by Peter Corris
Ailsa came in with the coffee on a tray as I was riffling through one of her books—The Day of the Jackal, good stuff by a guy who wrote passably and had something good to write about. She kept the cloak on and sat down on the bed away from me. She handed me the coffee which was strong and hot.
“I suppose you want brandy in it?”
“It has been known. What is the H in RH for?”
She put down her cup and looked away from me, at the mirror.
“That’s it,” she said. “I was waiting for the thing you’d say that would be all wrong, and you come out with that.”
She reached for her cigarettes but I checked the movement and pulled her down beside me. She didn’t resist, didn’t comply. I stroked her hair.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That was a question to ask a suspect at midnight. I’m sorry love, I’m off on this case again. I didn’t think.”
“It’s all right, you don’t have to soothe me. I’m not going to cry or anything like that. But you’re not being completely truthful. You saw Ross’ shirt, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, what does it mean to you?”
“Jesus! Not a ‘what does it mean session’ this early.”
She pushed herself up and away from me angrily.
“You’re a ripe bastard this morning, aren’t you? Is this your usual style? Do you fuck your clients and piss them off in the morning and keep the retainer? Nice work.”
She got the cigarettes this time and lit one shakily. I recovered my coffee and drank some trying to work out how to calm the storm. Maybe she was right, I’d woken up with clients before and worked my way out by the shortest route. But I wasn’t feeling like that this time.
“Ailsa, it isn’t like that. There’s loose threads hanging everywhere in this case. I saw your fight with this guy Ross. I just want to fit him into the picture a bit more clearly. If he’s in the picture.”
She tapped ash off her cigarette and drank some coffee, not looking at me.
“Very well,” she said tightly. “Yes I suppose Ross is in the picture, or was. He’s been my occasional lover for a year or so. Mostly we fight, sometimes it’s nice . . . was nice. I don’t expect it to be any good again. That fight was beyond the limit.”
“What was it about?”
She drew on the cigarette and looked at me, her head nodding slightly.
“You know men aren’t all that attractive in the morning,” she said. “Bristly, stinking a bit of tobacco and bad teeth. You’re no major exception Cliff Hardy. You’ll have to warm up a bit to get anything more out of me. Would you admit to being jealous?”
“Under pentothal.”
She finished her cigarette and coffee, dropped the butt in the dregs and slung herself down on the bed beside me. She put her hands behind her head and drew her knees up until she was sitting in a sort of yoga posture.
“OK, the full story, for your files. Ross came to me a few months after Mark’s death. He had some references, pretty impressive ones. I was just getting around to thinking I’d have to do something with the money Mark left me. Ross had ideas.”
“Like what?”
“He knew about setting up companies and minimising taxes and quite a bit about the share market. He made some nice killings for me there, early on. I’ve got a fashion business, manufacturing and retail, I’ve even gone international with it in a small way. I’ve got a vineyard—that’d interest you—and some outlets for the wine. I’ve got a company to co-ordinate things and Ross is second in charge.”
“Who’s in charge, you?”
“No, only nominally. The real boss is a man called Chalmers. He’s a chartered accountant and the dullest man in the world. He’s ultra-cautious and he’s never lost me a penny. That’s why he’s in charge.”
“Ross has lost you pennies?”
“A few. A couple of times, that’s why he hasn’t got the job. I work on old Sophie Tucker’s dictum, ‘I been rich and I been poor . . .,’ you know it?”
“Yes.”
“Most people just take it on faith. I know it’s true. But I’m not a maniac about it. I just like being rich and I don’t intend to get poor by going into wildcat schemes.”
“That’s Ross’ style?”
“Yes, it is now. He wants to be in charge of everything or failing that to play a few hands without Chalmers’ interference. I don’t feel like staking him.”
“And that’s what the fight was about?”
“Yes. He’s been getting very pushy lately. He was pressing me to go into a mining deal and I’m not interested. He got nasty and started putting me down. I’m a lot older than him and he pointed it out. You saw how it went.”
“You were doing pretty well, you might have won it on your own. How’s it going to be, business-wise, if you break with him?”
“He’ll just have to accept it or move out. He hasn’t got a contract and I know he’s not short of women. He gets a good salary and the usual perks. He’s useful, he knows people. I think he’ll stay.”
“The silver spoon?”
“I don’t think so. I’m not sure. He’s never told me anything much about his background.”
We’d got over the hump and she relaxed letting her long legs slide down the bed. We kissed for the sheer pleasure of it. She rubbed her hand over my face.
“Bristly, black-bearded bastard.”
“Virility,” I said. “Tell me about Chalmers.”
“Christ, you like your work don’t you. What do you want to know?”
“Just one thing, was he connected in any way with Mark Gutteridge?”
“Yes,” she spoke slowly, beating her hand in time to the words on the bed. “He was Mark’s chief accountant for many years.”
I did the same. “And how did he come to work for you?”
“He approached me. I don’t know exactly why he picked on me. I do know that he couldn’t get on with Bryn.”
“In what way?”
“I don’t know. Ross once said something about Walter being a repressed homosexual, that could have something to do with it. But Ross isn’t reliable on the subject of Chalmers.”
I thought about it. There were more connections back to the Gutteridge trouble for Ailsa than I’d realised. I still felt that the car bombing related back to the harassment of Susan Gutteridge, but I didn’t know how. Ailsa had given me some more people with possible motives, but Brave was still out in front and my main concern as well as hers. He was Harry Tickener’s concern too.
“I’m going to be very busy on your behalf today love,” I said, planting a firm kiss on her shoulder.
“And your own. Your rates are moderate verging on extortionate. Do you make a lot of money?”
“No. Overheads are high and I have long slack periods. Most of what I make goes on booze and books anyway.”
“I can imagine. And on women?”
I disengaged myself and rolled off the bed. “Very little on women. Use your shower?” She nodded. “Are you married Hardy?” she said. “Was. Tell you about it sometime.” I started for the shower and turned back. She was sitting up again and lighting a cigarette. With the cream coloured fabric draped around her she looked like a young, scared Christian about to go to the lions. I walked back and put my fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck. I massaged her neck gently.
“We’ll have lots of time to talk,” I said. “Today I’ve got ten men to see and six houses to break into. Can you write me down the addresses of Chalmers and Ross . . . what’s his other name?”
She rotated her head cat-like under my fingers. “That’s nice. All right. Ross’ other name is Haines.” She got up, crossed to the wardrobe and got out a thick towel. She tossed it to me and I caught it and went into the bathroom. When I came back into the room
she handed me a page torn from a notebook. The names and addresses were written in neat capitals. She made a grab at the towel around my waist and I backed off. She looked amused and got out another cigarette. I pulled on my clothes, bent down over the bed and kissed her on the head.
“You could have typed it out,” I said.
“Can’t type, never learned.”
I nodded. “What are you going to do today?” She blew smoke at the mirror. “Since I evidently can’t stay here with you,” she said, “I’ll go into the office and check a few things. I might go to the library. Where’s my protection by the way?”
“You should be safe enough if you stick to doing what you say. Take taxis and stay with other people. You can do it all the time if you try.”
“Taxis, OK. That reminds me, what about the police and my car? Will I have to talk to them again do you think?”
“I don’t think so, I’ve squared it for the time being.”
“Fully insured, I’ll get someone in the office onto it today. Good car, I think I’ll get another one the same.”
“You do that,” I said.
She flared. “Don’t be supercilious with me. I employ a lot of people, I spend my money. I do the best I can and I’m not hypocritical about it.”
“Like Susan Gutteridge?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve got a point. I’ll call you about six, maybe we could have dinner, then have some things to do.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah, it could be all over tonight if things go right.”
“You’re being mysterious.”
“Not really, if I told you all about it you’d think it was so simple you wouldn’t feel like paying me.”
She laughed and came up to me. I pulled her in and we kissed and rubbed together for a minute or two. I promised to call her at six, come what may, and left the house.
CHAPTER 10
I took the first drink of the day in an early opening pub at the Quay. My companions in sin ranged from a tattooed youth, who was playing at looking tough and doing pretty well at it, to a grizzled wreck who was mumbling about the Burns-Johnson fight at Rushcutters Bay in 1908. He claimed to have been the timekeeper and maybe he was. I bought him a schooner and he switched to Sullivan-Corbett which was a bit unlikely. A scotch would probably have got me Sayers and Heenan. I had a middy of old and tried to anticipate the results of Tickener’s inquiries. The smell of toasted sandwiches interrupted this train of thought and I put the matter aside in their favour. I ate two cheese sandwiches and had a second beer. The rain had cleared and the day was going to be warm. Students and the unemployed would be on the beaches, accountants would be at their desks, private detectives would be peeling secrets off people like layers of sunburnt skin.
I got a shave in the Cross at a barber shop where I’d once seen Gough Whitlam, before he became Prime Minister—I figured he’d know where to get a good shave. The Italian razor man was neat and economical and let me read the paper while he worked. He was coming on strong with garlic and aftershave but I fought back with beer and I guess the honours were about even. The News had put Costello on the second page and had splashed a government statement about unions across the front. There was a front page picture of a cricket player kissing a paraplegic girl to remind everyone that God lives and life is still all fun and games.
I got to the office, checked the mail and the incoming calls with the answering service. There was nothing of interest in either. I rang the number which Harry Tickener, newshound and wordsmith, had given me the night before. He must have been sitting on top of the phone because it was snatched up the second it rang.
We established identities, confirmed that we were both in sound health and got down to business. The records branch of the motor registry never shuts down to accredited people and Tickener’s contact had got what we wanted during the night. In a voice as thin and reedy as himself, Tickener recited the facts: “The Rover is registered to Dr William Clyde, 232 Sackville Drive, Hunters Hill, the Fairlane to Charles Jackson, 114 Langdon Street, Edgecliff, the VW to Naumeta Pali, Flat 6, 29 Rose Street, Drummoyne.”
“Good. Do you know anything about these people?”
“Not a thing. The only Charles Jackson I know of is a cop, Detective Inspector, CID. I don’t know where he lives or what he drives. Never heard of the others, could find out though.”
“Right, you take Clyde, call me in an hour.”
I tidied my desk, throwing away bills and advertisements, and paid a couple of modest accounts with cheques I could cover by lodging Gutteridge money. I phoned Grant Evans at home. It was delicate but I was getting more confident.
“Grant? Cliff, I’m getting closer but I need a piece of information.”
“How big a piece? I’m feeling weak.”
“Not big, but close to home. You have a colleague by the name of Charles Jackson?”
“Yeah, what about him?”
“Your assessment.”
“No comment.”
“What does he drive and where does he live?”
“A Fairlane, he lives in Edgecliff somewhere.”
That spoke volumes. Evans trusted me but not enough to give out information on anyone for whom he had any regard. I had a character sketch of Jackson from those seven words.
“Anything else Cliff?”
“Not until tonight. You on duty?”
“Yeah, seven to three.”
“Good men with you?”
“Good enough.”
“I’ll call you at eight.”
“You’d better come through on this, Cliff. There’s a bit of flak about the car bombing and some bright boy has got on to the Gutteridge connection. I’m not sure how long I can sit on it.”
“Just hold the lid on until tonight. What I’ve got will be big enough to make you smell like a rose.”
He rang off without saying any more. Grant’s position in the force was secure, but it would add to his troubles if the promotions didn’t keep coming. If he got stuck on a rung too long he’d dry up with frustration and snap like a dead branch. He needed to get up to the top and get there soon. I hoped I could help him make it. Tickener’s call came through at 10.00 precisely. It tied things up.
“Dr Clyde’s a plastic surgeon,” he said without too much interest. “What about Jackson?”
“He’s the cop you’ve heard of.”
“Yeah?” He sounded keener. “What’s it all about?”
Suddenly I had doubts about telling him, not about his honesty but about his control of his tongue. If he went around talking to the wrong people for a day, word could get about and the whole thing could be blown. If Gutteridge’s files existed and were being put to use there could be prominent people in all sorts of places treading the high wire and alert to anything in the breeze about Brave and the Gutteridges. I decided not to risk it.
“It hasn’t quite come together yet,” I said, “but I expect it to tonight. I’ll call you at eight and you can be in on it from the start. Meanwhile I’d dig up all I could on Brave’s background if I were you. You’re going to need that sort of stuff for your story. And keep quiet about Jackson, he’s a small fish. How are you fixed in there? Is Barrett around?”
“No, still in the ACT.”
“Good, do you know Colin Jones, the photographer?”
“Yeah, a bit.”
“Line him up and be there at eight.”
He said okay and for his ego I told him to be sober and to have a full tank of petrol in the FB. That wrapped things up in that direction as far as I could see. I was sure that Costello was at Brave’s clinic. Jackson was covering the police inquiry end and Dr Clyde was doing the face job. They’d been alarmed when I’d blundered into the clinic and seemed to have held some sort of conference the fol
lowing night. But they hadn’t moved Costello yet and perhaps they couldn’t. It mightn’t be medically advisable. If they were going to move him it would almost certainly happen at night and I had plans to head that off. I wished I had a man to watch the clinic in the daytime but I didn’t and there was no use lamenting it.
All this planning was thirsty work and I left the office to repair the damage. Before I took off I put a handful of shells for the Smith & Wesson in my pocket and added a plastic wallet of easily assembled burglar’s tools. I had a licence for the gun but no one has a licence for skeleton keys and lock slides.
CHAPTER 11
I drove to a pub near the University where you can sit in the shade, drink old beer and eat passable rissole sandwiches. I took my street directory into the pub and looked up the addresses of Haines, Pali and Chalmers while I worked on the food and drink. Students around the place were talking in their derivative argot and preparing themselves to fall asleep in the afternoon lectures. One hairy intellectual studied me for a while and then announced that I was obviously in real estate—so much for higher education.
The addresses were more or less on the same side of the city. Geography determined the order of my visits—Pali, Haines, Chalmers. I finished my drink and got up. The pub was emptying but the vocation spotter seemed to be putting off the evil hour. He was rolling a cigarette from makings he’d bludged from one of his fellow seekers after truth. I caught his eye as I stood up and pressed a finger to my lips. As I passed his table I dropped one of my cards, face up, into the beer puddles.
Naumeta Pali’s flat was in a six storey red brick building which was a wound in a wide street flanked by neat terrace houses. The flats were built over car parking space and there was a wide expanse of those smooth white stones that are supposed to replace grass around them. The whole set-up was modern, tasteless and medium expensive. The parking area was divided into bays of white lines; each bay had a flat number painted on it and there were a couple of signs around warning the public that this was private space. The space allotted for flat 6 was empty. I went into one of the lobbies in the building and located the flat. It was three floors up. In Glebe there’d have been milk bottles and cats on every landing and you’d have to fight a gang of kids for every inch of territory. Here there was nothing.