by Peter Corris
‘So what d’you want to do, Frank? I wouldn’t advise staking out the hospital with police. Cathy Carter’s pretty smart and well trained. She’d spot them in no time.’
‘And she won’t spot bikies?’
‘I’m pretty sure Paul won’t have them in their colours or riding Harleys.’
‘You seem to put a lot of faith in this guy.’
‘I do. You should meet him.’
‘Maybe I will and I hope it’s not in court or somewhere worse.’
‘What was Fowler’s reputation with women?’
‘Why?’
‘Just a thought.’
I knew Frank wasn’t going to tell me about the other irons the task force had in the fire. I knew why he couldn’t. And he knew I wouldn’t give him every scrap of information or every half-idea I had. It was the kind of mutual understanding we’d reached before and so far it hadn’t turned out too badly.
‘Fowler was a good-looking bloke, about as tall as you and with much the same build. Dark like you, but without the rough edges.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘He was a womaniser—twice married and with a string of other relationships during, between and after his marriages.’
What women? I wondered. There were certainly enough of them in this case. Kate Greenhall had said her mother was hot for uniforms; Alicia Troy had worked at the Police and Justice Museum. I needed more arrows and dots in my diagrams.
I said, ‘I take it no one knows his whereabouts now.’
‘Right. If you find out . . .’
‘I know, approach with caution.’
He shook his head. ‘Look, with all that’s happening the pressure’s going to reach him. He’ll kill you as soon as look at you if it suits him. Be smart for once, Cliff. Stay in touch, close in touch. I have to go.’
Frank left and I located Alicia Troy’s number and sent her a text asking to see her as soon as convenient. An answer came back almost straight away that she already had a bottle of the Houghton’s waiting for me and she’d see me at 6 pm. I had half a bottle inside me already and it wasn’t quite midday. The only responsible thing to do was go to the gym and sweat, then have a swim and the lightest of lunches.
Mid-afternoon and well scrubbed up, I was paying bills online when Paul rang.
‘No show yet. Did you have a good chat with Parker?’
‘Fuck you. You’ve got a watch on me.’
‘Want me to call it off?’
‘Just keep it discreet.’
‘Always. Fairly good abs for a man your age, my guy says.’
Alicia Troy ushered me into the flat with the confidence that seemed typical of her. She wore a plain, high-necked dress in some soft material and in a dark red that suited her. The evening outside was cool but a muted air conditioner had the flat at a temperature a shade too warm for my jacket. I took it off.
‘Drop it anywhere you like,’ she said. ‘It occurred to me you might prefer red wine to white.’
‘Wine’s wine to me. I like the relaxing effect. I don’t care about the colour. White’s fine.’
She busied herself with glasses while I went to the window for the night view. When I bought the Glebe house the ad had said, ‘Will suit Balmain buyers’, which was pretty accurate—water and parkland if you got the right spot, with the shopping strip not too far away. It was much the same now, but the ads should read, ‘Will suit rich buyers.’
We took our seats at the table as before. She poured two-thirds-full glasses and kept the bottle to hand. She raised her glass in long, slender, ringless fingers.
‘I knew you’d be back. I’ve been thinking about you and I’m guessing you’ve been thinking about me.’
We touched glasses and I realised she was right. I’d kept the idea of her rather than the reality somewhere in my head—her oddness, her confidence. Frank’s account of Fowler’s womanising had triggered my recollection of Kate Greenhall’s statement about her mother’s uniform fetish. If Timothy knew the rogue cops, it was probable Jilly did, too. I wondered again about Alicia’s possible police connection. But only fleetingly. Like most men, I respond when a woman shows interest in me. It has a kind of hormonal effect which we sometimes resist and sometimes don’t.
We drank.
‘I have been thinking about you, yes. Professionally.’
‘Really?’
We drank again.
It was happening the way it can and I suspect it doesn’t matter whether you’re seventeen or seventy. With her sitting there, all dark eyes, full lips and soft contours, I didn’t give a damn about dead men or dirty cops. I wanted to touch her more than I wanted answers to the difficult questions. This was simpler. I reached across the table and took her hand. Our fingers interlocked.
‘I had nothing to do with Patrick’s death,’ she said.
‘I know. I never thought you did.’
She released my hand and sipped her wine. ‘Of course you did. You suspected every one of the five million people in the fucking city.’
I laughed and had a drink of the wine without having any idea of how it tasted. ‘Except you.’
‘Including me and your grandmother.’ She stood and smoothed her dress. ‘You’ve got an unattached look. How long have you been sleeping alone?’
I stood and moved towards her. ‘Too long,’ I said.
‘Same here. Much too long. It’s a well-known fact that losing a partner leaves you randy.’
19
Our love-making was moderately successful, which satisfied us. We were both too experienced to have unreasonably high expectations. The sheets and blankets on her bed were not violently disturbed. She grabbed a couple of tissues and eased the condom from me.
‘That was nice,’ she said.
‘Very nice.’
‘Mmm.’
I kissed her, trying not to do damage to her pale, fine-pored skin with my bristles. ‘Alicia. It suits you.’
She propped herself up on an elbow. Her breasts were large but firm, blue-veined with dark, spreading nipples. ‘Meaning?’
‘It’s unusual.’
‘I’m unusual, all right. I’ve broken a lot of rules.’
‘That’s what I mean. You seem to say what you want and do what you want.’
‘That’s unusual?’
‘I reckon. A lot of people, sometimes I think most, are running scared. They’re scared to be who they really are, or to do what they really want to do. They’re pretending to themselves and everyone else.’
‘That’s too harsh,’ she said. ‘I think you’re working from an unrepresentative sample, but it’s interesting and I’ll think about it.’
I reached for her but she wriggled away.
‘Don’t push your luck,’ she said. ‘Let’s get back to our wine and you can get around to telling me why you’re here, apart from wanting to fuck me.’
She poured a bit of wine into her glass and tasted it. ‘Warm and stale,’ she said. ‘I’ll cook with it.’
She opened another bottle and got fresh glasses.
‘I can’t decide whether you were right or not,’ I said.
‘About what?’
‘About wanting to fuck you, but I’m glad you were willing and that we did.’
‘I was more than willing. Now, about the other thing.’
‘You suggested that Patrick might not have been Timothy Greenhall’s son. You implied his wife was unfaithful.’
‘That’s right. I told you I got that from Patrick. It was just one of the many things that screwed him up. I didn’t believe it, though. Why does it matter?’
I told her something of what had happened since our first meeting—the violence, and the questions that needed answering. About why, probably, Patrick had been murdered and what I was trying to do about it and how I had some allies.
She listened in silence, sipping her wine. When I paused she spoke quietly. ‘I believed it was suicide.’
‘I know you did. Some people are very good at making
it look that way. But it was murder and now Timothy Greenhall wants the murderer punished.’
‘Does he really have doubts about his paternity?’
‘I don’t know. The subject didn’t come up, but it’s important now we might have a connection between Fowler and Patrick’s mother. That’s why I wanted you to tell me everything you know about her.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘The suspect’s whereabouts are unknown. Shit, I’m sounding like a policeman.’
‘Just ask the question.’
‘Did Patrick ever say anything about his mother and her . . . interest in uniforms?’
We were sitting on the couch nursing our glasses. She had her long legs tucked up the way women do and was turned sideways. I reached out and stroked her dark hair, in which a touch of grey was just starting to appear. It increased her appeal to me. She took a let-me-think drink.
‘I didn’t realise there was so much psychology in your line of work, Cliff.’
‘From time to time.’
‘Uniforms . . . police . . . there’s something . . .Yes, I’ve got it. One of the therapists Patrick went to hypnotised him to recover memories. He said the therapist told him that he had recounted a childhood memory of seeing his mother naked with a man who had a blue uniform jacket thrown over a chair.’
‘Did that traumatise him?’
‘It would, wouldn’t it? But there was a lot going on. He knew his mother and father were at odds with each other and it was just a bit of confirmation. Something else intrigued him though.’
‘What was that?’
‘He said the therapist told him that under hypnosis he also remembered hearing his mother groaning and saying something about a cock crowing.’
‘What did Patrick make of that?’
‘Obviously, that it had something to do with his sexual insecurity. But that was central to everything he thought and felt so he didn’t attach particular importance to it. I tried to find out if there was anything in Freud about sex and roosters but there wasn’t. Why, do you make anything of it?’
I did, but I didn’t tell her so. She whipped up curried mince with rice and peppers plus sweet mango chutney and poppadums. I stayed the night and we made love again in the early morning. Then it was coffee and the awkwardness.
I told Alicia I never knew from one day to the next where I’d be or what I’d be doing. Other women I’d told this to took it as a brush-off and reacted badly. She didn’t. She said she had to go to Queensland to negotiate with a family about some old goldfields equipment in their possession and that she had a conference in Canada to attend in about six weeks. I said I’d contact her when I had a clear patch and she said she’d try to fit me in.
‘That’s a joke,’ she said.
I kissed her, being even more careful with the stubble.
‘If you find out who killed Patrick, I’d like to know. Otherwise, just be careful around the Glocks.’
I went straight to the office, still unshaven and not showered, reluctant to lose the smell and the feel of her. Timothy Greenhall’s deceits were peeling off like onion layers. It didn’t take much to imagine an enthusiastic Mrs G emoting about a cock, aka a rooster, crowing in the clinches. Did Greenhall know who’d been her lover? Did he really suspect he wasn’t Patrick’s father? Did he care?
The connection threw up a couple of other questions. Had Mrs G’s association with Fowler continued? If so, for how long? And would she know where he was now? How disturbed was she? Could she be questioned? Only one way to find out. I rang Kate Greenhall in Mount Victoria.
‘This is Kate.’
‘Cliff Hardy.’
‘Ah, yes. Just a minute while I kill a few bugs.’
I’d seen a television report of Dusty Miller’s funeral and it gave me an opening remark.
‘Did you do the flowers for Dusty?’
‘Some of them.’
‘Get paid?’
‘On the knocker. I’m busy, Mr Hardy. What’s on your mind?’
‘I’m trying to get to speak with your mother.’
‘Why?’
‘Pursuing my enquiries into Patrick’s death. Your view that he was murdered is firming up.’
‘That’s interesting. How could Jilly help?’
‘Jilly?’
‘She wasn’t the kind of woman you’d call Mum. She’d hit you if you did, or she’d try to.’
‘She might’ve known some people of interest, as the police say.’
‘I’m sure she did. Any people in particular?’
I had to tread delicately. ‘Policemen, possibly.’
She laughed. ‘Very likely, although I think she preferred army. I can’t see why you couldn’t ask her. Pose as a publisher and say you want to publish her memoirs.’
‘How do I get in to see her? The clinic isn’t letting her have visitors. Can you give me an authority or do I . . .?’
‘You don’t need any authority, Mr Hardy. She’s checked herself out of rehab and my father’s washed his hands of her. She gave me a call this morning. She’s staying at the Four Winds in Darling Harbour, her favourite home away from home. Handy for you, I think, from your card. Just roll up and buy her a drink, or several drinks. I have to go.’
Families, I thought.
No time like the present. I was looking pretty rough but rock stars stay at the Four Winds and I reckoned no one would think I was out of place, except that I was sober. I locked the office and went down to the street with my mind rehearsing questions for Mrs Greenhall.
A big Bravado was sitting astride his Kawasaki next to my car. I had a vague recollection of him as part of the audience when I took down Brucie’s brother.
‘Paul says you’ve got to follow me.’
‘Where to? I’ve got business.’
He shrugged.
‘Why?’
‘He says he’s located the woman.’
No time like the present, but first things first. I nodded and got behind the wheel. He rode off, sedately for a bikie, and I guessed Paul had instructed him to be civilised. It looked as if Paul was getting a handle on things, as he’d planned. He could have phoned me with the address but I assumed he wanted to demonstrate his authority to me and his comrades.
I could sense the bikie’s impatience as he waited for lights and refrained from burning off slow drivers. We picked up Parramatta Road in Annandale and threaded our way through Summer Hill to Ashfield. I hadn’t been there often and was surprised at the length of the shopping centre and the ethnic diversity. It was an area where big, stately houses still stood but their front fences held multiple letterboxes. Otherwise it was dominated by blocks of flats, mostly red brick. The bikie pulled up in front of one of these and killed his engine. He took off his helmet, turned to me and pointed.
Paul was standing fifty yards away on the other side of the street. He was in the full Bravados regalia and there was a nest of motorbikes drawn up neatly beside him but no riders in sight. He beckoned to me but I wasn’t having that. I leaned back against the car and looked up and down the street. A few struggling trees, a lot of parked cars, a slow trickle of traffic. Paul shrugged and approached.
‘She came this morning,’ he said. ‘Looked very distressed.’ He pointed to a block of flats opposite and a little way down the street. ‘She’s in there, second-floor front, number four. The woman with her checked the letterbox before they went in.’
I nodded at the bikes. ‘Where’re your brothers?’
‘Posted. There’s a back and side exit.’
‘You’ve done a good job.’
‘Wasn’t that hard. I’ll leave you to it. Contact me with whatever you find out.’
He walked away and he and my escort started their bikes simultaneously. The roar brought two other Bravados from their positions and the four of them took off. I waited until the noise had died away and the exhaust smoke had cleared and approached the entrance to the flats. I pushed the button for number four.
‘
Who is it?’
‘My name’s Hardy. Cathy knows me. It’s important that I speak to her.’
There was a pause and then the release on the door sounded. I went in and up the stairs. The door to flat four was open and a woman was standing there. She was older than Cathy but bore some resemblance, a sister or a cousin perhaps.
‘She wants to know how you found her.’
‘I had someone watching. I know she’s distressed and I think I know why. I want to help if I can.’
She stepped aside to let me in. ‘I doubt if you can, but she’s willing to see you, briefly.’
She led me through to a bedroom that was in half-darkness. Cathy was sitting on the bed propped up by pillows. Even in the poor light I could see that her face was puffy and her eyes were blinking away a new bout of tears brought on by my arrival. I sat on the bed and waited.
She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘He had a series of major brain aneurisms overnight,’ she said. ‘He was still alive, but they said there was virtually no brain function at all. Colin was an orphan,’ she said. ‘He didn’t have any family. There was no one else to do it.’
I nodded.
‘I gave them the authority to turn off the life support at 4 am. He wasn’t ever going to be . . .’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘He was a good man.’
‘He was a bloody fool.’
‘We have to stop them.’
She gave a strangled laugh. ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You want the disks.’
‘I’m here because I was worried about you. But yes, I want the disks. We have to stop them.’
‘They’re gone.’
‘What?’
‘I destroyed them. I snapped them in half and then again. Look, I cut myself.’
She showed me her bandaged right hand.
She was sobbing now, her shoulders jerking. ‘I don’t care about those bastards. I don’t care about you. I don’t care about anything.’
20
Janice, Cathy’s cousin, said she’d look after her and that she’d recover.