The Dying Trade

by Peter Corris

  Collins levered himself off the wall and moved towards my chair.

  “My turn, Paddy?” he said.

  “Not yet.” O’Brien waved him back and leaned forward towards me over the table.

  “Look Hardy, you’re a smart guy. You can add two and two. We know this Cattermole was a hood. No one’s very worried about him. Maybe the whole thing was an accident. If you’ve got something to say about Mark Gutteridge I think we can work something out. I’ve got Inspector Mills’ promise that he’ll interview you in private himself and that you won’t lose by it. He’s standing by.”

  The penny dropped. The Gutteridge files were being used and some top cops were hurting. As long as they thought I knew something about the Gutteridge files I was worth keeping alive. My life wouldn’t be worth two bob if I told them a thing, either way.

  “How about Jackson?”

  “What?” O’Brien was startled and dropped his suave mask for a second.

  “Senior Detective Charles Jackson, the crooked cop, bent as buggery.”

  “He’s on suspension,” Collins said.

  “Shut up Colly!” O’Brien rapped out. “What’s Jackson to you Hardy?”

  “He’s shit to me,” I said, “and your Inspector Mills sounds like double shit.”

  O’Brien slammed his notebook down on the table and banged his fist on top of it. He drew a deep breath and seemed to be internalising some deep moral struggle. Cop training won out. He scooped up the notebook, tucked it away in his pocket and got to his feet.

  “OK, Colly,” he said, “five minutes, nothing visible.” He walked across to the door and went out of the room. Collins leaned across and snibbed the lock. He walked up behind me and took hold of the lobe of my right ear. He pinched it.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “Get stuffed, you don’t even know what you’re asking about, you dumb gorilla.”

  My vision and my breath and my hearing were all cut off by the kidney punch. It knocked me off the chair and left me hunched up on the floor fighting to keep control of my stomach and my bladder. Collins reached down into the waistband of my trousers and put his hand around my balls.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  Nothing had changed. I was dead if they found out that I knew nothing worth knowing about the files. I had to pretend that I knew and to take whatever they dished out.

  “Get your hand off my balls, you faggot.”

  He squeezed and I screamed and writhed away from him. He came after me and I lashed out at him with a foot. It caught him on the thigh and made him beserk, he jumped on me and started pummelling me with his fists. Through the mist of red and black I was dimly aware of a hammering on the door. Collins let go of me and I saw the door open, then slid down into an ebbing and flowing sea of pain.

  I woke up in a cell and my watch told me it was three hours later in my life. They’d taken my wallet and keys but left me the tobacco and matches. I struggled up to a sitting position on the bench and looked around. I suppose it would have been luxury in Mexico— sleeping bench, large enamel bucket, fairly clean washbasin and dry concrete floor—but I wasn’t taken with it. My mouth tasted like a sewer and I rinsed some water around in it and tried to smoke a cigarette. The taste sent me running to the bucket for a monumental heave and I crawled back to the bench and pulled a thin grey blanket over me. My kidney and testicles competed for the major seat of-pain award. I curled myself up under the blanket and became aware for the first time that my trousers were wet. I sniffed at my hand and got the unmistakable smell of urine from it.

  By experimenting carefully I found a position in which everything didn’t hurt at once. I held it until sleep hooked me and reeled me in and away from my bed of pain.

  CHAPTER 20

  Breakfast came at 6.30, a cup of instant coffee and two pieces of soggy toast. I got it down somehow and sat on the bench feeling miserable. A cop came in an hour later and emptied the bucket, the only diversion for the morning. I sat on the bench smoking cigarettes and longing for a drink. I thought of asking if I could telephone the hospital but there were disadvantages in bringing Ailsa’s name to the cops’ attention just then. Mostly I worried about whether they were going to try to hold me on the charges they could get together and whether I could get anyone to put up the bail. Sy usually arranged such things for me and he’d picked a great time to go off liberating the Third World. Fretting, and a disgusting mess that could just have passed as an omelette, took me into the early part of the afternoon. I’d reconciled myself to several weeks or more of Long Bay jail when Collins unlocked the door and beckoned me out of the cell. Just the sight of him made me ache in all the old familiar places. He didn’t look as chipper as he had the night before though. He held the door open.

  “Out.”

  “Where to?”

  “It’d be a quick trip to the harbour if it was up to me, but it seems you got friends.”

  That sounded hopeful. I followed him out of the lock-up to a kind of lounge, a gentle version of the interrogation room. We went in and O’Brien was sitting at a desk talking to another man. I didn’t know him and from the look he gave me I decided I didn’t want to. I was unravelled and unshaven, he was shaved as smooth as an egg. He looked to be quite tall, a self-satisfied number. He wore a light grey suit that didn’t come off the peg, handmade brogues, a pale blue shirt and a tie from one of the good schools or regiments. His hair was thick and dark although he must have been approaching fifty to judge from the tiny wrinkles etched into his suntanned face. His teeth were white and his eyes were blue, he was perfect. O’Brien waved me into a chair and Collins took up his usual position by the door. He’d have done the same in a Bedouin tent.

  It was one of those occasions where nobody likes anybody else. I sat down and O’Brien broke the silence.

  “This is Mr Urquhart,” he said, “he’s got a writ for your release Hardy and we’re just working out the details.”

  I looked over at Mr Cool and he gave me a slight nod which would have cost a month’s earnings if I’d been paying him.

  “Good,” I said, “don’t let me disturb you, just pretend I’m not here.”

  “You don’t seem surprised,” O’Brien grated out angrily.

  “Not at all.”

  When someone hurries in with a writ for your release you don’t sit around discussing your good fortune with the cops, you just accept it graciously and hope he’ll throw in a drink afterwards. Urquhart reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a wallet that looked as if it had cost more money than I’d ever had in one, and extracted an envelope. He put it on the table in front of O’Brien who prodded it and blinked.

  “What’s this for?” he said.

  Urquhart smiled. “I understand this is how you like to do business, Mr O’Brien. My principal has no objection and I think Mr Hardy hasn’t noticed anything untoward.”

  He inclined his head towards me and I smiled smoothly back. I pointed at the envelope lying alongside the legal document.

  “Bit of betting money for you there Paddy,” I said, “Collins can help you pick yesterday’s winners.”

  “That will do Hardy,” Urquhart snapped. “I’m sure the sergeant knows his business.”

  O’Brien looked again at the envelope and let out a breath slowly. He glanced up at Collins who had an idiot smile on his face.

  “Very well, Mr Urquhart,” O’Brien muttered, “all in order I think.”

  “I should think so,” said Urquhart quietly, “I’ll see you outside Mr Hardy. I assume you have possessions to collect?”

  “Just the gold watch and lighter and the mad money. Lead the way Sergeant.”

  Collins opened the door and the lawyer walked out purposefully—he was the kind who memorised routes in and out and never got lost no matter how many times you turned him around. W
hen he was gone O’Brien gave me a hard look.

  “Don’t put a foot wrong Hardy or you’ll be back faster than you can fuck.”

  I shook my head disapprovingly and drew my finger across my throat.

  “Cover your tracks, mate,” I said, “heads are gonna roll.” I walked out with Collins close behind me.

  “What are you talking about?” he said anxiously.

  “Don’t worry Colly, you have a solid asset.”

  We got to the admission desk and I was given my things back in exchange for a signature in a ledger. I stuffed them into my pockets and headed for the door.

  Collins padded after me. “What d’you mean solid asset?” he asked.

  I tapped my forefinger against my temple and kept moving.

  Urquhart was standing on the pavement propping up a gun-metal Celica that looked fresh from the showroom. When he saw me he went around to the driver’s side and got in. He beckoned at me with an imperious forefinger and I got in beside him. He turned a key which apparently started the engine, not that you’d know from the noise level. I pulled the seat belt out slowly to show him that I knew how they worked and settled myself down into the leather.

  He didn’t smile, he didn’t say anything until we were out into the traffic—he was gold plated and platinum tipped. He avoided a truck and rounded a bus with two easy movements.

  “I am Miss Gutteridge’s solicitor,” he said at last.

  “Oh yeah, lucky you.”

  “Don’t try to upset me, Mr Hardy, you won’t succeed. I’m not interested in you, and your tough guy act doesn’t impress me. People who have to be bailed out of police lock-ups in the sort of condition you are in are obviously stupid and no amount of repartee can redeem them.”

  “Yeah. I have the same view of people who wear three hundred dollar suits and have to shave every day, so we’re even. How did Susan know I was in the can and why did she tell you to get me out?”

  “Miss Gutteridge called me late last night and asked me to contact you to discuss a matter she wishes you to pursue. Your telephone didn’t answer, your answering service is hopelessly unsatisfactory, so I called at your address and made inquiries. I felt you couldn’t do whatever is required of you in jail.”

  “Very true. Where’s Susan, in hospital?”

  “I haven’t been instructed.”

  “Of course not, you’re a messenger boy, not privy council.”

  He winced and pulled in to the kerb. “Your jokes are as terrible as your appearance, I think I’ll ask you to get out.” I opened the door and eased my aching body out slowly. “Here will do,” I said. He reached over, closed the door and glided away into the traffic with the air of someone who had won the round. Maybe he had.

  I hailed a taxi and got home in ten minutes. Nobody had broken in, nobody was waiting for me behind the door with a cosh. I called the hospital and was told that Mrs Sleeman was sleeping well and taking solid food. I left the message that I’d call that night if possible and the following morning if not. I didn’t ask about Susan Gutteridge, but the receptionist sounded just a touch excited when I gave my name. She told me that Miss Gutteridge had a message for me which I was to collect at the hospital. I gripped the handpiece so hard my knuckles cracked.

  “Miss Gutteridge is a patient in the hospital?”

  “Yes.” The receptionist sounded like a willing participant in a high drama.

  “For stabilisation of diabetes, under Dr Pincus, right?”

  “Yes, and . . .”

  “And what?”

  “For two broken legs and multiple broken ribs. She was run over just outside the hospital.”

  “When?”

  “At ten o’clock this morning.”

  “How did she manage to write a message?”

  “She insisted, she terrorised the emergency ward and wrote your message before she allowed the doctors to attend to her. She threatened them with lawsuits. She’s sedated now. The message must be very urgent, Mr Hardy.”

  “Can’t you give it to me over the phone?”

  “No, it’s in a sealed envelope. After what she said I daren’t open it. You’ll have to collect it yourself.”

  I told her I’d be there within half an hour. I hoped she wasn’t going to be too disappointed when she saw me.

  The hospital lobby was crowded with departing visitors when I arrived. Most of them looked in good health and glad to be on their way back to the land of the healthy. The receptionist didn’t disappoint me. She was dark and fresh looking in crisply starched linen which was fashionably cut. It made her look like someone playing a part in a TV hospital drama. Perhaps she expected me to play with a hat and unlit cigarettes. I didn’t, but she had the thrill of looking at my investigator’s licence before handing over the envelope. I walked back to my car and got in before ripping the paper open. The writing was shaky as you’d expect and this reinforced the feeling of fright which the short note conveyed: “Mr Hardy—I was deliberately run down. The car was a red Volkswagen. Please help me. One of my solicitors will contact you, name your own fee. Please help.”

  There was a shaky, scrawled signature at the bottom. I rolled a cigarette and tapped my fingers on the steering wheel as an aid to thought. The Gutteridge Terroriser was still operating and his targets had been narrowed down by one. I wondered how much pressure from how many directions had been put on Bryn to make him crack the way he had, but I knew that the question would never be answered. Bryn had taken the brunt of the danger that lay in association with the files squarely on his chest and it had killed him indirectly. Now the two remaining targets were both asking for protection. Conflicts of interest would have to be sorted out and I intended to get onto that as soon as they were able to stand the strain of each other’s company. Right now the straightforward move was to round off some unfinished work by checking on Walter Chalmers.

  I drove across to his place via the flats where Naumeta Pali lived. Her place in this was one of the most puzzling aspects of the whole affair. There was no red Volkswagen parked under the building so I kept going. Chalmers’ house was in what is called a garden suburb in England. It was a large brick bungalow, built soon after World War I by someone who had money to spend. There was a deep front porch with a low brick wall around it and two massive plaster cast water maidens on top of the porch pillars. The house had a high pitched roof with deep overhanging eaves and nicely carved woodwork around the windows and ventilation ducts. The block it sat on was larger than average for the area, getting on for half an acre and it was crowded with flowers, bushes and shrubs. I saw every kind of flower I can identify, which is four, and dozens of others. The lawn was meticulously cut. Someone spent many hours per week in that garden and knew what he was doing.

  I took a run past the house, turned at the top of the quiet street and came back down on the other side. I stopped a few doors further on. There was no activity in the street. There wouldn’t be—this was a both-people-working and children-at-creche-or-school zone. I got out of my car after finding a clipboard and some paper amid the rubbish on the back seat. I riffled through the blank sheets of paper, adjusted the clip, tucked the board under my arm and marched up to the gate. I walked briskly to the front door and rang the bell. Behind all that shrubbery I was scarcely visible from the street or the flanking houses. If my entry hadn’t attracted any adverse attention I was set. If someone had seen me go in and knew the house was empty I could be in trouble, but I probably had some time to work in before they’d get up the spirit to ring the cops. I gave it a minute. The air was warm and still and full of insect noises. I slipped a skeleton key into the old Yale lock and turned. The door came open as if I was the master returning from a hard day’s work.

  The door gave onto a hallway with wallpaper that reminded me of my aunt Joan’s—men on horseback in pink coats, and dogs and foxes chasing each
other from floor to ceiling. To the left were double glass doors which opened onto a large living room with a big handsome fireplace. On the other side of the house there were two large bedrooms and a bathroom and toilet. Behind this the kitchen ran the width of the house and behind that was a glassed-in sun porch with full length sliding doors. A very nice drinking area. The back garden was as well kept and well stocked flora-wise as the front. I went through the porch, down a cement path to the garage. All the usual carpenter’s tools hung up above a bench against their silhouettes carefully painted in black on the fibro cement wall. A wide selection of gardening tools stood against the wall lined up like soldiers at attention. There were some oil stains on the concrete floor but no one’s perfect.

  Back in the house I began a systematic search of drawers and cupboards to see if I could turn up anything which might suggest involvement in Gutteridge affairs beyond what was normal for a loyal employee. Contrary to their image, accountants have a very high rate of criminality—their training and professional habits make them formidable schemers and planners. Chalmers, however, seemed as honest as Baden Powell. His kitchen drawers showed him to be a model of efficiency and tidiness. The household accounts were spiked and filed down to the last detail in the second bedroom which he used as a guest room and study. My keys got me into every drawer and cabinet and revealed a man pretty much as dull as Ailsa had portrayed him. He had plenty of money, from his salary and stock market investments which seemed to be cautious and consistently profitable. His income tax submissions were a joy to see. He practically deducted his shoe leather and they bought it every time.

  The main bedroom presented a contrast to the rest of the house where the fittings were austere, almost plain. This room had a softer, sensuous feel. The double bed was low slung and springy, the sheets and pillow cases were black satin under a knotty Peruvian woollen cover. There was a large cedar wardrobe with two full length mirrors and a chest of the same wood which stood five feet high—both thousand dollar antiques. The right hand door on the wardrobe offered the first resistance I’d met with in the house. It had a double lock with the second mechanism low down and concealed by a movable panel. I had to work on it with two keys and a piece of stiff plastic to get it open. The hanging space inside was crammed with full length and street length dresses and nightgowns, they ranged from frilly, frothy affairs to sleek streamlined jobs. A set of shelves in the cupboard was occupied by layers of silk and satin underwear—panties, bras, petticoats, stockings and suspenders. A box on the bottom shelf was full of make-up—lipsticks, false eyelashes, brushes and pencils, eye shadow and other pots and tubes beyond my experience.