by Peter Corris
“But he’s dead already?”
I nodded. “His car went over a cliff, it burned.”
We sat down in one of the den’s deep chairs, then she jumped out of it and moved across to another chair. I went to the bar and hunted for whiskey. I found an empty decanter and held it up to Susan inquiringly. She pointed to a long cupboard, like a broom cupboard, in the corner of the room. I opened it. A supersize bottle of Johnny Walker swung inside a teak frame; it looked like it held ten litres or more of the stuff and it was still half full. I filled the decanter and poured two stiff ones over ice. I sat down in the chair Susan had deserted and took a few restorative gulps. She did the same and in a strange way we seemed to be toasting her dead brother.
“Have you reported this to the police?” she asked.
“No.” She asked me why and I tried to explain stressing that I didn’t know how she wanted her kidnapping handled, but I also pointed out how deeply I was involved and how being held by the police would hamstring me. She saw it.
“Well it’s not going to matter to Bryn,” she said, “in a way it might please him, the end of it all. He had a sort of Byronic… no, satanic streak, he cultivated it. You might have noticed?”
Byronic was closer I thought. “Yes, I did.”
She was quiet for a minute, thinking God knows what. I let the good liquor work on me and sat being soothed by the sound of the waves on the beach and the feel of the deep piled carpet under my feet. There was a hell of a lot Bryn hadn’t been able to take with him. I wondered if Susan was his heir and what she’d do with all the loot if she was. I wondered about everything except the essential point — what to do next. Susan broke up the reverie by asking me exactly that. I had a few smaller questions of my own, like was Bryn telling the truth when he denied all knowledge of the bombing of Ailsa’s car, and did Susan really know nothing about the files? But I was too tired to pursue them or to come up with any plans for interstate flights, midnight meetings on lonely airstrips or hard drinking, incognito, in low-life taverns.
“Let’s get back to town,” I said, “we can talk a bit on the way.”
It was a mundane suggestion, but she sloshed down her drink and took a quick look around the place. A trifle proprietorial and precious, but who could blame her? I’d have been making an inventory and marking the levels in the bottles. We turned out the lights as we went through the house and I pulled the back door locked. I gave it a test tug but Susan waved me on.
“Don’t worry about the house, or the car. Someone from the town comes up to look after it.”
I hadn’t liked her when she had no personality at all and I wasn’t too keen on this one emerging. I snapped my fingers.
“Of course, silly of me,” I said.
Her head jerked sharply round to look at me. She grinned, then tossed her head back and laughed. “Fair enough Hardy,” she said when she finished laughing. “Don’t like rich bitches, eh?”
We were tramping down the drive now and it didn’t seem to occur to her to ask why. Maybe she trusted me, in any case her stocks with me were climbing a bit.
“Not much,” I said. “I feel awkward around large amounts of money, I don’t get enough myself to practise on.”
“That’s a pity, we must see to that.”
We went through the gate, she stopped and looked around.
“Where’s the car?” she said.
“What car?”
“Your car!”
“It’s parked back in town, I caught a ride with the albino. We’re walking.”
She shook her head. “No way, it’s too far.”
I was getting a bit tired of her and my voice wasn’t gentle.
“Look Susan, you have three choices, walk, wait here for me to drive back from town or go up to the house again and call a cab. It’s late but you might just get one to take you to Sydney, if you do he’ll ask why you’re not using the Fiat. You’ll have to lie, later you’ll have to explain to the cops why you lied. You can wait here if you want to, but who knows when things are going to break. I think you’d better walk.”
She nodded and we started out. It was dark, the road was rough and Susan’s thin-soled slippers weren’t ideal for the job but she didn’t complain for the whole forty-five minutes. She didn’t talk except to confirm the direction a couple of times. I tried to draw her out about the house and the family connection with Cooper Beach, since she obviously knew the area pretty well, but she wasn’t responsive.
Bryn had gone over the high side closer to the next town, Sussman’s Wharf, than to Cooper Beach, and I was hoping that the police and ambulance action would come from there when the wreck was discovered. That’s the way it happened; when we trudged into the little township the streets were as quiet as a Trappist prayer meeting. One milk bar cum eatery was open at the far end of the main street and the pubs were still serving a thin scattering of hard cases. My car was where I’d left it and the keys were where I’d left them. There was no obvious sign that anyone had taken any interest in it, but I prowled around it a bit just to be sure. Susan obviously thought I’d lost my mind, she sat on the grass looking beat but not downhearted until I was satisfied. She got in looking dismayed at the peeling vinyl and the general air of ruin. It was probably the oldest car she’d ever been in apart from vintage models in rallies with some of the chaps from her brother’s school.
“Why were you crawling about in the dark just then?” she asked after we’d got moving and she’d found that the passenger side seat belt didn’t fasten. I told her about the bombing of Ailsa’s car again and asked her if she’d forgotten.
“Stop trying to trip me up Hardy,” she snapped. “I’m not crazy.”
“You’re cool, I’ll say that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your twin brother’s dead and you’re here exchanging insults with me.”
We were on the winding road up to the tollway and I couldn’t get a look at her until we made the highway. When I got on it and could glance across I could see that she was gripping the sides of her seat and weeping silently.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “that was cruel, you’ve got the right to feel whatever you feel.”
“That’s the trouble,” she said, “I don’t think I feel anything. I think that’s why I’m crying.” She brushed her hand across her face and made an effort to steady her voice. “I’ve got some questions for you, Mr Hardy.”
“I have some for you,” I said.
“Well, let’s try a few as far as we’re each prepared to answer.”
“OK, you first.”
“Do you think Bryn and Dr Brave were behind everything that’s been happening, the bombing, Giles and so on?”
“No.”
“Who then?”
“Someone else, or others, plural.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, I have suspects, just that.”
“Are you going to try and find out for sure?”
“Yes.”
“Can I hire you to do that?”
That conflict of interest seemed infinite. “No,” I said, “afraid not. Thanks just the same for the compliment.”
“Why not?”
“I’m already retained on the job.”
“By Ailsa?”
“That’s right.”
“And just how do you feel about her?”
“You just reached the end of your questions, my turn.”
She rummaged about in the glove box among the odds and ends and spent Drum packets and slammed it all back in frustration.
“Haven’t you got anything to smoke except this vile tobacco?”
“No. Do you know anything about the files?”
“Not a thing, I wish I did.”
I let that pass to avoid side-tracking her. “What did Bryn mean when he said you would once have done anything for him? You reacted very strongly.” She jerked up in her seat. “Nothing, nothing at all,” she said quickly, “we were once very close that’s all.�
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“I see. This may or may not be related. What did your father have on you and Bryn that kept you in line?”
“Who told you that he had something?”
“Never mind, what was it?”
“No.” She slumped down and ran her fingers through her hair, lifting and dropping the wings, her voice was old and thin as it had been back in the clinic. “No more questions.”
“One more, do you remember exactly who was around the night your father died?”
“I could, I have an excellent memory when conditions are right. I’d have to sit down and think about it.”
That brought it back to me, the reason I’d had a flash about bringing Ailsa and Susan together. The key to all this was somewhere back four years ago when Mark Gutteridge had killed himself. I needed to know all I could about that night. It didn’t seem like the right time to put this to Susan, so I let her answer stand and we drove on together in silence towards the smoggy lights of Sydney.
Susan gave me the address of a friend she could stay with for the night and I took her there. I stopped the car outside the place, a tizzed-up terrace in Paddington, got out and went around the car to open her door. She stepped out and put her hand on my arm.
“Thank you, I’m going to see Dr Pincus tomorrow,” she said.
“I know,” I said. Then an idea hit me. “Try for St Bede’s.”
“What?” She looked at me, puzzled and deeply tired.
“If he wants to put you in hospital, ask to go to St Bede’s.”
“Why?”
“I hear it’s the best anyway, so you’ll probably go there as a matter of course. But as well as that it might help me if you’re there.”
She was too tired to pursue it, she shrugged her shoulders, pushed open the stained wood and iron gate, and climbed the steps to the house. I saw light flood out from the open door and heard a woman’s voice say Susan’s name in startled but welcoming tones. The light went out.
19
It was after midnight and I was low on everything — energy, alertness, courage, the lot. I drove mechanically away from Paddington towards Glebe. The car felt as tired as me, unresponsive to the pedals, resistant to the wheel, dull as lead. I needed rest very badly and I couldn’t think of anywhere to get it except at home. I vaguely considered crashing at Evans’ house but rejected the idea. Motels were out for psychological reasons — I’d lie awake all night thinking of death.
I turned into my street and killed the engine and lights outside my house. I was fumbling about with the key in the front door lock when a beam of light hit me in the eyes and a hundredweight of hand fell on my shoulder. Another hand reached out, took the keys and dropped them into my jacket pocket. I tried to shield my eyes from the light to get a look at them but they weren’t co-operative. One twisted my arm up behind my back just short of breaking point and the other jammed his torch into the end of my nose. The torchcarrier’s voice was like rocks rumbling about in an empty oil drum.
“We hear you’re tough Hardy, care to prove it?”
“Not just now,” I said, “I’m short on sleep. I’ll be tough again tomorrow.”
The other one laughed. “You won’t be tough tomorrow mate,” he said. “You’ll be soft, soft as jelly.” He emphasised the prediction by putting another fraction of an inch strain on my arm.
“Whatever you say. How about easing down on the lighting and the strong arm stuff and telling me what this’s all about?”
I was getting used to the light and was able to make out the general shape and size of them. Even under these imperfect conditions they were obviously cops, the kind that start off as slim, eager youths on traffic duty and end up as big, beery corrupt bastards shoving the citizenry around for kicks. The bulk of one of them looked vaguely familiar, the one with the torch.
“Is it yourself, O’Brien?” I said, all mock bog and peat.
“Don’t be a smart arse, Hardy, just come along quietly and you won’t get hurt unnecessarily.”
“I haven’t said I wouldn’t. Who’s the half-nelson expert?”
“The name’s Collins, Hardy,” he said, “and I’d really like to break your arm, know that?”
“I can sense that you love your work, yes.”
O’Brien switched off the torch and turned me around by the shoulder. Collins wasn’t quite ready for it and it turned me partly out of his grip, I stumbled and my clumsy foot came up sharply into his shin.
“Oh, sorry Collins,” I said. He swore and reached for me like a bear in a bad mood. O’Brien pushed him back.
“Leave it, Colly,” he said, “this guy’s a fancy prick and he’ll have us doing something we’ll regret later if he gets to us.”
“He’s fuckin’ got to me already,” Collins ground out, “why’s he got to arrive spick and span?”
“If you can’t figure it out for yourself there’s no point in telling you,” O’Brien said with an air of tolerance for weaker intellects. “Let’s just take him in as we found him, he doesn’t look in such good shape anyway.”
He was right, I wasn’t. A little adrenalin had flowed over the past few minutes, but all the guns and king hits and karate kicks of the past twelve hours had worn me down and left me in good condition to be leaned on. I still felt cheeky though.
“Do as he says sport,” I said. “Grant Evans will explain it all to you just before they cut you down to Constable Colly.”
O’Brien gave out with his basso laugh again and Collins chuckled along in chorus.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Hardy,” O’Brien said, “Evans is on leave, sort of a reward for his good work handed down from above. Someone up there isn’t too happy so there’s a bit of shit coming down all round. Inspector Mills is copping it and he wants to unload some on you. Let’s go down town and talk about it.”
They eased me down the path and into the car. It’s a pity Soames wasn’t watching, it would have made his day. I slumped down in the car and tried to think but nothing came. I was in a very bad spot without Evans to protect me even if they hadn’t placed me at all the scenes I’d visited that day. If they had, and they didn’t want explanations, it was going to be some time before Hardy walked proud and free again.
Collins got behind the wheel and O’Brien sat in the back with me. I’d left my. 38 and the albino’s Colt in my car which was lucky, but I didn’t like the air of confidence hanging around the two of them.
I tried pumping O’Brien for some information so I’d know what to expect at Headquarters but he just told me to shut up and sweat it out. I did. Collins drove like a maniac, jumping lights and bullying everyone on the road. O’Brien shook his head at a couple of the more flagrant breaches of road decency but in general he seemed to regard his partner as beyond redemption. I was almost glad when we arrived at the Police Building. Collins slammed the tyres into the kerb and cut the ignition just as he gave the motor a last, lead-footed rev. The engine shuddered protestingly into silence. Collins yanked open his door as if he meant to take it with him and, after O’Brien had sat still long enough for him to get the idea, he pulled open the back door in the same style. It might have been a subtle intimidation ploy but somehow I thought it was just that Collins didn’t know any other way to behave.
We went up the steps and into the building. There was a different sergeant on the desk but he looked just as pissed-off with the job as his predecessor. I suppose the old lift was still running but I didn’t get a chance to find out. We went down a set of steps following a sign which said Interrogation Rooms 1 to 6. Room 1 was long and narrow, painted cream and the only furniture was a table and two straight-backed chairs. There was a small shade over the light but not enough to make it comfortable and there was something very disconcerting about the washstand and towel in the far corner. It made the room feel like a fourth-rate hotel hole-up which you take when you’re running low on money and aren’t expecting any glamorous company. I sat down in one of the chairs and began feeling in my pockets for tobacco
. O’Brien took the chair opposite, put a cigarette in his mouth, lit it and blew the smoke into my face.
“No smoking,” he said.
I forced a laugh. “You aren’t really going to pull all this interrogation stuff are you? Doing it in relays with your handsome mate, no smoking, no sleep?”
“Depends on you, Hardy, makes no difference to me. I can go out for a drink or a nap any time. You’re on the spot.”
“Well, that’s a start. What have you got on me?”
O’Brien took a small notebook out and flipped over some pages.
“A whole stack of things, big or small according to how you want to play it. Failures to report felonies and such.”
I leaned back and smiled. “Littering, loitering.”
O’Brien still looked confident. He grinned and scratched his ear.
“Very droll,” he said. “How about murder?”
“I haven’t murdered anyone lately that I can recall.”
“That so? Try Terrence Cattermole.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He heard of you, he said you killed him.”
“Now how could that be?”
“I’m giving you a chance to do yourself a bit of good. Judges and juries go for voluntary admissions, they go easy on people.”
“Judges and juries can laugh cases out of court too. I’d like to help you, O’Brien, but you’ve got me shot to bits. I don’t even understand how a murdered man can name his murderer.”
“Have it your way. It seems a Land Rover went over a cliff up the coast a bit. Seems there were two guys in it when it went over. One of them was tied up with wire. You tied him up, Cattermole his name was. He got thrown clear, see? Just before he died he told us about it. He said that he and the other guy had roughed up a woman you’re interested in, you followed them, jumped them, knocked the other guy out and put the wire around Cattermole, You put the Land Rover over the cliff. All this happened about five hours ago, that means you’ve got an accomplice who did some of the driving. Like to tell us who it is?”
“Shit, have you got it screwed up!”
“Well, that’s the way Inspector Mills put it to me and my guess is that’s the way someone put it to him. Now that’s the way we can leave it unless you have something to say.”