Salt and Blood

by Peter Corris

  ‘In the service you mean.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘No, I don’t know. Wouldn’t be hard to find out. You’ve got the contacts—Frank Parker, Glen Withers …’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘I’d said I’d be straight with you. Investigating a copper, whether serving or not, isn’t my idea of fun. Plus I don’t know where you stand.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Suppose I say I’m going to look into him, watch him, talk to his neighbours, root through his rubbish bin, what would your attitude be?’

  He finished his beer and pushed the glass firmly aside. ‘You don’t think Harkness killed his wife, do you?’

  ‘A psychiatrist I respect says he didn’t.’

  ‘I heard a whisper he didn’t die easy.’

  ‘He was tortured.’

  ‘I’ve got no time for shit like that. Go for it, Hardy. I’m out, but I’ll give you a bit of advice. Cover your arse—talk it over with Parker or with someone from Internal Affairs or the fucking Ombudsman. You’re right, going up against a policeman isn’t easy.’

  I thanked him. We shook hands and I walked beside him as he wheeled himself out of the pub.

  I had a lot to think about and I found myself driving home to do the thinking. If there were things waiting for me in the office they could wait. The Sexton lead felt solid but I knew I’d need evidence. I wondered if Glen had had the rifle bullet examined before she took off with Rod. To do anything with that I’d need to find the rifle. Was Sexton a shooter? For that matter, was he still a policeman and where did he live? Rodney Harkness had been burnt with cigarettes but no butts had been found at the site. Therefore no DNA. Did that indicate a policeman’s professionalism or just commonsense caution? He’d been executed with a pistol shot. Did the police have the bullet? They hadn’t told me and wouldn’t.

  It was early in the afternoon when I reached home and I wanted to talk things over with Jerry but it wasn’t the time to ring her; heavy consultation time. I collected the mail and went inside to make a sandwich and write a summary of the interview with Brett Hughes and where things now stood. For no good reason I had a mental image of what it’d be like to be tortured with a cigarette and mutilated with bolt cutters. It put me off the sandwich. I threw it in the bin and sat down with my notebook. I noticed that the light on the answering machine was blinking and as I reached to touch the button my mobile rang. Confused, I paused my finger above the machine and answered the mobile.

  ‘Hardy? This is Kevin Sherrin. I want to know what you’re fucking playing at. I know you saw Glen today. I hope you’re happy. She’s in the Prince of Wales. She tried to kill herself.’

  26

  I went straight to the hospital and met up with Sherrin. He was thumbing through magazines in a waiting room on the ward where Glen was being held for observation. Although I knew he had no liking for me, the relief at having something to kick against showed on his face almost like a welcome.

  ‘How is she?’ I asked.

  ‘Sick, but she’ll recover. They say I can see her in a while when they’re sure her system’s clean. They’re going to keep her overnight at least.’

  ‘What happened?’

  He threw the magazine down. ‘That’s what I should fucking-well ask you. I was worried about her. She seemed to be better for a while with the AA meetings and all and then she went down again. So I got home as early as I could. I’m still on this fucking course. She was on the bed and barely breathing. There were notes for both of us, you and me.’

  He’d got to his feet when I’d come in and now was shaking, partly from anger, partly from distress, partly from exhaustion. The waiting room was small and hot but we had it to ourselves. I felt very sorry for him. I’ve been around suicides and attempted suicides and the survivors quite a few times and the dynamics are complicated. When notes are left, at the very least the recipient expects to be the focus of attention. Sharing the receipt of the intended suicide’s last message isn’t in the script. Sherrin was confused as much as he was hurt and angry and it wasn’t hard to encourage him to sit down and talk.

  ‘She … just told me she was sorry and that she knew I loved her and it wasn’t enough for her to go on with. I read your note as well.’

  I nodded. I would’ve done the same.

  ‘It was all about feeling responsible for what happened to Harkness. She said that seeing you had brought it all home to her and she couldn’t handle it.’

  He started to sob. ‘Fuck you, Hardy, with your push and shove and never give up. Fuck you!’

  There was nothing I could say. I sat and let the moment pass. Eventually he wiped his eyes. ‘She told you to find out who killed Harkness. Fat chance.’

  I let that go as well. When he seemed to have calmed down a bit I said, ‘You must’ve moved bloody quickly.’

  ‘Huh. Yeah, well, we’re trained, aren’t we. I had the ambulance there in minutes. She’d gone out and bought a bottle of Scotch to take the pills with. In a way that saved her life.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘She was still struggling against the booze even when she was giving up on life. She didn’t ingest enough alcohol to make the pills kick in properly. She’s tough, Glen. Her body didn’t want to die.’

  ‘Mr Sherrin. You can see your wife now.’

  A nurse had appeared at the doorway. Sherrin got up and walked away after her without giving me another look. I sat and thought about him and Glen and Harkness and Jerry and me. About winners and losers and everyone in between. So far, Rodney St John was the biggest loser but I didn’t see why any of the rest of us had to fall into the same group.

  Sherrin had left the jacket of his suit over a chair in the waiting room so I knew he’d be back. While I sat there I planned what I could say to him. I was still pushing and shoving, still not giving up.

  About ten minutes later he walked in and reached for his jacket. He was in that space where other people don’t matter and he was scarcely aware of me until I handed him the coat.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ he said.

  ‘I won’t, but I have to talk to you and you have to listen for your sake and for Glen’s.’

  We went to a pub in Randwick and I laid it all on the line for Sherrin. Despite his antagonism towards me and the pressure he was under trying to deal with Glen, the policeman in him came to the fore and he listened and took in what I was saying. We were drinking whisky, pacing ourselves, heavy on the water. Two plates of potato wedges with sour cream. The pub was fairly quiet but there was enough background noise for us to speak in normal voices.

  ‘That’s bloody thin,’ Sherrin said when I’d finished and dealt with the few questions he’d posed.

  ‘I know. But there’s something in it. It just needs bolstering, like finding Sexton’s rifle …’

  ‘If he’s got one.’

  ‘And his pistol.’

  ‘Likewise. At least I know where that bullet you gave Glen is. I can get it tested.’

  ‘And you can find out what we need to know about Sexton.’

  ‘If I agree to help you.’

  I didn’t say, Glen needs this to be closed. I didn’t have to. I wolfed down a couple of the potato chunks. Sherrin seemed uninterested in the food but he played with his drink while he thought it all over. I didn’t rush him. I was tired at the end of a long day. I wanted to talk to Jerry.

  Sherrin surprised me then. ‘What does your psychiatrist girlfriend think?’ he said.

  ‘This all came together today. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her.’

  ‘This is the first drink I’ve had since I came up to Broken Beach and collected Glen. Mind you, I had a few on board then.’

  I’d noticed that he’d lost weight since the last time I’d talked to him. ‘Must be tough.’

  He nodded. ‘Funny you should bring this to me just now. I’m on a course that’ll give me a promotion into Internal Affairs if I do all right. They’re a
hard-drinking mob, trying to prove they’re still the boyos. They think I’m a wuss.’

  ‘They might think a bit different if this works out.’

  He drained his drink and got up to get more. I wasn’t going to stop him. I’d get a taxi home if need be. He went off chewing on a couple of wedges. When he came back he said, ‘If I do it, it’ll be for Glen’s sake, not mine and not yours.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Did Glen say anything about me when you saw her this morning?’

  ‘Only that she was giving you a hard time.’

  ‘Tell me this—have you still got any intentions towards her?’

  I shook my head. ‘Other inclinations.’

  ‘Right. Well, I reckon I ought to back off a bit.’ He picked up a couple of wedges, dipped them in the sour cream and ate them. Then he had a couple more. The food seemed to aid his resolution. ‘Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go back to my place tonight and go in as normal tomorrow. I’ll leave you to get Glen home and settled and you can tell her what we’re doing.’

  ‘You’re saying you’re in?’

  ‘I am. Yes. We’ve got computer time tomorrow. I’ll see what I can dig up and get back to you, say by mid-afternoon. Let’s see how Glen takes to it all. If she’s okay and we’ve got anything to work on we can pick it up from there. Sort of keep her in the loop. See if it works. If she’s still too fragile, I don’t know. We’ll have to think again.’

  It was a good result, holding to his desired line and potentially getting me what I wanted, and I agreed to it in every detail, although I asked him to phone the hospital and give his authority for me to stand in for him. He agreed. ‘It’s all bullshit anyway,’ he said. ‘I’m not really her husband. Not anymore.’

  This time we shook hands.

  I’d had four Scotches and was tossing up whether to get a taxi as I stood by my car with the keys in my hand. ‘Be smart,’ I said aloud. ‘You have to be over here tomorrow morning anyway.’ A few passers-by looked at me.

  My mobile rang and I answered it, glad to be able to put the decision off. It was Jerry and I realised that I’d forgotten to ring her with all that had been going on.

  ‘Coming over?’

  ‘Can’t,’ I said. ‘I …’

  ‘Are you pissed?’

  ‘I’ve had a couple but I’m okay.’

  ‘Get a cab.’

  I unlocked the car and sat in the passenger seat. I explained what had happened and how I’d agreed to collect Glen the following morning and why. The silence wasn’t golden.

  ‘Sounds to me like she needs professional help.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, but I have to do this. I have to cooperate with Sherrin and …’

  ‘I’m beginning to wish … no, I do wish I hadn’t agreed to back you on this. Turn it over to the police, Cliff.’

  ‘We haven’t got enough.’

  ‘Right. And how’re you going to get more? Break into his house? Can’t you see a few problems with that? The two of you are fumbling around on account of this woman. For a smart and experienced man you’re not thinking clearly.’

  ‘You might be right.’

  ‘Stop patronising me. If I’m right, if you see that I’m right, act accordingly.’

  It was the wrong tack for her to take with me after the events of the day and when I had some alcohol on board. Enough to make me feel right and clever. I probably sounded more brusque than I meant to. ‘I’m going to do it this way.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said and hung up.

  I sat there with the phone in my hand, feeling empty and let down. The booze buzz died rapidly away leaving me sour and not clever at all. The positives got replaced by negatives. Do psychiatrists feel jealousy? Aren’t they above that? I shoved across to the driver’s seat, started up and drove home.

  I was really in no condition to drive, not drunk but probably over the limit and tired, dispirited and underfed with it. Low blood sugar. I drove on auto and got a couple of adrenalin jolts at near misses that helped to keep me alert enough to make it back to Glebe. I don’t know what it is but there’s something that comforts me about driving down Glebe Point Road. It’s not just going home, because that has many sorts of associations, not all of them good. It’s something to do with the honest, solid old buildings on both sides of the road, the water at the bottom, the expanse of the park. Buildings, water, trees—I was thinking about them, how they were more dependable than people, as I turned into my street and realised that the alcohol was still working in me.

  I parked and went inside and had a decision to make. The drinker’s decision. To have some more and keep this edge I was feeling, this almost philosophical acceptance of things as they were. It’s one of the benefits of drinking, but it doesn’t usually lead anywhere. Or sober up and think things through—Glen, Sherrin, Jerry—all that. I was still tossing up about it when the phone rang.

  I snatched it up. ‘Jerry?’

  ‘Hardy? This is Lance Matthiesson. I’ve been leaving messages.’

  The light was blinking. ‘Matthiesson? Yeah, okay. What?’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m tired. Big day.’

  ‘Aren’t they all? Thing is, we need you to identify a body. The good news is he’s in the Glebe morgue. Just down the way from you.’

  ‘Very funny,’ I said. ‘Who?’

  ‘That’s not the way it plays. You be there at 7.30 tomorrow morning.’

  My head was spinning, trying to process the information, and I still hadn’t resolved the alcohol question. ‘What’s wrong with now? Tonight?’

  ‘Fuck you. Seven-thirty a.m. Sharp!’

  27

  The morgue is in Arundel Street, across Ross Street, where it trundles down to a dead end just short of Parramatta Road. The building is flat to the footpath, a plum-coloured brick box with big roller doors for the ambulances. The only attractive thing about it is the painted sign above the entrance. It reads ‘Forensic Medicine’ and has a set of scales and an open book. Nice touch. There’s a pleasant set of single-storey sandstone terraces across the street, but the building’s reflecting windows seem to say once you’re in, you’re in.

  ‘In here.’

  ‘I know where to go.’

  Matthiesson shepherded me into the soulless space, looking less comfortable than I was, even though he was far from a first-timer. I’d laid off the drink but my sleep had been fitful with thoughts of Glen and Jerry and irritation at Matthiesson’s caginess in the mix. We went through the dance with the female attendant who peeled back the plastic cover and stepped away.

  He looked younger in death than he had in life and oddly healthier. There were no wounds on his head and his features were relaxed.

  ‘Craig,’ I said. ‘How?’

  The attendant covered him and Matthiesson and I walked away. I was breathing shallowly the way you do, as if sucking in too much of the air in that place would do you harm.

  ‘Overdose,’ Matthiesson said. ‘Hot shot almost certainly. Signs of a struggle, pressure on the carotid.’

  We left the building and walked around the corner and into Parramatta Road where Matthiesson was parked. The dirty air and noisy traffic were somehow comforting. ‘You found my card on him,’ I said.

  ‘No. We printed him. Got a match with the doorlock and the keys under the brick. You told us about paying someone to fix the lock.’

  ‘Are you telling me there was no one else to identify him?’

  ‘That’s right. He was found in a skip at a building site in Bondi. Some change in his pockets. That’s all. No room key, no nothing. Probably wearing all the clothes he owned. Lighter, two cigarettes. Looks like he was on the streets. Who kills a harmless junkie unless he knows or sees something he shouldn’t? Give me your thoughts, Hardy.’

  ‘You’re sure about the hot shot?’

  ‘Pretty sure. Blood test says high-quality heroin in quantity. He would have been a skin popper, a sniffer and a smoker more than a mainliner,
and he wouldn’t have had the money for stuff like that. The autopsy’ll tell us more. Are you examining your conscience?’

  ‘I asked him to ring me if he saw the guy who broke into the flat again. I didn’t tell him to do any more than that.’

  ‘You gave him money. You know what they’re like. Give them a smell …’

  ‘Okay. He saw him again. Got too close and was spotted. Easy after that for the killer, especially if he’s a policeman.’

  ‘Got any more on that?’

  That was the question. What was the answer? I had Sherrin on the job but possibly too emotionally involved to be reliable. Jerry urging me to turn the whole matter over to the police and now only tenuously available as a protective client. And Matthiesson offside, potentially hostile, no doubt looking for a result himself. The cards were stacked against the course Sherrin and I had set ourselves.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Nothing.’ I looked at my watch. ‘I have to be somewhere. It’s tough about the kid, but he didn’t have a bright future anyway.’

  Matthiesson turned away. ‘You’re a bastard, Hardy.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before.’

  He stalked off in his nice suit towards his air-conditioned car and I didn’t feel quite as much like a bastard as he thought I should. What I was feeling was something else altogether. Suppose Craig didn’t have a place to lay his head and was wearing all the clothes he owned? Suppose the killer of Rodney Harkness had taken him out? Suppose all that—where was my card, the one I’d given Craig before I set off for the Central Coast at what now seemed like a long time ago? The one he’d buttoned so carefully into his shirt pocket. Did the killer have it? Maybe. Did Craig lose it or throw it away? Maybe.

  I’d skipped breakfast, not sure what Matthiesson would have in store for me. Now, I was hungry the minute I was out of the morgue. I wandered down to the first of the coffee shops in Glebe Point Road and ordered coffee and raisin toast. The day had dawned grey and was getting greyer around the edges. It was still warm for so early and there was a threat or promise of rain, depending on whether you were playing golf or growing roses. Personally, I didn’t care one way or the other. As I ate I realised that I was watching everyone who came into the place and the people who were eating out on the street. The passers-by. Normally, I’d have eaten outside myself, but not today. It was getting to me.