Salt and Blood

by Peter Corris

  ‘We can’t talk here in the middle of the road. I’m staying at a flat close by. Follow me there and we can discuss it.’

  ‘D’you know where she is?’

  I turned away and said over my shoulder, ‘No, but I’m as keen to find her as you are. Keener.’

  I drove to the flat with the Commodore close behind. No sign of the Pajero. Sherrin parked in the street and followed me up the stairs. The splintered door didn’t escape his notice.

  ‘What’s this?’

  I didn’t answer. I was weary and needed a piss and a drink. We went inside. I switched on the light and the first thing Sherrin took in was the bloodstain.

  ‘Jesus, Hardy. What the fuck’s been happening? Has Glen been here?’

  In the light I could see that he was florid and overweight with puffy features. He still had the tough cop manner, but not the presence to go with it.

  ‘Yes. Give me a minute and I’ll tell you about it. First I have to have a piss. D’you want a drink?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Because one’s all I’ve got. Hang on.’

  I emptied my bladder, washed my hands and face and came back into the living room. Sherrin was examining the bloodstain.

  ‘Whose is this? Not Glen’s?’

  ‘A junkie who broke in here.’

  A nod. ‘The door.’

  ‘No. The junkie reckoned the bloke who did that looked like a cop.’

  ‘What game are you playing, Hardy?’

  I went to the kitchen and put the rest of the whisky in a glass and added water. I went back, invited him to sit down and started talking.

  I finished my explanation and the drink simultaneously. Sherrin had listened without interrupting.

  ‘Sure you’ve got nothing else to drink?’

  ‘Not a drop. Coffee.’

  He loosened his tie. ‘Maybe later. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a bigger cock-up.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree.’

  ‘You’re inclined to agree. Fuck you. What’re you going to do about it?’

  ‘I’m going to try to find them.’

  ‘What about this arsehole who’s out to knock Harkness?’

  ‘I’m in the bloody dark about him. I can’t seem to find a motive or a suspect. I had an interest in an ex-cop named Doug Schirer for a while, but he’s half blind. That reminds me, though.’ I flipped through my notebook until I found the name Billy Parkinson, a crim Rod had named as being on Schirer’s books. Worth a try. I gave the name to Sherrin who shook his head.

  ‘Billy’s dead. Lung cancer got him last year.’

  ‘Scratch him then. Like I told you, if it’s the man who broke in here he’s been described as looking like a cop by someone who knows what cops look like.’

  ‘Fuck of a lot of good that is.’

  Suddenly he looked very tired and distressed and I wished I had a drink to give him. It occurred to me that he wasn’t just looking for Glen to sign papers. I put that to him and he took a long time to answer.

  ‘I want her back,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘My life’s turning to shit without her.’

  In my experience lives turn to shit because of the people living with them and there’s not much other people can do about it. But I made sympathetic noises. He got up and paced around the room. While he paced I made some coffee and brought it in. He’d calmed down a bit.

  ‘I want to help. I can put a word out up Newcastle way for one thing.’

  ‘All right. I’m going up there tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m tied up on this fucking Internal Affairs course or I’d go myself. But I can see that people up there know about you. Plus I can get a car to come by here from time to time to keep an eye on you.’

  ‘No, don’t do that. I’m hoping this bloke will take a run at me. There’s no way he can have any better idea of where they are than we do. I don’t want him scared off.’

  He drained his coffee without appearing to taste it and looked at me. ‘How do you figure that?’

  ‘Look, if he’s a policeman he can find out who this Glen who left the note is.’

  He was so tired he could hardly think. ‘How?’

  ‘Cops keep an eye on us. We know that. You knew Glen and I had worked together before and could be again. So could he. If he knows that, he knows about Newcastle. Glen’s father was on the job there the same as her. That’s easy to find out. If he knows Harkness he could know about his liking for Redhead beach, so …’

  ‘Who told you that by the way?’

  ‘I’m not saying.’

  ‘Hardy, I could make a lot of trouble for you.’

  ‘You could, but you won’t. We’re on the same side.’

  ‘So I’m relying on you to find her and to deal with this joker if he’s tagging along.’ He tapped the side of his head, indicating where I was carrying the marks of my encounter with Craig. ‘I’m not sure that’s such a good bet.’

  ‘I don’t like it much myself. Got a better idea?’

  ‘I’ll work on it.’ He took a card from his wallet and dropped it on the table. ‘Give me your mobile number in case I need to get in touch. Here’s mine.’

  I gave him a card. He pocketed it and went towards the door. ‘One last thing. Was she drinking when you last saw her?’

  ‘No.’

  He nodded and walked out. I listened to his footsteps retreating and when I heard the engine of the Commodore start up and the car move away I went down and retrieved the Smith & Wesson.

  I thought about driving to Newcastle and starting to search for Glen and Rod at first light the next day but I decided against it. The way I felt I’d be lucky to make it to Gosford. I was just about to pack it in when I heard a quiet knock at the door. I grabbed the pistol and held it behind my back as I opened the broken door with my left hand.

  Craig stood there. He had a bandage around his head like a footballer sent off to the blood bin and his grin was uncertain. I was so surprised to see him that I let my hand come forward and he saw the gun.

  ‘Jesus, man. I …’

  ‘It’s all right, just being cautious. What do you want?’

  ‘I … ah, got something might interest you, like.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Information.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I seen that guy again. That cop.’

  I stepped aside and beckoned him in. ‘I wonder if I believe you.’

  ‘It’s fair dinkum and I got the licence number. I figured it’d be worth something to you.’

  ‘How much were you thinking?’

  ‘Twenty bucks?’

  I took a twenty from my wallet and gave it to him. He recited the licence and I scribbled it down. ‘When did you see him and what did he do?’

  ‘He didn’t do nothing, just drove past slow like. Woulda been five o’clock about. Near that. I haven’t got a watch.’

  ‘Red Camry?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you see the bloke who was here just now?’

  He hesitated, not knowing whether to lie or not. ‘Yeah. I was looking out for you.’

  ‘He’s a cop.’

  He edged towards the door. ‘This bloke’s younger and fitter. But that’s a few too many cops around for my liking.’

  ‘I can imagine. You any good with your hands, Craig?’

  ‘Not bad. Why?’

  ‘I’m going away tomorrow. Might be a few days. Reckon you could fix that lock?’

  ‘Replace it, like? Sure.’

  We drove to the nearest open convenience store and I bought a new lock and screwdriver—$120 all up.

  Back at the flat I gave him another twenty. ‘Okay, here’s what you do. Put the new lock on and find a half brick or something and put the keys under it in the carport. Soon as I’m gone.’

  ‘Great. Yeah, okay.’

  I gave him my card. ‘If you see that bloke again call me on my mobile. And Craig—don’t make a copy of the key.
’

  He put the card in the pocket of his shirt, the one that had a button, and buttoned it up. Then he shook his head and took off. If Glen and Rod came back before I did they wouldn’t be able to get in. Well, stuff them.

  18

  I wasted time in the morning trying to get in touch with my contact at the DMT. I ring him and give him a number or numbers. He rings me back on a pay phone and gives me a name or names and an address or addresses. I pay money into his TAB account. Recently he’s gone part-time at the job, probably because he can afford to on the strength of the kickbacks from people like me. He wasn’t available so I’d have to wait on that.

  At least on the drive north I’d know to look out for a red Camry. A light-coloured 4WD would be harder, but if I spotted one with a smeared numberplate I’d sit up and take notice. As it was, no show.

  Glen had had a house overlooking one arm of Dudley beach when I’d met her. We’d spent some time together there over the next couple of years. Good house. Biggish old fibro place on a large block. One of a set of similar places just a short walk from the water. I knew she’d sold it some time back when she married Sherrin, but I thought she might have cruised past for old time’s sake and if someone spotted her I’d have a confirmation that she was in the area. I drove through Whitebridge where I used to walk to get the morning paper and some light exercise. It hadn’t changed much. The earthquake damage hadn’t reached out this far and developers hadn’t intruded.

  The street where Glen’s house was situated was a different story. A couple of the sturdy, no-nonsense places had gone to be replaced by brick monstrosities with pillars. Glen’s place had survived, but from the look of the area it was only a matter of time. I stopped, got out of the car and stretched. The day was hot, a shorts, sandals and T-shirt day, and I was in long trousers, shoes and a business shirt. I could smell the sea and felt a strong gust of nostalgia sweep over me, remembering the good times we’d had up here. Maybe Glen and Rod were having similar good times. I hoped so, but somehow I doubted it.

  I looked the houses over, wondering which was the best bet. No contest. Two houses along from Glen’s was another survivor with a low fence and the sort of garden that needs care and attention. A woman wearing a man’s shirt with the long sleeves buttoned, loose pants and a wide-brimmed hat was giving it just that. She was weeding a flower bed and a watering can stood nearby; a green plastic hose snaked away to a tap at the side of the house. I remembered her from the time I’d spent here but the name had gone. I searched my memory for it as I adjusted my sunglasses and walked towards her. As sometimes happens, the name jumped out at me as I reached the front gate.

  ‘Mrs Reid.’

  I was twenty metres away and she didn’t hear me. I got ready to shout but a small white dog came bounding up and barked shrilly. Mrs Reid straightened up slowly as befitted her years and peered at me.

  ‘Quiet, Buster. Yes?’

  ‘Could I have a word with you?’

  As I recalled she was a widow with a lot of children and grandchildren who were frequent visitors. They parked their cars in the driveway and on the nature strip, two and three abreast, but there were none around now. She patted the dog and it trotted quietly beside her as she came up to the gate.

  I took off the shades. ‘You might remember me, Mrs Reid. I used to spend some time up here with Glen Withers.’ I pointed to the house.

  She was seventy plus but straight backed and clear eyed. Her skin was lined and wrinkled, more from smiling than frowning. She wore gardening gloves and carried a trowel. ‘You’re not the one she married though.’

  ‘No, that was someone else. I was wondering if you’d seen her lately.’

  Her faded blue eyes went shrewd. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a long story but I’m looking for her. She’s been unwell and having some trouble and …’

  ‘I knew it. I remember you now. You got my grandson Eddy’s car started one time. Clint.’

  ‘Cliff. I’d forgotten that. You’ve seen her, haven’t you?’

  She nodded. ‘I always liked Glen and it was nice having a policewoman so close. Yes, I saw her the other day and I knew things weren’t right.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I was sorry to see it. They drove up in one of those big cars and they got out. I was inside but I could see them. She pointed the house out to this man she was with. Younger than her, but a bit old for surfing. There was a big surfboard on the car.’

  ‘But what was wrong?’

  ‘I’d say they were both drunk.’

  That was the easy bit. After that it got harder, as I knew it would. I hung around Redhead beach but there was no sign of Glen’s car. I asked at the beach kiosk with no result. I checked all the motels within striking distance of the beach and learned nothing. I stayed in the cheapest motel I could find in the area and it wasn’t all that cheap. After three days of this I was running low on money with not a lot in my savings account and just about full credit cards. Still no luck with the DMT.

  It wasn’t all slog. I swam a few times and thought again about moving out of Sydney, going north. Up where I was, less than 200 kilometres north of the big smoke, the air begins to take on a tropical tang and the long beaches seem to promise longer summers and shorter winters than down south. I like the palm trees. The impulse to move grips me from time to time and I’ve almost yielded to it once or twice. Almost. One night I phoned Jerry and reported on my lack of progress. She was sympathetic. Talking to her tended to push thoughts of leaving Sydney aside.

  I wondered how Rod and Glen were doing for money. Rod must have shelled out a bit for his computer and the clothes and other bits and pieces he’d bought. Glen’s finances were always rocky. If they were drinking they’d go through a bit in a hurry. I decided to lower my sights and try the caravan parks. I worked north towards Newcastle, west towards Lake Macquarie and then south. I got tired of the sound of my own voice reciting the registration number of the car and the descriptions of Glen and Rod. I got even sicker of the shaken heads, the hostile looks, the air of defeat that hung around some of the establishments.

  I pulled into the Ti-Tree Tourist Park near Belmont, which looked to me as if it should have been named the Lantana. This was the lowest on the scale so far. Travelling caravans seemed to be few and the couple of mobile homes that were anchored and hooked up to power and water were faded and tattered. A couple of free-standing cabins had roofs covered in leaves and fallen branches with grass sprouting knee-high in spots the mower couldn’t touch.

  The fat woman in the office was barely awake in the hot little room, just awake enough to swat at the flies that clustered round the spilt food on her dress. There was a battered soft drink vending machine in one corner of the room and a showcase of sweets and chewing gum on the counter. A waste paper basket held a collection of wrappers from Snickers and Mars Bars and a few Coke cans. I went through my spiel, expecting the usual response.

  ‘Fuck me!’ she spat and the flies buzzed away. ‘Did I see them? You fuckin’ bet I seen them. They did a flit owing us money. Pair of drunks, I shoulda known better.’

  I nodded. ‘I thought you’d take the money up front.’

  ‘Yeah, well I took her credit card like a mug, and then the phone went out ’cause some fucker put a backhoe through the cable. When I got on to check it was … how d’you call it?’

  ‘Dishonoured.’

  ‘Right. Dis-fuckin’-honoured is right.’

  No point asking her where they went. I was puzzling what to do about it when she volunteered some more.

  ‘They tried to sell their fuckin’ surfboard. One of the permanents here told me. If I’d known they was that broke …’

  ‘Did he buy it?’

  She laughed, lifted a rolled-up magazine from under the counter and dealt death to a fly. ‘Gotcha! Ernie? No way. But he told them they could sell it at Blue Waves at Broken Beach. Good board it was. You after them for money, too?’

  ‘That’s right. You
say they were drinking?’

  ‘Haven’t cleaned out the bottles yet.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Didn’t I say? Yesterday, last night.’

  Broken Beach was an indentation on the long sweep of beach south of Swansea. It was late afternoon when I got there but still warm and there were still surfers in the water and people on the beach. The place consisted of a collection of shops tucked back from the highway with a couple of pubs and several motels. The surf shop was wide-fronted with boards on display out on the footpath and its name picked out in an arrangement of surf and boogie boards mounted on the roof. Not tasteful, but different.

  I parked rear to kerb outside and went in. The music, held down just below deafening, sounded like a combination of Beach Boys and rap. There were surfboards on racks and stands from floor to ceiling and displays of wetsuits and swimsuits and all the other equipment that goes with the cult. Three or four young men in T-shirts and board shorts were wandering around inspecting the goods while another, scarcely older and dressed the same, kept a watchful eye on them.

  I approached a tall man with shoulder-length hair that had been red but was bleached and leached by sun and salt water. Wordlessly, I showed him my licence and mimed turning down the music. He reached under the counter and dropped the noise a few decibels.

  ‘You buy boards?’ I said.

  He fiddled with his earring. ‘Sometimes, not that much. What’ve you got?’

  ‘Not me. I’m looking for someone.’ I described Rod and the board and made it clear I wasn’t interested in the item, just the seller.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Good board. Hardly been wet. I’ll move it. Be better in someone else’s hands than his, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Why d’you say that?’

  ‘Bloke was a bit pissed and I could smell dope on him, too. I … you know, wondered if he’d nicked it, but he had the receipt and everything. Just said he was too old for riding. Thought he’d give it a go again but he was past it. Roger there,’ he pointed to the assistant, ‘saw him pull up in a Pajero with a woman, so he wasn’t a deadbeat or anything. Spoke well and that. She showed us a driver’s licence.’