The Undertow

by Peter Corris

  ‘I think you’ve worked on that line.’

  He let that pass, which probably meant I was right. ‘We seem to have reached a stalemate. Are you going to enlighten me about this paternity business or not?’

  ‘You’re curious?’

  ‘Who wouldn’t be? Most people have a changeling complex at some time or other.’

  I had to think what to say. He’d come to me so I suppose I could say I’d found him. Job completed, at least the unstated job of locating him. But he was likely to vanish again and there was nothing to prove I’d seen him. But there was still the original question and its probable aftermath— the attacks on Catherine Heysen and myself. Would she want to employ me on that? Or was I still on it on Frank’s behalf? Confusing.

  ‘I think your mother should tell you about it,’ I said.

  ‘No chance. I don’t care if I never see her again.’

  ‘She’s planning to sell the house.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s hers to sell.’

  ‘You have an interest.’

  ‘Not interested.’

  ‘Meaning you’ve got all the money you’re ever going to need?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, but . . .’

  I was at the end of my patience with him. ‘You’re full of shit, William. You’ve got an opportunity, you say. Okay, you’re going to make big bucks. But you haven’t made them yet and you’ve got a few problems. Just possibly, I could help you there, get you out from under.’

  I could almost see the brain wheels turning. I still didn’t like him, but there was no denying his smarts. No nervous gestures from him though; he was still in control as he weighed the odds. ‘Out from under,’ he said. ‘Strange expression. I don’t have any problems. What makes you think I do?’

  ‘I’ve been told you’re smuggling drugs in from Indonesia.’

  He threw back his head and the laugh that came from him was genuine and full-hearted, perhaps with a touch of relief in it. ‘Me? Smuggling drugs? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Every link in that chain is compromised. More money changes hands for information and corruption than ever gets made by anyone involved. It’s a high risk business, too high.’

  ‘Sounds as though you’ve considered it.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘I’ve got that from two sources.’

  ‘Well, I might’ve given some people that impression. Look, if I tell you what I’m on about, or give you an idea of it, will you tell me what I want to know?’

  ‘I guess. If you’ll contact your mother, confirm that you’ve spoken to me and that you’re alive and well.’

  ‘Protecting your arse. All right. I don’t like it but all right.’

  ‘Unship your mobile and do it now.’

  He didn’t like that, but he’d painted himself into a corner. He rang the hospital and asked to be put through to the ward. ‘Mother?’ he said.

  I came around the desk and heard Catherine Heysen’s distinctive voice, perhaps less confident than it had been previously. ‘William, is that you?’

  ‘Yes, Mother. I’m talking to your private detective with the split lip and the aching back—Mr Hardy, in his Newtown office. Here he is.’

  He was full of tricks. I took the phone, said a few words and then busied myself making coffee. The conversation obviously didn’t go well for either of them, but it met my stipulation. He closed off the call as the coffee maker began its geriatric process.

  ‘Satisfied?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. So what’s your game?’

  He put the tiny phone back in his jacket pocket and I wondered if he’d used it to take a photograph or record the conversation or do any of the hundred and one things they’re capable of doing these days. From his smug self-satisfied look it seemed possible, but he was still the one who had had to ante up first.

  ‘I suppose you could say I’m into immigration facilitation.’

  18

  ‘People-smuggling,’ I said.

  He shook his head. ‘That reeks of leaky boats and sleazy types fleecing ignorant peasants. I deal at the top end of the market.’

  Add conceit to the list of his unpleasant characteristics.

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘Mr Hardy, I speak Arabic, Indonesian, Urdu, Tamil and a few other languages. When I apply myself, I can pick up a working knowledge of a language in a matter of weeks. As a consequence, I have contacts in many places— consulates, embassies. Anyone who arrives in this country under my auspices arrives in comfort with convincing documentation.’ He laughed and did a very fair imitation of the bleating voice of John Howard. ‘I will decide who comes to this country.’

  ‘For a price.’

  ‘Naturally, but with full value for money.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say I was totally out of sympathy with that, but it’s still an illegal activity and the penalties are heavy.’

  ‘There won’t be any penalties. Now, suppose you enlighten me about my paternity.’ His good-looking face was suddenly less attractive wearing a sneer. ‘I’ll tell you one thing—it wasn’t a virgin birth. She . . . never mind.’

  Referring to my notebook, I told him the story without the names. He listened closely and I had the feeling that he was committing every detail to memory. The coffee machine went quiet and I took two polystyrene cups from the desk drawer and held one up.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘So he was crooked anyway, whether or not he set up his partner’s death.’

  I’d expected him to comment on his mother’s doubt about his paternity and I said so. I poured the coffee and sipped it. Bitter as usual—perhaps more bitter than usual.

  He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Couldn’t care less. Almost certainly a fantasy of hers to draw this bloke into her web. She’s done similar things before. Anyway, the nature or nurture debate doesn’t interest me much. If the nature includes a criminal doctor or a policeman it doesn’t matter. The nurture was lousy. All pretence on both our parts. I consider that I made myself what I am.’

  ‘That’s very arrogant.’

  ‘Depends on your standpoint. I’m more interested in this idea that an aggrieved client from the past could want to shut you both down. That’s intriguing. How do you plan to handle it?’

  ‘Not sure why I should tell you, but I will. First, make sure she’s safe. I was told to drop it, but I’m going to persist in the hope that it draws the person out.’

  ‘A Judas goat?’

  Somehow you don’t expect the young, brought up on television and video games, to know about such things, but William Heysen was a surprise package.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Might work, or you might get yourself killed.’

  ‘So might you unless you get out of the business you’re in and take yourself off somewhere.’

  He stood and stretched. ‘When do the results of the paternity test come through? I noticed there was some stuff missing from my room.’

  ‘I don’t know. But the man I spoke of is willing to help you whatever the result.’

  He flashed a smile. ‘Oh, Jesus, he’s in love with her, is he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Probably is. Wouldn’t be the first. She always had a thing for uniforms. Well, that’s very big of him and he might come in useful some day. I suppose I can get in touch with him through you?’

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On whether I decide you’re worth helping.’

  ‘Good point.’ He pulled his car keys from his pocket and put them on the desk while he adjusted the sit of his pants. ‘Don’t try to follow me, please. That’d be very annoying.’

  He strolled out and I let him go having the last word. If I’d responded he would’ve just come back with something smart anyway. I checked his DOB in my notes. He was twenty-four. Too old to be called precocious, too young to be called wise except in the American sense—a wiseguy. He might have considered that he’d made himself and downplayed nature and nurture, but he
was his mother’s son to a tee. The same conceit, arrogance and composure, the same quick grasp of what was going on and how to turn it to advantage.

  He wasn’t quite as smart as he thought, though. His car keys had a tag with the registration number on it. I’d memorised it and now I wrote it down. I scribbled notes on the encounter, catching some of his expressions—verbal and physical. It was easy to see the schoolboy athlete in him, and easy to believe that he could learn a language at the drop of a hat. For all that, there was something missing in him, some lack. He was cold, but it was more than that. I couldn’t put my finger on it and registered the feeling on the page with a large question mark. One thing was for sure, though—I knew I’d be seeing him again.

  Somehow, someone had been keeping an eye on me. There were ways to find that someone, strategies. I could walk or drive to certain places; there were people I could contact to watch me being watched and take action. Unless the watcher was super-professional and very experienced these strategies would work and I was prepared to use them when the time came. For the moment I wanted whoever it was to know that I hadn’t abandoned the Heysen enquiry. I rang the hospital and arranged to see Catherine Heysen. It was typical of her not to call me after William had been in touch. The employer doesn’t run after the employee.

  It was no great distance from the office to the hospital and I decided to walk it. Rain was threatening, but I had a hooded slicker and I’ve never minded walking in the rain in the right protective gear. Besides, the slicker gave me somewhere to put my .38 Smith & Wesson automatic. ‘Judas goat’ wasn’t quite the right expression. The Judas goat is tethered and helpless, and I wasn’t going to be either.

  I’m getting to like King Street. It’s almost never empty and for a city man like me that’s a plus. Too much space and too much emptiness give me the creeps unless it’s the ocean, and that’s never really quiet or empty. I once counted the eateries between the railway station and Bob Gould’s mad secondhand book emporium. I forget the number but it was a lot. I was too early as usual and my back was hurting, so I stopped for an early afternoon drink and some painkillers at the pub on the corner of Missenden Road.

  I wasn’t overconfident about being tracked. I had the pistol after all. I felt exposed. That pub’s one where you can turn in quickly and see what passes by and that’s exactly what I did. No big guys with baseball bats, no dinged red Commodores. Apart from being cautious, who ever heard of a private eye turning up for an interview without alcohol on his breath?

  Catherine Heysen was just back from physiotherapy. She wore a different nightgown and jacket but was her usual immaculate self. She was sitting in a chair by the bed with a number of magazines around her. The hand she extended was almost welcoming.

  ‘So you found him. Well done, Mr Hardy. Please sit down. Would you care for some fruit?’

  ‘No, thanks. He more or less found me, but he was responding to the enquiries I made so I’ll take the credit.’

  ‘I’m sure you deserve it. Well, where is he living and what is he doing? Is it very bad?’

  I filled her in on my interviews with the professor and with her son. I told her what he was doing, or attempting to do, and that I didn’t know where he was living. I didn’t tell her that I could probably find him when I needed to. It never hurts to keep something up your sleeve. I also told her that he’d seen her in hospital.

  She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t believe it, even of him.’

  ‘He said he was in some sort of disguise. He satisfied himself that you were recovering and getting good care, and left without letting you see him.’

  The pain in her eyes was about the most expressive reaction I’d seen from her. She dropped her head to conceal it. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘so he told you all sorts of things about our . . . relationship.’

  ‘Mrs Heysen, I’ve had a version of that from you, one from him, and another from Professor Lowenstein. They don’t match, but that’s not my concern.’

  All the noblesse oblige was suddenly back. ‘And what is?’

  ‘Whether you want me to find out why the murder of Bellamy and the conviction of your husband has led to the threat to you . . . and to me. To be fair, I have to tell you that your son said that finding out about Dr Heysen’s conviction had nothing to do with his life choices. But he is interested.’

  ‘You told him about Frank?’

  ‘Not by name. We fenced, exchanging information, and I had to tell him about your belief that he isn’t your husband’s son. He said he couldn’t care less about that.’

  ‘Did you believe him?’

  I shrugged. ‘Hard to tell. He’s very bright and . . . supple.’

  ‘The DNA test result should be through any day now. It’ll go to both Frank and me. What’s your guess, Mr Hardy?’

  ‘Wouldn’t care to make one. I’d say in the important ways, he’s like you.’

  She smiled at that and, although it produced lines on her face, it emphasised that she would retain a kind of beauty all her life. ‘I’m not sure you mean that as a compliment. I don’t want to look over my shoulder for the rest of my days. Yes, Mr Hardy, I want you to pursue it. Find out who shot me and attacked you and why. Will you need more money?’

  ‘Not yet. Maybe later.’

  ‘As I said, I have enough. When I sell the house, more than enough. Did you tell him about that? Of course you did, he would have drawn it out. What did he say?’

  ‘He was indifferent.’

  ‘Yes, he would be. He spent as little time there as he could. How dangerous is this business he’s in?’

  ‘Very, I’d say, but he was confident he could deal with it in every way. I’d say he’s too confident to be fully in touch with reality.’

  ‘Quite the psychologist, aren’t you?’ she said, sounding just like her son—and with her head tilted and her hair drawn back, she almost looked like him despite the gender and physiological differences. ‘You don’t like him and you don’t like me, but you can’t afford to choose who you work for, can you?’

  ‘I can, up to a point. In any case—’ ‘In any case you’re involved in this more in Frank’s interest than mine.’

  I shifted uneasily in the hard chair and decided to stand. I’d had enough of the hospital smell and of her.

  ‘No, Mrs Heysen, Prof Lowenstein said I was drawn to intrigue and violence like a moth to a flame. Your case has got the lot.’

  The beautifying smile spread around her face again. ‘You’re quite supple yourself, Mr Hardy. I wonder how many lies William told you about me.’

  ‘I wonder, too.’

  That actually drew a laugh. She took a moment to collect her thoughts and tidying the magazines seemed to help her. I noticed her wince as she stretched her right arm further than she’d intended. I’ve had shoulder injuries; they’re a bastard to endure, and slow to come right.

  When the magazines were lined up to her satisfaction, she leaned back in the chair and let out a long sigh. ‘I’ll be out of here in a few days. As I told you, I’ll be safe in the bosom of my family.’

  I nodded. Said nothing, not wanting to push it. Catherine Heysen was not to be pushed.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I have every confidence in you. Find out, if you can, what the hell is going on.’

  That was uncharacteristic and revived my doubts about her. It often seemed that she was like an actor, working from her own script, but it was the go-ahead I needed.

  They picked me up on the hospital steps. They had the bulk. The suits, the shoes. They showed me their warrant cards—Detective Sergeant Wilson Carr and Detective Constable Joseph Lombardi.

  ‘We need to talk to you, Mr Hardy,’ Carr said.

  ‘At your disposal. What say we go to the pub across the way and you can shout.’

  Neither smiled. Carr said, ‘You’re coming with us to Surry Hills to answer a few questions.’

  You don’t argue with them but you don’t show fear if you can help it. ‘My lucky day,’ I said. ‘I walked
here so I won’t get a parking ticket.’

  They escorted me to a car driven by a uniform. Lombardi got in the back with me and Carr got in the front.

  ‘What would this be about?’ I said.

  Carr half turned and spoke over his shoulder: ‘It’d be about you shutting up until we get there.’

  We all preserved silence on the drive. I hadn’t had much to do with cops in recent times but they never really change. They’ve got a tough job and there’s a lot about police culture that makes it still tougher. There are rotten apples in many barrels and no one quite knows how many and in what barrels. Frank Parker once said the job was like playing football with the members of the two teams changing every few minutes along with the rules. Confusing.

  At the Police Centre I was taken to an interview room and set down to wait. At least it wasn’t like the old days when the decor was early fifties and you could imagine the slaps from the telephone books and the smell of Craven A cork tips. The room was carpeted, the chairs were upholstered and the table was round. Chummy, almost. The worst that could be said about it was that the air conditioning was a touch low and I was a little overdressed for the temperature.

  Carr and Lombardi came in and the junior man got the recording equipment up and running but didn’t activate it. They’d obviously been in discussion with someone higher up and didn’t seem quite so confident.

  ‘This is just an informal talk,’ Carr said.

  ‘Okay. Mind if I invite my solicitor along?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. A few questions, the right answers, a little cooperation, and you’re on your way.’

  ‘With a Cabcharge voucher back to Newtown?’

  Carr drew in a deep breath. He removed his suit coat and hung it over the back of his chair, giving himself time to get composed. When Lombardi went to do the same Carr stopped him. If this was good guy, bad guy it was hard to interpret. They were uneasy with each other as well as with me.

  ‘Why did you visit Mrs Heysen in hospital?’ Carr said.

  ‘She’s a family friend.’

  ‘You’re determined to piss me off, aren’t you, Hardy?’

  I shrugged, looked at Lombardi, and very deliberately slipped out of my jacket. ‘You’ve got your job to do and I’ve got mine.’