Burn, and Other Stories

by Peter Corris

  ‘Glad to help. Are you sure this chick’s a job of work for you?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Nothing. Just that she sounds interesting, and she’d be earning a hell of a lot of money. Bye, Cliff.’

  I hung up and thought about what she’d said before dialling the first number. I’d made a dollar sign on the pad when I’d been getting information from Adamo. I underlined it and put another question mark beside it, and the word ‘bank’.

  The next hour was a minefield of answering machines, indifferent secretaries, hostile underlings and the occasional cooperative person. My spiel was that I was representing a legal client who needed to contact Ms Hammond, and Amy Post’s name was my calling card. I positively eliminated eight of the organisations and was left with just three—Air Europe, a new charter flight operation that could get you anywhere as long as you could pay the freight; a package holiday outfit which specialised in booking clients into off-the-beaten track hotels; and a consultancy that arranged computer linkups and interpreters in certain European locations. I could expect calls from these three when Amy’s contacts were available and their commitments permitted. I made a separate note of the addresses—my time is important too.

  Then I felt a little stir-crazy and went out for a drink and the paper. It was a cool, early November day, and the city seemed oddly quiet. There was nothing of interest in the paper, and I had to get out of the pub fast after one drink—it was the sort of afternoon you could easily spend in a pub, hanging around until the afternoon became evening and the evening night, and all you’d get out of it would be a headache. It wasn’t so far to the Redline depot in Surry Hills and I decided to walk it and tell myself I was working.

  ‘You missed him,’ Bernie, my satisfied ex-client, said. ‘Name’s Wesley.’ He waved at the phone on his desk. ‘Be home now. Call him if you like.’

  I sighed and called the number he gave me. Wesley had a deep, tuneful voice and sounded very tired. He remembered the fare.

  ‘Where did you drop her?’ I asked.

  ‘Lindfield, I think. Yeah, Lindfield.’

  ‘At a house, block of flats, what?’

  Wesley’s deep yawn came down the line. ‘In the street, brother, just across from the railway station.’

  I swore, apologised to Wesley and got his address in case I needed to talk to him about his impressions of the woman. Another question now and I was sure I’d hear him start to snore.

  ‘No go, Cliff?’

  I put down the phone. ‘Tougher than I thought it’d be.’

  Bernie clucked sympathetically and went back to his work.

  That’s the way it goes; one minute you think you can solve the whole thing between lunch and afternoon tea, and the next it’s all questions and no answers. I went back to the office and looked at the three illuminated zeroes on the answering machine. No calls. I sat down and wrote up my notes on the Hammond case so far, the way the Commercial Agents and Private Enquiry Agents Act of 1963 requires you to do. I also completed the notes on a couple of other cases which had either been resolved or had petered out. Full of virtue, I drove home to an evening of TV news, spaghetti, red wine and Len Deighton. I worried on Len’s behalf about the effects on his fiction of the Berlin Wall coming down. But not too much. Len could probably have more fun without a wall.

  The calls came in the next morning, two of them with a little urging. At Conferences International, the outfit that set up the computer links and interpreters, I hit the bull’s-eye. Yes, Ms Hammond was an employee and yes, certainly, the message to call me would be passed on to her. I sat at my desk and thought about cigarettes and mid-morning drinking, two habits I’d reluctantly abandoned, while I waited for the call. As a result, I was edgy when the phone rang.

  ‘Mr Hardy?’ A crisp, businesslike female voice. A voice used to cutting through the shit and getting things done. ‘This is Valerie Hammond. I’m returning your call.’

  ‘I’ll be honest with you, Ms Hammond. I’m a private investigator. It’s not a legal matter. I’m working for Mr Robert Adamo. He hired me to locate you.’

  ‘I see. And you’ve succeeded.’

  ‘He needs to talk to you, very badly.’

  The voice started off flat, dull almost, and rose in pitch and intensity, losing control. ‘No. Positively not. Tell him I don’t want to see him or talk to him. I don’t want to marry him … or … or have children or have anything to do with him. Do you understand?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘That’s all. Leave me alone!’ The line buzzed and then went dead; she must have fumbled cutting the connection. Very upset. Very intriguing. Very unsatisfactory. How do you tell a client you scored a bull’s-eye but the arrow fell out of the target? You don’t. I hung up and ran down the stairs and along the street to where my car was parked. I drove straight to the Conferences International office in Bent Street and parked almost outside. Totally illegal, but I didn’t expect to be there long. I got out of the car and circled the tall building on foot—smoked glass windows, imposing entrance but no car park. I lounged in the street enjoying luxury again—I’d recognise her and she wouldn’t know me from Harry M. Miller.

  She came out fast, taller and blonder than I expected, but still Valerie H. as per the picture in my pocket. Her business clothes were smart and looked medium-expensive. No car. She stepped into a taxi, which had drawn up seconds before. The parking Nazi was just rounding the corner as I got back into my car and pulled away from the no parking zone. I jockeyed the Falcon into the traffic, a couple of cars behind the cab. I had my sunglasses on against the glare and a full tank of petrol; I had to hope that the driver was a sober type who signalled early and stopped for lights.

  He was. The drive to Lindfield was almost sedate. I had no trouble keeping the cab in sight and staying unobtrusive myself. It was a little after eleven, with a fine, clear day shaping up. I squinted hard trying to read something from the woman’s demeanour. She sat in the back the way most women passengers do. Nothing in that. She seemed to be sitting very rigidly, but it might have been my imagination. The cab turned off the main road just past the railway station and pulled up outside a small block of red-brick flats. For the area, very low-rent stuff. There was no mistaking her distress now; she rushed from the cab, leaving the door open, and almost fell as she plunged up the steps towards the small entrance.

  Shaking his head, the cabbie got out, closed the door and drove away. I parked opposite the flats; the sun was shining directly through the windscreen and my shirt was sticking to my back. It was suddenly very hot and still. The highway was noisy, and I heard a train rattle past. This little patch of Lindfield seemed to have missed out on the trees and the quiet and the money. I sat in the car and looked at the flats. It didn’t figure. Amy said she must be earning a bundle. Adamo said she had no vices. So why was she living here? Like other people in my racket, I’ve been known to trace someone, phone the client with the address and bank the cheque. Not this time. I had to know more.

  It wasn’t nearly as hot out of the car. I flapped my arms to unglue my shirt, and put on my jacket. A sticker over the letterbox told me that Hammond lived in Flat 3. That was one flight up, a narrow door at the top of a narrow set of stairs. Ratty carpet, cheap plastic screw-on numbers, flimsy handrail, no peephole, no buzzer. I knocked and held my licence folder at the ready. The door opened more quickly than I expected. A big man stood there. He was moon-faced, with thinning fair hair. He wore a white T-shirt and jeans that sagged under his bulging belly. He was well over 180 centimetres tall and must have weighed over ninety kilos, much of it fat.

  ‘My name’s Hardy,’ I said. ‘I’d like to see Ms Hammond.’

  Valerie Hammond shrieked ‘No,’ from behind the fat man and he reacted by brushing the folder away, putting a big, meaty hand on my chest and pushing.

  Fat can be a problem if it comes at you fast. This guy was serious, but he wasn’t fast. I stepped back, surprised but balanced, and he swung a punch. I’d
almost have had time to put my licence back in my pocket before it got anywhere near me. As it was, I moved to one side and let the punch drift away into thin air. That upset and angered him. He lowered his head and bullocked forward, trying to crush me against the brick wall a few feet back. Couldn’t have that; I jolted the side of his head with a short elbow jab and pushed at him with my shoulder as he blundered past. He hit the wall awkwardly with his knee and head, groaned and went down.

  I looked through the open door. Valerie Hammond was standing there with a shocked, dazed expression on her face. Her eyes were full of terror, and her hands were fluttering like lost birds. I couldn’t think of a thing to say to her. I took out a card, bent and put it on the frayed carpet just inside the door. Behind me, the fat man was struggling gamely to his feet.

  I pointed to the card. ‘I don’t mean you any harm. Robert Adamo is concerned about you. Call me when you feel calmer. I don’t know what your trouble is, but maybe I can help. I didn’t want to hurt this guy.’

  Her hands stopped at her face, almost covering her eyes. I stepped clear of the man trying to make a grab at me and went down the stairs. I realised that I was breathing hard but not from the mild exertion. Valerie Hammond’s fear had shaken me more than anything that Fatty could have done. I peeled off my jacket and sat sweating in the car, wondering what to do next. It was one of those times when the distress you run into seems to outweigh the distress of the person who hired you. It happens and it’s confusing. The only way to cope is to get more information. I started the engine and drove away, grateful for the breeze created by the movement and feeling an overwhelming need for a drink.

  I had the drink in a North Sydney pub and reviewed my options. All very well to want more information, but where to get it? I couldn’t give a work-in-progress report to Adamo as things stood, and I didn’t see Conferences International as a promising source. The only other person who’d dealt with the lady was Wesley, the taxi driver with the tuneful voice. What the hell? I thought. He sounded bright, and she might have said something useful. I had another glass of wine and a sandwich and rang Bernie at Redline, who told me that Wesley would be signing off at the depot about three o’clock. He’d tell Wesley I’d be there for a quick talk, but he warned me not to be late because Wesley would be buggered after his shift and wouldn’t wait around.

  Wesley was a Tongan, short and wide with a bushy black beard. He rubbed at the small of his back and flexed his shoulders as he spoke. ‘Remember the lady well. Very upset, she was.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Crying. That’s not so unusual there, you understand.’

  ‘What? Where?’

  ‘Where I picked her up—there in Mona Vale Road. Outside the place.’

  ‘What place?’

  ‘Some kind of institution for, you know, people with something wrong—mental cases, spastics and like that. Very sad place. But they treat them real good there. Looks very pricey—nice grounds, nurses in uniform, all that. But the visitors don’t come away laughing. That all, brother? I’m bushed.’

  I thanked him and Bernie and drove away with more questions in my mind but also some of the answers, maybe. I stopped at the post office in Glebe and located the Terrey Hills Nursing Clinic in Mona Vale Road in the phone book. Then I called in at the surgery of Ian Sangster, who is a doctor and a friend, and a lover of intrigue. I waited while Ian disposed of two patients and then went into his light, airy consulting room. Ian is a jokester: he poured two measures of single malt whisky into medicine glasses and lifted his in a toast. ‘Good health.’

  We drank and I told him what I wanted.

  ‘It’s a top-class joint. Very good, very expensive. But it’s for serious defectives, Cliff. I doubt you’re ready for it yet.’

  ‘You’ll beat me to it if you keep knocking this stuff back the way you do,’ I said. ‘When will you know anything?’

  ‘Tomorrow, late morning. I’ll call you.’

  That left me with another evening to kill. I went to a fitness centre in Balmain and hung around until someone turned up willing to play table tennis with me. The deal is, you hire one of the squash courts, a table, net and balls for an hour at an exorbitant price, and play as hard as you can to get your money’s worth. I played against a police sergeant from the Balmain station and let him win, four matches to three. In my business, you never know when a friendly police sergeant might come in handy.

  I went into the office in the morning, paid a few bills, requested payment for the third time from a faithless client and generally waited for Ian’s call. I plugged in a recording device and activated it when I heard Ian’s voice on the line.

  ‘Cliff,’ he said. ‘I’ve got good news and bad news. There’s a patient named Carl Hammond who fills your bill. Aged twenty-three; the contact is his sister, Valerie Ursula …’

  ‘That’s it,’ I said.

  ‘Poor chap’s in a very bad way.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s called kernicterus. This is the most severe case to come the way of the people there, and the worst I’ve ever heard of. Put simply, it’s brain damage caused by jaundice at birth. The baby’s red blood cells are broken down to such a degree that the liver can’t cope with the by-products and this stuff called biliruben is released into the bloodstream. It’s bile, essentially, a sort of stain that causes brain damage. Are you making notes or something?’

  ‘I’m recording it, Ian. Go on.’

  Sangster cleared his throat. ‘Well, as I say, in a severe case a part of the brain is damaged and you get deafness, palsy, loss of coordination. Usually, in a case this bad, the baby is born prematurely and dies. That’s called hydropis fetalis, for your information. Carl Hammond should have died. Some freak of nature kept him alive. A cruel freak, I’d call it. Not everyone would agree.’

  ‘Can he …?’

  ‘To almost any question you can put, the answer is no.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Not around when he was needed. I’m sorry, mate. This is grim stuff. He’s there until he dies which could be tomorrow or ten years away. He requires complete care. The fees must be astronomical. Is that all you need?’

  ‘Yes. No. What causes it?’

  ‘The Rhesus factor.’

  ‘What’s that.’

  ‘God, you laymen are so ignorant. No wonder we get so much money. It’s an incompatibility between the mother’s blood group and that of the foetus. The mother’s metabolism sort of creates antibodies against the foetus, which pass through the placenta and fuck everything up. Get on to it early and you can do a transfusion and avoid the whole mess. Not in this case.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Sorry. I don’t know. It’s a chance in a thousand sort of thing. Harder to detect twenty-odd years ago than now.’

  I thanked him and rang off. I wound back the tape and played the conversation through again. Then I got out a dictionary and looked up some of the words while I made notes. I had an answer to one question now, at least—what Valerie Hammond did with her money. And, remembering her outcry on the phone, I had inklings of other questions and other answers. I resisted the impulse to go out for a drink before attempting to call Valerie Hammond. The only number I had was at work. Maybe she hadn’t gone in today. I was almost hoping she hadn’t when I heard her voice, crisp and confidence-inspiring, on the line.

  ‘Valerie Hammond.’

  She’d pulled herself together and sounded in better emotional shape than me. But what do you say? How do you tell someone you know their secrets and their nightmares? I tried to keep my voice level and calm, and I spoke very quickly. ‘Ms Hammond, I don’t want to distress you, but I know about your brother and your problem. I’m working for Mr Adamo, but I want to help you. Please talk to me. Please don’t hang up.’

  I heard the sharp intake of breath, could sense the struggle for control. ‘I have to tell you I’m taking Valium which is the only reason I’m able to talk to you like this. What do you want,
Mr Hardy?’

  ‘To talk to you for a few minutes, face to face. If what I have to say doesn’t make any sense to you I’ll back off, report to Mr Adamo that I couldn’t find you.’

  ‘Very well. If it’ll get rid of you. I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re a violent man.’

  ‘I’ll meet you outside your office building. We can talk as we walk. Play it by ear.’

  ‘Did you follow me from work yesterday?’

  Uncomfortable question, but it felt like time to play everything straight with her. ‘Yes. I hope I didn’t hurt your friend.’

  ‘He’s all right. He … he’s just sharing the rent with me. It’s an arrangement. I’m not … oh, what does it matter?’

  This response was my first glimmer of hope; the first indication that she had some awareness of things outside the prison of her problems. ‘In an hour, Ms Hammond?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll see you in an hour, Mr Hardy.’

  She was on time and so was I. I walked up to her and we shook hands. It seemed like the right thing to do. She was wearing the same clothes she had on yesterday. So was I, as it happened. We walked along Bent Street past the government buildings, in the direction of the Stock Exchange. There were very few people about. We walked slowly. She said that she hoped this interview would be brief.

  ‘Were you fond of Robert Adamo?’ I asked.

  ‘Very,’ she said. ‘Very, very fond. That was the trouble. I hadn’t ever allowed myself to feel as much for anyone before. It was a mistake.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Robert wanted to marry me and for us to have children. I can’t possibly do that, and you know why.’ She quickened her pace slightly and spoke more quickly, as if she wanted to get the talk over. ‘Oh, I know he loved me and he might have agreed not to have children. But that wouldn’t have been fair on him. Or I might have weakened, or … or there might have been an accident. Anyway, my first duty is to Carl. I should never have got involved with Robert. He’s too intense, too … good. His hiring you proves how serious he was. It was an awful, cruel thing for me to do.’