by Peter Corris
‘Supposing Barry White’s death is connected to the Beckett case, I’m asking how do the lines of connection run?’
I was doing one of my diagrams as I spoke, writing names, circling and putting blocks around them and drawing arrows and dotted lines. Max half-rose from his chair to look at what I was doing. ‘I see. Well, there’s a few possibilities. Leo Grogan for one, though not very likely.’
‘I’ve got him at the end of a broken line. I agree.’
‘A leak at my end. Through Frank Parker or someone twigging to what I was doing with the files.’
I hadn’t even entered Frank’s name. ‘Forget Frank. What about the other?’
Max shook his head. ‘Not likely, but possible. The other connection is Barry White’s backer. Let’s say White reported back to him and the backer decided he’d roped you in and that was all he needed. That made White expendable. Against that, how would the backer get in for his cut without White?’
‘Deal directly with me?’
‘He’d have to convince you he hadn’t offed Barry, wouldn’t he? Mind you, that sort of money is pretty convincing.’
I looked at Max and he looked at me. ‘I’ve had enough trouble lately without becoming an accessory to murder,’ I said.
11
We agreed on an agenda. I would try to find out who White had visited at the Connaught and get on to Cavendish about seeing the members of the Beckett family. I scrabbled among Harry Tickener’s faxes for a newspaper article he’d thrown in that contained a picture of Barry White. He was slimmer then, but the grainy reproduction wasn’t flattering, and yesterday’s Barry didn’t look so very different. It would do as a way of prompting people. Max would check on the whereabouts of Andrea Neville and find out all he could about the present dispositions of Deputy Commissioner Colin Sligo. As Max was leaving the phone rang and I told him to stop, forgetting that with his back turned he couldn’t hear me. Of course, he hadn’t heard the phone ring. Simultaneously with picking up the phone I tossed my styrofoam cup in Max’s direction. It hit him on the back of the neck and he spun around.
‘Hardy speaking.’ I made a ‘hang on’ gesture to Max who nodded, picked up the cup and dropped it into the waste-paper bin.
‘This is Wallace Cavendish, Mr Hardy. I’ve spoken to Mrs Beckett and she has agreed to see you. Would six-thirty today be acceptable?’
I hesitated for a fraction of a second. It had the sound of a time when Claudia might ring, but there was no way to know and I’d resolved not to let anything about her faze me. ‘Certainly, Mr Cavendish. Thank you for your cooperation. I take it you’ll be there?’
‘Most definitely. Let me give you the address.’
He rattled off an address in Wollstonecraft, not a part of Sydney where I spend much time. A Gregory’s job. I scribbled it down. ‘Thanks. At six-thirty then.’
‘Please be prompt. Mrs Beckett doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
‘I’m the same,’ I said. ‘I’ll be there.’ I rang off and looked at Max, who was shifting his weight from side to side impatiently.
‘Cavendish,’ I said. ‘I’m seeing the old girl this evening. Sorry about chucking that at you. I just didn’t know how else to get your attention and I thought it might be important.’
‘That’s okay,’ Max said. ‘The whole bloody deafness thing just pisses me off sometimes. What’re you going to say to her?’
I shrugged and took a chance. ‘I’ll play it by ear.’
Max threw back his head and roared. ‘Good one, Cliff. Good one. I’ll be in touch.’
The day was clear and bright with a bit of autumn in the breeze. It can be the best time of the year in Sydney, when warm days give way to cool nights. In the past people could sunbake, if they could get out of the wind, until May. Now they don’t do that much and, anyway, the wind would blow their hats off as they were heading for the sheltered spots on the beach. I bought three pieces of fruit in a shop in William Street, averted my eyes from the pubs, and headed for the Connaught.
For some reason Whitlam Square, a five-ways, is one of the windiest places in the city. It was blowing hard and the dust was flying when I arrived and I had my head down and my eyes almost closed as I went up the ramp towards the entrance to the Connaught. I was aware of someone in front of me but I was floundering, blinking against the dust, when we collided.
‘You bastard!’
I stumbled back and was three metres below her when I finally got my eyes open. Claudia Vardon stood there looking as if she’d shoot me if she had a gun. She was wearing a white dress that emphasised the smooth brown of her skin. Her hair was blowing wildly in the wind and her right fist was clenched.
‘You followed me here! You goddamn snoop!’
‘Claudia, no, I swear I didn’t. This is a coincidence. I’m here tracking someone. A man. Jesus . . .’
‘Coincidence, come on.’
People were looking at us as we stood, three steps apart, voices raised, arguing. I went up the steps and tried to take her arm. ‘Let’s get away from here so we can talk. I can prove to you that I didn’t follow you. I wouldn’t. I respect your privacy.’
She shied away from my touch but she let out a deep breath and seemed to soften a little. ‘You’re right. We can’t talk here.’
‘Is there a coffee shop or something?’
She nodded and led the way down to a coffee shop cum deli on what was called the Connaught Concourse. When we were seated I reached into my pocket for the photo of White. ‘This guy hired me a couple of days ago.’
She barely glanced at the photo. ‘To do what?’
‘To investigate something.’
‘Of course. And . . .’
‘I didn’t quite trust him, or rather I wanted to know more about him, so I followed him after another meeting and he came in here. I was going to show this picture around and ask if anyone had seen him.’
‘He lives here?’
‘No, no. He’s got some kind of benefactor who might live here. I want to find out who that is.’
The waitress came over and we ordered coffee.
‘Why can’t you ask him who this benefactor is?’
‘He wouldn’t tell me. Anyway, he’s dead now.’
Her huge, dark eyes opened wide and I could feel the anger going out of her as a more important matter was on the table. ‘But you said yesterday . . .’
‘He was killed yesterday, just a few hours before I met you.’
The coffee came and I found myself telling her almost everything about the case, leaving out most of the names. I wasn’t trying to impress her, more trying to convince her that I hadn’t snooped. She listened and asked the odd question and I was aware again of how sharp her mind was and I could sense that there was a lawyer in her, just below the surface. She stopped the flow by putting her hand on my arm.
‘It’s okay, Cliff. I believe you.’
‘Good. Thank you. This is all a bit weird, Claudia. I’ve been thinking about you non-stop. The bloke I’m working with, this Max I mentioned, says I’m a different man today.’
She spooned up froth from her cup. ‘Oh, yeah. And just what have you been thinking about me?’
I covered her hand with mine and then I interlaced our fingers. She didn’t object. ‘I respect your . . .’
‘Right to privacy. You said that. Anyway, it’s blown. I live here, temporarily.’
‘I was going to say your caution.’
She laughed. ‘Do you call last night cautious?’
‘No, I call it bloody wonderful.’
‘So do I. Come up to my place.’
Her apartment was on the eighth floor with a great view across the park towards the water. I didn’t get much more than a glimpse of it over her shoulder because we were clawing at each other within seconds of getting inside. She had white, lacy things under the white dress and some of them stayed on as we thrashed around on her bed. We kissed so hard it was like two boxers locking heads, and her tongue in my mouth an
d her hands down below quickly had me up and ready to go. She knelt on the tight pink satin sheet and shoved me onto my back. She hovered over me like a great white-crested, brown-plumaged bird. Then she swooped down and took me in her mouth.
I fought for control as I ran my hands over her firm body, kneading the flesh of her buttocks and breasts and thrusting my fingers into her. I was close to exploding when she left off and, still gripping me with one hand, fumbled in a drawer. She rolled the condom on and mounted me in what seemed like one smooth motion. She guided my hand around behind her and put my finger up into her anus as she bore down on me.
‘Now you hold on,’ she said. ‘For as long as you can.’
She rode me, knocking the breath from me with her weight. I reared up and it felt as if I’d never been so deeply inside a woman before. She was moaning and twisting on top of me and it was painful and blissful at the same time. She increased the tempo, found the rhythm she wanted and went on and on until she came in a long, heaving rush that brought me helplessly to my climax and had me shouting something up into her dark, beautiful face. She collapsed, slipped sideways and I slid out of her but grabbed her with both hands and pulled her close, wanting to feel the whole length of her against me.
‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘Oh, Jesus.’
I said nothing, just clung to her and struggled against a mad impulse to weep and laugh at the same time. I could feel myself shaking and she pushed back against me.
‘Cliff, what’s wrong? Are you having some kind of fit?’
‘No, no. It was just so good. So good.’
She rolled away; the condom had come free and semen or lubricant or both was on her thigh. She stood beside the bed smiling down at me. She had pulled the cover off and the top sheet down before we started, now she lifted the sheet up over me and shoved a pillow under my head. She unhooked her bra. Her large brown nipples were erect and I reached out to touch the nearest one.
She slapped my hand away. ‘Enough. Have a little sleep, why don’t you. I’m taking a shower.’
My body was hot and the pillow and sheets were cool. I was weightless, floating, and I was asleep before she got her stockings off.
When I woke up she was sitting at the end of the bed looking at me. She was wearing a floor-length white satin robe, modestly closed across her chest. It’s an odd feeling to wake up with someone watching you. Did you dribble or say something you shouldn’t have? I must have looked troubled.
‘Why are you looking like that?’ she said.
‘Like what?’
‘There was a sort of angry look on your face.’
‘I dunno. I sort of thought how vulnerable a sleeping person is to one who’s awake.’
She laughed. ‘Jesus, that’s paranoia if ever I heard it. I suppose it goes with the job. Makes it a bit hard on your women, though.’
‘You’re right there. I’m not good at hanging on to women, or they’re not good at hanging on to me. I suppose trust has something to do with it.’
‘We’ll see. Where d’you want to go from here, Cliff?’
‘On.’ I said.
‘Me, too.’ She crawled along the bed to me and I reached for her and we lay with our arms around each other. She smelled of shampoo and I stroked the fine, strong white hair.
‘Wondering about that?’ she said.
‘A bit, but I like it. It’s beautiful hair.’
‘It’s one of those things you read about but it actually happened to me. I had red hair, well, dark red. I was in a car crash once. Not too serious, cuts and bruises and concussion, but I saw what was going to happen before it did and got the fright of my life. My hair turned white while I was in the hospital. Not overnight, but over a couple of weeks. I dyed it for years but now I like it this way. You don’t think it makes me look old?’
‘Couldn’t.’
‘Thank you. Well, we’ve made some progress. We’re great in bed, and we both like curry. I wonder what else we might be able to do together?’
‘Travel, maybe?’
‘That’s a thought. Where?’
‘Paris?’
‘Jesus, this is speeding up. What . . .?’
I’d looked at my watch on the bedside table. It was after five. It felt as if I’d had ten minutes sleep and it was more like a couple of hours. I moved in the bed and she detached herself.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I have to see someone pretty soon.’
She patted my shoulder. ‘That’s okay. Who?’
‘Ramona Beckett’s mother.’
‘Well, that’ll be interesting for you. What . . . never mind.’
‘Go on.’
‘I was going to ask you what line you’d take with her, but it’s none of my business. I just wish I had something as interesting as that to do myself, instead of just waiting for this bloody settlement to come through.’ She jackknifed off the bed like a gymnast. ‘You’d better have a shower. Can’t go calling on an elderly lady smelling like that.’
I showered and dressed. She had a bottle of white wine open when I came out to the living room and she put a glass in front of me. ‘Tell you what. Give me that picture you had and I’ll ask around about him. I know how this place works.’
I was doubtful but I took out the photo. ‘What will you say?’
‘What would you have said?’
‘It’d depend on who I was talking to.’
‘Well, likewise. Anyway, the security in this place is so tight you’d get nowhere. Do you realise our keys only allow us to access our own floors and the roof? That’s where the pool and spa and saunas are. And the gym. At least I can ask around in the lifts and the public spaces.’
I handed the photo to her. ‘Okay, thanks. That could be a big help, but you have to promise you won’t follow it up if you get a bite.’
‘No way. I’ll just tell you next time we meet, which will be when?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Yes. Can I come to your office? You’ve invaded my inner sanctum, I wanna get a look at yours.’
We agreed to meet there at noon. I finished the drink. We stood up simultaneously and kissed.
‘I would’ve called you, Cliff,’ she said. ‘Just about now.’
12
Wollstonecraft is not that far from Glebe as the shark swims, but it’s a million miles away in atmosphere and economics. I got out of the car to walk about, kill a few minutes and take in the ambience. The first thing that struck me was the quiet. A few cars purred by but otherwise the only sounds were from birds in the trees and garden sprinkler systems. A telephone booth I passed held a full set of intact directories—White and Yellow Pages.
As I negotiated my way to the Beckett house I reflected that the middle classes have apparently held out here against change. Their big houses still sit on big blocks with high fences and hedges. No granny flats and subdivisions. Apartment buildings have gone up, particularly near the railway station, but they were all solid and gracious, like the houses—high-rent places, not likely to attract anyone who might let down the tone. The migrant influx must have had an affect on the commercial life of the suburb, but my guess was that it hadn’t changed the domestic patterns. The word Waterloo was sculptured into a hedge. That’d be right, I thought, Anglophiles’d be thick on the ground around here. I wondered how Gabriella Vargas had fitted in. She must’ve liked it, hadn’t moved.
The house was probably the best one in the best street, a cul-de-sac with bushy parkland along one side and at the bottom. It looked out across a stretch of reserve towards Balls Head Bay. Behind the three-metre hedge I could see the top levels of the elegant sandstone mansion and the word villa came to mind. On a good day you’d have a great view of the yachts on the water from up there and be breathing air that would have less lead, carbon monoxide and other poisons in it than that inhaled by most Sydney residents. There were only two cars in the street, visitors, obviously. Here, you drove through your gates and tucked your Merc up snugly for the night in your garage or car port
. I checked my watch. Six-twenty. She didn’t like people being late. I wondered how she felt about early.
I pressed a button on the gatepost, announced myself and pushed the gate open after the click. The front garden was a nice blend of paving stones, grass, shrubs and flower beds. There were a couple of benches situated where shade would fall at the right times of day. I went up three sandstone steps to the wide front porch and pressed another button, plenty of index-finger exercise in this neck of the woods. The door was opened by a small woman in a dark dress with a white collar. In the old days she’d have been able to take my hat, cane and gloves, now she just had to show me to the room where Cavendish and Mrs Beckett were waiting. I was still six minutes early.
Drapes were drawn against the still strong outside light and the room was gloomy. An eye injury I suffered a few years back has slowed down my ability to adapt from light to dark. I’d have to be careful not to bump into the furniture. Cavendish stood beside a chair in which Gabriella Beckett sat. It was hard to see her clearly in the poor light. Perhaps that was the idea, but I got an impression of great beauty and great sadness. As I got closer I could see that her skin was dark and drawn tight over high cheekbones. Her nose was slightly hooked and her eyes were deeply sunk or maybe only seemed that way because of the nose. Her hair was white with a creamy tinge. She wore a black lace dress with long sleeves; she looked to be tallish, but if she weighed fifty kilos that’d be all.
‘Good evening, Mr Hardy,’ she said. Her voice was slightly accented, hitting the middle syllables.
‘Mrs Beckett. Good of you to see me.’ I nodded at Cavendish.
‘Let’s make this brief, Hardy. Mrs Beckett isn’t well.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Apart from being too thin she looked fine to me. I struggled to see a resemblance to Ramona but it was too long ago for me to have a clear picture.