by Peter Corris
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. Lom-bardi 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.'
'Mrs Heysen's late husband was convicted of conspiracy to commit murder. Now she's been shot. A private detective known to us as a troublemaking arsehol
e visits her. We want to know why.'
'Did you ask her?'
'She wasn't cooperative. Seems to have a prejudice against the police service.'
I shook my head. 'I can't think why anyone would feel like that.'
'Let me put it this way. A serious crime has been committed and you're withholding information.'
'Let me put it another way,' I said. 'You're suddenly interested enough in this to bring me down here. Why? You show me yours and I might show you mine, if I have anything to show.'
The two exchanged nods. Carr stood and picked up his jacket.
'Okay, Hardy,' he said, 'have it your way. But we've just about had enough of you and your cowboy games. You've done time for conspiracy to pervert the course of justice and destroying evidence. You ought to see the file we have on you.'
'I'd like to.'
'That's exactly what I mean. You love to take the piss, don't you? I'll tell you this-your old mate, former Deputy Commissioner Frank Parker, can't protect you now. We'll be keeping a close eye on you and the reality is that your fucking licence to operate in your crummy profession is hanging by a thread. One false step and you're gone and good riddance.'
I stood and lifted my jacket from the chair. Lombardi stood and we three big men faced off with the tension crackling between us. Again, in the old days it would have been dangerous and I would've expected to get hurt. Not now.
Lombardi went to the door and swung it open so that it crashed back against the wall. A uniformed officer standing there jumped at the noise.
'He'll see you out,' Lombardi said. 'Piss off!'
19
Over the next week and a bit I tried to show that I was still on the case. I went to the hospital without actually seeing Catherine Heysen, but giving that impression. I took a good look at the rear end of every medium-sized red sedan I came across. Anyone watching me would have known what that meant. I went to a Target store and bought a baseball bat, which I left on the front passenger seat of the Falcon. I carried the. 38 and I watched my back. Nothing happened.
Frank, back from his flit to Brazil, phoned me at the office. He told me that he and Hilde had taken to Peter's intended, Ramona, straight off. He said the feelings seemed to be mutual and that arrangements to get the pair of them home were proceeding smoothly. I made the right approving noises.
'But that's not what I want to talk to you about,' Frank said. 'The DNA test result's come through. It's positive in that it says there's only one chance in a couple of hundred thousand that the boy's not my son.'
'How's Hilde taking it?'
'She's okay with it. Not enraptured, but… interested and a bit more than that. Any luck locating him?'
I told him more or less what I'd told Catherine Heysen, but in starker terms. He listened without interrupting, the way he does.
'We'd better meet,' he said when I'd finished.
'Yeah. She's also hired me to continue the investigation into the Heysen case and the attacks on us.'
There was a pause before he spoke. 'You said us. Has she got to you the way she got to me?'
'No.'
'Good. I told you I'd back you on that-looking for the kid and all the rest of it.'
'I'd rather take her money than yours. You're right, we should meet. Let's make it as public a place as possible.'
'Why?'
'I'll tell you when I see you.'
Centennial Park seemed as good a bet as any other, and we met there mid-morning on a grey day. All the better for there being fewer people about and making it easier to spot anyone suspicious. But there are always walkers, joggers, rollerbladers and cyclists, so the park is never empty.
We met at the Oxford Street gates and strolled in. Straightaway Frank's trained eye spotted that I was carrying my pistol in a shoulder holster under my jacket.
'Why the gun?' he said.
I explained about my Judas goat strategy.
'Thanks a lot,' he said. 'I just love wandering about to be sniped at.'
'I'm going to take steps.'
'Like?'
'The. 38 for one, and hiring Hank Bachelor to watch my back. You remember him, the big Yank with the stun gun?'
'He's capable. Who else?'
I mentioned two other PEAs I could call on and Frank nodded approvingly. 'It's going to cost.'
'What d'you reckon her house in Earlwood's worth? She's selling it.'
Frank agreed and I was relieved to see that he'd apparently got over his obsession with Catherine Heysen. I'd told him she was going to stay with her family where there were willing men and he didn't question me further.
'So we're still in a double-barrelled operation here,' Frank said. 'Trying to latch on to whoever's worried about the old business and getting William on the straight and narrow.'
We reached a bench near the pond where Sallie-Anne Huckstepp had been drowned. We sat and looked out over the murky water. If the predictions were right, it'd one day be a home to cane toads. Those thoughts didn't help my mood.
'There's something else, Frank,' I said. I told him about my encounter with the two detectives and my feeling that someone higher up was taking an active interest in matters concerning Catherine Heysen.
'Jesus,' Frank said, touching his nose. 'It never goes away-the stink. I told you something was wrong about the way the Heysen thing played out.'
'Right,' I said. 'But for all that's happened I don't get a sense of having made much progress.'
'Nothing new in that for you, is there, Cliff?'
'No, I guess not. Things take time to come together and sometimes they just don't.'
We went quiet for a while, staring at the water and the grass and the trees as if the answers lay there. They didn't, and a roar of snarled traffic at a distance cut through the quiet of the park.
'Anyway,' I said, 'you've made some progress on life's journey, Grandad.'
'Fuck you,' he said, but he smiled broadly.
Twenty-four hours after meeting Frank I was in the office wondering whether it was time to hunt down William Heysen when I got a call from Hank Bachelor.
'Bingo,' Hank said. 'That's the expression, isn't it? Some guy made several passes of your place. Then he made a sortie out to Lane Cove. I guess that's where the lady's holed up, right?' 'Right.'
'Went by your place again not long ago. Want me to brace him, Cliff?'
'Shit, no. Just keep tabs on him. Tell me he's driving a red Commodore with a dent in the back.'
'You're psychic.'
'That's right. Describe him, will you.'
'He doesn't get out of the car much. I'd say he's about…'
'You're breaking up.'
'… grey suit… porker… sonofabitch…'
'What? What?'
The line went dead. I swore and sat with scraps of information running through my head. It was half an hour before Hank came back on the line.
'Sorry, Cliff. I lost him. I don't think he spotted me but he turned off and I've gotta admit I lost concentration making the call and when you told me I was breaking up. I backtracked but I couldn't find him.'
'Where are you?'
'Marrickville, around there.'
Things clicked into place. Marrickville. An overweight man in a grey suit. I had a sudden recall of sensations I'd experienced before the baseball bat scrambled my percep-tions-a shape, a smell as his foul breath washed over me. Rex Wain!
'It's okay, Hank. I think I know where to find him. Give me a minute to check it out and I'll call you back.'
I grabbed Frank's notes and flicked through them, searching for Wain's address-the place where his phone was about to be cut off, where he hadn't paid the mortgage or probably the rent for months. I found it and called Hank to give him the address.
'Meet me there in ten minutes. Got your tazer?'
He said he did. I got to my car but the ten minutes stretched to twice that as I battled the late afternoon traffic.
The flat was in a small, red brick block close to the railway lin
e and near the border with Dulwich Hill. Hank's 4WD was parked a little past it and on the other side of the street. He knew his business. You don't park immediately outside a place where you expect trouble and you don't let your car door slam. I pulled in a few car lengths further on and gestured for Hank to join me.
He ambled back, all 190 centimetres and 100 kilos of him. I got out and joined him, making sure we couldn't be seen from the flats.
'Car's there, Cliff. Saw it as I went by.'
I nodded. 'This guy's an ex-cop very down on his luck. He took a shot at the woman I told you about and he used a Louisville slugger on me.'
Hank shook his head. 'Didn't think they made 'em anymore. Still, I get your point. Dangerous guy.'
'Could be. Likely to be slow though. He's screwed up twice. Said he didn't have a car. Now he's got one. Means someone's financing him but if he's got money he's drinking. What was his driving like?'
'Lousy. Shit reactions.'
'He's in flat two. Looks like there's only four so two's bound to be ground floor back. If it's okay with you we go in and you knock. He doesn't know you so he'll probably open up. Maybe have the door on a chain. Got anything handy?'
'You want bolt cutters or a tyre iron?'
Hank is nothing if not well equipped. 'Up to you.'
The short street was quiet. No dogs, no skateboarders, no strollers. A train roared past as Hank opened the rear of the 4WD and extracted a solid pair of bolt cutters which he held down by his leg. We crossed the road and went along the cement drive past the line of four skimpy carports to the back of the flats. A faded red Commodore, showing signs of repaired rust and with a deep dint in the back bumper and rear end, was parked a little skewed to one side, cutting down the space for the neighbouring car to get out.
'That'll make him popular,' Hank said.
'His name's Rex Wain, and I don't think he's ever been popular.'
Flat two featured a cheap screw-on number hanging by one screw. Three steps led to the door and parked beside them was a wheelie bin with a cracked top. Beside it a cardboard box overflowed with newspapers and empty stubbies.