by Peter Corris
I went in and at first noticed only that the room smelled cleaner than the hall and the stairs. My eyes had adjusted to the poor light and the brightness in here made me blink. White’s room must have been one of the better ones in the establishment. He had, as well as the room itself, a glassed-in balcony, and light was flooding in from there through closed French windows with clean panes. White had made an effort. The bed was neat; some books and magazines were neatly stacked on a dresser beside it. On a small table there was a toaster, a loaf of bread and a tub of margarine. A carton of long-life milk, a packet of tea and one of sugar and a jar of instant coffee were lined up precisely on a shelf.
I opened the French windows and saw my client. He was sitting in a cane chair and he was wearing the same shirt and tie I’d seen him in on the previous two days. The only difference was that the tie and the front of the shirt were stained dark brown with his blood. His head had flopped forward towards his chest but hung there, as if he might lift it at any minute. But he wouldn’t. I didn’t need to feel for a pulse or put a mirror to his mouth. The blood was in a pool in his lap below his paunch and had soaked down the length of both trouser legs. When you lose that much blood you’re history.
I let out the breath I’d been holding and took a look around the balcony. There was almost nothing to see. Lino on the floor, a couple of struggling plants in pots on a shelf and a packet of Drum and a lighter with an ashtray on the floor. Three butts. The windows were fixed except for a small louvred section which stood partly open. This was evidently where Barry sat when he smoked, thought his thoughts and dreamed his dreams. He didn’t have to worry about giving up the grog and the smokes and losing weight and eating lettuce now. A slight breeze came in through the window and ruffled his freshly trimmed hair.
On closer examination it was clear that White had been shot twice at close range. One of the bullets must have hit an artery that pumped out the blood. Perhaps the second shot came later, as insurance. It had taken me about forty minutes to get to the boarding house and White must have made his call after 11.39 from a phone box nearby or somewhere in the house. He couldn’t have been dead for more than about half an hour before I got there. There was no smell of cordite in the air but with modern weapons there isn’t necessarily. And a silencer can take care of the noise. The police could question the residents about comings and goings but from the indifference I’d encountered at the front gate, it was unlikely that they’d glean much.
I had questions of my own, particularly about White’s mysterious backer. I did a quick search of the room and his belongings, poking through the drawers in the dressers, checking the pockets of his two jackets and three pairs of pants in the wardrobe, looking under the bed and flicking through the books and magazines. All the search told me was that someone else had done the job before me. Several of the pocket linings were displaced the way they get when the pockets are gone through, and the socks and underwear had been disturbed. There were no personal papers—insurance documents, letters, bills, photographs—but he could have had another storage place for them. The clincher confirming the previous search was that there was no wallet, no address book, no credit cards, no money—none of the things a person needs to get through the day.
There was a pay phone in the hallway near the kitchen, perhaps the phone White had used to call me. I dialled the emergency number, asked for the police and told my tale. I was instructed to stay where I was. There was no point in going anywhere. Frank Parker and Max Savage knew of my dealing with Barry White and would put two and two together when they heard of his death and they’d expect me to play it straight. I could expect some unpleasantness from the police but nothing I couldn’t handle. They’d try to make me tell them what White and I were up to and I wouldn’t. Our contract was locked in my safe and they’d need a pretty strong court order to get at it. They’d threaten me with obstruction and I’d tell them to see my lawyer, although I didn’t actually have one. Perhaps I’d give them Wallace Cavendish’s name.
The uniforms arrived first, then the detectives, then the forensic guys and lastly the body-movers. They took over the sitting room and I showed my PEA licence and other ID to just about all of them it seemed, and told my story at least three times. They made me turn out my pockets and took the keys to my car for a look-see, but in general I was treated with more respect than usual—maybe because of the suit. The residents of the house were stirred up by the activity, some got agitated and there was a certain amount of anti-police aggression displayed. As my patience was stretched by the repetition, I began to enjoy that. Detective Sergeant Fowler eventually gave up a half-hearted effort at pressuring me and produced a pocket tape-recorder.
‘How about you give me your statement, Mr Hardy? You seem to have the gift of the gab. I’ll get it typed up and you can come in and sign it. Then we’ll see what happens next.
‘Fair enough,’ I said. I rattled off a strictly edited version of the events of the past few days while Fowler smoked, looked bored, and occasionally checked that the light on his recorder was still glowing. When I finished he hit the OFF button, butted his fifth or sixth cigarette and stood up.
‘Right. Redfern station, let’s say, three o’clock this afternoon, if that’s convenient.’
‘Sure. No complaint, but your attitude strikes me as a bit casual, Detective Sergeant.’
Fowler shrugged. ‘Barry White was a fucking dog,’ he said.
This development left me with what would have been an ethical dilemma if there were any hard and fast ethical rules in the PEA business. There aren’t, not really. Of course you’re’ supposed to have a client and a contract but no one would blame me for pursuing the matter Barry White had brought to my attention and, if I ran into any sticklers for the letter of the law, I could always round up Leo Grogan as a stand-in. Of course, I was assuming that if White’s death was connected with the Beckett inquiry, there was a certain amount of danger involved. There was the prospect now of a bigger cut of the reward to be considered. All in all, going on seemed worth the risk.
Sudden death can have curious and unexpected effects. I’d felt almost nothing on finding White, while searching his sad room and dealing with the police. But as I drove away I experienced something like a sense of loss, or a feeling about the transitoriness and futility of everything. A dark mood settled on me and, instead of heading back to the office and picking up the threads of the inquiry or getting in touch with Max Savage, I found myself driving down Glebe Point Road, heading for home. I had no idea of what I’d do there beyond have a few drinks and a walk in the park. I knew I wanted to get out of the suit.
I parked outside my house, edging in between my neighbour’s Kombi van and a green Laser I hadn’t seen in the street before. I got out and noticed a woman standing on the other side of the street looking intently at my house. She was tall and full-bodied in a stylishly cut charcoal grey suit. She wore a white blouse and her hair, almost the same colour, hung to her shoulders. She saw me looking at her and did a kind of double-take.
‘Something wrong?’ I said.
She crossed the street slowly and her leather shoulder bag swung slightly as she moved. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, pointing at my shabby terrace. ‘Is that your house?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘I don’t suppose you’d be interested in selling it?’
Every week I get circulars from real estate agents telling me how many buyers they’ve got for properties just like mine in the area, what prices they’ve fetched at auction for just such places, and how they’d be happy to help me sell. Some are cheap productions with blurred print, others have nice borders and clear, artistic photographs. Whatever, I put them all in the recycling bin. This was the first direct, human approach in that vein and it made a difference. The house looked bleak and neglected, the way I felt, but something about this woman—the animation in her face, the big, dark eyes and sculptured features—lightened my mood.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Cou
ld be. What agency are you from?’
She smiled. Great teeth. ‘Oh, I’m not a real estate agent. It’s just that I’m looking for a house in this part of Glebe. There’s one on the other side a bit further down but I don’t like it much, so I came up here just to scout about.’
We were standing quite close together now and I liked the sensation. Her perfume was pleasant and she had an easy grace that made me feel relaxed. ‘I see,’ I said. ‘Well, houses come up from time to time. My name’s Hardy, by the way, Cliff Hardy.’
Her hand came up naturally and we shook. ‘Hi, I’m Claudia Vardon.’
Her accent was something like Greg Norman’s Australian overlaid with American. Her hand was very dry, strong grip. No wedding ring. Her eyebrows were dark and her complexion was olive, making a startling contrast with the almost white hair. I guessed her age at about forty, but I’m a rotten judge of women’s ages. I let go of her hand reluctantly.
‘You say you just might be interested in selling, Mr Hardy?’
I shrugged. ‘I think about it from time to time. . .’ A car turned into the street and came around the bend too fast. We had to jump out of the way and we collided, hip to hip. I reached out to steady her and felt the firmness of her body.
‘We don’t get many hoons like that,’ I said.
She wasn’t rattled by the speedster, nor embarrassed by my touching her. Pleased, if anything. I was glad I was wearing my suit and had shaved carefully. ‘How about the flight path?’
‘Not too bad here. But we’ll be getting a few planes soon. Would you like to have a look at the house? Chances are a plane’ll go over and you can get the idea. Where do you live now, by the way?’
‘In the city. Used to be Hunters Hill. The planes were terrible. Yes, all right, if it won’t put you out.’
We went between my car and the Laser which she nodded at. ‘I cramped your parking space. Sorry.’
‘That’s okay.’ I opened the gate and went ahead of her, pushing back some of the banksia that overhangs the path. The porch tiles have lifted where roots have got to them and there is a slight crack in the masonry from an old subsidence. If she noticed, she didn’t comment. The house is cleaned twice a month by George and Shirley, a pair of local characters who do a good job, so that it smells okay but a bit musty from under-use. Claudia Vardon walked in confidently, peeked into the room off the hallway and gazed up the stairs. As luck would have it, sunlight streamed in through the skylight I put in a few years back and gave the upstairs a promising glow.
‘Very nice,’ she said. ‘You haven’t mucked it all up.’
‘Far from it. It’s pretty original. Two out of three fireplaces intact. No aluminium windows.’
She laughed. ‘I hate those things.’
‘Me, too. Look, put your bag down and have a good snoop through. I’ve had a tough morning and I’m going to make a sandwich and have a glass of wine. Would you like something?’
She slung her bag at a chair and it landed neatly. ‘I’ve had lunch, thanks. Some wine would be great.’
I took off my jacket and headed for the kitchen. I heard her going up the stairs and grinned as she hit the step that squeaks like a mouse. I made a cheese and tomato sandwich, finished off the remainder of a bottle of Long Flat White in two swigs and opened another. I had a glass poured for her when she came through to the kitchen.
‘It’s a good house,’ she said. ‘You’ve been here a while?’
‘Mm. Have a drink.’
She took a solid sip. ‘I don’t think you want to sell this place. You and it seem to go together. I think you’d be lost anyplace else.’
I heard the low rumbling from above, I pointed at the ceiling. ‘Hang on. Listen.’
We stood close together, almost touching, listening to the plane overhead. When it passed she touched me on the shoulder. ‘Not bad at all.’
‘No, that’s about it. Come and have a look at the back.’
We carried our glasses out into the courtyard that I bricked in a rough fashion when Cyn and I first moved in here a hundred years ago. Grass grows through the cracks and some of the bricks have broken but it doesn’t look too bad. Shirley waters the plants and pulls up some of the weeds. A biggish mulberry tree gives some shade and stains a section of the bricks. The plastic outdoor furniture is white-spotted with bird shit.
‘If you stand on the fence you can see Blackwattle Bay,’ I said.
She lifted one elegant black shoe. ‘Not in these heels. It’s a great place for you. Very spare, very masculine. D’you mind if I ask what you do for a living?’
‘I’m a private detective. You?’
‘I was a solicitor and should’ve stayed with it. I’m recently divorced, hence the great house search. The Hunters Hill place is sold and I’ll get half—should be enough to buy something around here. I love Glebe even though it’s changed. I lived here when I was a student at Sydney.’
We both drank wine. We both smiled. ‘Will you go back into practice?’ I said.
‘Hell, I don’t know. Why?’
‘I need a lawyer.’
Her head went back and she laughed. I wanted to kiss her smooth brown throat. ‘Does that mean you’ve got lots of money or lots of problems?’
‘Prospects of both.’
‘That’s interesting. I’m not sure what I’m doing. I’m very rusty on everything, but we could talk about it.’
‘Good. What’re you doing tonight?’
She finished her wine and looked down at the glass. ‘Nothing. Waiting.’
‘Have dinner with me in Glebe. Indian, Lebanese, Spanish, French, Italian, you name it.’
‘Why not?’ she said. ‘Indian sounds good. D’you think I should wear a sari?’
‘You could,’ I said. ‘You could.’
9
I was as excited as a kid. Amazing how quickly and thoroughly that feeling of attraction to a new person of the opposite sex, when it’s possibly reciprocated, can change your perspective and priorities. Claudia Vardon would be back at my house at 7 p.m. and I’d be ready. Barry White, Peggy Hawkins and the others in the cast of characters associated with the Beckett case all took two places to the rear. I was about to launch into a house-tidying, a bed-changing and buying some supplies when I remembered the appointment at Redfern station. The last thing I needed was a copper arriving on the doorstep that evening to conduct me to the lockup. I carefully hung the suit on a hanger, smoothed out the tie, checked that I had a clean shirt and socks and went off to Redfern in my more usual uniform of drill trousers, open-neck shirt and battered linen jacket.
Detective Sergeant Jack Fowler had evidently done a bit of checking up on me and was puzzled by the results. I was a long-term PEA and a mate of a well-placed senior cop and yet had recently served a prison sentence and been de-licensed for a period. Will the real Cliff Hardy please stand up? He conducted me to a room which wasn’t as rough as the ones where they put the frighteners on the junkies nor as pleasant as where they interview child-molesting clergymen.
‘We’d like to know more about your association with White,’ he said.
‘Sorry. Professional matter. Confidential.’
‘You can’t run that line.’
‘I’m doing it. Look, all I can say is that the matter relates to events a good many years ago. Before you left school, Detective Sergeant. I have no reason to think White’s death is connected to what we were discussing.’
‘Discussing?’
‘That’s as far as it got.’
‘You say you’d arranged to meet him at the house.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Some of the blokes there say you seemed agitated.’
I knew that was a lie. The men who saw me arrive didn’t register anything. ‘I’m a busy man.’
‘There was hardly a scrap of paper in the joint. No wallet, no TAB tickets, fuck-all.’
I shrugged. ‘Your blokes patted me down. I didn’t take a thing. I’d say that points to Barry’s pa
st history catching up with him. Someone cleaned up everything. What kind of gun was used?’
He looked at me, trying to gauge my honesty, sincerity, duplicity, but I’d been at this game longer than him and he gave it up. He took five sheets of printout from a folder and pushed them across the table. ‘Sign it and you can go. You don’t seem too cut up about losing your client.’
I hadn’t brought a pen. I borrowed his blue ballpoint with a chewed end, read through the statement and signed at the foot of each page near the crosses. ‘In the private sector, you learn to live with these disappointments. I hope you find out who did it. Any leads?’
He took back the sheets. ‘Piss off,’ he said.
Back home the red light on the answering machine was blinking reproachfully. I ignored it and set about putting the house in better order. I ran the gutless vacuum cleaner over the carpets, cleaned the bathroom and toilet and put out some fresh towels. I changed the sheets on the bed and three of the four pillow slips. I emptied the waste-paper baskets and the kitchen tidy and sprayed air freshener around where the air didn’t smell fresh.
I wiped down the sink and bench tops, thought about pinching some flowers from other people’s front gardens and decided against it. I ran a squeegee over the kitchen lino and took a few swipes at the coffee pot with steel wool. I’d bought wine and Scotch, biscuits and cheese, coffee and milk on the way home. Also mineral water, soap and shampoo and a packet of Trojan lubricated condoms. Be prepared.
I showered, shampooed and shaved as closely as my old electric Philishave would let me. I looked at myself in the mirror—the lines around the eyes are there for all time and getting deeper; the cheeks have long, parallel grooves in them where the dimples used to be. The only thing you could call an improvement is in the teeth which have brightened up since I stopped smoking and look better since I had the old decayed fillings replaced by ceramic stuff. Expensive but necessary. You fool, I thought. She’ll probably make a rock-bottom offer on the house and head for home when you turn it down.