by Peter Corris
'No mystery. I've heard of you, Mr Hardy. I remember that Viv Garner represented you at the hearing you had to attend in connection with your licence.'
I nodded. A recent case where the police had found me less than cooperative and insisted that I go before the licensing board. 'A suspension,' I said. 'I took a holiday.'
'So Viv told me. We're old acquaintances. I've got a lot of time for him. Odd expression, in the context of our profession.'
'I've done some-once on remand and a short stretch.'
'Inevitable, I'd say, for an energetic enquiry agent, especially back when the police were more corrupt than at present. The point is, Viv Garner vouched for you in the highest terms, so I felt I should be as helpful as possible. However, I'm not sure that I have been.'
Viv Garner had been my solicitor for some years and had seen me through some scrapes in which you could have said I was culpable, and some that were merely misinterpretations. 'You have been,' I said. 'My understanding is that Padrone had pleaded guilty.'
'That's so.'
'But he could have paid for a defence.'
'What's your point?'
'Just that he must have made some sort of deal on his sentence and treatment.'
'I suppose so, but I know nothing about it.'
'After what you've told me I think I can probably put one more question to you.'
We'd finished the coffee, but Simmonds was a man with a taste for the dramatic. He lifted what must have been an empty cup to his mouth before he spoke: 'I can anticipate it-do I think Dr Gregory Heysen was guilty of the charge of conspiracy to commit murder?' 'Right.'
'I do not.'
'Why?'
'The man was highly intelligent. I mean exceptionally so. His academic record showed that and I spoke to one of his professors who said that Heysen could have made a brilliant medical researcher, capable perhaps of major work.'
All news to me.'
'None of this came out at the trial. Heysen refused to allow the professor to give evidence. Can you guess why?'
'Tell me.'
At this point I was almost sorry for Mallory. Heysen said the man was a Jew and second-rate as a scientist and teacher.'
'Jesus.'
'If Gregory Heysen had arranged the death of Peter Bellamy, I'm quite sure no one would ever have suspected him of it. He would have contrived it in a far more clever way.'
'A hard defence to put up, that.'
'Oh, Heysen would have been all for it, but in that event his sentence was more likely to have been twenty years rather than fourteen.'
All things considered, fourteen years seems a bit light.'
Simmonds shook his head. 'Prejudice against homosexuals and the beginnings of the AIDS hysteria. For all Judge Montague-Brown detested Heysen, he probably hated homosexuals more.'
I shook my head. 'Lawyers. Sorry.'
'Don't be. We're just a necessary evil. But you've jogged my memory. I recall thinking that the police were very… ardent. Almost as if they-'
'Had planted evidence? I've seen that.'
'No. Let me think. Don't put words in my mouth. As if they had something else on Heysen and were determined to get him, one way or another.'
6
Rex Wain didn't call. I went to the Redgum gym in Leichhardt for a workout and then to the Bar Napoli for a coffee. Over the long black, I called two of the other cops who'd been on the Heysen case. The Telstra voice told me that one of the numbers was no longer operating and when I called the other I got a takeaway Chinese food outlet in Carlton. Frank's information was sadly out of date.
The day had turned from blustery to stormy with big black clouds piling up against each other. I drove home to batten down the hatches. A big branch from a camphor laurel tree had been brushing against one of the windows and I'd resolved to lop it before the next high wind in case it did serious damage. Of course, I'd put that action off for weeks, months.
I got home before the sky opened, changed into jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers, and put an aluminium ladder up against the wall of the house. I applied an old, rusted bush saw to the branch. Working upwards is not the way to go but my ladder only reached so far. My father had tried to instruct me as a handyman, but I'd found passing him nails and changing between the Phillips head and the other kind of screwdriver so boring I closed off. Occasionally I regretted not having the facility.
'A workman is only as good as his tools,' he used to say. He was right. I never had the right tools for that kind of work.
With the sky darkening and the light dropping, I sawed away in the confined space at the side of the house. I was being scratched by thorny branches and sweat was running into my eyes.
I'm going to flog this place, I thought. Get a unit at Coogee and let the body corporate handle the maintenance.
'Hey, Hardy.'
I was standing on top of the ladder none too securely and, surprised by the voice, I almost fell. As it was I dropped the saw. Bracing myself against the wall, I looked down. Rex Wain was standing three metres below me with his hand on the ladder.
'Gidday, Wain,' I said. 'You bloody nearly made me fall.'
He gave the ladder a gentle shake. 'That's exactly what I'm fucking going to do. Let's see you piss me around with a broken leg.'
'What're you talking about?'
'You fucking know.'
He bent to pick up the saw and took his hand off the ladder. I went down two rungs quickly and jumped. He swore and swung at me with the saw but he was slow and impeded by the branches of the shrubs. I ducked under the wing and bullocked into him, forcing him back against the wall. He dropped the saw. I hit him hard about where his right kidney was and he gasped. I jerked his left arm up his back and held him there, pressing his head against the bricks.
'You're out of shape, Rex. Had enough?'
'Fuck you.'
'Only reason I phoned you was to talk about an old case. That's it. Nothing else. Now you can believe me and come in have a drink or you can have another go and get knocked about. Up to you.'
He muttered something I couldn't catch.
'What was that?'
A couple of fat raindrops fell as a prelude to some heavy stuff coming.
He eased his mouth away from the wall and turned his head towards me. 'Nothing about the Logan business?' His breath stank of booze and bad teeth.
'No.'
'Okay, then. Sorry, sorry.'
I let him go and picked up the saw. 'Let's go inside before it pisses down. No tricks, Rex. A scratch from this rusty blade and you're a tetanus case, for sure.'
'No worries.'
I shepherded him around to the front of the house and we went in and down the passage to the kitchen at the back on the ground floor. Wain was a good ten years older than me and not wearing well. His sandy hair was thin on top and his belly ballooned his shirt front out over his belt. He wore a light grey suit that could have done with a clean and was missing buttons. He rubbed the spot where I'd hit him and stroked his nose. His face had hit the wall pretty hard.
I sat him down at the kitchen bench and gave him a solid scotch. He shook his head when I offered him ice, and tossed it down in one gulp. I poured another and one for myself. The rain came, thundering on the iron roof of the bathroom behind the kitchen-an add-on long after the house was built.
'Who's Logan?' I said.
'Shit, it doesn't matter. Just a pissed-off client. I got into your game after I left the force. I thought he might have hired you to get his money back or something.'
'You don't seem to be doing too well at it.'
He tasted his drink this time and looked around the room. 'You're not exactly coining it yourself. This isn't a single malt and this joint's a dump. Worth a bit though, I suppose.'
'How about we have the talk I wanted to have, since you're here?'
Wain was regaining his confidence. He picked bits of shrub and leaf from his jacket and deposited them on the bench. 'What's in it for me?'
'Are th
ings that bad, that a professional discussion attracts a fee?'
'Matter of principle, Hardy, you prick. Never liked you and still don't.'
'It's mutual, Rex. Let's say I ask you some questions, and depending on your answers I decide whether what you say is worth any of my client's money. Otherwise, finish your drink and get on your bloody bike.'
The recovered confidence was tissue-thin. He drained his glass and pushed it at me. 'Okay. I'll have a bit of ice and water this time.'
It took over an hour and half a bottle of scotch to get anything useful out of him. He hadn't been the senior man on the Heysen murder but he'd done a lot of legwork and had sat in on all the briefings and progress reports. He was convinced that Heysen was guilty of hiring Padrone to do the wet work.
'Why?' I said.
'We talked to the sister, this hooker. Pammy, Priscilla… Pixie, that's it. William Street prostie. She reckoned Padrone told her he'd done it and that he was going to give her some of the money. Said she never got it, but we thought she was lying.'
I cast my mind back to the trial reports. 'That didn't come out at the trial.'
Wain shook his head. 'Cassidy, the D heading us up- he's dead by the way-was real pissed off about that. She shot through. We couldn't find her. Couldn't make anything of it, like. But it firmed us up on Heysen, you know how it is.'
I did, and I wondered if this lay behind Simmonds' idea that the police had more on Heysen than they could use.
'Go on.'
'With what?'
'You put the case together-means, motive, opportunity. What was Padrone's motive?'
'Shit, no worries there. He was dying of cancer and Heysen had been the only one to offer him anything. He offered to pay him enough so he could go to Germany for this special treatment. Padrone hated doctors anyway. Got the dough, did the job and then couldn't get permission to travel. He was fucked and he knew it, so he decided to take Heysen with him. End of story.'
Wain poured more whisky and water. When he drank it he showed the brownish teeth of a heavy smoker. He wasn't smoking now and his fingers weren't stained. He didn't seem like the type to have given up voluntarily, and I concluded he simply couldn't afford it. Wouldn't improve his mood.
'You haven't told me much.'
'Why the fuck should I? All you've given me is a shove around and some third-rate scotch. I don't even know why you're interested in this old shit.'
'You don't need to know. I was thinking of giving you some money if you could…'
'Do what? I'm on the bones of my arse, Hardy.'
'Your phone rings.'
'Christ knows why. I haven't paid the bill in months. Can't be long before I get cut off. Come on, what d'you want? I'll give it to you if I can.'
He reached for the bottle but I moved it away. It was just a feeling but the way he'd said end of story didn't play with me-didn't sound right for him.
'There was something more about Heysen, wasn't there? I know he was a prick who no one liked, that he treated you all like shit. I hear what you say about the sister's evidence that you couldn't produce. But I've got a feeling there was something more. Something to hide.'
That almost seemed to sober him. He rubbed at his bloodshot, defeated eyes and his shoulders slumped. He behaved as if he was looking down a long tunnel with no turning and no light at the end of it. 'Jesus Christ,' he mumbled. 'I thought just me and Cassidy…'
I poured myself a drink. 'Yes?'
'It's time to talk money.'
'I could go a couple of hundred.'
He shook his head and regretted doing it. 'Way too low.'
I considered. He wasn't an actor. 'Three.'
'Six.'
'Five tops.'
'Okay. Let's see it.'
'We'll have to go to an ATM. Time you were on your way anyhow.'
'Let's go. You can drop me at the ATM.'
'How'd you get here?'
'Fucking bus.'
'We'll walk. I've had a bit too much on an empty stomach to drive.'
He sneered at me, the confidence returning again.
The heavy rain had stopped. I put on a jacket and we walked to the Commonwealth Bank ATM in Glebe Point Road. Wain shambled along. He'd never been a solid performer as a detective, either police or private, but now he was a ruin. I drew out the money and we stood on the steps of the bank with the evening traffic passing and the people out to eat Thai, Italian, Indian, Lebanese, whatever, strolling by. The rain started again, lighter.
I held the folded notes in my hand. 'What was the whisper, Rex?'
There was no one close, but he looked around furtively. He appeared to be about to speak but he kept quiet. He cleared his throat and the sound was like a groan crossed with a whimper. I could smell his foul breath and the rain brought out the mustiness of his clothes. He looked hungrily at the money, then shook his head.
'Can't do it,' he muttered.
'We had a deal.'
'Fuck the deal. I can't do it.'
'I might go up a bit if the information's good.'
He laughed. 'There isn't enough money in this fucking bank.'
He meant it. He took a step away and turned up his collar. I handed him a fifty. He took it and stumbled down the steps into the drizzle.
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-under-standably, 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?
&nbs
p; '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?'