by Peter Corris
I considered. “I wouldn’t want to disturb him.”
Ray stepped onto the dock and juggled the camera as he helped me up. “No problem. He sleeps so light you wouldn’t believe it. He’d be happy to say goodnight, or good morning, or whatever the hell it is.”
We walked through the semi-tropical garden the Guthries had growing between their house and the water. It wasn’t nearly as cold here as out on the harbour and I pulled off the woollen cap and the parka. Ray was still rubbing grease from his head when we went into the house. He went away to shower and I hung the parka on a peg by the back door. Almost as soon as the water started to run, Paul Guthrie appeared in the hallway.
“What’s the time?” he said.
“I don’t know. About four.”
“Find what you were looking for?”
I nodded.
“You want some tea?”
“I never drink tea, Paul. I’ll have some coffee if you’re making. How come you wake up so easily?”
He grinned. With his crewcut hair sticking up and his trim body wrapped in a smart, Asian-print dressing-gown he looked like a fit fifty-year-old. “Used to be from worry, when I agonised about business twenty-four hours a day. Now, I don’t know. I think I just like it. I get up for an hour or so most nights. It’s quiet, and you can think clearly.”
We went through to the kitchen and he put water on to boil. We sat on stools and waited. “How did it go tonight?”
“Good. Ray comes through, doesn’t he?”
“Always. He’s sound. Pat’s always worried that he or Chris’re going to show signs of going to the bad, like their father. I tell her it won’t happen, and I reckon I’m right.” The water boiled and Paul made tea for himself and instant coffee for me. The shower was still running.
“Ray came up looking like a Channel swimmer,” I said. “Grease in the water.”
Paul shook his head. “It’s a crying shame. You wouldn’t believe how dirty the harbour and the coast have got. Well, you have to believe it, after all the publicity. But I’ve seen it happening over the years. Couldn’t get anyone to listen—councillors, politicians. Hopeless bloody bunch.”
I sipped the hot, milky coffee and felt it blend warmly and comfortingly with the brandy in my stomach. My mind was tired but still working sluggishly on the case. “I don’t suppose your father’s still alive, Paul? I need to …”
Guthrie snapped his fingers and jumped off the stool. “That’s what I have to do. That’s why I got up. Hang on.”
I drank some coffee. The shower stopped running. Guthrie came back carrying a thick book “You only missed Dad by a few years,” he said. “Lived into his nineties. After you left I got to thinking about the bridge and all that I hunted around and found this.” He held out the book “It’s Dad’s scrapbook on the bridge. He kept it for years, from the time he captained the tug and until after the opening. Thought it might be useful.”
The scrapbook was an old-fashioned seaman’s log with clippings and papers pasted to the leaves. It was only about an inch wide at the spine but four inches wide at the edges of the leaves. Some of the clippings had been too big for the page and were folded over; others had frayed and torn edges. I turned over a few pages and saw newspaper reports on the men and the work “It could be very useful, Paul. Can I take it away? I’m too bushed to …”
“Of course, of course. Take it. Give it back when you’ve finished your enquiry. That’ll force you to come and see us again. Here, I’ll get you something to put it in.”
He rummaged in the cupboard for a plastic bag and found one just as Ray walked into the kitchen. “Shouldn’t use those things, Paul,” he said. “You should see them in the harbour. It’s chocka.”
Guthrie straightened up and handed me the bag. “I know. I bow.” He glanced at Ray. “You okay, son?”
Ray nodded and unscrewed the lid of the coffee jar. “Reckon I can get the pictures developed later tomorrow. I mean today. You bow.”
I put the scrapbook in the plastic bag and tied its handles together. “Thanks. I’ll give you a ring.”
Paul Guthrie said, ‘You’ve found your client’s father then, Cliff?”
“Odds on.”
“Poor, woman, but it’s better to know than to wonder.” He was speaking from experience, as a man who’d had a time of wondering whether his stepson was alive or dead.
I shook hands with both of them and left, carrying the scrapbook encased in polluting plastic. It sat beside me on the passenger seat as I drove home. Live to ninety and leave behind scrapbooks on your big jobs. And the love and respect of a son, I thought. Not bad, Captain Guthrie, sir. Not bad at all.
I woke up late and eased into the day gently. A long, hot shower, got rid temporarily of the ache in my kicked ribs and helped with the stiffness that had come from positioning a forty-plus-year-old body on a boat on Sydney harbour on a cold winter night. My cuts and bruises were healing well, though—maybe it was the sea air. For want of better company, I’d taken the scrapbook to bed with me. I hauled it out to read while I drank several cups of coffee. I threw the plastic bag in the rubbish bin, wondering vaguely where it would end up.
Inside the cover Paul’s father had written: ‘David Alexander Guthrie, MM, tug Hercules, 1926-32’. What followed was a personal history of the building of the bridge. Captain Guthrie had taken photographs of his tug at work and the various stages of bridge construction. There were also pictures of the quarry at Moruya and the fabrication workshop Paul had spoken about. These were glued into the book and captioned. Letters from the captain’s employer were similarly attached. They replied to complaints about the safety of the barge moorings and the suitability of the tackle used to lift the materials aloft. Faded blue carbon copies of Guthrie’s letters testified to his continued concern. To judge from the replies, he got little satisfaction. There were death notices for some of the workers killed, and a clipping from the Labor Daily, which Guthrie had annotated ‘Lang paper’ for 10 February 1932: ‘James Campbell had been engaged in dismantling the scaffolding near the top of the pylon. A strong gust of wind moved the beam on which he was standing, and he was hurled into space. Horrified watchers in the streets below saw him shoot out from the pylon, turning over and over as he clutched wildly for something to stay his flight … He fell to the ground through the open structure near the footway.’
It wasn’t all gloom and doom. Guthrie had recorded the great moments, such as the closing of the arch and the hanging of the last section of the deck. There were newspaper photographs of the opening ceremony and a couple of the captain’s own creditable efforts. One shot, captioned ‘Self & Hercules’ showed a stocky man with a pipe jutting from his jaw standing at a ship’s wheel. Not enough of his face was visible under the cap and beard to mark a resemblance to Paul Guthrie, but the stubborn, almost aggressive stance was unmistakable.
I leafed through the book, fascinated by the material and almost forgetting why I was in possession of it. A photograph of sober-looking men in high collars and dark suits brought me back to the present. Here they were—the builders: Barclay, Glover, Bradfield, Ennis, Samuels, Madden, Booth, Bondil—more than a dozen of them with each man’s function neatly assigned to him. Most of the faces were moustached or bearded. Bradfield, generally considered the father of the bridge, was among the clean-shaven brigade. I checked off the names against the areas of operation. Joseph Samuels was the proprietor and manager of the foundry attached to the fabrication workshop. Reginald Booth was the Director of Public Works.
Captain Guthrie had circled in red a clipping that contained a statement from Lawrence Ennis, a chief of one of the major engineering firms involved in the job. It might not have been the statement Paul Guthrie remembered, but it was pretty close: ‘Every day those men went onto the bridge they went in the same way as a soldier goes into battle, not knowing whether they would come down alive or not.’
I poured my third cup and settled down to accumulate my notes and materials on the
Madden case. I had the scrapbook, photocopies, my own notes. By the end of the day I hoped to have some photographs. Maybe I’d found Brian Madden, maybe not. It was a tricky matter, determining where my responsibility began and ended. If I reported everything to the police, and they arranged to raise the canvas-wrapped bodies from the harbour, the story, in all its ghoulish detail, would get out. All the names involved would be published and the careers of the bridge builders and their families exposed to scrutiny. Somehow I didn’t think Louise Madden would like that. And there was no guarantee that her father was one of the victims.
So much for the private uncertainties. There was also the public, community consideration. Descendants of the bridge builders weren’t wrapping themselves in canvas, tying something heavy to their legs and throwing themselves into the harbour. Someone was killing them. That someone had fouled up with Colin Glover, the floater. Maybe he was getting careless. If so, now was the best time to try to catch him. And there was nothing surer than that a welter of publicity, and tabloid headlines like Bridge killer dubbed “Davy Jones” by police’ would cause him to stop or become super careful.
I was puzzling over these questions when the telephone rang. I looked at the instrument with dislike; it was unlikely to have any answers. But I picked it up.
“Hardy.”
“Mr Hardy? My name’s Ralph Wren. I believe Frank Parker told you I’d be calling.”
“You’re right, he did. How’s Meredith?”
“Ah … I’m not quite sure.”
Ah, a careerist, I thought, more concerned to get on than about his colleague. Frank’s losing the ability to pick them. I decided there and then how I was going to proceed. “I spoke to him yesterday, Mr Wren,” I said. “He seemed to be doing pretty well.”
“Good, good,” Wren said. “About this case …”
“Have you got Meredith’s paperwork?”
“He … ah, doesn’t go in for a lot of paperwork. I was hoping you could help me out there.”
I was confirmed in my decision. “I don’t know … constable, is it?”
“Detective sergeant.”
“Detective Sergeant Wren, right. I don’t think I can help you. What did Frank Parker tell you?”
Wren’s tone became waspish. “He said you’d be cooperative.”
“I am, I want to be. What do you want to know?”
“Mr Hardy, this’ isn’t helpful. Meredith was pursuing a line of enquiry that crossed with something you were doing. That’s all I know.”
“Well, I haven’t done anything more, sergeant. I’m pretty much in the dark until I can have a proper talk to Meredith. I think that’s a good way off, don’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell you what. You keep an eye on Meredith and we’ll have a three-way meeting when he’s fit. I think that’s a good idea, don’t you?”
“Possibly, I …”
“Let’s leave it there. I’ll call Frank and tell him we’ve spoken. Probably have to leave a message for him; he wasn’t exactly chatty when I saw him. You can get in touch with me again when you think Meredith’s up to it. Give him my regards on your next visit, okay?”
I hung up gently and let my hand hover over the phone, If he didn’t call straight back it probably meant I’d bluffed him sufficiently to gain the time I needed. If he did call I had the option of not answering. The phone didn’t ring. I shuffled through the documents again, made out a list of names and laid the lot out like cards on a table. But my hand came out the same way—my only lead was the the Veterans of the Bridge and the address in Pump Street. I collected together the few things I thought I’d need—burglary tools, miniature tape recorder, keycard. I said aloud, “When you can’t carry a gun, carry cash.” I sniggered and then realised what I was doing. I’d been living alone too long.
The phone rang as I was heading for the door. I considered not answering it, but phones are about the only things that incline me to believe in the paranormal—often I can feel who’s calling. Sometimes I’m right This time, I felt it wasn’t Ralph Wren. Right again. It was Cy Sackville.
“Well Cliff,” Cy said, coming the breezy barrister, “I’ve poked around a bit and they don’t …”
“It’s off, Cy.”
“What do you mean it’s off? This is a serious matter. It’s your livelihood to start with, and it could be your liberty.”
“You’ve been rehearsing,” I said.
“A little. I’m looking forward to it. The precedents are most interesting.”
“No doubt I’m sorry but I have to disappoint you. The matter got cleared up the other night There was a conspiracy against me. I was an innocent victim.”
One of Cy’s strengths is his quick recovery. He’d have shrugged and moved something else up on his agenda, even though this little legal by-way had interested him more than some he’d gone down with me. “I’m delighted to hear it,” he said. “In fact, that was the sort of line I was going to pursue.”
“Thanks, Cy, but it’s not going to go any further. One of the conspirators is dead and one of the others is in custody. They’ve got him for conspiracy to murder and malicious wounding, for starters.”
“I see.”
“Sorry to waste your time.”
“No matter. I learned some things about a piece of legislation. It’ll come in useful some time. And of course I’ll bill you for the work.”
“Of course.”
We both knew he wouldn’t. He’d get payment in kind from me by having me do some work for him, or he’d simply forget. Cy is an old-time, wishy-washy socialist, and guilty about the amount of money he makes. So would I be, if I made a quarter as much.
“Are you okay, Cliff? Are you really in the clear or is there something I can do?”
“I’m in the clear on that matter; Listen, Cy, if someone found some bodies and didn’t report them, what would the charges be?”
“Concealing evidence.”
“Obstructing the police?”
“Yes.”
“Committing public nuisance?”
“Possibly.”
“Imperilling enquiry agent licence?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Neither would I. Thanks, Cy.” I shivered as I spoke. The biggish house was cold; draughts came in under the doors and a decayed window frame was rattling upstairs, troubled by a strong, cold, south wind.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Know a good solicitor around here?”
“Paul Hart in Balmain. Why? Look, Cliff, d’you mean your will? if you’re in trouble tell me, I can …”
“I’m thinking about selling this bloody house, Cy. That’s all. Thanks. See you.”
If you can’t carry a gun, carry cash. Very neat. Well, I couldn’t carry a gun because the police had taken mine after the fracas in the Kings Cross alley, and I hadn’t been interested enough at the time to ask for it back. I used to have an unlicensed Colt .45 which I kept for emergencies in a clip under the dashboard of my old Falcon. But the old Falcon let in water and the firing pin on the Colt had rusted solid. What the hell? I thought No veteran of the bridge is going to be under seventy. Carry cash. I deposited Louise Madden’s cheque, drew out a couple of hundred, and drove to the Rocks.
17
My reasoning was this: someone connected with the Veterans of the Bridge Society was killing the descendants of the bridge builders. Motive uncertain. Revenge? Retribution? Insanity almost certainly part of the picture. Probably, therefore, the perpetrator was connected with someone who’d been killed while working on the bridge. That gave me the list of names. The list was dauntingly Anglo-Saxon and ordinary—McKeon, Addison, Campbell and the like. There would be thousands of people by those names now living in the city. But it was a starting point. As I drove I recalled a section in Spearritt’s book headed ‘Driven to Death’. According to Spearritt, more than 150 people had suicided by jumping from the bridge. If they were factored in, as the experts on the r
adio say, the net would be cast even wider. How many people connected with the 150 jumpers would there be? It sounded like a job for Professor Spearritt and his computer. What about people killed in car crashes on the bridge? What about the people whose TV reception was buggered up by all the metal? The more I thought that way, the more I was reminded that there were more than five million rivets in the bridge. It would be hell of a job looking for just one of them.
Pump Street was quiet and oddly dusty. The dust must have drifted from construction sites nearby and settled there, because there was no actual building work going on in the street itself. It gave the landscape an old-world, historical flavour, as if nothing much had changed since the streets were unpaved and there was more horse dung on the road than oil stains. I drove slowly along the street, turned at the end and looked for the laneway that usually runs behind rows of Sydney terraces. No laneway, or rather, there had been a lane but the red brick building I had noticed before, which I now identified as a bond store, had annexed it sometime in the past and there was now no back entrance to the houses. Not good. I didn’t want to be held up again by Betty Tracey nor to provide entertainment for the diversion-starved residents of Pump Street.
I parked opposite number 47, a few doors along from 43A, and saw the solution to my problem. At the end of the terrace, just before a series of semi-detached houses began, there was a narrow gap. I crossed the street and inspected the opening to a passage scarcely wide enough to squeeze through and not passable by anyone really bulky. All Alan Bond’s millions wouldn’t get him down there. I negotiated it, although I felt I had to hold my breath and suck in my stomach. Also I had to twist myself sideways to make the turn where the passage went right, parallel to the street and behind the houses. The opposing wall was high and brick, part of the lane-annexing bond store. The backyards to the houses were almost non-existent—tiny, bricked or cemented squares with brick outhouse toilets, not even enough space for a Hills Hoist. There were wooden fences, much patched with galvanised iron and other materials and gates from the lane, opening in towards the houses. With the gate open, a rubbish bin in place and a six-pack, the yard would be full to capacity.