by Peter Corris
Meadowbank emerged at 7.30 on the dot. He’d had time to shower, slap on the cologne, change his shirt and socks, and check the wallet. I followed the Mercedes to a block of flats in Rose Bay. Not up to the Birriga Road standard, but not bad. Old-style, red brick, spacious balconies and a good view of the boats. Meadowbank jockeyed the big car into a tight space with a fair bit of wheel-turning and tyre-torturing. He looked flustered when he got out and wiped his face with a handkerchief. He was a stocky, fleshy type with horn-rimmed glasses and iron grey hair. His suit matched his car for colour and cost. The finance business must be doing all right. Mrs Meadowbank was looking at a nice slice.
I registered this as I drove past looking for a spot for my more modest vehicle. I found one further down the street, unshipped the camera and came back to take up a position behind a plane tree across from the flats which carried the name ‘Lapstone’. The house Cyn and I bought in Glebe was called ‘Waterloo’. Cyn took the name plate down, saying that it was twee. I’d quite liked it and, as things were shaping, it was appropriate. I took a sighting on ‘Lapstone’. Despite daylight saving, which had just been introduced that month, the light was starting to fade under an overcast sky. The light in the street was poor but there were bright coachman’s lanterns mounted over the door to the flats. I had a fast film and a fast lens; the developer would have to push a bit to get good definition, but I felt pretty confident I could get a reasonable shot of Charles and his companion as they came through the door and a series as they made their way to the car.
If they came. I suddenly realised that I was making an assumption. It was a mild night, late spring with an evening breeze. The wife was away. Surely they’d go out to eat, get a slight buzz on before coming back to commit the offence of adultery. Charles looked like a man who didn’t stint on his pleasures. But what if I was wrong? What if his girlfriend had everything set up for fun and games inside? Candles and champagne and silk sheets. I took another look at the block of flats. A bastard to breach. I didn’t even know which flat he was in. Unless they came out onto a balcony and canoodled in the open air, I was stymied.
I wanted a cigarette the way I always did when faced with a problem. I fought the feeling down and considered my options. Even a contortionist couldn’t have got a shot taking in the number plate of the Mercedes and the front of the flats. And what was that worth anyway? I anticipated Alistair Menzies’ contemptuous smirk. I could scout the block, maybe get a line on who lived there. I wasn’t looking for Brigadier and Mrs Top-Drawer after all. But it felt scrappy, not semi-professional. There were at least six flats in the block. I tried to tell myself that I’d achieved something—found an assignation point, a field for further investigation. I wasn’t convinced.
Minutes ticked on, but fewer of them, I found later, than I thought. Truth to tell, I was nervous and that distorts the sense of time. I was anxious not to screw up my first job.
‘Patience, Cliff,’ I muttered. ‘Turn your weaknesses into strengths.’
That’s when I became aware of the movement in front of me. It wasn’t much, just the half-caught motion of a branch, a lightening or deepening of shade. I’d fought the Chinese guerrillas in Malaya and learned to take notice of things like that because my life depended on it. There was someone else watching the flats, someone positioned closer than me. I squinted in the failing light, trying to isolate the spot. Not near the tree opposite mine on the other side of the street, not in the narrow garden fronting the flats, but somewhere. Two tall trees flanked the entrance to the driveway marked Residents Only. Poplars with bushy trunks. Maybe there.
I wasn’t really alarmed. When I’d worked as an insurance investigator it wasn’t so unusual to find more than one guy operating on different sides of the same street. You suspect a workers compensation claimant of faking and set out to prove it. He suspects his insurance company’s bad faith and you have competition and confrontation. It happens all the time. I’d got the range and was pretty sure the movement was in the poplars, when Charles Meadowbank and his companion came out of the flats. She was a tall brunette wearing a blue silk dress that shimmered as the overhead lights caught it. High cheekbones, sculptured features, up-swept hair. I got the camera into position.
The woman stumbled as she reached the first step. Meadowbank, immediately behind her, stepped quickly forward and around her to help. Then he crumpled and fell down the steps as two bullets blew his head apart.
3
I was moving while the sound of the shots was still reverberating. I shouted and ran forward as the gunman emerged from his hiding place. Time blurred and images shimmered and sound distorted. I threw the camera like a fielder trying to throw the wicket down on the run. The shout froze him; the camera hit his shoulder and jerked him out of his murderous concentration. He was small, wearing dark clothes and a stocking mask—I registered this in an eye-blink of time—and incredibly quick. I was rushing across the road, six-foot-one and twelve stone of frightened, bellowing, missile-throwing force and he seemed to have all the time in the world to turn and assess his situation. He took off like a top athlete exploding out of the blocks.
I took a few steps in pursuit but I’d done enough schoolboy sprinting to know when I was outclassed. He was all jet-propelled survival instinct and I was puzzled and already running out of fuel. Lights were going on in windows, voices were being raised and I could hear the twittering, muttering sounds of fear for life and property. I was operating on adrenalin at that point, but it was time to switch to something else. Things had gone seriously wrong on my very first assignment as a private enquiry agent.
People shrank away from me as I went back to the front of ‘Lapstone’. I ignored them. The tall woman was sitting on the steps. There was blood and brain matter all over her dress and her face was a ghastly white under the harsh lights. Meadowbank lay like a broken toy on the bottom couple of steps. His face was only slightly disfigured—a collapsed eye socket and a wound near his jaw—but the back of his head was a mess.
An elderly woman with more presence of mind than most, weighed up the situation. ‘I’ve called an ambulance and the police,’ she said to me. ‘I saw what happened.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘The police will need to talk to you.’
‘I saw you throw something. What were you doing there on the other side of the road?’
I didn’t answer. The woman on the steps was sitting rigidly, clutching her handbag and staring straight in front of her.
‘Could someone get her a blanket or a coat or something,’ I said. ‘She’s in shock.’
There was a murmuring in the growing crowd. A few people broke away and someone came back quickly with a big knitted shawl which was placed over a pair of beautifully shaped, utterly immobile shoulders. I looked around for my camera and saw it lying in a garden bed not far from the poplars. A man was wandering around in that area and he stooped to pick it up.
‘Don’t touch it,’ I said. ‘The police will want things to stay the way they are.’
The man looked up belligerently. He was middle-aged, solidly built and self-important. ‘Just who the hell are you?’
I pulled out my PEA licence and waved it. I didn’t expect it to carry much authority but it was the best I could do. The elderly woman was offering words of comfort.
‘The ambulance will be here soon, Miss Shaw,’ she said.
Miss Shaw didn’t respond.
I saw a metallic glint in the grass—probably a casing from one of the bullets that had killed Charles Meadowbank. The crowd was milling and rumbling, moving restlessly. The glint vanished as someone trod the object into the lawn. The cicadas suddenly burst into their concentrated racket and then we heard the sirens. There was a collective sigh of relief. I looked at Miss Shaw. Our eyes met for an instant but what hers were seeing I couldn’t tell.
The client of a private investigator has no right of confidentiality, and the detective himself has no protection from the ordinary processes of the law. The uniformed
men who came to the Rose Bay crime scene treated me about as roughly as I expected. The elderly woman, who gave her name as Mrs James Calvert, tried to tell the cops that I was a sort of a hero who’d tried to intercept the gunman. Trouble was, she was old and confused and more concerned about Miss Shaw than anything or anybody else so that she made me sound more like an accomplice. I said as little as I could, waiting for the plain-clothes boys to arrive.
The Senior Constable didn’t like that, either, and we were close to going it toe-to-toe when the D’s from Darlinghurst station turned up.
Detective Sergeant Colin Pascoe was a big-gutted man with a boozer’s nose and late-night eyes. He was a long time out of uniform himself, and he knew all the right moves. He’d brought a photographer with him, and, after the scene was captured on film from every necessary angle, he allowed the ambulance men to take Mr Charles Meadowbank, provisionally identified by yours truly, confirmed by an examination of the contents of his fat wallet, away. He introduced himself and took my ID folder; then Pascoe delegated the uniformed men to get names, addresses and brief statements from the audience, whose enthusiasm was rapidly waning as Pascoe’s quiet efficiency undercut the drama. He sent his younger, slimmer assistant off to get Mrs Calvert’s eyewitness account down pat.
Another car with a blue flashing light pulled up and a uniformed policewoman stepped out. She gave Pascoe a nod and went straight to Miss Shaw, adjusting the knitted shawl, taking the young woman immediately under her wing. They went up the steps and back into the block of flats. I was left standing on the path with Pascoe who was swinging a plastic bag containing my camera.
I pointed to the patch of grass. ‘There’s a shell casing trodden in there,’ I said.
‘We got it,’ Pascoe said. ‘Must have dug it out while you were eyeing off the sheila with the big tits.’ He flipped open his notebook ‘Miss … ah, Virginia Shaw of this address.’
I reached for my ID folder which he held, half-extended towards me, in his other hand. ‘If you say so, Sergeant.’
He retracted my property with a smile and a cardsharp’s snap. ‘In the car, Hardy. Now!’
Although a private investigator has no clout himself, it helps if his client is a lawyer. That’s when the grease can start to oil the wheels. Pascoe sat me down in an interrogation room in the Darlinghurst station. We sat on opposite sides of a rickety table and he looked amused when I pulled out a couple of bedraggled rollies.
‘Planning a bit of sitting and waiting, eh?’
I lit one of the smokes. ‘More like standing.’
‘Even worse. Want to tell me what you were doing there?’
I’d taken the precaution of picking up one of Alistair Menzies’ cards in his office. For an answer I simply put a card on the desk.
‘I might have known. And I expect you’re good mates with an Assistant Commissioner or two?’
I puffed smoke and considered. ‘I know a D named Grant Evans.’
‘He’s Armed Hold-up. This is Homicide. Unless you happened to hear the shooter ask Meadowbank to stand and deliver?’
‘I’d rather not say anything more until I clear it with Mr Menzies.’
Pascoe went away and left me in the empty, cream-painted room with my cigarettes, a gas lighter Cyn had given me, and my thoughts. Pascoe had left my licence folder on the desk and I put it back in my pocket. After that, there wasn’t much to do except smoke and think those thoughts. I quickly tired of that. I looked at my watch and was surprised to see that it was less than two hours since Charles Meadowbank had set off for Rose Bay. Long trip. Another hour went by before Pascoe returned with a man whose face I recognised but couldn’t place.
‘I’m Vern Morris, Mr Hardy,’ he said. ‘From Mr Menzies’ chambers.’
I nodded. One of the outer office minions.
‘Mr Menzies has authorised you to make a full statement to the police.’
‘Big of him,’ Pascoe said. ‘Thanks, Mr Morris.’
Morris departed and Pascoe plonked a battery-powered cassette tape recorder on the desk He turned it on and propped the little microphone up on its fold-out stand in front of me.
‘All mod cons,’ I said.
Pascoe squinted at a needle quivering in a small dial. ‘You’re on.’
I told it as briefly and accurately as I could. Pascoe interrupted me to ask whether I had a file on the case in my office. I said I did and he raised an eyebrow. He stopped me again after I’d described the shooting.
‘Description of the assailant. Take your time.’
‘Small, five-six or seven with a light build.’
‘Pity you didn’t get to grips with him. Big bloke like you could probably have cleaned him up.’
‘He ran like the wind.’
Pascoe grunted. ‘And he had a gun, of course. Did you see the gun?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. Description, continued.’
I paused. ‘Dark clothes, jeans I think and runners.’
‘Features?’
I shook my head. ‘Stocking mask. You know what that does to a face.’
‘Yeah. One fish looks much the same as another. So, a very professional hit.’
‘I guess so.’
Pascoe added some identification remarks to the tape and then stopped it. He took a packet of filters from his pocket and lit up. He offered me the packet but I refused. I’d smoked too much already and smoking filter cigarettes is like drinking decaffeinated coffee—what’s the point?
‘Any thoughts?’ Pascoe said.
‘About what?’
‘Come on, Hardy. When I said it was a professional job you sounded doubtful.’
I shrugged. ‘I’ve never seen one before.’
He butted his cigarette. ‘Okay, we’ll type this up and you can go after you sign it.’
That happened. I caught a taxi back to Rose Bay. A television crew was packing up after filming outside ‘Lapstone’. A few people were standing around talking and a lot of lights were burning in the blocks of flats on both sides of the street. It had been the most excitement they’d seen there in years. I kept well away from the action. I was feeling tired and flat. My face was bristly and my mouth was sour after the smoking and talking. I was hungry and I needed a drink I looked up at the flats and wondered how Mrs Calvert and Miss Shaw were doing. None of my business. I got in the Falcon and felt around for the flask of Johnny Walker I kept in the glove compartment for cuts and abrasions. After a few pulls I felt better, well enough to go home to the loving arms of my wife.
‘You’re drunk,’ Cyn said.
‘No. Just a little lubricated on an empty stomach after a very tough night.’
The house was a standard end terrace—two rooms and a kitchen on the ground floor, three bedrooms above, lean-to laundry and bathroom. It needed work, but the architect member of the team never seemed to get around to thinking about it. We went through to the living room and I flopped into a saucer chair.
‘You look terrible. What happened?’
I told her. Give Cyn her due, she had a vivid imagination. I could see her visualising the scene.
‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘You could have been shot.’
‘He wasn’t after me.’
She stood behind my chair and massaged my neck. ‘Have a shave and a shower. I’ll make you an omelette.’
A shave and shower at that time of night meant I’d be doing more than eating an omelette before Thursday was done.
4
In the morning, over herb tea and muesli for her, coffee, toast and Drum for me, Cyn told me about the job she had lined up in Cairns.
‘Townhouses alongside canals,’ she said. ‘A real challenge.’
‘Like building Venice. Are the houses actually in the canals or what?’
‘Cliff, don’t be a smartarse. It’s interesting and it’s only six weeks this time.’
‘Go with my blessing,’ I said. ‘Maybe you can get us one of the townhouses as part of your fee. They gave my mum a flat
in the block they built when they knocked down our semi in Maroubra.’
‘Your semi and ten like it. All undistinguished.’
‘She died two years later.’
‘Cliff, she was sixty-eight and she’d smoked thirty a day for fifty years.’
‘True, but I still blame the architects.’
Our fights could build out of exchanges like this. Cyn was a lower North Shore girl, a doctor’s daughter who’d kicked over the traces but still trusted bank managers and private school principals in her heart. But there was no fight in either of us today. The memory of the night’s love-making was too strong and the thought of a six-week parting made us both a bit clingy. She was flying north in twenty-four hours. She went to her office to finalise the details and I went to mine, hoping for a little quiet summons-serving or money-minding. I anticipated a call from Alistair Menzies’ office requesting a refund—not an auspicious start on my new career path.
The morning passed slowly and when the phone rang I was thinking about money. The Asahi Pentax was a robust camera but I’d thrown it strongly and, although it had ended up on the grass, I wasn’t sure that it hadn’t landed somewhere harder first. There was likely to be some damage. Tricky case to argue as a legitimate expense, but it was worth a try. However, the voice that came on the line wasn’t that of Mrs Collins, the dragon-lady.
‘Mr Hardy, this is Virginia Shaw.’
No flies on Cliff. ‘Would that be Miss Shaw of the Lapstone Apartments, Rose Bay?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You had a very nasty experience, Miss Shaw. I’m sorry.’