The Dying Trade

by Peter Corris

  “No, he didn’t. I’m quite sure he only talked about it to me, and then only because he had to. But that isn’t all, there’s one thing more. About a week before he died Mark was involved in a fight, he had very badly skinned knuckles and he’d dislocated two fingers. He wasn’t marked on the face. I think he must have hurt the other person very badly. Mark was a powerful man.”

  “You don’t know who he fought with?”

  “No, he wouldn’t tell me. The way he said ‘he’ and ‘him’ made me think it was someone he knew, not a stranger. But that was just an impression, I could be wrong.”

  “You could be right. Is that all?”

  “That’s all. He couldn’t make love for the last month of his life. But I never heard him sounding suicidal about it. If he did kill himself it could have contributed, but I still think Brave put the real pressure on.”

  “Maybe. No unusual letters found after his death?”

  She considered it. “No, the executors took all the business correspondence of course. I looked through the personal letters, photographs and things. It all harked back a long way, before my time mostly. I turned it over to Bryn.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, you know, father and son and all that. It seemed like the right thing to do.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so. It all ties in with some of my ideas. Not easy stuff to talk about.”

  “It’s not easy to listen to either.” Susan spat her words out as if they had a bad taste. “God, what muck! It’s probably true though, we’re a degenerate lot.”

  “What do you mean, Susan?” I said softly.

  “You’re the detective, you work it out.”

  She was going to get full mileage from the situation, I was going to have to play her very carefully. She had to have an atmosphere of intrigue and trauma to work in if she wasn’t going to hold back.

  I made a cigarette and Ailsa asked me for one and I made another and gave it to her. I lit the cigarettes and pulled the heavy crystal ashtray over to within Ailsa’s reach. Susan jeered again.

  “Love is it? Scarcely young though.”

  “What would you know about it?” Ailsa said icily.

  “You’ll see. What are you going to ask me, Hardy? What’s your first probing question?”

  “I think we’ll switch for a minute to the more straightforward stuff. I want to know who was living within the grounds of the Gutteridge house on the night he died. You were both there?”

  “Yes, I was there,” Susan said. “I’d come up to visit my father, Bryn was there too, I don’t remember why. Anyway, we stayed for a meal and then I felt a bit ill. I stayed the night, so did Bryn.”

  “Why? Was that unusual?”

  “No, we did it fairly often. Mark liked us to stay and see him at breakfast before he went to work. Plenty of room in the house of course.”

  “Bryn got drunk that night,” said Ailsa.

  I was surprised. “He seemed a pretty careful drinker to me.”

  “He was,” Ailsa replied. She looked at Susan for confirmation and got a slight nod. “So was Mark, but they both went at it a bit that night. After dinner they got on the whisky. I don’t drink so I went to bed.”

  “To read?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What, what did you read?”

  She played with the ties on her nightgown. The cigarette had gone out, she hadn’t enjoyed it so maybe she was on the way to beating them.

  “I can’t remember,” she said.

  “Good,” I said. “Now, I want you to write down on the pads the names of all the people you recollect as being on the spot that night. Include yourselves.”

  “Oh Hardy,” Susan said, “this is so corny.”

  “Just do it please, you’ll be surprised.”

  “What are you paying him to set up this nonsense, Ailsa?” Susan asked. Ailsa smiled, stubbed out the half-smoked dead butt and took up her pencil. The two of them switched on their recall apparatus. I pulled my pad towards me and started doodling and writing words that had nothing to do with the matter in hand. I looked up at them a couple of times over the next couple of minutes. Susan looked relaxed, as if the writing exercise was therapeutic for her. Ailsa sucked on the pencil, substituting it for a cigarette. She probably hadn’t written anything without smoking in the last twenty years. I wrote down my version of those present—I had only four names and one unnamed servant. I was going on the newspaper reports. The two women looked up more or less simultaneously.

  “OK,” I said, “let’s have a look.”

  I got up and collected the leaves torn off their pads. Ailsa’s sheet read: Ailsa G., Mark G., Susan G., Bryn G., Mrs Berry, Verna, Henry, Willis. Susan’s read: Gutteridge—Mark, Bryn, Susan, Ailsa. Cook (Mrs Berry), maid (Verna), driver (Willis), gardener (Henry), assistant.

  “Good,” I said, “pretty close, one discrepancy. Susan says the assistant gardener was there, Ailsa doesn’t list him. Was he or wasn’t he, and what was his name?”

  “He was around all right,” Susan said, “I remember because he was sick, he lived in quarters behind the garage. The light was on there and Bryn mentioned it to Mark. He said the young gardener was sick.”

  “What else do you know about him?”

  “He wasn’t interviewed by the police in the house. I suppose they saw him in his room.”

  Ailsa nodded. “That would be why I didn’t list him,” she said. “I was going on the order of the police interviews.”

  “What was his name, Ailsa?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Do you, Susan?”

  The thing was drawing them together a bit which was good.

  “No, he was fairly new, I don’t think I ever heard his name.”

  “What did he look like? He was young?”

  Susan thought about it. It was obviously difficult for her to think about servants other than in the abstract.

  “He was young I think,” she said, “hard to tell, he had a beard.”

  “That makes sense,” said Ailsa. “All men with beards look the same to me, the driver had a beard.”

  “But Willis had a small beard, a gingery one, pepper and salt sort of. The gardener’s beard was fuller and darker, like, like . . .” she giggled, “like Fidel Castro.”

  Finding Castro funny was just her style, it explained a lot about how the rich are able to carry on merrily being rich. But she’d hit the right note and things came together in my brain and clinched and paid off like a perfectly executed piece of football play. It must have showed in my face because they both straightened themselves up in their beds and took on expectant looks. Ailsa said it.

  “He’s important, isn’t he Cliff, the gardener? And you know who he is. Come on, tell us.”

  I took a deep breath and pushed the things I’d been fiddling with away. It’s a strange feeling when you’ve worked it out or got close enough, you become reluctant to surrender it. I went to a lecture once given by a guy who was an expert on the Tasmanian Aborigines; his expertise was mostly a matter of word of mouth, he hadn’t published very much. He said practically nothing in the lecture, he couldn’t bear to yield it up. It’s like that.

  “I told you it’d get harder,” I said. I looked at the woman with her lank hair, the bright eyes and the vast hump where her legs should be, “Where were you in May 1953, Susan?” I said.

  CHAPTER 24

  She took it pretty well, she didn’t turn green or any other colour and she didn’t scream. Her hands gripped the bed cover a bit harder, but the main expression on her face was that of relief. She’d lived with it a long time until it had become a part of her, but never a comfortable part, never something that augmented her. It was more like a demon to be exorcised except that the exorcism might be too painful, and the hole left by its departure
might be too great to bear. There was probably an associated fear, a fear that didn’t matter and had never really mattered to anyone but her. A fear that her innermost personal experience didn’t matter a damn to the rest of the world. At least now, at whatever the cost, it looked as if it did matter somehow and she felt relief.

  She looked at me and spoke through a smile so thin you could slip it through a bank vault door.

  “You know where I was, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Then you tell it. I’d like to hear someone else talk about it. No one has ever referred to it but me for over twenty years and I talk to myself about it every day.”

  “You’re sure you want me to say it? I might get something important wrong.”

  “That won’t matter, go on.”

  “You were in Adelaide. You gave birth to a child, a boy. He was healthy. You were fifteen or sixteen. The baby went to an orphanage.”

  “No, he was adopted!”

  “Maybe it didn’t take, I don’t know. He grew up in an orphanage though.”

  She was crying softly now and speaking through the sobs. “What could I do? What could I do? I couldn’t keep him. They sent me away and arranged it all. I kept his birthday every year.”

  “What do you mean?” I said quickly, then something like an understanding hit me, “No, you don’t have to explain, Susan.”

  “I want to, it’s not much to tell. Every year I buy a birthday card and write something on it and seal it in a plain envelope. I post it, just like that.”

  “Oh Susan.” Ailsa stretched out her arms to her, ten feet away across the table.

  I got up and went round to her. Her shoulders were heaving and tears were streaming down her face. I tried to touch her hands and put an arm around her but she rejected me with savage, jerky movements of her arms and head. Her mouth was working convulsively and she had her eyes shut tight as if she wanted to blind herself.

  “She’s had enough Cliff,” Ailsa said softly. “Ring for the doctor.”

  I picked up one of the telephones in the room and got an immediate line to an action point of some kind. I spoke quickly describing Susan’s condition, and a doctor and two nurses were in the room within seconds of my replacing the phone. Susan had calmed a little but this was no less disturbing; she stared straight in front of her and her lips moved silently. The doctor gave me a hard disapproving look and slid a needle into her arm. Almost immediately the stiffness went out of her and she relaxed back onto the pillows. Her eyes fluttered and closed. The nurses released the brakes on the bed and wheeled it out of the room. The doctor looked at Ailsa inquiringly but she shook her head.

  “I’m all right doctor, I want to talk to Mr Hardy a little longer. I’ll have him call when I want to go back to my room.”

  She said it firmly and that, along with the reminder that she was in a room of her own, was enough to send him off about his business.

  I rolled two cigarettes, gave one to Ailsa and lit them. After a few puffs she butted it out.

  “I’m going to stop smoking, really! Stop tempting me!”

  “You never know how strong you are till you know how weak you are.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Yes, yes it is.”

  I sat down on the bed and ran my fingertips down her arm.

  “I’m getting better,” she said, “I won’t break.”

  I leaned down and kissed her. After a minute she pushed me back. She smoothed down her cap of hair and gave me a look that reminded me that she was paying my hire.

  “Well, you certainly broke her up,” she said.

  “I didn’t mean to, but it was bound to happen.”

  “I suppose so, I’ve never had any children, you?”

  “No.”

  “They make you vulnerable.”

  “You’re vulnerable anyway.”

  “Oh, profound.”

  “That’s me.”

  I meant it though and I was considering how to face her with her own little piece of vulnerability right then. I couldn’t think of any subtle way and it probably wasn’t necessary.

  “Do you want to know who Susan’s son is?”

  “Yes of course, you’ve been detecting?”

  “Just a little. He’s the man you know as Ross Haines.” I went on to give her the whole thing in a piece. “I found some records that tie it up. Birth extract, picture of the orphanage. There’s a picture of him taken a few years back wearing a dark beard. My guess is that those scars he’s got are the result of the beating Mark Gutteridge gave him. They’ve changed his appearance enough to let him dispense with the beard.”

  “But why would Mark beat up Ross?”

  “I don’t know. My guess is that Ross confronted Mark in some way. I’m really guessing now, but I think he found out about Bryn and wrote the letter to Mark. Maybe he tried to blackmail Mark, I don’t know.”

  “He must have hated him.”

  “He hates all of you.”

  She took this in painfully, some strain and tiredness was showing in her face and she had to think back over her relationship with a person she never really knew. It’s a hard thing to do. I’d done it myself about Cyn a few times and it never failed to leave me feeling wretched and stupid. It’s a consolation that you have to be very unlucky to make more than one of these complete misjudgments in your life, but Ailsa had the added problem that the person she now had to totally reconstruct was trying to destroy her.

  “Just explain it to me as you see it now, Cliff.” She lay back on her pillows and twined the drawstring of her bedgown in her fingers.

  I picked up a pad and a pencil and drew a few squares, put names in them, scribbled a few dates and connected the bits and pieces up with arrows and dotted lines. I’m not much of an abstract thinker. I crossed pieces of the diagram out as I spoke.

  “Ross Haines grew up in an orphanage. Maybe he was adopted out at first and that’s how he got the surname, but something went wrong with the adoption, must have because I think he was in the orphanage for most of his young life. The adoptive parents could have been killed I suppose, I don’t know. Maybe he was only fostered out. Anyway, he was bright and he had a lousy time. Orphans don’t get any of the system’s breaks. He did better than most by becoming a landscape gardener. He was pretty good at it. My guess is that he had no sort of a life at all as an adolescent. To judge from his possessions he had nothing from the time he wanted to remember with affection. OK, he’s working away in Adelaide as a landscape gardener, working for rich people and that’s important. He’s wondering who the hell he is and what he’s doing not being dead when somehow he finds out that he is a Gutteridge. I don’t know how he does it, gets hold of his actual birth record somehow? Don’t know. He has an old, faded photograph of her, you could say there’s a resemblance. From that point on his course is straightforward, if insane. He comes to Sydney, gets a job as Mark’s gardener, snoops out Bryn, puts the needle into Mark and goes on belting away at every Gutteridge he can find. The files are a bonus. He uses them to squeeze people for things, testimonials, money, God knows what else. He’s bent on destroying the family that disowned him and he’s doing pretty well. He might have had a hand in Mark’s death, Bryn’s gone as a result of events he set in train, you and Susan have both come pretty close. It all hangs together, but there are a few things that puzzle me.”

  “A lot of things puzzle me,” Ailsa said. “He could have killed me twenty times, why didn’t he?”

  “I think the strategy is to do some other sort of damage first. He probably wanted to send you bankrupt.”

  “I see. What things puzzle you?”

  “Quite a few. It’s hard to believe that he isn’t interested in the Gutteridge money, he’s not that mad. But how could he get it after knocking off all the Gutteri
dges? He might be able to establish a legal claim if he can prove he’s Susan’s son. But suspicion would fall straight on him. It wouldn’t work. Another thing, why didn’t he just tell Mark that he was his grandson. He’s a well set up lad, not a queer or anything and Bryn was out of favour. He could have done himself some good you’d think. Instead of that he goes sneaking about poisoning minds. Doesn’t make sense.”

  Ailsa shrugged. “Something else,” I said.

  “What?”

  “There’s not a scrap of proof. It would take a serious, detailed investigation to establish Haines’ movements and actions and there’s no way of setting one up. The police wouldn’t look at it, and more than that, he’s got the files and I think they could get him some high level police protection if he ever needs it. He’s pretty safe.”

  “I’ll fire him,” she said.

  “Let’s mull that over for a while first. It might not be a good idea.”

  “What would be a good idea?”

  “We need to know more about him, to get something on him if possible, maybe force him to make some mistakes or get within reach of the law in some way. At present all we have on our side is that he doesn’t know we’re on to him, that plus you and Susan being safe in here for a while.”

  Ailsa’s concentration was fading. She was interested and involved but tired and drained emotionally. She was still on drugs, there was an artificial quality to her composure and it was starting to crack. She gathered up some strength to see it through for now, but it was obviously an effort.

  “What do you want to do now, Cliff?”

  “I want to meet this guy again to size him up. Also I think I should go over to Adelaide to check out his background as much as possible, try to get a line on him that will help to explain things. I especially want to know why he’s used the search and destroy method lately instead of infiltration and sedition.”

  “He’s done that?”

  “Yes, the methods of attack have changed, someone else could be involved of course, in a secondary way maybe.”

  “You sound like a military man.”