Lugarno

by Peter Corris

  ‘And you are …?’

  ‘Never mind. Are you coming or not?’

  He didn’t like it. A lot of doctors become unused to being spoken to as if they’re just other members of the human race and at a guess he was one of them, but he confined himself to being abrupt. ‘Ten minutes,’ he said and cut the connection.

  I found the blood trail to the bathroom and took in the scene without any trouble. The uncapped syringe was there, along with two squares of silver foil and a small silver dish about the size of a fifty cent piece and a centimetre deep. There were a pair of brass tongs, a cigarette lighter and a packet of cigarettes. So far, just a fancy shooting spot. But there was also a long champagne flute lying on the tiled floor with shards of glass all around it. The room was awash with blood.

  I picked up the cigarettes and lighter and went back to the porch. She was sitting propped up and had drunk some more of the water. Her eyes were open and she grabbed at the cigarettes. ‘You took long enough.’

  I helped her get one to her mouth and she wasn’t going to object to the damp blood from handling the slick packet. I lit it for her and she dragged in the smoke.

  ‘How’d it happen?’

  ‘What?’

  I realised then that Samantha Price was as tough as they come. The vacant look I’d seen in the passport photo was misleading, something she did for the camera, any camera. She was very beautiful and any photographer would have had a field day with her bone structure and the balance of her features—wide mouth, big eyes, straight nose. But up close, with at least some of her defences down, she showed character and intelligence as well. Those big blue eyes had seen a lot and recorded it all, and that luscious mouth was poised for cynicism. The realisation took me back a bit and I was suddenly aware of her naked breasts and my reaction.

  ‘I’ll get you something to wear.’

  Her high, lilting laugh followed me into the house. I stepped carefully, trying to keep clear of the blood although I’d already trodden in a fair bit of it, and went into the kitchen for a glass of water for myself. I washed my hands at the marble, twin-bowl sink and dried them on a linen tea towel. I had blood on my shirt, trousers and shoes—Price was up for a hefty dry cleaning bill.

  I went off in search of clothes. The house had three operational bedrooms as well as a dining room, sitting room and a study cum den. Sammy’s room was the one with the pale blue decor, queen size bed, ensuite and French windows out to the pool. More polished boards and a couple of deep pile rugs. I stayed on the boards and took a linen shirt from a hanger in her closet, wet a hand towel in her bathroom and went back to the porch. She’d smoked one cigarette, left the butt burning a mark into the white tile border of the porch and was working on another.

  ‘Sniff my panties?’

  I retrieved the butt, snuffed it out and tossed it into a flower bed. Then I helped her shrug into the shirt and handed her the wet towel. ‘You’re working too hard at it, Mrs Price. I know you’re tough.’

  ‘You can go now, whoever you are. And thanks. I’m sure Marty’ll see you right, just like all the others.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting the doctor.’

  9

  He buzzed from the gate and, guessing he wasn’t on foot, I pressed the panel that said ‘Main gate’ and let him in. He swung his green BMW inside and came bouncing up the path carrying a brown bag. He was small and dark, Lebanese maybe, or perhaps from the subcontinent. Late thirties—around there—bald head, clipped moustache, summer-weight light fawn suit with matching accessories. He barely acknowledged me and went straight to Sammy who had slumped down a bit and wasn’t looking as good as she had a few minutes before. The cigarettes and lighter were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘I cut myself, doctor,’ she said faintly. ‘An accident.’

  ‘Of course.’ Cross had a mid-everywhere sort of accent and deft hands. He raised the wounded arm to a level position and balanced it on his upraised knee. He had the hard knot I’d tied in the blouse undone in an instant and clicked his tongue as he inspected the gash.

  ‘Very lucky,’ he said. ‘Missing a vein by a fraction.’

  ‘I lost some blood.’

  ‘Yes. But not too much I think.’ He glanced up at me. ‘Did you make the tourniquet?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Too tight. A danger in itself. If you would get some more damp cloths I’ll sterilise and stitch the wound. No problem.’

  Fuck you, Jack, I thought, but I went for the damp cloths. When I got back the doctor had laid out on a baize cloth an ampoule, a syringe, some alcohol swabs, a fine needle and some sutures. I’d brought a footstool from Sammy’s bathroom, which I put the wet hand towels down on and stood over him as he crouched beside the padded bench. Sammy’s eyes were closed and her long lashes seemed to almost reach to her cheekbones.

  ‘Listen, Dr Cross,’ I said. ‘This woman’s already injected herself with … Shit, can’t you see the puncture?’

  Cross took a towel, wiped away some blood and turned his pebble-hard brown eyes up to me. ‘I’m aware of Mrs Price’s dependency. Please go away.’

  I didn’t need asking twice. I planned to have a good look around the house while the opportunity presented. I took off my shoes so as not to tramp blood around unnecessarily and worked my way through the rooms. There was nothing of interest in the sitting or dining rooms or in the study, besides the evidence of money. All the fittings and furniture and equipment—TVs, VCRs, hi-fi, computer—were state-of-the-art. The paintings were originals and one was a Brett Whiteley, a small one.

  I went quickly through Sammy’s closets and drawers. She had enough clothes to outfit the chorus line of a Hollywood musical and an Imelda Marcos–like interest in shoes. Her personal papers were few and easily contained in a shallow drawer—I flipped them over with the long blade on my Swiss Army knife without much interest until a photograph of a young blond man came to light. He wore a suit and a slightly embarrassed expression. Jason Jorgensen. It was a polaroid photograph taken indoors without quite enough light. The subject was clearly enough defined while the background was muzzy, but my guess was it had been taken in a motel room.

  I barely looked at Martin Price’s bedroom because there was almost nothing to see—routine male stuff. There were a couple of books on marketing and management on a table beside the bed and a copy of Paul Kelly’s The End of Certainty, something I’d bought myself and hadn’t got around to reading. Judging by the turned-down page corners, Price was two-thirds through it. A drawer contained a pack of black condoms, some lubricant and a vibrator, all with a thin film of dust. He apparently kept his personal papers in the study and I’d already found all the drawers in the big, solid desk firmly locked.

  On to Danni’s chamber. Unlike the other rooms, it was a mess, and a mess teenage style. I remember seeing an episode of Bill Cosby’s TV show where he opened the door to his son’s room and said, ‘This is where clothes come to die.’ It was like that. Clothes scattered everywhere; video cassettes and compact discs likewise; wall posters pulling away from the Blu-Tack, and pizza and hamburger boxes competing for space with wine bottles and beer cans. The bed was a tumbled ruin with a blizzard of used tissues covering it. The room was large, say twenty-five square metres, but the chaos made it seem small.

  Light flooded in from where a Holland blind had come adrift from one of its moorings. The other blind was drawn down tight, as if the intention had been to keep the room as dim as possible. You hear untidy people say they know where everything is; I’m no housekeeper but I don’t believe it. There was no way Danni would be able to tell that someone had sorted through her detritus. I set about looking through the cluttered closets and impossible-to-close drawers without a thought for secrecy.

  Danni evidently carried everything of importance on her person because the drawers and shelves and discarded handbags and purses contained nothing of interest. I found a scrap of silver foil but no sexy silver dish, no spoon, no
lighter, no syringe or syringe cap. The only thing of interest I found was another photograph of Jason Jorgensen. He was standing in what looked like a wine bar. He appeared happy and relaxed with a glass in his hand and was wearing casual clothes—sports shirt, shorts, sneakers. The photograph had a quick snap look about it and had been tucked under the satin pillow on the sleeper’s side of Danni’s unmade bed.

  Cross had made a good job of repairing Sammy’s arm and he was helping her back into the house when I stepped into view.

  ‘What the hell are you still doing here?’ Sammy almost shouted.

  ‘Calm yourself,’ the doctor said.

  ‘I don’t want that man snooping through my house.’

  ‘I’m the man who saved you from bleeding to death,’ I said. ‘Remember?’

  ‘Hardly that,’ Cross said. ‘A clean wound. Glass is a sterile medium, more or less. I think you’d better leave.’

  I followed them into the sitting room. ‘What about the mess?’

  Sammy allowed the doctor to ease her down into a chair. ‘Do you think I could have a brandy, please?’

  ‘Of course.’ Cross left the room briskly, obviously knowing where they kept the liquor.

  ‘What’s Marty going to say about all this blood?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll have it cleaned up before he gets home. He gets home very late these nights, now that he’s got that … But I suppose you’ll tell him all about it.’

  I liked that choice of words—I’ll have it cleaned up: Sammy hadn’t cleaned anything herself in a long while. It occurred to me that the best way to handle Sammy at the moment was as the man of mystery. I’d lifted the cigarettes and lighter from where she’d tucked them under the padded cover on the porch bench and I dropped them into her lap. ‘I don’t know that I will.’

  Cross came back with an inch or so of amber liquid in a small brandy balloon. Nice touch. He’d taken a while and I edged closer to get a sniff of his breath. ‘Here you are, Mrs Price,’ he said. ‘A few sips over the next few minutes, I would suggest.’

  I had to admire Sammy. She’d secreted the smokes and lighter again as smoothly as Houdini with his all-purpose handcuff keys. She accepted the glass and gave Cross one of her full candle-power smiles and eye massages. I caught its effect even standing off at an angle. ‘Thank you, doctor. Thank you for everything.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be all right,’ I said.

  He ignored me. He had smoothness to spare and he couldn’t quite help himself. He took a card from the breast pocket of his immaculate suit coat and placed it on the velvet-covered arm of Sammy’s chair. ‘If you need me, Mrs Price, at any time, you know where I can be reached.’

  I’d expected him to have a last throw at professional authority but he thought better of it. He was as clean as when he walked in but suddenly unsure of his ground, despite the jolt of spirit I’d picked up on his breath. I was bigger and uglier, poorer, blood-smeared and obviously there on other business. He adjusted the card a nervous millimetre and walked out of the room. I heard the bleep as he touched the panel to open the gate and the soft purr of his engine starting. Dr Cross knew his way around in this little part of Lugarno.

  ‘So,’ Sammy said. She fished up the cigarettes and lit one. She drained the brandy, took a deep drag and knocked some ash into the glass.

  ‘Think you’ll be all right?’

  ‘I know I’ll be all right!’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure, Mrs Price. Think Danni’ll be all right?’

  ‘Is this about Danni?’

  I only had one more bullet to fire. I picked up Cross’s card and flicked a fingernail against it. ‘I’ll tell you one thing—it isn’t about Jason Jorgensen, because he’s dead.’

  10

  Think time. I drove around Lugarno for a while as the day turned sour. The cloud that had built up through the morning and early afternoon had turned dark and had those wind-driven light streaks in it that promise a storm. The wind had swung to the east and it looked as if the city was in for a lashing. I drove as close as I could get to the river and looked out at it over the protective strip of reserve. The water was a murky grey now and the knowledge that Jason had been dumped in it just hours before didn’t make it more appealing. I wondered whether the boat that dragged him up had taken the body ashore somewhere else on the river or whether the police had been contacted straight off. Many houseboats have phones, so the second possibility was likely. It hardly mattered. There was no way to tell where the boy had died or where the body had left dry land—boats leave no tracks. Still, it was curious that the dumping place had been Lugarno. Was it noticeably quieter than elsewhere? The police would be pushing shit uphill on this one and if it started to roll back they’d be calling on me.

  I got out of the car to stretch and sniffed the conflicting smells of Sydney in the air—the industrial odours of Botany warring with the salty tang of the wide blue Pacific further east and the scents that were being given off by the trees that were bending to the wind and shedding leaves. The rain was only minutes away and the air was getting cooler. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and felt something unfamiliar—Dr Cross’s laminated card. I’d taken it for no particular reason and not looked at it. Now I did. Dr Ephraim Cross’s surgery was located in the Essex Arcade, Burwood Road, Canterbury. He was in Suite 3 and in Suite 4 was the Lord George Introduction and Social Escort Agency.

  The sky cracked open and the thunder rolled and lightning forked and the rain came down in sheets. I got soaked just scurrying a few metres back to the car. I drove towards the city and my office to check on the state of my business and because I can sometimes think better in there than anywhere else. There was a good deal to think about. The male mind is a twisted thing; as I drove carefully along the roads with their gutters filling and the traffic crawling, I couldn’t get the image of Samantha Price’s breasts out of my mind. I tried, but I couldn’t clear the screen. She was a damaged creature, shooting God knows what drugs into her system and drinking champagne as she shot up and with her own Dr Feelgood on tap. Her reaction to the news of Jason’s death was hard to interpret. Her expression hadn’t changed much. Had she been stunned? Hard to say. Models seemed to be trained to display aloofness and indifference; maybe Sammy’s training had come into play.

  I swerved to avoid a skidding ute going too fast for the conditions and swore at the driver, who gave me the finger. Sammy hadn’t worried about Jason seeing her with her tits hanging out. He’d seen it all before and a lot more in that motel room. It wasn’t hard to figure—the car, the suit, the motel. Jason was Sammy’s lover and she had been giving him the things a young man would find hard to resist. Price had told me that she had money of her own and I could well believe it. Looking the way she did she must’ve earned a fortune in her modelling days. I could guess at the chronology—Jason’s on with spunky Danni first, then Sammy snatches him away with sophistication, better looks and money. Danni takes revenge on her stepmother by getting her hooked when she’s depressed and vulnerable.

  So Jason goes to Price, which must’ve taken some nerve, and spills the beans on Danni. All very nasty and with Price not really knowing what was going on. It hung together okay and gave me a handle on things, but it didn’t tell me where Danni got her drugs from unless, just possibly, Dr Feelgood was in the picture.

  I parked as close as I could to St Peter’s Lane where I have my office and waited until the rain eased a bit. I had a Drizabone in the back and I pulled it on and splashed off to buy a pizza slice and a takeaway coffee to fuel me. The rain got worse, pelting down so hard it was bouncing up off the footpath making staying even half dry impossible. I stepped gingerly over flowing gutters, ducked away from spewing downpipes and made the back entrance nearly as wet as when I rode the big, choppy, curling ones at Maroubra back in my surfing days.

  It was mid-afternoon and I was hungry. Breakfast and the light beer with Tom Bolitho were a distant memory. I’d wolfed down the pizza slice and drunk the coffee and wished I
could have seconds, but with the rain coming down like that I wasn’t going out again. There were a couple of faxes and bills and phone messages to deal with and I did them in a routine way with the tangled Price matter still occupying most of my brain space. I opened a folder, put the contract inside, scribbled some notes and dropped Dr Cross’s card in with the lot. I made my usual diagram with names in the corners of an octagon, leaving spaces for more names as they came up, and dotted lines and arrows indicating connections. I had five names so far, six if I included Detective Constable Stankowski—two to go. I figured I might need a bigger diagram and wondered what a ten-sided figure was called.

  I was still wondering and still hungry and thirsty when the phone rang. I screen the calls when I’m thinking and I let the machine pick it up.

  ‘Cliff, Tess. You there?’

  I realised that I hadn’t given Ramsay a thought for some time and felt guilty. In cowardly fashion, I let Tess leave a message that only amounted to a wish to know how I was going. I put out my hand to pick up the phone but she cut the call and I let it drop. Come on, Hardy, I thought. You can handle two cases at once. You’ve done it before. That was true, but as a rough rule, when I did that, one case turned out badly.

  I could have called Tess back and told her about the Strathfield situation but I didn’t and I wasn’t sure why. Maybe I felt I needed something more solid to relay to her, like a meeting with Ramsay. Or maybe I was shying away from that out of my dislike of the man. Tess would be better off disconnected from him. Why not just let him go on doing whatever he was doing? At least he wasn’t at her for money and was apparently healthy. But the truth was I was more interested now in the Price case and not just because it was an earner. It had subtleties to it I was sure I hadn’t yet discerned and that was intriguing.

  Although it was still early in the year, the heavy cloud dimmed the light and the late afternoon felt later. Bad weather depresses me, makes me feel heavy and slow, and I slumped at the desk until I got a twinge from my bruised stomach. That was another attraction of the Price matter, the possibility of catching up with Baldy again and being better prepared. It got to be five o’clock which is near enough to six, and I poured myself a modest slug of bargain special Scotch and made plans: for now, a visit to the sauna and spa in Leichhardt to help me get through my routine at the gym the next morning where I hoped Peter Lo would have something helpful for me. Ramsay would have to wait; but then a more forceful visit to the face-lifted lady of Henry Street, Strathfield, would be the next port of call.