The Undertow

by Peter Corris

  7

  I phoned the Parkers and got Hilde.

  ‘Hello, Cliff. Haven’t seen you for a bit. Been busy?’

  ‘Yeah. How are you, love?’

  ‘I’ve got my bloody time of life which isn’t much fun.’

  ‘Bit young for that, aren’t you?’

  ‘You’re losing track of time. I’ll be okay. I’m trying some herbal stuff that’s said to be good. When’re we going to see you?’

  ‘Soon, I hope. Is Frank around? I need a bit of help with something.’

  ‘I’ll get him. Make it soon.’

  No outright lies there, but close.

  ‘Hello, Cliff. Results already?’

  ‘Hardly,’ I said. I decided to work my way towards the subject—an old habit. ‘A couple of things I’m interested in. Padrone’s medical records. Nothing about them in your notes.’

  ‘I should’ve mentioned that—they went missing.

  Heysen was happy to produce them but they couldn’t be found.’

  I skimmed through the pages of Frank’s notes. ‘What about this receptionist—Roma Brown? Didn’t she know what happened to them?’

  ‘Cassidy interviewed her, not me. He was a sloppy cop.

  Fat slob. God knows how he got the rank he did.’

  ‘Corrupt?’

  ‘Back then, who knows? Anyway, he said she didn’t have a clue. You think the records are important?’

  ‘Dunno. How about Rex Wain?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Was he any good?’

  ‘Better than Cassidy.’

  ‘Not as good as you?’

  ‘Modesty forbids. He was all right. Thick as . . . I was going to say thick as thieves with Damien Cassidy, but I never heard they were on the take. Why the interest?’

  I told him about my interview with Wain, how down on his luck he was and how he and Cassidy seemed to know something about the Heysen case that no one else did.

  Something he wouldn’t tell me for any money. Frank was quiet, taking this in.

  ‘Frank?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time senior police kept secrets from juniors. Not always dodgy either. There can be valid reasons. But this sounds strange. You believed him?’

  ‘He wanted the money like a dog wants a bone. He needed it.’

  Frank said he hadn’t a clue what the hidden information might be. He hadn’t been full-time on the Heysen case but he’d attended most of the briefings and thought he was in the picture. I said it was an angle I’d have to do some work on. He sounded depressed when he responded—understandably, thinking back to the state of the police force in those days—so I didn’t tell him his information on the other detectives was out of date.

  ‘How’s Hilde?’ I said.

  ‘Okay. I’ll put her back on. She wants to talk to you.’

  That was a worry—had she twigged that something was being hidden from her?

  ‘Cliff, I just wanted to know if you were still with Lily,’ she said.

  ‘Ah, the word with doesn’t quite cut it. She’s still staying here while her place gets fixed up. She’s away at the moment, in Adelaide. But . . . it’s going well.’

  ‘Good. Bring her over for a meal.’

  I said I would and rang off.

  It was interesting that Padrone’s medical records were missing. Interesting, but what it pointed to I had no idea.

  I rang Catherine Heysen.

  ‘Mrs Heysen, Cliff Hardy. I’m wondering if you remember a woman named Roma Brown.’

  ‘No.’

  A minion, not worth remembering.

  ‘She was the receptionist at your husband’s surgery.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I remember now.’

  ‘Do you happen to know where she lived? I want to talk to her. Perhaps your husband had a Teledex or something?’

  ‘He did. The police took it and never returned it. But I remember that she lived very close by. The surgery was in Crown Street, and I recall Gregory saying she was never late because she lived just around the corner. He was a stickler for being prompt. But what street he meant I don’t know.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s a help.’

  ‘Have you made any . . . progress?’

  ‘I hope so. Goodnight.’

  I brought my notes and expenses up to date. Fifty bucks for Rex Wain. No receipt.

  That night the storm picked up again and the branch I’d sawn at came crashing down. The noise woke me and I checked on the window. Intact. I made a mental note to retrieve the ladder and do something about the branch, but my mental notes don’t always get acted on.

  Next day I located an address for Roma Brown in a mid-1980s electoral roll in the Mitchell Library. The address checked with one of the many R. Browns in the phone book. She was in Burton Street, which meets Crown just below Oxford, so it all fitted. I rang the number without expecting to get her in business hours but she answered. I explained my call by saying that I was working with a police officer writing a book about some of his old cases, such as the murder of Dr Bellamy, and wanted to tie up some loose ends. She gave a little yelp of pleasure.

  ‘I’d be delighted to see you, Mr Hardy. I haven’t got many distractions these days, apart from my little hobby. When do you want to come?’

  I was only a hop-skip-and-a-jump away, so we agreed on half an hour to give me time to find a park. The block of flats dated back a bit, to the sixties maybe, with the plain lines and absence of extra comforts of that time. No balconies. I buzzed her flat and she released the heavy security door. I ignored the lift and went up the four flights of stairs for the cardiovascular benefit. At her door I buzzed again and she opened it with the chain on.

  ‘Mr Hardy?’

  I looked down. She was in a wheelchair. I showed her my PEA licence and she undid the chain.

  ‘Do come in.’ She backed the wheelchair expertly and we went down a short passage to a small living room with a minimum of furniture to allow her to get about. She pointed to a chair and drew her wheelchair up in front of me so that our knees weren’t far from touching. She was in her fifties, good-looking in a fair, faded kind of way, and very thin. She wore a neat grey dress and black shoes that looked expensive. In fact nothing in the room looked cheap.

  ‘Have you ever been in a wheelchair, Mr Hardy?’

  ‘Once or twice.’

  ‘I’ve been in one for twenty years. I had a car accident.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes, so am I, but I was lucky. The man who hit me was very wealthy and heavily insured so I wasn’t left destitute. That gets all that embarrassing disability stuff out of the way.’

  ‘I’m not embarrassed,’ I said. ‘In your place I’d probably be a cringing alcoholic mess. You’re not and I admire you.’

  ‘That’s kind, but you might surprise yourself. Pray God it never happens. Now what did you want to know about Dr Heysen and poor Dr Bellamy? I am intrigued.’

  An interesting choice of words, I thought, and it clearly indicated whose side she was on. But the lie about a book being written had struck the right note. Bookcases in the sitting room were filled to bursting. I squinted at the titles.

  ‘I’m interested in the missing medical records for Rafael Padrone. Do you remember anything about that?’

  She paused, and for a minute I thought she was going to close up, but she was only collecting her thoughts. Some of them must have been pleasant because she smiled and something of the prettiness she must have had in her youth came back into her face. ‘I remember quite a lot. I particularly remember the police officer who interviewed me. Do you know that he sat in my office and smoked without asking my permission and that he picked his teeth.’

  ‘Cassidy,’ I said. ‘You can say whatever you want about him because he’s dead. I’m told he wasn’t mannerly.’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly, but I have nothing more to say about him. Well, he asked for the Padrone file and I looked for it and couldn’t find it and he became very ru
de. He virtually accused me of stealing it. “Why would I do that?” I said, but he wasn’t the sort of person to reason with.’

  ‘Do you know who took the records?’

  ‘I have a very good idea. Another policeman came who was more polite, but I still didn’t tell him my suspicion.’

  ‘Why not?’

  The rejuvenating smile again. ‘I wasn’t a middle-aged cripple back then, Mr Hardy. I was a lively woman. I was a very good dancer.’

  ‘I believe you,’ I said. ‘Also intelligent.’ I pointed to the bookcases. ‘I can see George Eliot, Trollope, Lawrence, Waugh, Martin Boyd . . .’

  ‘Have you read them?’

  ‘Bits of, not as much as you. I was more Conrad, Stevenson, Maugham, Hemingway, Idriess.’

  She nodded. ‘Some strange things went on in that surgery. I was concerned, but it was a very good job, well paid, convenient to where I lived, and I liked Dr Bellamy very much. I wasn’t medically trained, I couldn’t judge the . . . ethics.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m guessing, from glimpses of some of the people I saw arriving after hours, but I know Dr Heysen had developed techniques for removing tattoos and scars. I suspect he also . . . altered people’s appearance.’

  That wasn’t what I was expecting but was still interesting, maybe even more so. I couldn’t understand why this outwardly respectable woman wouldn’t have said something about it to the police, once the shit had hit the fan.

  She put on the spectacles she wore on a chain around her neck, stared directly at me, and I had to struggle to look her in the eye. ‘I was in love,’ she said.

  ‘With Heysen?’

  ‘That conceited cold fish? No.’

  ‘Bellamy?’

  She laughed. ‘Very attractive, but a lost cause. No, with Dr Karl Lubeck.’

  ‘I haven’t heard of him.’

  ‘Well, he was sort of an assistant to Dr Heysen and I suppose you’d say he was employed on a casual basis. Things were much looser then, before the GST and all that.’

  ‘You think he took the records?’

  ‘He might have. There were other files missing. I didn’t tell the police about them either. I . . . I assume they were for these . . . after-hours people Dr Heysen and Karl—Dr Lubeck—dealt with and that Mr Padrone’s file was taken too, perhaps by mistake.’

  She sat quietly while I absorbed this. We were both lost in thought, though of very different kinds. She’d given me a whole new perspective on Heysen, one that hadn’t come out from Catherine Heysen or in the police investigation, but very possibly what Rex Wain had been afraid to talk about.

  She broke the silence. ‘I didn’t think it mattered. Padrone killed Dr Bellamy and confessed to doing it on Dr Heysen’s behalf. I believed that.’

  ‘Do you still believe it, Ms Brown?’

  ‘Yes, why not? But at the time I was more concerned about my broken heart. I didn’t say anything about Karl in order to protect him. Love is blind.’

  ‘It is,’ I said. ‘Part of the fun. So you went on seeing him?’

  ‘For a very short while. Then he told me he had to go overseas to deal with something. He sent postcards. Then nothing. I was hurt and I had no job. Not much money and I had to get on with my life. And I did. I put Karl and his sweet talk behind me. I had other lovers. Then my accident happened a few years later. After that it was hospitals and operations and recovery, ups and downs and . . .’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I was renting this flat. I was able to buy it with the insurance money. The prices weren’t so outrageous then. I had the little idea that Karl might come back to look for me. This was where we’d met and made love. But he never did.’

  ‘I’m going to have to ask you about him. Will that upset you?’

  She let loose a throaty laugh. ‘Not in the least. I don’t want you to think I’m a dried-up, frustrated old woman, Mr Hardy.’

  Her eyes were bright and her smile had turned mocking—at me.

  ‘I don’t,’ I said.

  ‘You might. You couldn’t be blamed.’ She consulted a gold watch on her wrist. ‘Yes. This’s a good time. Let me show you something.’

  She wheeled around and moved towards a door standing ajar. Her bedroom. The room had a big window with a view across the street to a block of flats of similar size and vintage.

  ‘Sit on the bed,’ she said. ‘A great big fellow like you would be too obvious.’

  Directly opposite and not more than fifty metres away was another large window. I had a clear view into the room and saw a tall, blonde woman taking off her dress and unhooking her bra to reveal impressive breasts. A man standing near her was watching with his hands busy on himself.

  ‘Not a good one,’ Roma Brown said. ‘A disappointment. Probably just a self-abuser. It’s better when they do something standing up or they have oral sex. That’s very enjoyable. Are you shocked?’

  If I was, I wasn’t going to show it. ‘I’m surprised she doesn’t know about you.’

  The wheelchair spun around again and she laughed as she left the room. ‘Oh, she knows. We’re quite good friends. She doesn’t mind in the least. In fact she says it gives her pleasure. As you can imagine, not every engagement is enjoyable. It’s what I meant by my little hobby.’

  We went back to the sitting room. ‘I just wanted you to know that although Karl broke my heart and a motor car broke my body, I haven’t resigned from the human race. A very nice man visits me regularly and we enjoy ourselves— well, I certainly do.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Tell me about Dr Lubeck—Karl.

  German, I suppose.’

  ‘Originally, I’m sure. But he had no accent. He was as Australian as you and I with our standard names. I must admit I knew very little about him. The affair only lasted a few weeks.’

  ‘You don’t have a photograph?’

  ‘I did, but I tore it up in pique. I’m sorry. He was tall, like you, and dark like you. But more heavily built and with much less hair. Very little, in fact. I’ve never found baldness unattractive, which men don’t understand.’

  ‘They say bald men have more testosterone.’

  She smiled. ‘Well, he certainly had his share. What else? I got the impression he was a contemporary of Dr Heysen and Dr Bellamy and had qualified at Sydney University. I mean contemporary as a graduate—Karl was a few years older.’

  ‘Family?’

  ‘Never mentioned. D’you mean did he have a wife? After what happened, I wouldn’t be surprised. Shouldn’t you be making notes?’

  ‘Later. Habits? Sports? Interests?’

  ‘Mr Hardy, I was head over heels in blind love. I’d be inventing if I said that from my point of view the answer to your questions was anything but sex, sex, sex.’

  8

  I went to the outdoor coffee area where Burton Street hits Crown, ordered a flat white and sat down with my notebook to make my usual squiggles, arrows and dotted lines. They’re supposed to help me make connections and to inspire questions and speculations. Sometimes they do, and once or twice the process has led me definitively through a maze in the right direction. Mostly, they just help to make the maze clearer.

  Roma Brown was a fresh source, virtually untapped by the police. If Wain or one of the other PEAs had talked to her she certainly would have mentioned it. A fresh source when investigating an old matter on which the dust has settled is pure gold. She’d given me things to think about. If she was right about Heysen doing makeovers of some sort for shady customers, it could explain why he had the substantial equity Simmonds had mentioned. Equally, it could have put him in danger if one of his clients was either dissatisfied or took it into his head to take the doctor out of circulation. The possibilities were many.

  A complication to this line of thinking was the evidence that Heysen was strapped for cash at the time of Bellamy’s death. Had the makeover business dried up? And if so, why? Was he being blackmailed? And if so, by whom?

  All that was assumin
g that someone had framed Heysen for Bellamy’s murder. But what if Bellamy had found out about his partner’s illicit activities and had hired Padrone to silence him and been outbid by Heysen? Guilty as charged, but a tangled and very speculative web. If Cassidy and Wain had known about Heysen’s sideline and hushed it up, what might’ve followed from that? Getting to be too much to hold in my head. I drank the coffee and sketched out the various scenarios as a series of questions. One course of action was clear—find Karl Lubeck, the medical Lothario.

  The coffee tables and umbrellas were located in a space dropped down below the level of Crown Street that’s reached by a set of sandstone steps. A bit of old Sydney town preserved—something I always like to see. A much-touted vegetarian restaurant is opposite, along with boutiques and minute art galleries. There are plenty of sex shops around selling what they sell, and I suppose people seeing Roma Brown in her wheelchair would think they were irrelevant to her. They’d be dead wrong, I thought, and good on her.

  Back in the Mitchell Library, and I set about the task of tracking Dr Karl methodically, consulting first the telephone directories in all the capital cities, knowing the reluctance of doctors to go bush. No result. Then the medical directory which covers the whole country and is never completely up to date but catches most of the long-termers. Ditto.

  I stood on the steps outside the library as the rain fell, and rang my doctor, Ian Sangster, who sits on various medical boards and tribunals and has extensive contacts in the profession.

  ‘This was when?’ Ian asked.

  ‘Twenty-three years ago.’

  ‘Could be dead, it’s a high stress profession.’

  ‘He’d only be sixty or so.’

  ‘What was his lifestyle?’

  ‘All I know is that he liked sex and I’m told he was good at it.’

  ‘That’s a life-preserving recipe. Sorry, Cliff, never heard of him, but I’ll ask around. D’you know anything more about him? Any chance he was deregistered somewhere along the line?’

  ‘Possible, but that’s all I’ve got at present.’

  ‘I can check that. I’ll let you know if he turns up.’

  Not much more to be done there for the moment.

  There was no mention of a Dr Lubeck in Frank’s notes or at the trial. Either the police didn’t find out about him or Cassidy and Wain knew of him but suppressed the information. Why? Maybe because they were concealing everything to do with Heysen’s sideline. Again, why? Good question. Possible answers were a pay-off or fear. On the basis of Wain’s reaction, I’d have to go along with fear. But of whom or what?