Salt and Blood

by Peter Corris

  23

  The police released the body and Rodney’s funeral was notified in the papers. Jerry and I sent flowers and attended it together. The Harknesses were Catholic apparently, although religion hadn’t loomed large for Rod. I’d never heard him mention it and it was news to Jerry.

  ‘Is that unusual?’ I’d asked when the funeral notice appeared. ‘To be brought up Catholic and not make any reference to it to a shrink?’

  ‘Not these days. Most intelligent lapsed Catholics get rid of it completely.’

  But when you’re dead you’ve got no say and the mass with all the trimmings was held in a church in Rose Bay. The attendance was thin with the men in suits looking prosperous and the women in fashionable outfits looking pleased to be dressed up and having something to do. I wore a darkish jacket and trousers. No tie. Jerry was in a trouser suit and flatties. We weren’t the only informals. A couple of men of about Rod’s age were dressed sober casual and I judged them to be old surfer buddies. A rather scruffy individual with long hair and a wrinkled suit was addressed as Barney by someone and I took him to be Barney Nugent, Rod’s one-time agent. Nice of you to come.

  Warren St John and Lady Rachel Harkness strutted their stuff in expensive black with Lady R making extensive use of a lace handkerchief and Warren sucking in his gut when he remembered. A little bit of sermonising and hymn singing goes a very long way with me, especially when it’s being done for someone who didn’t give a toss about it. I fidgeted and Jerry prodded me into line.

  I was on the aisle and tried to catch Warren’s eye as he filed out as pallbearer. He saw me but he didn’t break stride. What are you thinking? I thought. What are you feeling? I doubted that I’d ever know and it irked me.

  As we drove in the procession to Waverley Cemetery, Jerry’s Saab not out of place with the Mercs and BMWs, no sign of the surfies, Jerry said, ‘Well, did you spot him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The killer. Weren’t you looking out for him?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’ve never yet known a murderer who turned up at a victim’s funeral. Besides, the only description I’ve got of a possible suspect is that he looked like a cop—suit, moustache, sure of himself. That fitted a few blokes there.’

  ‘So, why did you want to come?’

  ‘Why did you agree to come? You had to cancel two appointments. I had nothing else on.’

  She smiled. ‘You like to win these little battles, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I like the battles.’

  We drove on a bit before she answered. ‘I felt close to him at one time and then there was that awful scene. I suppose I just didn’t want that to be the last memory.’

  ‘Same here.’

  There are worse places to finish up than Waverley Cemetery with its old horse troughs out front and its wrought-iron gates. Long time since a horse drank there, but the troughs lend a funny sort of extra dignity to the place, making it feel timeless which, for the residents, it is.

  The Harknesses had a family plot in the cemetery. Nothing elaborate compared to some of the Gothic structures striving to be monumental and looking pathetic, but adequate enough to plant a few with space for a few more. We stood well back while they went through the rituals. Barney Nugent hadn’t taken this next step and in fact the cortege had been quite small. It didn’t take long for the mourners to disperse and the men with the shovels to get to work.

  Jerry turned her mobile back on and it rang almost straight away. I wandered forward to inspect the plot. Old Sir Ralph was there along with Wilbur, who I took to be his brother. There was also a Juliet, born 1970, died 1995, beloved daughter of Ralph and Rachel, loved sister of Warren and Rodney.

  Jerry finished with her call and joined me. I pointed to the headstone. ‘Did Rod ever mention a sister?’

  Jerry shook her head. ‘Never. I’m beginning to wonder if I knew him at all.’

  ‘Me, too.’ I took her arm and steered her away.

  She protested. ‘I wanted to think about that. Where are you taking me?’

  ‘To meet my mother,’ I said.

  My mother’s grave was in the Protestant section of the cemetery. That would have amused her, as she disliked all religions about equally. She didn’t have a view, tucked in as she was behind more imposing headstones and tombs. The headstone was faded and the little fenced plot was overgrown. My sister occasionally came out and cleaned it up, but she obviously hadn’t been around for a while.

  Ruby Salome Hardy née Kelly, was the daughter of Hannah Lee an Irish gypsy, and her de facto husband Terence Kelly, an Irishman who had several de facto wives and a few families in Ireland and Australia. Hannah had left him and defied Romany tradition by crossing the water to Australia, bringing Ruby and her sister Rona with her. She’d battled all her life and my mother had determined not to live the same way. She was out for a good time, whatever the state of the family finances, and she pretty much succeeded in having one to the despair of my father, who was a sober-sided sixth-generation Australian of French and English extraction. My mother had died early of diabetic complications.

  Jerry stood beside me as we looked at the weather-pitted headstone. ‘Not a long life,’ she said.

  ‘No, but a merry one.’

  She hugged my arm. ‘That’s pretty good if you can remember her that way.’

  ‘I mostly remember her singing and playing the piano when she had a skinful and trying to get sugar into her when she had a hypo. But she was fun. Too much for Dad though.’

  ‘Is he here as well?’

  ‘No. Cremated. Well, there she is. What about yours?’

  ‘Both cremated. Neat and tidy people. We’re both orphans. At least you’ve got a sister. I was an only child. Nieces and nephews, Cliff?’

  ‘One of each and I’ve got an anti-godson—name of Peter.’ I didn’t tell her about my recently discovered daughter, Megan. I don’t know why. She’d gone to America and didn’t look like coming back. I hadn’t heard from her for some time.

  We walked away from the grave and I told her about Frank Parker and Hilde Stoner and how they’d met and our relationship. I was hot in my jacket and I took it off and slung it over my shoulder. I reached for her hand after that and we walked along between the graves hand in hand, both effectively childless, both end-of-the liners. At least that’s what I was feeling and it made me think of Juliet St John Harkness who’d gone unmentioned by her mother and two brothers. I spoke my thought out loud.

  ‘There has to be something to it.’

  ‘You mean the sister? Yes, I was thinking the same thing.’

  ‘I can’t stand this,’ I said. ‘I’m going to have to look into it.’

  ‘Don’t you need a client? I mean to cover your costs and give you some … authority?’

  ‘Technically, yes.’

  ‘Who’ve you got in mind?’

  We reached the Saab. It wasn’t a day for the un-airconditioned Falcon. I was driving and I used the central locking remote. A childish pleasure in that. I shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘I’m serious. I’m still working on that book about confession and Rodney’s case is still very, very relevant. I need the data and if you can come up with it from investigating further …’

  We got into the car and I started the engine. ‘Don’t patronise me, Jerry.’

  She turned towards me with the sort of intensity I’d seen in her on the tennis court and in bed. ‘Fuck you. I’m not patronising you. This shit needs sorting out. For my research and for us if we’re going to get anywhere.’

  The cool air from the vents blew over us and dropped our temperatures. I reached across the space between the bucket seats and smoothed her blue-black hair. ‘Okay, okay,’ I said. ‘You’re on. It’s two hundred dollars a day plus expenses.’

  ‘Peanuts,’ she said. ‘Shit, sorry.’

  The Saab’s engine was silky soft. ‘That’s okay. I haven’t got three univ
ersity degrees, just half a one.’

  ‘Never too late.’

  I gave the car some accelerator and it responded with a healthy surge. ‘Not in this life.’

  A look into the life and death of Juliet Harkness seemed like a place to start but I was closed off from the primary source of information—Warren and Lady Rachel. To have got some dope on Rod’s life’s loves Glen must have had a source or sources of some kind so I phoned her.

  ‘Kevin Sherrin.’

  ‘Uh, Kevin, this is Cliff Hardy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How’s Glen?’

  ‘Fragile, what d’you think?’

  This wasn’t going well. ‘Sorry to hear that. Has she spoken to the police?’

  ‘Yes, she’s told them everything she can and they’ve agreed to leave her alone. She needs complete rest and to be free of all this shit. What’s this about, Hardy?’

  I could tell I wasn’t going to get anywhere. ‘Nothing, just give her my regards.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Quick cut-off. I didn’t completely believe Sherrin. The Glen I knew was tougher than that and I guessed that his protectiveness was at least partly for his own purposes. By now he must have used up a fortnight of leave and I wondered if he was still by her side night and day. Only one way to find out.

  The next morning at seven I was parked on Glen’s street in Paddington. After the break with Sherrin and selling her beach house she bought a tiny Paddington terrace to live in and as a base for her business. With Sherrin in residence it’d be crowded. The narrow street was packed with cars carrying residents’ stickers. Sherrin’s Pulsar stood outside the house. I squinted and made out a sticker. Looked like Kevin was in for the long haul. The day was going to be hot and I was hoping Sherrin wasn’t playing house husband all day long because when the sun got above the rooftops the interior of the Falcon would be a sweatbox. C’mon, Kev, I thought. Go to work.

  At 7.45 Sherrin emerged in his suit and carrying a briefcase. He put on a pair of spectacles, got into his car and drove off. He wasn’t going for the paper. I gave him a few minutes just in case he’d forgotten something before crossing the road and walking the fifty metres to the house. Single-storey terrace. Pocket handkerchief front garden, tiled path and porch under a bullnose verandah. Bars on the window. Security door. Intercom. I pressed the buzzer.

  ‘Yes?’ Glen.

  ‘Glen, it’s Cliff. I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ring?’

  ‘I did. Kevin ran a very strong block. I take it he didn’t tell you I rang?’

  That was calculated. The Glen I knew wouldn’t have liked someone running her life to that extent. I heard her mutter ‘Shit’, and then the security door clicked and the interior door opened.

  She was wearing white silk pyjamas and a white towelling robe and the clothes made her pallor even more noticeable. Her usually stylish hair seemed to be in need of work and her eyes looked to have receded into her skull. She stood aside and beckoned me in.

  ‘I look like shit, I know. You look great. I hear you’re fucking the psychiatrist. Nice work.’

  I eased past her into the narrow passage. ‘Where’d you hear that?’

  She shrugged. ‘Forget. You might as well come in. I’m working my way through my first pot of coffee. First of ten or so.’

  We went through to the kitchen. The back wall had been knocked out and replaced with a floor-to-ceiling window and a sliding glass door so that the light flooded in. The back garden was half as big again as the front, which meant that you could actually sit in it and stretch your legs. The few plants, flowers and vines, looked neglected.

  Glen poured coffee and we sat at the small table. Three would have been a crowd. Her every move and gesture was indifferent as if she was only barely there physically and somewhere else entirely mentally. I tried not to appear shocked at her appearance but it was hard. She was maybe ten kilos underweight and, worst of all, her fingernails were bitten down. I’d never known Glen to bite her fingernails.

  She held her coffee mug in both hands. ‘Don’t look at me.’

  The coffee was strong and bitter, stomach-scouring stuff. ‘I need your help,’ I said.

  ‘That’s a laugh. Me, help anyone? Still less you. I’m the one who needs help. Lots and lots of help.’

  ‘You’re getting it from Kevin, aren’t you?’

  She was working her way through the coffee quickly. ‘Poor Kevin. He’s trying so hard, and he’s so fucking boring.’

  ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’

  ‘Nothing, just trying not to drink.’

  ‘Maybe you should …’

  ‘Don’t tell me what I should do. You’re sitting pretty—fucking your rich psychiatrist, no doubt with some juicy case to keep you busy.’

  I couldn’t drink any more of the coffee. I put the mug aside and shook my head. ‘No, I haven’t got a case, juicy or otherwise. I’m just trying to find out who killed Rod Harkness and why.’

  Her head came up and she showed the first sign of interest in anything other than her own misery since I arrived. She got a tissue from the pocket of her robe, blew her nose and ran her hands over her hair. ‘Why would you want to do that?’

  I shrugged. ‘I feel I owe it to him.’

  She nodded. ‘I can understand that. I suppose I’d feel the same if I let myself.’

  It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her to let herself, but I held it back. She smiled at me and 50 per cent of the haggard, drab look vanished. ‘I know what you were going to say. I know you, Cliff.’

  ‘And I know you. You’ll bounce back from this.’

  ‘You reckon? Well, maybe. Anyway, what can I do?’

  I told her about discovering that Rod had had a sister. It was news to her and, as with Jerry and me, it struck her as strange and potentially illuminating.

  ‘Can’t talk to the brother or the mother,’ I said. ‘I was wondering if you got onto anyone in the early stages who might know something about the family. I mean, you seemed to get some good stuff on the wife.’

  ‘I did, didn’t I? Not that it went anywhere. Hang on a minute, I’ll have a look.’

  She got up and went down the passage to the second of the rooms leading off it. Something about her pale feet under the robe struck me as sad. Glen had been a sun lover. By this time of the year she’d usually have a tan like a star’s. I looked around the small, well-organised and appointed kitchen. Lots of signs of Glen at work—sealed jars containing sugar, pasta, coffee, a metal rack suspended from the ceiling to hang pots and pans on; sink, microwave, dishwasher all fitted in to a space that didn’t look big enough to hold them. An open cupboard had two empty shelves, puzzling until I worked it out. The shelves would have held wine glasses and tumblers. Clear the decks.

  Glen came back carrying her laptop. She’d put on white jeans and a black T-shirt. She put the computer on the table and went off to the bathroom adjacent to the kitchen. I heard her run water and rattle things. When she came back she’d tidied her hair, washed her face and applied a little makeup. I said nothing as she unzipped the case. She booted up the computer and started clicking.

  ‘I haven’t touched this since that night. Seems a long time ago but I suppose it isn’t. Time gets all fucked up when you’re off the grog.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  She kept clicking. ‘You only sort of know. Doesn’t matter. Okay, here we are. I’ve got a file on the people I talked to about Rodney’s wife. I think there was one … This is the one who had the dope on the boyfriends and … this one, right, here she is. Birgit Hansen. Now, she went to school with Lucille Hammond and she’d also dated Rodney. Seemed to know a bit about the family. Couldn’t stand Warren. She didn’t say anything about a sister, but I really didn’t have very long with her and she pissed me off.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘She was very, very antagonistic to Rod. Hated him. I didn’t find out why but perhaps I know now.
I’ve got her phone number and address here. Another one of Lucille’s friends put me on to her.’

  I wrote the details down and Glen killed the screen. ‘Okay?’

  ‘Thanks, Glen. It could be useful.’

  ‘House calls. That’s what we do, isn’t it? Make house calls.’

  I was glad to hear her say we. ‘That’s about it. How did you make contact?’

  ‘Just rang her up. She’s a wannabe novelist. Couldn’t wait to meet a real live detective. But watch yourself when you make this house call.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘She’s a man-killer, Cliff. Just your type.’

  24

  Birgit Hansen (I kept thinking she’d have to change her name if she wanted to be a novelist) lived in a block of units in Bondi Junction. It was a bit too close to the freeway for comfort and not high enough to see the water. Still, there were doctors’ rooms in the street and it was no distance to the shops. Not cheap to buy or rent. I parked in a two-hour zone and found a phone, not hard in Bondi Junction where they sprout on every comer. It’s hard to find a coin operated one though and like the well-prepared detective I had a phone card with plenty of credit. Call me old-fashioned, I still prefer a real phone to my mobile if I have the choice.

  ‘Hello, whoever you are. This is Birgit.’

  For a second I thought it was an answering machine but it was the real live woman. ‘Ah, Ms Hansen, my name is Hardy. I’m a private detective and an associate of Glen Withers who spoke to you.’

  ‘Oh, yes. The lady without a gun.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I asked her if she had a gun and she said she didn’t. Have you got a gun?’

  ‘Not with me. I can get it if I have to.’