’t you come in.’

  I went in and got a closer look at her. Thirty-something, maybe more. Weir isn’t an Irish name as far as I know, but she was black Irish for sure—dark eyes, blue-black hair and that dense white skin that doesn’t tan, doesn’t freckle, doesn’t wrinkle, doesn’t do anything but stay the way it is. Married name, then, but no wedding ring. ‘You’re a fraction early. My last patient just left.’

  ‘I saw him. Sorry. A bad habit of mine.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’ She gestured for me to follow her and we went down a passage past a couple of closed doors to a big space that was part kitchen, part living room, part solarium. ‘I’d say it was a habit that allowed you to catch people off guard as you have me. I was going to have a quick drink before you came. Now you’re here will you join me? Just white wine.’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  She moved to the fridge on her medium heels and managed to make it look like a series of dance steps. She took a bottle, nudged the door shut with her knee and used the thumb and two fingers of her other hand to fork two large wine glasses off a shelf. She tilted her head and I joined her near the big window where there was a glass-topped table and some cane chairs. She flopped down into a chair keeping the bottle and glasses steady, lowered them to the table pulled the cork out with long, strong fingers. Poured.

  ‘Cheers.’

  I nodded and drank some wine. Getting on for eight o’clock and first drink of the day. Good going. She took a long pull on her glass and let out a sigh.

  ‘Hard day?’

  ‘They’re all hard. There’s so many troubled people about and so much to trouble them. I suppose you find that in your profession.’

  I wasn’t used to high-power professionals admitting me to their company and my instinctive reaction was to disclaim membership, but she seemed to mean it so I took it at face value. ‘I wouldn’t deal with nearly as many as you, doctor, and most of them probably aren’t as troubled as your people. A few of them maybe more so.’

  ‘Where would you put Rodney Harkness?’

  I’d expected to be the one asking questions and this threw me slightly. Also the look on her face when she said the name. The old Rod’s got what it takes, I thought. ‘He’s functioning okay,’ I said. ‘But he’s carrying a lot of baggage.’

  She nodded. ‘I’m sure that’s true. But what are you hoping to get from me? You must know that everything I’ve learned about him is strictly and utterly confidential.’

  I drank some more of the good white and pondered that while I looked at her. That wasn’t hard to do. She was just the other side of beautiful, with a squarish jaw and a thin upper lip that made her all the better looking. Impossible to read anything in those dark eyes and her composed body language. I remembered how she’d used his first name on the phone when her guard was down.

  ‘Confidentiality applies pretty much the same way in my game,’ I said. ‘Without all the legal propping of course. What if I relax it a bit and tell you that by helping me you might save his life. He’s been shot at once already.’ I held up my thumb and forefinger a centimetre apart. ‘Missed by about this much.’

  She paused the glass on the way to her mouth and her hand shook a fraction before she got back in control. ‘Jesus! Do you mean that?’

  ‘You could take a look at my car outside. You’d find fragments of glass from the broken windshield and a bullet hole in the back seat. This happened within minutes of my driving him away from Rutherford House.’

  ‘Did you report this to the police?’

  I shook my head,

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There’s wheels within wheels here, doctor. We’ve been hired by Rod’s brother and mother to investigate various aspects of his … circumstances. Sorry if that sounds vague. I mean, among other things, what’s happened to his wife and child. I was supposed to be supportive in the early stages. Not to mince matters, to keep him away from alcohol and encourage healthy activity. It’s turned into more of a protective role.’

  She finished her wine and reached for the bottle. It’s not everyone who finishes a glass before me. I felt virtuous, considered sitting pat, but tossed mine off as well and accepted a refill. When we were charged up again she leaned back in her chair with something of her composure restored.

  ‘You said we.’

  ‘I’m working with another detective. A woman.’

  ‘Ah. Are you aware of Rodney Harkness’s attractiveness to women?’

  ‘I’m beginning to be.’

  ‘Are you now? Interesting. I could read something into your response. That … quality of his has been the source of a great deal of his trouble, I can tell you that. I’m only confirming what you already know. I take what you say seriously, Mr Hardy, but professionally I have to be very careful. I can perhaps confirm things as I say, I can’t … divulge, if you see the distinction.’

  ‘I think I do. Okay. We want to find out who was behind getting Harkness released. He doesn’t know; his family doesn’t know. You were recruited for your professional assessment, which was instrumental. Can you tell me by who, or is it whom?’

  She smiled and I got a flash of arctic white choppers that, in the right circumstances, could be a powerful sexual signal. ‘Absolutely not. I wouldn’t tell you if I could and, as it happens, I don’t know. Of course I asked, but the solicitors who hired me said they’d been briefed by others who wouldn’t reveal who their clients were. I understand there was a civil liberties element. I suspect you’d end up gaga trying to follow that trail.’

  ‘Didn’t that concern you?’

  She twisted the glass in those long fingers. ‘I’ll be frank. I’m writing a book about … certain mental disturbances. When this case was presented to me I saw it as an opportunity. I can’t say any more than that.’

  I leaned forward. ‘You can’t say what the book’s about?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll try for more confirmation. I’ve been told that Rodney was involved in a violent incident back before he was committed. The other person involved, who Rodney beat incidentally and he’s no cream puff, said Rodney later seemed to have no memory of it at all. I’ve seen something similar myself—a violent rage, an excessive use of force, and apparently no recollection of it later. Does this sound familiar?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you recommended that he be released.’

>   ‘Mm.’

  ‘What’s wrong with this man, Dr Weir?’

  She cracked a bit then. She set her glass down on the table and let her head fall forward. The dark curtain of hair swung down over her face and she spoke as if through a veil of pain.

  ‘I can’t tell you. If you find out some other way I can confirm it. It’s dreadful, but I just can’t tell you.’

  ‘I think you should. At least … tell me something useful.’

  ‘He’s not going to overcome his problems locked away like that. Behaviourism won’t work, that’s for certain.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘I’m a Gestalt therapist, Mr Hardy. Do you know what that is?’

  ‘No.’

  She gave me a short lecture on various therapies—Gestalt, behaviourist, Jungian and Freudian—only some of which I understood. What I got out of it was that she believed in treating the whole person in his or her social, professional, recreational, intellectual, whatever, context. No dream interpretation, no Oedipal stuff. ‘You’ve never been in therapy, Mr Hardy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No. You don’t look like a man with uncertainties.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. Does it work?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘In Rodney’s case?’

  ‘I believe it would, but he resisted any suggestion that he go into therapy with me.’

  ‘Resisted how?’

  ‘Emphatically, defensively but emphatically.’

  ‘I wish you could tell me more, Dr Weir.’

  She gave me a look I couldn’t interpret. ‘So do I.’

  I wanted to voice the suspicion that her reticence was partly due to personal concerns as well as professional, but I thought better of it. ‘You’re being enigmatic.’

  She smiled, back in control again. ‘Wouldn’t you say that’s appropriate to the human condition? It’s very painful for him, but I just can’t tell you.’