The Greenwich Apartments

by Peter Corris

  All this needed leisurely inspection. I could get Helen Broadway’s opinion on the woman’s things and perhaps get a lead on the man. I could try to identify the houses, boats and beaches. Lots to do, clues to follow, lives to construct. What I do best. I realised that it was getting late and that a drink would be welcome. Promising start, time to go. I could take some of the stuff with me and come back for the rest later. I found a green plastic garbage bag in the kitchen and dumped the handbags, a selection of the makeup, the photographs and Mr G.’s bits and pieces into it; folded up, I could easily carry it under one arm. I tossed in a pair of gold sandals with high heels and thin straps just for luck and went through to the front room.

  It occurred to me that nothing I’d done so far had any obvious connection with the video girl. Evidence about her was scattered all over the room. I put my bundle down and took a closer look at the videos. Among the pre-recorded cassettes, European, British, American and Australian, were a lot of tapes for home recording. The names of movies presumably taped from TV were printed on the boxes—The Left Hand of God, Marked Woman, The Running Man—none of my favourites. I’d seen The Running Man way back, at a drive-in with my soon-to-be wife (later to be my ex-wife), Cyn. I saw it again on TV by accident. In it Laurence Harvey does the worst Australian accent in the history of the cinema. I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to tape it. For the hell of it, maybe to get a laugh at the accent, I put the cassette into the recorder and hit Play. It was worse than I’d thought—a long, boring sequence with some people seen on a boat at a distance. Barely focused. Arty. I hit Stop and picked up my bundle.

  I was tired of the place, depressed by it and wanted to leave, but something was nagging at me, holding me back. I looked around noticing nothing new. Then the telephone rang, or rather emitted some of those electronic beaps that make you think you’re out there with Spock on the Enterprise. I lifted the receiver and waited.

  ‘Who’s there?’ a voice said—female, not young.

  That’s what I should be saying, I thought, but I said nothing.

  ‘Who are you?’ the voice said.

  Hard to come up with an answer to that. What would someone good and comforting say? What would Phillip Adams say?

  ‘Are you crazy? Lifting the blind and turning on the light in there? Do you want to be killed too?’

  ‘You’re talking about Carmel Wise,’ I said, trying to sound like Phillip Adams.

  ‘Yes. Don’t you know they’re watching the place most of the time? They’re probably watching it now?’

  ‘Who’s they, Madam?’

  ‘Who …?’

  Press a bit harder, Cliff. ‘I work for the owner of the Greenwich Apartments, Madam. Would you mind telling me who you are.’

  ‘I don’t want to get involved.’

  You are involved, I thought. That’s what everyone always says and it’s true. Doesn’t do to say so, though. Back to Phillip Adams. ‘Please tell me …’

  ‘No, nothing! Just be careful!’ She slammed the phone down so hard I winced and pulled the receiver from my ear. Then I dropped the envelopes and other things. I realised that I was standing opposite the window, in the middle of a frame like a TV news reader. I dropped to my knees and gathered up the papers. Then it seemed like a good idea to stay down there while I thought of a next move. Through the door, gun up, eyes blazing? The problem with that was I didn’t have a gun with me. It made more sense to crawl across the floor to the window, knocking aside video cassettes as I went, and to sneak a look out into the courtyard.

  Nothing had changed out there. Could be gunmen in the adjacent buildings, could be someone small crouched down behind the pedestal with an Uzi. I didn’t think so. What I did know was that there was someone around who knew the telephone number of flat one and was concerned enough to ring it when she saw a light. From how many windows could that be done? That sort of inquiry would have to wait. The job now was to get home with my goodies.

  I turned off the lights, pulled down the broken blind and opened the door. No-one lurking in the lobby. I patted my pocket. Yep, still got the key. Out into the courtyard, out into a cool night with the leaves of the plane trees rustling in a light breeze. Traffic noise from a distance and music somewhat closer. No shots, loud or silenced. I started across the courtyard to the lane and jumped a foot in the air as there was a rushing sound behind me. I almost dropped the envelopes again but it was just a jogger—a tall, thin jogger with headband, singlet and shorts and light, slapping feet.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Sorry to startle you.’ For an awful moment I thought he was going to be one of those who jog on the spot while they talk to you. Mustn’t lose the aerobic effect whatever you do. But he just lifted his hand and loped off down the lane.

  I said, ‘That’s okay, have a nice run,’ and followed him unaerobically. I stopped at the wine bar in Bayswater Road and had a drink. I had no trouble getting a place at the bar—the place must have been number three on the ‘spots to be seen at’ list.

  3

  NEXT morning I watched Helen while she made the coffee. She wore a red kimono-style dressing gown and looked terrific. She didn’t feel terrific though—I could tell from the emphasis she gave to her movements. The cups hit the bench like sharp left jabs.

  ‘You don’t want me here, Cliff,’ she said.

  ‘You’re wrong. I do want you.’

  The percolator hissed and she went to the fridge for milk. ‘Didn’t feel like it last night. You hardly spoke and that was a perfunctory fuck.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. Explain to me.’

  ‘Explain what?’

  She filled the cups and we sat down side by side at the bench. I put my arm around her and she let it stay there. She liked physical contact at the worst of times, so do I. It doesn’t deflect her from her purpose though. ‘When I come down from the bush to start the six months with you it’s fine at first. Lovely for the first day, terrific for the next couple of days. You know why?’

  I sipped. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘You’re on holiday. When you go back to work it all changes. You close down. You go somewhere else. I get the fag-end of you.’ She lit a Gitane. She smoked one a day, sometimes after lunch, sometimes after dinner; rarely first thing in the morning.

  ‘It’s difficult,’ I said. ‘The work’s so shitty in some ways. Other parts of it I like more than anything else I’ve ever done.’

  ‘Mm.’ She smoked and drank coffee. ‘I know all about men liking what they do.’ Helen’s husband, Michael Broadway, ran a vineyard and farm up on the north coast. According to Helen, he worked all through the daylight hours and fixed machinery and did laboratory tests at night. Seven days a week. They had a twelve-year-old daughter and a two-year-old arrangement—Helen spent six months on the farm and six months with me.

  ‘I must meet up with Michael,’ I said. ‘We seem to be getting more alike all the time. Maybe that’s a function of the arrangement. We should do an article for Forum.’

  She touched my hand and I could feel her wedding ring. ‘Don’t get bitter, Cliff. We’re talking, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Tell me about what you’re doing.’

  ‘Yes, Well, maybe you’ll see what I mean. This girl got shot a week or so ago. I’m looking into it for her father. There’s all kinds of strange angles.’

  ‘Shot?’

  ‘Shot dead. See? It’s hard to come home and be … normal with that in the background. I have to think about it and …’

  ‘I understand. Well, I’ve been thinking about it since you rolled off last night.’

  ‘Come on, Helen …’

  ‘It’s all right. I’m going to get a place of my own.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Don’t carry on. In this street if I can. Close by, anyway. I’ll butt right into whatever you’re doing and it can go to bloody hell if need be. I’ll have that right. Otherwise you can be with me when you want to be and need t
o be. It’ll be better. Not domestic. You’ll like it.’

  Like it? I thought. Like another failed relationship? But maybe she was right. ‘You’re incredible.’ I kissed her and she turned her face and kissed me back, hard. She smelled of coffee and tobacco and what two things ever went together better than those?

  ‘I love Sydney and I love you. I’ll have both. It’ll work.’

  I nodded. She was the finest diagnostician of human relationships I’d ever met. If she wanted it to work it probably would. She rinsed her cup and picked up the morning paper from the pile where I’d thrown it.

  ‘I’ll start looking today.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Okay. How far back do those papers go?’

  She riffled through the pile. ‘Two weeks at least. Slob.’

  She went off to shower and I dug through the papers for the reports on the shooting of Carmel Wise.

  It had happened on a Friday night; I get two papers on Saturday morning so I had two accounts, two sets of photographs. The National Herald’s reporter fancied herself as a stylist: ‘At 9 p.m. last night the courtyard outside the Greenwich Apartments was an oasis of quiet in a sea of sound. Kings Cross was at full blast all around, but in the leafy courtyard there could have been someone sitting down to read T. S. Eliot. They have a New York feel, the Greenwich Apartments, as if Woody Allen might wander through with his clarinet or Ivan Lendl might come bounding along on one of his late night runs. Instead, attractive Carmel Wise, 21, hotshot videotape editor and movie buff, stepped out of Greenwich into hell …’

  Helen came into the room dressed in white and smelling good. I couldn’t see how any real estate agent could resist her. She’d probably get a penthouse with a view of the bridge and the choicest bits of Darling Harbour. I was rumpled and unshaven. She looked over my shoulder.

  ‘That’s the one?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The story ran for a while. What was she called …?’

  ‘The Video Girl. Helen, could you take a look at some woman’s stuff. Give me your analysis?’

  ‘You’re not just trying to make me feel useful?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All right.’

  I cleared a space on the bench and spread out Tania Hester Bourke’s belongings. Helen moved them around, looked at the photographs. She examined the purses, the sunglasses, the makeup and other items. I showed her the photo of Tania, glass in hand, smiling at the lens.

  ‘What d’you want to know?’

  ‘Anything you can tell me.’

  ‘Mm, well. The passport is five years old, that’s obvious, and the photographs,’ she tapped the quarto-sized glossy black and white picture, ‘is a couple of years later.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Hair. Clothes.’

  ‘There’s two suitcases full of her clothes. Would you be able to tell how long ago they were bought? How long since they were worn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Great. Anything else?’

  ‘She was an air hostess when the passport photo was taken.’ She flipped through the passport. ‘She went all over the place. By the time the other picture was taken she was doing something different. Look, she makes a few trips here and there in ‘82 and ‘83. Nothing like before. Same places—Singapore, Bangkok, Jakarta, but less often. I bet she’s got batik cloth and a lot of silk stuff in the cases.’

  ‘Right. What does that mean?’

  ‘Nothing much. She’s got expensive tastes to judge by the makeup. Ah … you want to play Watson?’

  ‘Sure.’ I stroked an imaginary moustache.

  ‘City girl, private school, no skills to speak of … smoker, dieter …’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘She’s a good bit thinner in the second photo. Did I ever tell you about when I put on a stone and half?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I will one day. Point is, I know about dieting and the look it leaves. This woman’s got it.’ She poked at the documents. ‘Fair bit of money passing through the accounts.’ She ran a finger down a bank statement. ‘But it’s hard to tell with these things. It always looks like a lot, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, and it feels like nothing at all.’

  Helen tapped the photos into a neat stack and put them aside. ‘Well, that’s all I can tell you for now. Um … I’ve got enough for a deposit on something small. Wish me luck. I’m off.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  We kissed. We pressed together hard and thoughts of gunned-down girls and ex-air hostesses went out the window. She broke away and glanced at the photographs again. ‘Oh, one more thing. Your mystery woman likes men.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘She’s not a lesbian. This is man-attracting equipment.’ She dangled one of the gold sandals from her little finger. Helen’s fingernails were short and painted a pale pink. She wore a couple of light silver bangles around her wrist that looked good against her tanned skin. ‘And look at the picture—she fancies the bloke next to her.’

  She was right. Tania had her hand on the arm of a big, blonde man. She looked as if she’s just turned her big brown eyes away from him for the sake of the photograph and that they’d be back on him soon.

  ‘Husband?’ I said.

  She shook her head. ‘No rings, not that that means much. No, I wouldn’t say so. He doesn’t look like the husband type.’

  ‘There’s a type?’

  ‘Of course. Women can spot husbands, attached men, semidetached and so on, when they walk into a room. Usually, as soon as they open their mouths they confirm the guess. She won’t be too hard to find, will she? You’ve got a ton of evidence.’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘How does she connect to the girl who was shot?’

  ‘I don’t know. She lived in the flat the girl was using.’ It struck me then that the suitcases could have come from somewhere else. ‘Maybe she lived there.’

  ‘Did they know each other?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Who took the photos?’

  ‘I don’t know that either. A man.’ I pointed to the stuff that had belonged to Mr Greenwich. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘What about? Getting my own place?’

  The words sounded harsh and reproachful to me. I wanted to argue and convince her that she should stay right there. But I knew I’d be running all over the city that day and not be home until God knows when. I didn’t have an argument to use. Helen knew it too. She looked determined but not reproachful. I drew a breath and scratched my stubble. ‘No, I know you’re serious about that. I mean about this attached and detached man business.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which am I?’

  She slung her brown leather bag over her white linen shoulder and grinned at me. ‘That’s one of the things we’ll find out, won’t we?’

  4

  BACK to the papers. The Herald reporter had overused her poetic licence. Further reading showed that Carmel Wise had not stepped directly into anything. She must have walked across the courtyard, 30 feet or so, before the bullets were fired. The damage to the sign suggested the direction from which the shots had come—from the left as you faced the Greenwich Apartments. The girl had been hit several times in the back and once in the head; I assumed the shooter was at ground level because any marked angle to the line of fire would have pinpointed a window. I was already starting to think of it as a professional job.

  The News printed a photograph of the girl. She had a strong, high-cheekboned face with big eyes and a curious set of teeth, slightly gapped all around. The effect was pleasing. Her hair was dark and drawn back, giving her an intelligent, slightly surprised expression. She looked older than 21 and like someone who would be worth talking to.

  The News’ coverage was less lurid. Carmel Wise was dead when she was discovered in the courtyard by Mr Craig Wilenski, a resident of the block of flats opposite the Greenwich. This happened at 9.30 p.m. and there was no evide
nce for the Herald’s nomination of 9 p.m. as the time of the shooting. Mr Wilenski was returning home at the time; he phoned from his own flat and was not a witness to anything. Neither was anybody else; no-one heard the shots, no-one heard anything suspicious.

  But the man from the News must have filed what he had as quickly as he could and then pressed on because the Sunday edition carried the first of the ‘Video Girl’ stories. ‘Police confirmed that the flat which Ms Wise had occupied contained hundreds of videotapes,’ the story ran. ‘The victim was carrying a bag in which there were more videotapes.’ Then came the kicker: ‘Videotapes were found in the pockets of the coat Ms Wise was wearing and in her Honda Civic sedan, parked several blocks from the courtyard in which she met her death.’ She was ‘the Video Girl’ from that moment on.

  The tabloids were in full swing by mid-week. The newshounds had learned that Carmel Wise had worked for all five Sydney television stations (‘Video Girl Channel-hopped’), that she had appeared on quiz programmes as a movie expert (‘Video Girl Knew 5000 Movie Plots’) and that she had written, directed and produced a film for $10 000 which had made a bundle (‘Big Bucks for Video Girl’s Mini Budget Movie’). Personal details were very sparse—daughter of wealthy Sydney business man Leo Wise, educated at a Jewish private school, attended the National Film & Television School briefly. She had just completed work on a TV documentary on the ten richest people in Sydney, the producer of which, Tim Edwards, described her as ‘a major talent with a great flair, perhaps too much flair for this project.’

  By Thursday Carmel Wise was inside-page news at best. The police were calling for help from the public but the public wasn’t helping. No-one had seen anything. The scribblers had looked up all the TV stars and ‘personalities’ who might have had any contact with Carmel Wise but had drawn blanks. A TV doctor who had known her slightly said that she was ‘a very private person’. This got a small notice. Two nurses were killed on the North Shore and the ‘Video Girl’ slipped from sight. I saw no thing of the pornographic implications that Leo Wise had complained of, but they could have been exploited in other papers.