He stopped talking and drew a breath. ‘Sorry I’m still being so long-winded.’
‘Don’t be. Better to get the details upfront. And it’s interesting—the Tom Ugly’s touch.’
‘It gets more interesting. I don’t know why, but I found out when the cremation was to take place and I went along. I never got to say goodbye to Paula, so I suppose I was sort of filling in that gap in a funny way. Well, I was the only person there and I bought a wreath on the way, but there was another wreath. I mean, she, Claudia Ramanascus, didn’t know anyone. She didn’t know her neighbours. She was dead in the flat for a week before anybody
‘You’re saying?’
‘The wreath had to be from Paula. I know it’s a guess, an assumption, but as I see it there’s no other possibility.’
I could have told him there were always other possibilities, but the story interested me too much. I doodled on the pad, giving him time to collect himself.
‘The wreath came from Mr Ongarello’s shop down the road from here,’ he said finally. ‘I went to see him and asked if he knew who had ordered it. He didn’t, he’s busy, he has assistants, things are done over the phone and online. I’m afraid I became upset and told him something—not that much—of what I’ve just told you. He suggested that I see you to find out if an ... investigation is feasible.’
I’d been watching him closely and decided that the actor he resembled was William Hurt. He had the same thin hair, pale eyes and winning smile. My suspicious nature made me wonder if, as well as looking like an actor, he was one. But his manner was direct and his story was intriguing. There were questions, though.
‘Faked deaths have happened before,’ I said. ‘There was John Stonehouse and that other one not so long back.’
‘But they got caught. It can’t be easy to bring off.’
‘No, but as I’m sure you know, with all crime more gets away than gets caught. Just suppose she is still alive and I could find her. Wouldn’t that jeopardise your financial position?’
‘No. As I said, there was no life insurance to speak of and the assets weren’t quite what was expected. I had some investments of my own at the time and I worked with that as well as with what I got from Paula’s estate. What I have now I mostly accumulated through my own efforts and I could prove it. Besides, if you did find her I wouldn’t want to ... expose her.’
‘Why bother to look, then?’
He released the slow smile again. ‘D’you remember Kerry Packer saying that acquiring Fairfax would amuse him? It’s a bit like that. No, that’s not quite honest. I admire her if that’s what she did, but I do feel ... tricked. I’d like to know. I’d like to know how she did it. How she squirreled away a good deal of money. Not that I want it, not that I’m entitled to it.’
‘You’d also like to know why.’
‘Yes.’
‘How about—with whom?’
He shrugged his broad ex-swimmer’s shoulders. ‘If it worked out that way, so be it. But as I say, I don’t bear any serious grudge. If you can find her and have some solid evidence, an address and a photo, say, I’d take it from there.’ He plucked a wallet from his shirt pocket and extracted a couple of hundred-dollar notes as if they were tens.
I wasn’t sure that I quite believed him. People’s motives in coming to private detectives are often devious, but he told a good story and evidently had the money to pay for my time, which I had plenty of. I went through the usual routine—told him my retainer and fee structure, and that no outcome could be guaranteed. He showed a polite interest, signed a contract and paid the retainer. He handed me a full-length photograph of his presumed-to-be-late wife. Tall, slender, as you’d expect for a triathlete, with just a suggestion of weight gain around the face.
‘Now,’ I said, ‘who’s this lawyer who made the discreet enquiries?’
‘Do you have to know that? I told you what—’
I moved the signed contract back towards him a little. ‘I need to know, or this is cancelled by mutual agreement. And you get your money back, minus a small deduction for my time.’
He studied me for most of a minute. ‘Mr Ongarello said you were thorough. I’m beginning to see what he meant. Okay, his name is Simon Amherst. He’s a solicitor and his firm is Amherst and Bruce. They’re in the book. Good afternoon.’
He was getting up from his chair as he spoke— suddenly not charming, not pleased, not giving me time to be polite.
‘You realise that if she is still alive and you just satisfy your curiosity and do nothing more, you’d be conniving at ... I don’t know ... some kind of civil, maybe criminal, deception?’
He smiled again. ‘I wouldn’t worry a whole hell of a lot about that, Mr Hardy. Would you?’
* * * *
My first port of call was Mario’s shop. He greeted me in his Mediterranean way—big laugh, slap on the back, offer of a drink in his office. It was late in the afternoon, so why not? Some grappa’s like paint stripper, but not Mario’s. The stuff went down smoothly. I swear I could see olive trees and the Colosseum when I closed my eyes.
‘Mr Turner,’ I said. ‘The widower, or maybe not.’
‘Ah, yes.’ He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a credit card slip.
‘You told him you didn’t know who bought it.’
‘Different things—what I tell him and what I tell you. I wanted you to talk to him first. I can’t just give out information about customers. D’you think he’s genuine, Cliff?’
‘I’m flattered by your confidence in me. I’m not sure about him, but I’ve taken the matter on.’
‘Fair enough. Anyway, what I said was partly true. I don’t remember who bought the wreath, but this is how they paid.’
I examined the slip. The customer had paid with a MasterCard that had nearly two years of life left before it expired. It was a company card for Victory Motorcraft.
Back in the office, I phoned Bob Lawson, who worked for a credit checking company and did freelance stuff for people like me. He gave me the address.
‘Post office box in Ballina, up north,’ Bob said. ‘You lucky bugger. Off up there, are you, all expenses paid?’
‘Including you. Thanks, Bob.’
The Yellow Pages for the Northern Rivers area told me that Victory Motorcraft was a luxury boat-building operation on the Richmond River. The advertisement was minimalist—a thumbnail photo, phone and fax number, no names. Bob was right—at that time of year with a well-heeled client, a trip to Ballina was definitely required.
I flew there, hired a car and went to look for boatbuilding operations along the river. Winter down south, pretty mild up here. I needed the air conditioning in the car.
It didn’t take long to find the place. A quick look in my battered copy of Exploring Australia had told me that the river used to be home to dozens of boat builders but the business had gone elsewhere. Victory Motorcraft consisted of a large shed on an acre of land hard by the river. There was a slipway, a wharf or jetty with rails running from the wharf to the shed, winches, a small crane and other equipment unfamiliar to me.
I parked above the site where I could get a good view of it through my field glasses. A big, expensive, apparently brand new boat that looked ready to go was tied up at the wharf with people clustered around it. Three men in casual dress, two more in overalls and a woman. I trained my camera on her and adjusted the focus and the zoom. A bit older, a bit leaner and more tanned, but the woman was definitely Paula Turner, nee Ramanascus. I took several photographs of her in profile and then two full-face when she turned away, with a nod at one of the overall-wearers, from the river. Job done—hers and mine. She shook hands with the non-workers who stood looking at the boat and strode back towards the shed. She moved like an athlete, long striding, loose.
I had a boozy, slightly troubled night in Byron just for the hell of it and flew back the next day. I thought about it. From what I remembered of the Great Ocean Road, the ‘accident’ would have been difficult to stage. She m
ust have needed help at that point and perhaps at other points. Resourceful woman. Was it any of my business? I couldn’t decide. I had the photos developed, typed up a report and Turner came by after I phoned him. The retainer had covered everything but he thanked me and gave me a bonus.
* * * *
When I finished talking Lily looked disappointed. ‘What’s so bad about that? Cliff works fast, does good.’
‘Turner shot them all.’
‘Jesus. Who?’
‘His wife, her lover up in Ballina, and Amherst, the lawyer who helped her set it all up. And himself.’
<
* * * *
Bookworm
C
raig Minson runs a second-hand book shop in King Street, Newtown. I go in there occasionally to pick up something I’ve noticed in the review sections of the papers. Craig deals with a couple of the writers who flog him books they’ve reviewed. One is a specialist in sports books and the other mostly reviews biographies, so I stand a fair chance of running across something I’m interested in. He also stocks fiction at reasonable prices. Larry McMurtry, Cormac McCarthy, Tim Winton, Bernard Cornwall—my kind of thing. Usually when I go in he has a book set aside as a suggestion for me. Not this time.
Craig beckoned me over to the counter before I could even browse. ‘I’ve got something for you, Cliff,’ he said.
‘Let’s see it.’
He shook his head and his tangled greying locks flew. Craig is stocky, fortyish, with a grey beard and grey hair. He once told me he always wanted to run a bookshop and he was pleased when he went prematurely grey because it was the right look.
‘It’s not like that,’ he said. ‘It’s a mystery—something for you to investigate.’
‘I investigate professionally, Craig. For money.’
‘I think a few of us can come to some arrangement.’
‘Us?’
‘Booksellers. There’s someone stealing books from our shops.’
‘I thought you told me you wrote a certain amount off to pilfering.’
‘I do, we all do. But this is different. Whoever the thief is, he steals the same book from everyone. I’m talking about ten bookshops here in Sydney, one in Canberra, a couple in the country and who knows where else. Could be more but not many because there aren’t many copies around.’
‘That’s strange. Valuable book?’
‘Fairly. Worth three or four hundred dollars in good condition. It’s EB Lyell’s Northern Trekking. Ever heard of it?’
I shook my head. ‘Never heard of him, if it is a him, or it.’
‘Lyell was a him all right. Amazing man. He went looking for the Leichhardt expedition in the 1890s, or said he did.’
‘How’s that?’
A bell rang, signalling that someone had entered the shop. Craig went forward to offer his help and I looked around the book-filled space. The room was lined with bookshelves reaching almost to the ceiling and there were several aisles of shelving down the middle. Footstools and ladders, good lighting, labels written in large type, pull-out reading supports—everything a bookshop should have. Craig got deep into conversation with his customer and I headed for the Australian history section. It covered several metres and was divided chronologically and, within that, alphabetically by author. As with the other categories, there was a collection of books locked inside a glass case. I wondered whether the book in question had been in there and, if so, how the theft had been managed. I was beginning to get interested.
Craig made a sale, wrapped the book and the customer went on her way.
‘Good one?’
‘Pretty good. Nice to see someone who knows what they’re after, and I made a tidy profit. Now, about Lyell. He claimed to have conducted three expeditions in search of Leichhardt. He certainly made one that didn’t get very far. In his book he details two other treks, as he calls them—he was South African, by the way—that got a lot further. And he reckoned he found some relics.
‘But it became pretty clear that these journeys were fantasies, or fabrications. He tried to claim the reward that was on offer for evidence about Leichhardt but some experts pointed out problems with the things he claimed to have seen. He was disgraced, threatened with prosecution for fraud, but before he went back to South Africa he published this book in a signed and numbered limited edition of fifty copies.’
‘Of which you had number ...?’
‘One. It’s a curiosity really, not a significant historical document. Most of the copies have disappeared over the years. I suppose there’re still a few in private hands. As far as I know, none of the libraries, even the Mitchell, holds copies.’
‘I thought they got everything.’
‘There are reasons apart from self-published books being obscure. Lyell included some stuff about him and his men having sexual contact with Aboriginal women, and some drawings. Pornographic, really—the high-minded gentlemen librarians of the time wouldn’t have touched it, even if they’d known about it, which they probably didn’t.’
‘It’s interesting, Craig, but I can’t see what help I could be. Maybe it’s just some nutter of a descendant upset about the sex and wanting to eliminate all the copies as blots on the family escutcheon.’
‘No way. Lyell was an only child and he was drowned when his ship went down on the passage from Australia to South Africa. He was only thirty, unmarried, no issue, as they say.’
I shrugged. ‘Okay.’
‘There’s something else. Whoever stole the book has an accomplice.’
‘How do you figure that?’
‘The Lyell volume was in one of my locked cases. Somehow the glass was cut and the book taken. The thief must have got someone to distract me. I checked with a couple of the other booksellers and much the same thing happened in their places. We had a bit of an email conference and they agreed to let me have a go at... nabbing the culprit and getting the books back. Of course everyone’s interested in why.’
‘Yeah, but how would you, or I, go about doing that?’
Craig looked pleased with himself. He ran his fingers through his wild hair and tapped the side of his nose in an old-fashioned gesture. Running a bookshop can throw you back to the last century, apparently. He was about to speak when the bell sounded again and he moved away.
I returned to the Australian history section and, sure enough, a glass panel in the locked case had recently been replaced. Not that I doubted Craig’s word, but confirmation is the name of the game in my business. There were plenty of other explorers’ published journals in the bookcase and out on the shelves—Eyre, Stuart, Sturt, Leichhardt himself, Giles and others—and books about them. Some were handsomely leather-bound with gold lettering, collectors’ items. I wondered what could be motivating Craig’s mysterious thief. Some kind of obsession, but what?
This time Craig didn’t make a sale. He closed the door behind the non-customer and swung the ‘Closed’ sign into place.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘This is it. I got hold of a copy of the book. Cost me a bit but I did it.’
‘How?’
‘Don’t ask, trade secret. The thing is, I put out a monthly newsletter-cum-catalogue. Goes out tomorrow. I’m going to include the book in it. Bait, see?’
‘You reckon your thief keeps an eye on such catalogues?’
‘Bound to, mine in particular. I’m ... ahem ... a leading player in the field. What I do is give a date when special items in the catalogue become available. That’ll be next week. The punters turn up on the day. It’s a bit of a rush for a while and then it settles down.’
‘What if someone else wants to buy the book?’
‘I thought of that. I’ll tag it as sold from the word go. I’ve installed video surveillance now—cost a bomb, but it’s worth it. Totally concealed, no warning signs the way shops usually have. You can be up there on the mezzanine in my office and watch it. You see the accomplice distract me and the thief move in. I’ll have the book on display with a card all about it
s history. No real security. You come down and that’s it—both birds snared.’
‘What makes you think I can snare both birds?’
‘Come on, Cliff. Have you had a look at yourself lately? You scare me and I’m sure there’s some kind of badge you can show. I don’t think you’ll need your gun.’
‘What happens then?’
‘We find out what the hell it’s all about. We hope to get all the books back, maybe get some compensation for the damage done to the bookcases. I’m not the only victim of that. What do you say, Cliff? A day of your time, maybe two if they decide to play it cool, which they won’t because they’ll be scared the book’ll go.’
Corris, Peter Page 15