The Coast Road

by Peter Corris

  I did what the voice said. The Falcon, after sitting cold for nearly twenty-four hours, was reluctant to start.

  ‘Am I allowed to give it some choke?’

  He was behind me now with the back door closed. I couldn’t feel the gun, but that didn’t do anything to reduce the sweat running down my face and breaking out in other places.

  ‘Just get it started or everything stops for you right here.’

  The engine coughed, caught, and I nursed it to a healthy purr. ‘I’ll have to get out to pay.’

  ‘It’s been taken care of,’ he said. ‘Drive!’

  I snuck a quick look in the rear vision mirror and saw nothing—taped over. He knew his stuff. I drove down the ramps and the boom gate lifted and we were out on the road.

  ‘Straight ahead and don’t do any smart thinking. You’re dead in a second and I’m out and off and anyone in my way is collateral damage.’

  I drove, obeying his directional instructions. What he said was probably true about being able to get clear and, in any case, it wouldn’t matter to me if he did or not. We were heading for the rough land surrounding the sewerage works. From my earlier reading of the map I recalled that it ran partly alongside the golf course. Sewerage plants are pretty much automated with not many workers around, and, unless it was a competition day, not too many golfers would be out. This guy would’ve checked on that. A shotgun had seen Adam MacPherson off, and here was one just centimetres from my spinal cord. The sweat was running off me now. The seatbelt hung loose over my shoulder—I wasn’t that dumb.

  Traffic thinned down to nothing. His sharply barked directions were taking us along empty roads with cyclone fences and bits of industrial plant with no one about. It was the worst of places and the best of places. I made the decision: I swung the wheel and hit the kerb. The bump pulled the shotgun barrel away from my head giving me the time I needed. I hit the brake and threw myself against my bag and the passenger door. What the guy behind didn’t know was that the passenger door catch was buggered and would open at a touch. I went through the door with the bag ahead of me, clutching it to break my fall. It partly worked, but I hit hard and felt the wind go out of me as the car careened ahead, out of control.

  I rolled and sucked in air. I unzipped the bag and groped for the .38 Smith & Wesson I’d brought along with other accessories. I found it with sweaty fingers and struggled to get my bearings. The Falcon had stalled with its nose buried deep in a stand of lantana. It was fifty metres away. The back door opened and he stepped out, clutching his chest. No seatbelt in the back—a nasty thump. He was a blur at that distance with the sweat running into my eyes. Big. Dark. Beard? Denim? He still had the sawn-off and he pointed it in my direction. Took a few steps.

  I fired a shot over his head and he stopped. I moved closer, two hands on the revolver and slightly crouched. At forty metres, a pistol is problematic unless in the hands of an expert, but a sawn-off shotgun is as useless as a toothpick. He didn’t panic. He fired both barrels in my direction and the shot threw up dirt not too far in front of me. He scrambled under some bushes bordering a creek and moved quickly away. I went after him with the gun in my hand, but I was winded and hurting and he had the greater incentive. I stopped and watched him wade across the shallow creek that ran through the golf course. He climbed out, muddy, before smoothly jogging down the ideal running surface of the closely cut fairway.

  16

  I limped back to the car with the adrenalin starting to recede, thinking that this had been a very close call. If I hadn’t had the gun in the bag, if I hadn’t had the bag on the front seat, if the passenger door catch hadn’t been dodgy . . . The car was undamaged, maybe a few more scratches on the hood where it had run into the lantana. I started the engine, reversed and drove back to the bag. I collected the stuff that had spilled, shoved it inside and headed off. A .38 doesn’t make a very loud report but a shotgun does and I didn’t want to be hanging around if anyone came to investigate.

  I made some turns and was on a street leading away from the water and the golf course before I realised that I was driving with no rear vision. I stopped and stripped the tape from the mirror. The street was quiet and I sat for a while letting its peaceful ordinariness soothe me. The brandy bottle had rolled clear of the bag. A few swigs left. I soothed myself some more. My heart rate slowed to near normal and I began to take notice of details. My flannel shirt was dirty and ripped at the shoulder where I’d hit the ground. Another item of expense for Dr Farmer. Also one .38 round . . . I realised that I wasn’t thinking straight and felt a sudden surge of panic. What if the guy who’d jumped me had backup? Ridiculous. I closed my eyes and counted to ten.

  It’s one thing to be threatened, attacked, whatever, because you have something someone else wants or know something someone doesn’t want you to know. When you believe you don’t have or know anything dangerous it makes it harder to know what steps to take. But when you’re being paid, there’s really only one option—backing out completely (tempting after the shotgun episode), isn’t on. Only thing is to go all out to get the dangerous item of knowledge and use it any way you can. My interest in the connection, whatever it was, between Frederick Farmer’s death, the insurance on his land and elements in the Wollongong underworld was at the heart of the matter. And my only way forward was to take a close look at Wendy Jones.

  I was back at Waterfall when my mobile rang. Law abiding citizen, and not sure how far Barton of Bellambi’s writ ran, I pulled over to take the call. Reception was good; Purcell, the undercover cop I’d given my mobile number to, came in loud and clear.

  ‘Where are you, Hardy?’

  ‘On my way back to Sydney, a bit battered and bruised.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  I told him what had happened and he whistled, an unpleasant noise over the phone. ‘You see him?’

  ‘Not up close. Bikie, possibly. What’s this call about?’

  ‘Thought you might appreciate a bit more on Wendy.’

  ‘All you’ve got. Thanks.’

  He read off the registration number of her red BMW. I scrabbled in the glove box detritus for a ballpoint and wrote it down. ‘Okay. Got it.’

  ‘She’s gone up to gamble. That’s her thing whenever she gets her hands on any money. Look for her at the casino.’

  I groaned. ‘Not at Randwick?’

  ‘Wendy’s a night owl.’

  ‘Ah, it’d help to know what she looks like.’

  ‘I’ve got a picture somewhere. You’ll know her. I’ll scan it in. Give me your email address.’

  I gave it to him and could hear the clatter of computer keys—your modern undercover guy. ‘Any idea where the money came from?’

  ‘What’s a Beemer cost these days, even second hand? Twenty grand? More? I wouldn’t know. And a splurge in Sydney? Another ten? It’s a big score from somewhere but I haven’t a clue. Gotta go. Good luck, Hardy.’

  I drove on with plenty to think about and an aching body in need of some TLC. Nothing in sight. My phone rang again. This time it was Dr Farmer asking me to call on her at her place in Newtown. Why not? It was on my way and I could show her my ragged shirt as evidence that I’d been out and about on her behalf.

  Her house was about half the size of the one Matilda Sharpe-Tarleton lived and worked in, but that didn’t make it small. Those single-storey, narrow-fronted terraces can open up to something spectacular inside and hers did. She met me at the door. She wore a tracksuit and had recently showered so that her hair was still spiky and wet. She looked healthy but troubled. A set of golf clubs rested against the wall halfway down the passage.

  ‘I played this morning in the comp,’ she said as we moved down towards a big, skylighted area where a lot of money had been spent.

  Golf courses weren’t my favourite places at the best of times and particularly not today, but I made a polite response. She had coffee percolating. She poured two mugs full and we sat down under the skylight. The back of the house was all timber a
nd glass and her tiny bricked courtyard was a riot of plants. Wide pine steps ran up to a mezzanine where I’d bet there was a queen-size bed.

  I took a swig of coffee. ‘Great house.’

  ‘We like it. Mr Hardy, I was all set to go off to work when Sue Holland called in here.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’

  ‘Very, and thank Christ Tania wasn’t here. You probably gathered that Sue and I had a thing going some time ago. Well, I met Tania and it went wrong and Sue’s been angry and sad and all that. Difficult at times.’

  I nodded and worked on the excellent coffee.

  ‘At first I thought she was going to go over it all again. How she’d loved me and I’d betrayed her and all that. But she didn’t. She was sort of apologetic. She’s accepted an offer on her property at Wombarra.’

  That got my attention. ‘I got the impression she loved the place, couldn’t live without it.’

  She stared out at her sunlit greenery and I had the feeling she was reliving old memories, some good, some bad. She gulped down coffee and got the focus back. ‘I’d have said the same. She didn’t tell me the figure but she said it was just too much to refuse. She can relocate in the area with money to spare.’

  ‘Did she say who the offer was from?’

  ‘Some solicitor or other. I don’t think she mentioned a name. I don’t think Matilda could be behind it. I doubt she’d have the sort of money Sue was talking about or would want to spend it that way.’

  ‘Does it set you thinking?’

  ‘You mean would I sell for enough money? No, not if it’s got anything to do with killing my dad.’

  ‘It could have. It sort of ties in with—’

  She cut me off. ‘There’s more. She asked me to tell you that she’s been working on that impression she had of the person hanging around Dad’s place. You remember?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘She says she now thinks it was a woman. A sort of bulked-up woman. She stressed that this wasn’t some dyke fantasy. You asked her about a vehicle, she says.’

  ‘Right.’

  Elizabeth Farmer pushed her damp hair back from her striking face. ‘I don’t know where all this clarity of recall’s come from, maybe from suddenly becoming rich, but she says she heard a motorbike start up after she’d seen this . . . person. You don’t look surprised, Mr Hardy.’

  I finished my coffee and fingered the rents in my dirty shirt. ‘I’ve been dealing with bikies down there for the last twenty-four hours, thirty-six, maybe. One friendly, most not. I’m not surprised.’

  ‘You got hurt again? I don’t—’ ‘It’s all right. My pride mostly. There’s something very strange going on in the Illawarra, Dr Farmer, and you’ve put me right in the middle of it.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, that’s not right. Don’t say that. You still want to find out why your father died?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘So do I, and I’ve got an ally or two.’

  We sat quietly for a few minutes in those up-market surroundings. My thoughts drifted to Marisha Karatsky and the only moments of comfort I’d had since this whole thing started.

  She broke in. ‘I can tell you something—if Sue Holland says she heard a motorcycle engine you can believe it. She was a motorbike dyke in her day.’

  ‘I believe it,’ I said. ‘Tell me, what does Tania do?’

  ‘She’s an accountant. Why?’

  ‘I need someone to go to the casino with me. An accountant sounds right.’

  I explained about Wendy Jones and the possibility of finding out, through her, what might be going on down south.

  She made a face. ‘Why can’t I go?’

  The last time I’d taken a client into what might be called an operational situation, the client had been shot and later abducted. I could hardly tell Dr Farmer that, so I fell back on not involving a client at the sharp end as a professional principle. I asked her if Tania would be willing.

  ‘She’d love it. She complains about the dullness of her job.’

  ‘She knows about all this?’

  ‘Of course. We’re married.’

  It was said as a challenge but I didn’t respond. I knew that same sex weddings were going on all the time and that they probably had the same ups and downs as the other kind and de facto set-ups. Downs and yet more downs in my own case.

  ‘Ask her as soon as she comes in. Tonight would be best.’

  ‘It won’t be dangerous?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’ll do it, I know she will. But just supposing she won’t, what would you do?’

  I shrugged. ‘Hire a professional. That’d cost you more money.’

  ‘So you . . . haven’t got anyone . . . ?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  After the events of the morning I wasn’t inclined to go down this road. ‘It doesn’t happen,’ I said. ‘And when it does, it doesn’t last.’

  ‘That’s bleak.’

  I shrugged again and got to my feet. ‘I’ll wait for your call. If it’s a go, Tania should wear something smart and you should give her some gambling money.’

  She smiled as she moved to escort me out. ‘I sometimes wish I’d studied psychology instead of linguistics. This is all very interesting.’

  Interesting, I thought. Sure, with a couple of people dead and the welts from the prod of a double barrel sawn-off shotgun smarting on my neck. I kept moving and didn’t say anything.

  ‘Do you wish you’d done something different, Cliff ? Another profession?’

  I didn’t even have to think. ‘Yes and no,’ I said.

  17

  My reasoning was this: the casino had good people and any security man worth his salt would take a close look at someone like me. They might even have me on file, with a photo or video or both, after some of the matters I’d dealt with over the years. If I turned up with a female partner the temperature would drop and she might even be useful in getting me close to Wendy Jones.

  As I headed for home, I tried to remember what Tania looked like from the glimpse I’d caught on the street. That’s if it was Tania, and Elizabeth Farmer wasn’t sharing herself about. Blonde, I thought, suede coat. An accountant might be a good companion to go gambling with, but what would you talk to her about? The only accountant I knew was my own and our contact mostly consisted of him telling me what to do and how slack I was about keeping documents.

  There was the usual build-up of mail after an absence, mostly inconsequential, and a stack of phone messages, mostly ignorable. The house felt plain and dowdy after the opulence of my client’s place but that’s probably how I like it. Unlike several women I’ve known, my habit is to unpack completely on getting home. Dirty clothes in the wash, other stuff back where it belongs. My ex-wife Cyn was capable of stepping over her unpacked bag for weeks, taking what she needed out of it piece by piece.

  I showered, applied some antiseptic cream to my scraped shoulder, put on a tracksuit and sneakers and went for a walk. The apartment development at the end of Glebe Point Road was just about ready for the well-heeled owners to move in on their water views. I turned off and did a long circuit through Jubilee Park, over the bridge and back up around Harold Park. The pub has gone and I wondered how much longer the pacing could continue. It seemed like time was passing it by. Up the Wigram Road hill and back home. A couple of kilometres and forty-five minutes of time out. I didn’t think about Frederick Farmer or Adam MacPherson or Wendy Jones or Marisha Karatsky.

  There was a message with an attachment on the computer from Purcell. The message asked me to scrub the whole lot once I’d looked at it. The attachment was a photograph of Wendy Jones in the company of a gang of bikies. She was in the middle, astride her bike, and looked completely at home. At a guess she was in her mid to late twenties. Her face was arresting—high cheekbones, bony nose, thin lips. The quality wasn’t good enough for me to tell the colour of her eyes below heavy, dark brows. Her hair was mid-blonde, drawn bac
k in a bikie ponytail. Slap on the makeup, change the colour and arrangement of her hair, put her in a dress and she could be transformed. But I wouldn’t have any trouble recognising her—the photo was sharp enough with the light coming in from the right direction to show that she had a winking jewel implanted in both of her front teeth. I could hear Purcell laughing.

  Dr Farmer called to confirm that Tania was a starter. At 10 pm, in my only dark suit with a collar and tie and well-shined shoes, I parked outside the bijou terrace in Newtown. Dr Farmer ushered me in and introduced me to Tania Vronsky. She was the woman I’d seen in King Street—medium height, short blonde hair, an athletic body. She wore a black silk dress with a cream jacket, medium heels.

  We shook hands. I said, ‘Ms Vronsky’ and she said, ‘Mr Hardy.’

  Elizabeth Farmer snorted. ‘It’s going to look bloody funny the two of you walking around calling each other Ms and Mr. His name’s Cliff.’

  ‘Hello, Cliff. Thanks for the invitation.’

  ‘A pleasure, Tania.’

  ‘Let’s have a drink,’ Elizabeth Farmer, who’d obviously already had a few, said. ‘Put you both in the mood.’

  She had a bottle of champagne open and the glasses ready. She poured, a little unsteadily. ‘Good luck,’ she said as she handed the drinks around. ‘Tell me all about it after, darling.’

  In the car, I said, ‘She’s not too happy about this, is she? D’you want to back out?’

  ‘Shit, no. I love her dearly, but sometimes she’s too clingy. This is a godsend. I need some space. Just a bit. For now.’

  I started the car. She leaned back and sighed. I drove in silence for a while, threading through the traffic towards Broadway.

  ‘D’you think you could stop so I can get cigarettes, Cliff? It’s another no-no at home, but it’d be in character in a casino, right?’

  The casino was part of a complex on Darling Harbour. I’d been to a Van Morrison concert in the entertainment centre nearby and I’d eaten in one of the associated restaurants, but I’d never been inside the real money-spinner, the casino. I’d been in others though, and knew what to expect—over-the-top bad taste décor and an arrangement of lights and mirrors that made you think you’d entered another universe. I wasn’t wrong: the entrance had lights in the floor and spouting water up glassy walls. Inside the look was something between a tropical island and an Arabian tent—glass, steel and plastic thrown together with a few million watts. Pink dominated, followed by yellow and pale blue.