Man in the Shadows

By Peter Corris

 

 

1

 

 

 long shadow fell across the corridor outside my office. The shadow obscured the scuffed lino tiles on the floor and almost touched the card thumb-tacked to the door. The card reads ‘Cliff Hardy- Investigations’. It’s not the original card, not the one I pinned up almost fifteen years ago, but it’s very like it. I’ve always felt that a nameplate or stencilled letters might bring bad luck, so I’ve stuck with the card.

 

I walked towards the door and a man stepped from the shadow. He was tall and thin and I instantly felt that there was something wrong with him. Not something to make me reach for a gun, if I’d been wearing one, but something to be sorry for. It was there in the way he moved-slowly and tentatively-and in the way he stood as I came closer. He looked as if he might suddenly flinch away, retreat and dive down the fire stairs.

 

‘Mr Cliff Hardy?’ he said. He swung the small zippered bag he was carrying awkwardly.

 

‘That’s right.’

 

‘You… investigate things?’

 

I pointed to the card. ‘That’s what it says. You want to come inside?’

 

The question seemed to cause a struggle within him. He wasn’t a bad looking man-under thirty, full head of dark hair, good teeth, regular features, but there was something missing. His face was immobile and was like a painting which the artist hadn’t quite finished off. But he nodded and moved closer as I unlocked the door.

 

‘Thank you,’ he said.

 

I got him settled in the client’s chair. He put his bag on the floor beside him. For some reason that I couldn’t account for, I pulled my chair out from behind my desk and sat more or less across from him with nothing in between. He wore a grey suit, white shirt, no tie. I smiled at him. ‘I usually start by asking my client for a name. I don’t always get the real one.’

 

‘Gareth Greenway,’ he blurted.

 

‘Okay, Mr Greenway, how can I help you?’

 

He looked slowly around the room. There wasn’t much to see-filing cabinet, desk, calendar on one wall, a bookcase of paperbacks and a poster from a Frida Kahlo exhibition. ‘You haven’t got any recording devices or anything like that, have you, Mr Hardy?’

 

‘No, nothing like that.’

 

‘Good. Have you ever heard of psychosurgery?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘Psychosurgery was performed on me nine months ago against my will.’

 

I let out a slow breath as I studied him more closely. There were no physical signs; he didn’t twitch or dribble, but he had the air of an alien, of someone for whom everything around him was strange and new. ‘How did that happen, Mr Greenway?’

 

‘I don’t know. That’s the problem. I can’t remember. I know I was in the hospital for some time.’

 

‘What hospital?’

 

‘Southwood Private Hospital. It’s what you’d call a loony bin.’

 

That was the first flicker of aggression I’d seen; he opened his eyes wider as he spoke and seemed to be flinching back, although in reality he didn’t move a muscle. I didn’t react; I’d seen enough psychoanalytical movies to know how to behave. ‘Go on,’ I said.

 

“They did this to me, made me like this, and I don’t know why. All I know is that they’re going to do it to Guy and they’ve got to be stopped.’

 

‘Who’s Guy?’

 

‘He was my friend, my only friend, in there.’

 

‘I see. Why do you think he’ll be… treated the way you were?’

 

‘This is the hard part,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why. I just have these impressions. They won’t come together properly. That’s what things are like since they cut into me. That’s the idea. You don’t make connections between all the things that’re wrong in your life so they don’t bother you as much. You see?’

 

‘Yeah.’

 

‘Well, it didn’t quite work with me. I’m still bothered. They tell me I was violent. I don’t feel violent anymore. I was an actor. I couldn’t act now, I wouldn’t know how. That’s what it does to you. How would you like it, Mr Hardy? Would you trade in all your anxieties for the sort of peace of mind that stopped you from doing what you do now? Even if that’s what causes the anxieties? I assume you have some?’

 

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘No, I wouldn’t. What do you mean about it being the hard part?’

 

He leaned forward. ‘I’ve been to see the police, doctors, the health authorities, everyone. They won’t listen. I know, from something I saw or heard that I can’t… reassemble now, that Guy is in danger and that that place is hell on earth. But no one will listen because I’ve been certified insane and psychosurgeried. I’m a vegetable, I’ve got no rights, I… ‘

 

‘Easy. Why did you come to me, Mr Greenway?’

 

‘Annie Parker told me to.’

 

‘Annie Parker!’ That made me sit back and set memories running. Annie was a heroin addict I’d had some dealings with a few years back. The daughter of an old friend, she’d been in big trouble which I’d extricated her from. She’d gone to England. ‘Is Annie at this hospital?’

 

‘She was. She died of an overdose a while back. We used to talk. Annie was pretty wrecked; some money she’d inherited from her mother was keeping her going.’

 

‘I see.’

 

‘You probably don’t. I’ve got a few thousand dollars. I can pay you.’

 

‘To do what?’

 

‘To help me get Guy out of there. To stop him ending up like me. To save his life.’

 

He put his back against the chair rest and held himself straight. He looked tired suddenly, almost exhausted by the effort he’d made. I felt confused. I was sympathetic towards him; he seemed like a serious, responsible person who’d taken a terrible knock. He had a friend he cared about. I’d cared about Annie and her mother. It should have been straightforward, but mental illness and the medical profession set up strong feelings.

 

He waited for me and I floundered.

 

Do you want to be on the side of the patients or the doctors? I thought. Neither. Don’t touch it. Walk away. Say you’re sorry and go out and have a drink in memory of Annie and all the other damaged people you’ve helped but not enough to make any difference.

 

‘Tell me more,’ I said.

 

* * * *

 

2

 

 

REENWAY gave me five hundred dollars in cash which was unusual but not something for me to tear my hair out over. Then he surprised me by standing up, grabbing his bag and jerking his head at the door. ‘You’ve got a car, haven’t you?’

 

‘Sure.’

 

‘I don’t like small rooms very much. Let me show you the place we’re talking about.’

 

We went down to the lane at the back of the building where I keep my 1984 Falcon on a slab of concrete Primo Tomasetti the tattooist rents to me. Primo was standing in the lane having a smoke. He recently declared his tattoo parlour a No Smoking zone on a trial basis. He looked at the car which has replaced a 1965 model, same colour, fewer miles, less rust.

 

‘Looks great, Cliff,’ he said. ‘Just like you’d be with a facelift.’

 

‘Are you thinking of going into that business?’ I asked him. ‘It’s only a sort of sideways move.’

 

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘The first’d be the toughest. You volunteering?’

 

Greenway was standing by, not paying any attention. I unlocked the passenger door and opened it for him. He got in slowly and gracefully. Primo stared. ‘Who is he?’ he whispered. ‘A doctor?’

 

I winked at him. ‘The Pope’s grandson. Keep it under your hat.’

 

It was the last week in March. Daylight saving was a recent memory and the sun was still high in the late afternoon and a problem as I was driving into it. I asked Greenway to get my sunglasses out of the glove box.

 

‘You should have better ones than these,’ he said. ‘These are shit.’

 

‘I lose ‘em; leave ‘em places. Makes no sense to buy good ones. Aren’t you hot? Take your jacket off.’

 

I was in shirt sleeves, light cotton trousers and Chinese kung fu shoes; behind the windscreen it was like a greenhouse as we drove into the sun. I was sweating freely.

 

‘I don’t feel the heat or the cold. Not since the treatment.’ I glanced at him; sweat was running down the side of his face and wilting his shirt collar.

 

‘Tell me about this place. I thought they were under strict supervision. Aren’t there… visitors, or something? Official inspections?’

 

He snorted. ‘The visitors are senile hacks. They should be in there, not… the patients… us. You’ll see. The place? It’s like a concentration camp. Fences, out of bounds areas. Cells… ‘

 

‘Cells? Come on.’

 

‘You’ll see.’

 

‘How? If it’s a registered private hospital we can’t just walk in and make a private inspection.’

 

‘I know a way in. Don’t worry.’

 

I was worried, very worried. For the rest of the drive I watched Greenway closely. He appeared to take no interest in the surroundings, spoke briefly to give me directions, and otherwise seemed to be asleep with his eyes open. We were forced to a crawl by the road works at Tom Uglys bridge where they’re putting in another span. I followed the signs to Sutherland.

 

‘You know Burraneer Bay?’ Greenway said abruptly.

 

‘Heard of it.’

 

‘That’s where we’re going. Left here.’

 

I followed the road through Gymea into the heart of the peninsula. The houses tended to be big on large blocks with expensively maintained lawns and carefully placed trees; a few were smaller and struggling to keep up appearances. Greenway directed me past the bowling club towards the water where the houses seemed to be craning up for a good view. We stopped in a short cul-de-sac occupied by a few Spanish-style houses; one had added a mock Tudor effect for insurance. The street ended in thick bush.

 

‘Turn the car around,’ he said.

 

Five hundred dollars made him the boss for three days. I turned the car so it was facing back up the street. Greenway got out carrying his bag. For the first time I wondered what was in it.

 

‘Have you got a gun?’ he said.

 

‘No.’

 

‘Good. The hospital’s down here.’ He pointed to the trees. ‘We can take a look from the high ground and I know where we can get through the fence.’

 

‘Why?’

 

He looked at his watch. ‘It’s exercise time. I want to see that Guy’s all right. That’s all. We can talk about what to do next afterwards.’

 

He was suddenly much more decisive and alert. I was still worried; I wanted time to think about it but he plunged into the bush ahead of me and I followed him, feeling confused but protective. The trees shut out the light and made it seem later in the day than it was. I squinted ahead as Greenway forged on, pushing branches aside and crunching dried leaves underfoot. Then we were through and light flooded over a large open space ringed around by a high cyclone fence. There were buildings inside the area, concrete paths, garden beds. I saw a swimming pool and a tennis court half buried in shadow.

 

The blue water of Port Hacking hemmed in all the land. The sun still lit up the western edge but the advancing shadows were turning the water darker by the second.

 

Greenway tugged at my arm. ‘Down here.’

 

We scrambled along the perimeter until he located a section of fence where the metal post was standing slightly askew. He hooked his bag over one shoulder, gripped the post and heaved. It came out of the ground; the fence sagged close to the ground for five metres on either side. Greenway trampled over it. ‘Come on!’ he shouted.

 

He raced down the slope towards the centre of the compound. I could see light shapes moving slowly around behind a hedge. What could I do? Stand there and watch? I ran after him, more with the idea of hauling him back than going with him, but he was covering the ground like Darren Clarke.

 

I lost breath yelling something but I couldn’t have caught him anyway. He made it to the hedge as I was still skeetering down the slope. He opened his bag, pulled out a camera and started taking flash pictures. The sudden, flaring lights panicked the people behind the hedge. I heard screams and curses. Greenway raced along, stopping and shooting. I pounded after him. Three men came from behind the hedge; Greenway ducked back and they reached me first.

 

‘It’s all right,’ I gasped. ‘Don’t… ‘

 

Two of them came at me; I balked and made them collide. One recovered and threw a punch which I side-stepped. I pushed him back.

 

‘Hardy!’ Greenway’s yell was desperate, panicked. The third man was rushing him, reaching for the camera. Instinctively, I lunged forward and tripped him. Greenway dodged and headed back up the hill, feet digging in, well-balanced and surging.

 

‘Hey!’ I yelled. I lost balance on the uneven ground.

 

The man I’d pushed loomed over me; he chopped down on my neck in a perfect rabbit punch. I felt it all along my spine and down to my legs. I flopped flat, as breath and vision and everything else left me.

 

* * * *

 

3

 

 

HE sun was shining in my eyes and it was only a couple of metres away. I twisted my head and that hurt more than the burning sun. I tried to lift my arm to block out the light; my shoulder was stiff and painful but I got my hand across my face.

 

‘He’s all right,’ a voice said.

 

‘Who’s all right?’ I said.

 

‘You are.’ This was another voice. ‘Do you know where you are?’

 

‘Hospital grounds.’

 

‘You’re inside the hospital. You’ve been unconscious.’

 

I tried to lift the upper part of my body from what I discovered was a narrow bed. It hurt and someone tried to hold me down but I got there. Everything swum around-room, faces, my legs stretched out in front of me for all of two metres. I closed my eyes. That was better. My neck hurt probably worse than my shoulder. Nothing else hurt very much. My mouth was dry.

 

‘Some water, please.’

 

I opened my eyes when I felt the glass held to my mouth, took a sip and swallowed. Much better.

 

‘A possible concussion?’ one of the voices said. A shadow fell across me. ‘I’m Dr Grey. Just lie back and let me examine you.’

 

I did it. Why not? As awakenings from physical attacks go it was much better than most. I felt strong hands on my temples; the light shone again but this time the sun had gone back up where it belonged.

 

‘Look left, look right, look up. Possible concussion, but I think not.’

 

I could feel sympathy and concern waning so I stayed lying down. The next voice was milder. ‘I’m Dr Smith. I want your explanation for what happened.’

 

I looked at them through half-opened eyes. Grey was a bulky man with heavy spectacles. He wore a white skull cap like a surgeon which was an alarming thing to see from my position. ‘I was trying to be non-violent, Doctor. I pushed one man and tripped another. Then someone clobbered me.’

 

‘That is not funny.’ Grey said. ‘You trespassed in the company of another man who behaved in a way calculated to disturb some already very disturbed people. You… ‘

 

‘Where is he? Did he get away?’

 

‘Listen to me! You are in serious trouble.’

 

I sat up again and took the water from the man I took to be Dr Smith. He was an older, gentler-looking type wearing similar clothes to Grey-white coat over shirt and tie. Another man stood by the door in the white-painted, almost chilly room. He was the rabbit puncher. ‘I’m a little confused, Doctor,’ I said. ‘I may owe you an apology. Things sort of got out of control.’

 

‘That’s not good enough,’ Grey spluttered. ‘I want… ‘

 

‘Now, Bruce,’ Smith said, ‘I think we have a reasonable man here. I’m the administrator of the hospital, Mr Hardy. We should be able to straighten things out.’

 

Grey didn’t like that. ‘I’ve got a half dozen people down there who’re going to need special treatment for days over this, maybe longer. This bloody hooligan… ‘

 

Even though I wasn’t at my most acute I could tell that Grey was under more pressure than was good for him. He was red in the face and a purple vein was throbbing under the flushed skin near his right eye. ‘Have you called the police?’ I asked.

 

‘No.’ Grey bit down hard on the word.

 

I drank some water and handed the glass back to Smith. ‘Perhaps you should.’

 

‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ Smith said. ‘Just tell us what you and the other man were doing.’

 

‘You have to see it from my point of view, Doctor. I’m here in some part of a building I’m not familiar with in the company of three men who could be axe murderers for all I know.’ I pointed to the man at the door. ‘I know he delivers a good hit. You know my name so I assume you’ve taken my wallet. I just don’t feel safe.’

 

‘This is absurd,’ Grey snorted.

 

‘So, call the police. What’s stopping you?’ I swung my legs off the bed and put my feet gingerly on the floor. I wondered if I could support my weight. A pratfall wouldn’t have created the right impression just then.

 

‘What circumstances would make you feel more comfortable, Mr Hardy?’ Smith said.

 

Any public place, I thought. Preferably where they serve drinks. ‘What about your office? With a view of the gate, a few people around, a telephone on the desk and my wallet in my hand.’ I pointed again. ‘I can do without him and I wouldn’t mind a drink.’

 

Smith smiled. ‘Happily, my office has a view of the gate and of the water and I’ve got a good single malt. How does that sound?’

 

* * * *

 

We sat in Smith’s pleasant office, admired the view and I rubbed the back of my neck. I examined my wallet and put it in my pocket.

 

‘Now,’ Smith said, ‘try this.’ He poured the whisky; I sipped it and nodded. Smith took a sip and favoured me with one of his benign smiles. ‘What were you up to?’

 

That made it sound almost like a schoolboy prank. I could’ve climbed through the window and walked to the front gate. There were no men bigger than me around, no guns. I wondered why I still had a sense of extreme danger.

 

‘I was hired by a man who had undergone psychosurgery here. He said he had a friend named Guy who was in danger of receiving the same treatment. He was very upset about it. I got the impression he wanted my help in securing Guy’s release.’

 

‘I see.’ Smith drank some more whisky. He swung around to a table on which there was a fair sized computer with a monitor to match. His back was turned to me as he took something from his pocket. I recognised it as my notebook. The neck punch must have fogged me because I hadn’t realised it was missing. Smith flicked open a page, nodded and closed the book. He tapped keys for a while, consulted the screen and tapped some more. I finished my drink and looked at the view.

 

Smith swivelled slowly away from the screen until we were face to face; he handed me the notebook and reached for the bottle. I shook my head. ‘Moderation,’ he said. ‘An excellent thing. We have a mystery on our hands, Mr Hardy. This hospital has never had a patient of the name your client gave you, that is, Gareth Greenway, and does not have one with the name of Guy-either as a first or second name.’

 

* * * *

 

4

 

 

 accepted the second drink and began to wonder whether it might not be better to feel slightly drunk rather than very foolish. The shadows from the trees had spread across the surface of the water so that it was uniformly dark. The trees were moving in the light breeze but the water was still. A nice view, but it gave me no ideas.

 

‘I assume you have an address for your Mr Greenway?’ Smith said. ‘Some… documentation other than your notes?’

 

‘No. He paid me in cash and we came straight from my office to here. I suppose I thought I’d attend to the formalities later.’

 

‘That sounds rather unprofessional.’

 

I let it ride and took another sip of the good, smooth whisky, the stuff that soothes away words like ‘unprofessional’. My mind jumped to the newspaper item I’d read about the course in ‘Private Agency Practice’ that was going to be a prerequisite for people in my business henceforth. I had a feeling I’d just failed Elementary Precautions I.

 

‘This puts you in a rather difficult position, Mr Hardy. You could be charged with trespass, assault and so on.’

 

I grunted.

 

‘But it seems more important to know what Greenway, or whoever he is in reality, was doing. You agree?’

 

‘I’d certainly like to have a private talk with him.’

 

‘Precisely. So would I. Would you consider a commission from me to locate him and throw some light on this unfortunate affair?’

 

I finished the second drink and was sure I didn’t want any more. I could smell ‘deal’ or possibly ‘fix’ and you need a clear head when those things are in the air-whether you intend to accept or not. ‘I’m not sure of the ethics of that,’ I said.

 

‘Surely in your business ethics have to be flexible.’

 

‘Like in yours. Do you do psychosurgery here?’

 

‘Yes. I could introduce you to some people who’re very grateful for the fact.’

 

‘No thanks.’

 

‘You are ignorant and prejudiced.’ There was some steel in Smith under the blandness. I stood up and fought the giddiness that swept over me. When I was steady I slapped my pockets. ‘Where’re my car keys?’

 

‘I’ve no idea. You can leave by the front gate, Mr Hardy, but let me say this to you.’ Smith walked past me; his sure, firm movements seemed to emphasise my own rockiness. He pulled open the door. ‘I’ll put it no firmer than this-you have committed offences that could bring your licence to practise into question. I’m quite well connected in legal and public service circles and I can be a vindictive man.’

 

‘Maybe you should have that quality cut out of you.’ I went through the door.

 

‘I will expect to hear something from you about your supposed client within a few days, Mr Hardy. Or you will be hearing things you will not like. I can assure you of that.’

 

‘Thanks for the drink,’ I said, but I said it to a closed door. I went down a short passage past a receptionist’s booth where a woman in a starched white uniform smiled at me with starched white teeth. I went out the door and down a short path to a gate in the high fence. The double gates, wide enough to admit a truck, were locked and so was the smaller single gate. I looked back at the building and caught a flash of teeth. A buzzer sounded and the gate jumped open.

 

It took me half an hour to locate my car and quite a few minutes to get a successful hotwire start; on the old Falcon I could do it in seconds. I hadn’t eaten lunch and since then I’d absorbed a good rabbit punch, two large whiskies and some humiliation. I drove home slowly, parked down the street and on the other side in a spot where I could look the house over. If anyone had visited with my keys during my absence they’d been careful. The gate that doesn’t quite close was in the not-quite-closed position as before; the local newspapers looked to be arranged in the same way they had been in the morning when I stepped over them.

 

Inside I sniffed the air for an unfamiliar smell but it was all too familiar-the rising damp, the cat’s piss on the carpet and the scent of frangipani that drifts in through the louvre windows at the back of the house. I checked the answering machine in case ‘Gareth Greenway’ had phoned with an explanation and apology. No such luck. The phone rang and I snatched it up.

 

‘Mr Hardy? This is Dr Smith. I’m glad to see you got home all right. It occurred to me that you were in no condition to drive.’

 

‘I’m tough, but I’m touched by your concern. Also I’m lucky.’

 

‘Yes, you are. We’ve found your keys. You can pick them up the next time you’re here.’

 

‘You seem pretty sure I will be.’

 

‘Yes. Any kind of negative publicity is bad for a hospital. If this Greenway is some kind of ratbag journalist… ‘

 

‘You’ve got a problem. Okay, Dr Smith, I’m sure we’ll be talking again.’

 

I hung up and sat down to worry. That did no good. I ate a tuna sandwich to tone up my brain cells, took some aspirin for the pain and some more whisky for the humiliation and went to bed.

 

* * * *

 

Aspirin and whisky don’t make for very good sleep. I woke up a couple of times, once because the cat was yowling outside. I got up and played it a tune on the can opener. Later a backfire on Glebe Point Road woke me and left me staring at the ceiling for an hour.

 

It was the frangipani that got me to thinking about Helen. She’d given it to me in its big tub as a gift, transported it all the way from her Bondi flat balcony, when she’d finally made the decision to go back to her husband and her kid on a full-time basis. Our six-monthly polygamous set-up hadn’t worked. ‘It never does,’ people drunk and sober had told me. They were right.

 

I got up and made a cup of weak coffee and sat thinking about how I’d dragged Helen down from Kempsey to Sydney. How we’d pledged this and that and fucked until we ached. Then we’d talked until our mouths were dry and all the words were changing their meanings.

 

I put the coffee down and it went cold. I wanted to smoke but there was nothing available. Helen had smoked one Gitane a day which left no packets, not even any butts, lying around. As a little light seeped into the bedroom I remembered the last scene, played out right here. The tears and goodbyes. And the bloody frangipani. I could still smell it as I finally fell asleep.

 

* * * *

 

5

 

 

 came awake fast and nervous. The hammering sounded as if it was on my bedroom door. Then I realised that it was downstairs. I grabbed a dressing gown, almost tripped on the stairs and reached the door in a foul temper. The knocking kept on. I jerked the door open.

 

‘What in hell’s… ?’

 

‘Let me in, quick!’

 

‘Who’re you?’

 

‘Annie Parker. Quick!’ The person who was supposed to be dead slipped past me into the hall.

 

‘Have you got a gun? Jesus, they’ll be here any minute.’

 

‘Who?’ I’d asked three questions in a row and was getting sick of it.

 

She moved down the hall. ‘Please. You know me. Annie. Just get the gun and stand in the door and let them see it. Please!’

 

The way she flattened herself against the wall like a back lane fighter convinced me. I got the .38 from the cupboard under the stairs, checked that the safety was on and stood in the doorway with the gun held low but in view. I felt ridiculous; dressing gown, bare legs and cold feet. A red Mazda stopped outside the house. It edged back a little so that the driver could get a better look at me. All I saw was a pale face and a turned up collar. I couldn’t see his passenger at all. The car engine purred for about half a minute, then the driver revved it and moved off fast.

 

I closed the door and looked at the woman sitting on the bottom stair. She was medium-sized with light hair; she had on heavy sunglasses and was wrapped in a sort of imitation of an aviator’s jacket with straps and zippers and a hood.

 

She dug cigarettes out of a pocket in the jacket and lit one. ‘Recognise me?’

 

I nodded. She bore some resemblance to the skinny, strung-out kid I’d dealt with some years back but, in a way, more to her mother. Or to what her mother might have looked like at about her age which I reckoned to be somewhere around twenty-five. ‘Sure, Annie. I recognise you.’ I was going to say that her name had come up in a recent conversation but something trapped and desperate about her smoking stopped me.

 

She puffed smoke. ‘Yeah, I haven’t changed much. More’s the fucking pity.’

 

‘Do you need help?’

 

‘Don’t we all? No, I was in the area when those bastards heavied me. I tried to hide in the park but they flushed me out with the bloody headlights. I remembered your place. So I’m here. I can piss off in a minute if you like.’

 

I walked past her and put the gun away in the cupboard. ‘Come through to the kitchen. I want some coffee. You?’

 

‘Coffee, yeah, okay.’

 

It was bright and warm in the kitchen. Annie took off her jacket and hung it over a chair. She was wearing a clean white T-shirt with SAFE SEX lettered on it and jeans. I let the cat in and she took the tin from me and fed it. Then she sat and smoked, cat on lap, while I made the coffee. The cat seemed to like the smell of the tobacco which is perhaps why we don’t get along so well.

 

‘You’re looking a bit better than when I last saw you,’ I said, ‘but I hear you’ve had some trouble.’

 

‘Trouble. Yeah. You knew Mum died?’

 

‘No, I didn’t. I hadn’t seen her around for a while. She wasn’t that old, was she?’

 

She shook her head and gave a short, wheezy laugh. ‘Died of hard work.’

 

No fear of that for you, I thought, but I didn’t say anything. I poured the coffee and carried a mug to her where she sat so the cat wouldn’t be disturbed. That’s a knack cats have-being considered. I’d gone out on a long limb for Annie. Maybe she was one of the people who soak up consideration like cats.

 

The first sips of coffee cleared my brain. ‘You look all right, Annie. Are you clean?’

 

She shrugged. ‘Methadone programme. I’m doing all right.’

 

She grinned and it looked as if she was struggling to pull herself up out of quicksand. ‘Could I have some sugar?’

 

I got it for her but her hands shook so much she almost dropped her mug; the cat stirred, feeling her agitation. She stroked it, to calm herself. ‘Didn’t you used to have a girlfriend around here? Blonde? Student or something?’

 

‘She wasn’t a girlfriend, she was a boarder. Friend. Now she’s a married dentist with a kid.

 

Annie looked around the untidy kitchen and living room. It wasn’t exactly squalid but the signs of minimal maintenance were plain. ‘No chick in residence, eh?’

 

I shook my head.

 

‘It figures. You were always a cold bastard. Good at your job though.’

 

‘Thanks. I have to tell you this, Annie. I met a man named Greenway and he told me you were dead.’

 

She nodded slowly. ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

 

‘Tell me about him.’

 

It came out, bit by bit, over the rest, of the coffee and a lot of cigarettes. Annie had spent some time in England, come back to Australia clean but had drifted into the smack world again. She’d struggled though.

 

‘I was maintaining when I met Gareth,’ she said.

 

‘What’s that?’

 

‘Using, but in very small amounts and very disciplined-so many hits a week, so many no-hit days, a clean week once a month. People go on like that for years, decades, it’s not so bad.’

 

Then she met Greenway at the clinic where she got her syringes and worked part-time as a sort of minder, baby-sitter, coffee maker. She was attracted. They had a hot affair. Then he dropped her.

 

‘Was he an addict?’ I asked.

 

‘He acted like one.’

 

‘What does that mean?’ I spoke more sharply than I intended and she bristled.

 

‘Fuck, I don’t know. He didn’t shoot it, he said he smoked and popped. I never saw him do anything but grass. But he was edgy, like I feel now when you snap like that. What’s the matter with you? What did I say?’

 

‘I’m sorry. Nothing. Tell me about what happened between you.’

 

‘Usual thing. Lots of grass, lots of wine, lots of fucking and late night TV. That’s how I came to mention you. We’d been watching some private eye movie and I told him about the time you… handled that narc and the others at Palm Beach. He was interested in that.’

 

‘Have, you ever been in Southwood Hospital, Annie?’

 

‘Yeah, for a while.’

 

‘He told me that’s where he met you.’

 

‘Bloody liar. He’d lie about anything. It was after that, a good while after.’

 

‘What was Southwood like?’

 

‘Bloody awful. Scary.’

 

‘In what way?’

 

‘Every way. You should’ve seen some of the kids there. They picked them up in the streets. Real horror cases. I don’t want to talk about it. Shit!’

 

‘What?’

 

‘I left my stuff with those creeps. Shit!’

 

‘Maybe we can do something about that. Tell me about what happened with you and Greenway.’

 

‘He was living in this place at the Cross. One day he was there and the next day he wasn’t. Nobody knew where he’d gone. I went down hard. I broke my own rules-hit up every day. Then I went on the methadone.’

 

‘What about those characters that chased you in here?’

 

‘I was scoring in the flats down the end of your street, by the water.’

 

‘Are you going to try maintaining again?’

 

‘I don’t know. Shit, I believed him, you know? We had a great time and I thought he was for real. Fuck it. Who cares? I’d better go.’

 

It was after ten o’clock by then, late enough. I made us a couple of white wines and sodas and we sat in the backyard with the drinks and the cat. I explained to her why I needed to find Greenway and she seemed to understand, although she wouldn’t talk about the hospital. I asked her where she was living and it sounded like a series of couches and floors and sleeping bags.

 

‘Did you score in the flats?’

 

She shook her head.

 

The sun and the wine relaxed her. Her hands stopped shaking. She told me a bit about her time in England. She laughed, remembering good times and perhaps not giving up hope for more. I asked her to stay for a few days and she accepted. Might need your help to find Greenway, I thought, but I knew I needed the company more. So now I had a junkie in the house. I also had the cat around a lot more, seeing as how it likes the smell of cigarette smoke.

 

* * * *

 

6

 

 

 was shaving when I realised why I’d reacted so strongly to what Annie had said. He acted like one. Greenway had told me he was an actor. It was a lead of sorts. I finished shaving and went out to ask Annie some more questions. I found her on the bed in the spare room, curled up under a blanket. Her jacket was on a chair and I went through the pockets. She had about twelve dollars and some change; a driver’s licence, Medicare card, cigarettes, make-up, aspirin, tissues. No key. No syringe, no heroin.

 

I left her a note telling her how the shower worked, how to bolt the rickety back door and where the outside key was hidden. I told her not to worry about the gas smell which has been around for years without doing any harm. I told her to make herself at home and that I’d be back later. I was trusting her with a TV, a VCR and an old stereo unit which were all insured. I took the gun with me.

 

I used my spare car key, promising myself to get a copy cut, and drove around the block. No sign of the red Mazda which didn’t mean a thing but made me feel better. The morning was cool and clear with a promise of heat in the middle of the day. I drove to Darlinghurst where Curtain Call Casting has an office in one of those streets that has been half-blocked, declared one-way and sprouted wattle trees.

 

Rose Moore was at her desk poring over correspondence and sets of photographs. I let my shadow fall across the desk. Rose looked up and smiled.

 

‘Hey, that’s better. Now I can’t see her double chin.’

 

‘You’re in a cruel game, Rose. Dealing in people’s imperfections.’

 

‘So are you. If you’ve come to hire an actor for one of your dodges again you can forget it. I nearly got the sack over that.’

 

She was referring to a little operation I’d mounted to discourage a standover man who was making things difficult for some reasonably respectable poker players. When he encountered me and the stuntman I’d hired through Rose the next time he dropped in, he lost interest in cards. But the stuntman’s agent had heard about it and Rose had been roasted. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I neglected the worker’s compensation angle. Life’s got to be so complicated.’

 

Rose looked something like a gypsy with wild dark hair and big liquid eyes. She accentuated the look with eye make-up, earrings and low necked blouses. Now she lifted the neckline and looked prim. ‘Not if you do your job and don’t cut corners.’

 

I laughed. ‘My job is cutting corners, you know that. But today all I want is a look at that casting book-the mug shots.’

 

‘Male or female or in between?’

 

‘Male, definitely.’

 

She reached behind her to a bookshelf and took down the thick volume. I perched on the edge of her desk beside a stack of glossies of a young woman with hair like Tina Turner, a mouth like Joni Mitchell and eyes like Anne Bancroft.

 

‘What does she do?’ I said.

 

Rose lit a cigarette and blew smoke at me. ‘Anything, darling. Anything at all.’

 

I found him on page 139-Gareth Morgan Greenway. Born London 12/2/59; arrived Australia 1971; educ. Sydney High School, NIDA; 184 cm, 75 kilos, quick change artist and magician; swims, dances, sings; plays piano and guitar.

 

A gaunt, dark face with hooded eyes brooded from the page. Greenway had appeared in some plays I’d never heard of, a couple of low budget films and in television shows I’d never seen. His agent was Hilary Fanshawe, 111 Roscommon Street, Woolloomooloo-a walk away.

 

I thanked Rose and left the office. The legitimate parking place I’d found was too good to surrender-there probably wasn’t another like it in a four-kilometre radius. I walked over William Street and down the hill into the ‘Loo. Jimmy Carruthers grew up there and used to eat ice cream outside the pubs while his mates were boozing. Jimmy was on his way to a world boxing title-a real one.

 

Then it was all narrow houses and stunted factories-blank faced buildings, mean, aggressive streets. But government money has been well spent for once; the houses have been scraped back to the sandstock bricks, the wrought iron has been restored, the tin roofs are painted. The factories have been torn down, leaving more open corners to the streets, or converted into Housing Commission flats that don’t clash with the original feel of the place. Rehabilitation only goes so far; there are still winos in the park which the concrete railway bridge keeps constantly in half-shadow.

 

Hilary Fanshawe’s office was in a narrow terrace house. The door was barely a metre from the street; there was no knocker or bell but a polished hunting horn was mounted on the wall beside the number. I pressed a button on the horn and heard a trumpeting blare inside. It was the sort of sound you didn’t want to hear more than once. The door gave a click and a pleasant voice came through the horn.

 

‘It’s open. Second on the left.’

 

I went into a narrow passage; five long strides would have taken me to the stairs, three took me to the second door which was open. The woman who sat at the desk facing the door was huge. She wore a black T-shirt; her jowls and chins settled down near its neckband. All this flesh was pale; she had green eyes and dark auburn hair.

 

‘Yes?’ It was the same voice I’d heard through the horn but sweeter and more musical. The Garbo of voices. I felt like looking around for the speaker but the fat woman’s mouth was moving. ‘What can I do for you?’

 

‘Are you Hilary Fanshawe?’

 

She nodded. I wanted her to speak again to hear that sound.

 

‘My name’s Hardy. I’m a private detective. I’m trying to get in touch with a client of yours.’

 

I held up my licence and ID photo. She waved me to a chair in the small room. There were photographs everywhere photographs could be put, also magazines and film posters. ‘Bail?’ she said. ‘Maintenance? Loan default? I assume you’re some kind of process server?’

 

‘No. That’s not much in my line. Do a lot of your clients have that kind of trouble?’

 

‘Enough. I don’t suppose it’s something good then-an inheritance? I could use a client with some bread. I need investors.’

 

‘Don’t we all. No, Miss Fanshawe, I don’t deal in good news much either. He came to see me and then matters became rather confused. I want to see him again to straighten things out.’

 

‘Someone should straighten your nose out. How many times has it been broken? If you were on my books I’d list it. Can you act?’

 

‘No. Can Gareth Greenway?’

 

The name hit her pretty hard. She dropped the pencil she’d been fooling with and lifted her head so that some of the loose flesh around her neck tightened. ‘Who?’

 

‘You heard. Gareth Greenway, one of your clients.’

 

‘The one that got away.’

 

‘What?’

 

She sighed and the flesh slackened again. ‘He could’ve made it, I always thought. He was really good. He lifted a couple of the things he was in from shit to hopeless.’ She smiled; her teeth were as beautiful as her voice. ‘That’s a joke, Mr… ?’

 

‘Hardy, Cliff Hardy.’ I think I gave my full name because I wanted to hear her say it.

 

‘You’re supposed to laugh, Cliff. God, it’s a double joke really.’

 

‘I’m sorry, you’re going to have to explain it to me.’

 

She shrugged. ‘He was good, as I say. With a bit of luck and persistence he could’ve got good parts, made a success. I’d have been pleased for him and pleased for me.’

 

‘But he gave up acting?’

 

‘Threw it in.’ She smiled and showed those excellent teeth again. There was a chuckle with the smile this time. ‘So that joke was on me. I hardly made a cent from him. The second joke’s sort of on you.’

 

‘How’s that?’

 

‘Gareth gave up acting to be a private detective.’

 

* * * *

 

7

 

 

HE really laughed then. The flesh on her upper body shook and quivered and tears ran from her large, green eyes. ‘I’m s. . sorry,’ she said. ‘It just struck me as funny. God, I’m losing my grip. You must have noticed that the phone hasn’t rung and no-one’s called since you arrived.’

 

‘It hasn’t been long,’ I said. ‘You’re probably in a rough patch.’

 

‘It’s nothing but rough patches.’ She wiped her face and rearranged it into something like a smile. There was a charming, witty woman in there somewhere behind the blubber. ‘Ah, well, I can always go back to voice-overs.’

 

‘Is that what you did before agenting?’

 

‘Yes, and after acting. After I got too fat. I suppose everyone was something before. You were something before you were a private eye.’

 

I didn’t want to get into that. I’d been a happily married organisation man; sometimes it sounded good. ‘Yeah. Have you got an address for Greenway?’

 

‘Are you going to cause him trouble?’

 

‘He’s caused himself trouble already.’

 

‘What’s be done?’

 

‘You could call it… impersonating a lunatic’

 

She clicked her tongue. ‘Gave you a performance, huh?’

 

I nodded.

 

‘Told you he was good. Impersonating a lunatic, what a part. Well, I don’t owe him anything.’ She pushed her swivel chair back and swung to her left. Her hand on the file card drawer was narrow, long-fingered and white. I’d heard there were people who made a living from having their hands and feet and ears photographed. I thought maybe she could do that as well as voice-overs, but I didn’t say so. She pulled out a card and read off the address, ‘1b Selwyn Street, wait for it-Paddington. He shared with someone. No phone. Can you imagine that? An actor with no phone? I had to send him telegrams.’

 

‘I can’t imagine a detective with no phone. D’you think he was serious about that?’

 

‘He showed me the ad he’d put in the paper.’

 

‘What paper?’

 

‘The Eastern Suburbs Herald, I think it was. It was something like Sherlock Enquiries, no, that’s not it. Greenlock Enquiries. Private. Confidential. That sore of thing. Greenlock, you see?’

 

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Holmes. Jesus. Did the ad give the Paddington address?’

 

‘Sorry. Don’t remember.’

 

‘When was this?’

 

She consulted an appointments diary on her desk. ‘Three months ago. January 7.’ The phone rang and she almost snatched it up. She crossed her fingers and looked at me. I crossed my fingers too. She lifted the phone. ‘Fanshawe Agency. Roger, how nice. Yes, I think so. Bruno? He’s available I think.’

 

I mouthed ‘Thank you’ at her; she showed the first class teeth in a wide smile and I left the office.

 

* * * *

 

It was uphill from the ‘Loo to Darlinghurst and I was sweating when I reached my car. I drove to Selwyn Street where there were no parking places. I circled the block without finding a space so I double-parked outside number 1b which was a tiny terrace in a row that had been crimped and cutied like a poodle. A solid knock on the door brought a response from the balcony above me.

 

‘Yes? What is it?’

 

I backed out onto the footpath. A young man in a singlet and jeans was leaning over the railing. Sunlight glinted on one long, dangling earring.

 

‘I’m looking for Gareth Greenway.’

 

‘He’s not here.’

 

‘This is the address I have.’

 

‘He moved out when I learned that I had it.’ There was a bitter edge to his voice; he sounded like the people I used to interview who’d let their insurance lapse before the fire that wiped them out.

 

‘What?’

 

‘What d’you think? AIDS. Gareth’s not the caring and sharing type.’

 

His hair and beard were dark stubble over thin, tightly stretched skin. Bones protruded around his neck and along the tops of his shoulders. He was deeply tanned but he still looked sick.

 

‘When did he go?’

 

He shrugged and folded his arms. The upper parts of his arms were fleshless, thinner than the forearms. ‘A couple of months back.’

 

‘D’you know where he went?’

 

‘No. Bondi someplace. That’s all. Have you got a cigarette?’

 

‘No. Sorry.’

 

‘Doesn’t matter.’ His skull-like face went back into the gloom.

 

Sometimes I wish I’d get a case that would take me west, to Broken Hill. As it is, I always seem to be heading east, down to the sea. I drove to Bondi Junction where the office of the Bondi Tribune is located. Hilary Fanshawe thought the paper Greenway had advertised in was an Eastern Suburbs rag and it seemed likely that he’d put the ad in a few papers in that area.

 

Everything is new in Bondi Junction and seems to be getting newer. Some of the people are old but they look as if they belong somewhere else. I had no trouble getting permission to look through back numbers of the paper. These sorts of papers are grateful for any interest shown in them. A bright-eyed young woman took me to a room which was glass on three sides. I was the only reader and everyone who walked in the corridors on all sides looked at me. No chance of making any sly excisions.

 

I found the ad in the issues for the first two weeks in January. Greenlock Enquiries-discreet & determined. Negotiable rates. At least he didn’t claim experience. I wrote down the telephone number that accompanied the ad, thanked Bright Eyes and left feeling that I’d earned lunch and possibly dinner.

 

I had a sandwich and coffee in the mall and then I phoned my home number. No reply. Greenway picked up his phone on the third ring.

 

‘Greenlock Enquiries.’

 

There was plenty of background noise in the mall to help and I deepened my voice a bit and spoke slowly. ‘Mr Greenlock, I… ‘

 

‘No, no. My name is Greenway. Greenlock is just the name of the agency. How can I help you?’

 

‘Mr Greenway. I have a matter. I need some help.’

 

‘Yes. Mr… ?’

 

‘Barton, Neil Barton. I’d like to see you. Are you free now?’

 

‘I am. The address is Flat 3, 12 Curlewis Street, Bondi. Can you find that all right?’

 

‘Is it near the beach?’

 

‘Very near. A few doors away. My office is above a supermarket.’

 

‘I’ll find it. Thank you. Thirty minutes?’

 

‘That’ll be fine.’

 

I hung up feeling slightly foolish about the charade. Neil Barton was an uncle of mine, an old Digger. I hadn’t seen him for twenty-five years and his name just jumped into my mind. Weird. I found myself thinking about tricks of the mind and psychiatry as I headed for Curlewis Street. I was looking forward to talking such things over with Gareth Greenway. At the back of my mind was some concern about Annie. I told myself that was foolish-she’d been handling herself in a rough world for a long time and she was a survivor, like Uncle Neil, who’d come through Tobruk and other tight spots.

 

Number 12 was a large groceries and fruit barn with a two-storey cream brick structure behind it. There was a side entrance flanked by four letter boxes with Greenway’s number above one of them. A card was Scotch-taped to the inside of the fruit shop window at eye level: Greenlock Enquiries, G. Greenway Enquiry Agent, Unit 3. I went along beside the building to a double doorway; the doors had glass panels but they were dirty and smeared. Only one of the doors opened and that let very little light into a lino-covered lobby. Flats 1 and 2 were on this level. A flight of stairs led up into more darkness.

 

The stairs creaked loudly and the banister was shaky. I found a switch for one of those lights that stays on for not quite long enough to let you see what you want to see. I pressed it and got enough low-wattage light to see the door to Flat 3. The door was half open. I knocked and pushed it fully open.

 

‘Mr Greenway?’

 

There was no answer. I stepped into a short, narrow passage. I could smell marijuana smoke and take-away food. Rock music was playing softly further inside. A door to a kitchenette on the left was ajar. I went through to a small living room which was crowded with heavy old-fashioned furniture, a filing cabinet, a TV set and a medium-sized office desk with two chairs. ‘Congratulations, Mr Hardy. You found me.’ I turned quickly. Greenway had come quietly from the kitchenette; he stood in the dim hall two metres away from me and he had a gun in his hand.

 

* * * *

 

8

 

 

’D had too much walking and talking and driving to be in the mood for it. I side-stepped to make him move the gun and I jumped forward fast while he was doing it. I kicked at his right knee and swung a short, hard punch at the inside of his right forearm. I connected with both; he crumpled and yelled; the gun flew from his hand and skidded across the tattered carpet. I felt twinges of pain in my bruised and battered neck but they didn’t stop me landing a solid, thumping right to Greenway’s ear as he went down.

 

I bent and picked up the gun, a Browning Nomad .22, very light with its alloy frame but enough pistol to do the job if you could use it.

 

Greenway pulled himself up into a sitting position against the wall. ‘That wasn’t necessary,’ he said. ‘It isn’t loaded.’

 

I looked at the gun. ‘Why d’you say that?’

 

‘The magazine-I checked it.’

 

I released the spring-loaded magazine. ‘Yeah, but there’s one in the chamber. One’s enough.’

 

His eyes widened. ‘God. I didn’t know.’

 

I squatted down in front of him and tapped the barrel of the gun on his knee. ‘You don’t seem so brain damaged now, Mr Greenway.’

 

‘Be… be careful with that.’

 

‘The safety’s on now. I think it’s time we had a little talk.’

 

I helped him up and he hobbled to a chair. I pulled out the comfortable-looking chair from behind the desk and sat opposite him about a metre away. He rubbed his knee with his right hand; that hurt his forearm so he stopped rubbing.

 

‘You really worked me over,’ he said.

 

I bent my head and moved it stiffly. ‘Know what? I took a first class rabbit killer from one of the hospital guards. We’re not quite even yet.’

 

‘How did you find me? I mean, I’m glad you did but… ‘

 

I put the Nomad on the desk and swung it around so that the muzzle pointed at his chest. ‘Me first, mate. What’s this all about? Why did you come to me with that phony story and the phony job?’

 

He grinned. ‘Took you in, didn’t I? With the lobotomy act?’

 

‘I’m getting impatient. This gun’s probably illegal and Dr Smith at the hospital wants to throw the book at you. You could be in serious trouble.’

 

‘It wasn’t a phony job. It isn’t. I’ve got a client. Look, I got into this game a few months ago. I’ve handled a few small things-down around the lost dog level, you know? It must have been the same for you when you were starting.’

 

I looked at him; he had a good tan; he was wearing loose white cotton pants and a striped shirt; it wasn’t warm in the dark flat but he was sweating. I didn’t say anything.

 

‘Well, this was the first real job. I didn’t think I could handle it on my own and I’d heard about you so I thought I’d enlist your help.’

 

‘Thanks a lot. So far I’ve been coshed and had my licence threatened. I’m really enjoying your case.’

 

‘You’ve had five hundred dollars too.’

 

‘How much have you had?’

 

‘Two thousand.’

 

The mention of the money seemed to give him confidence. He eased out of his chair. ‘I want a drink.

 

I’ve got some beer in the kitchen. How about you?’

 

‘Okay. But don’t get any ideas about pissing off. You’re an easy man to find.’

 

He walked unsteadily down the passage to the kitchen and came back with two cans of Reschs Pilsener. He popped the cans and handed me one. ‘How did you find me?’

 

I took a sip and told him in as few words as I could manage. I felt I needed to watch and listen to him a bit more before deciding what to do. He nodded, apparently respectfully.

 

‘Pretty good. I thought you might be that good. I was giving you a test.’

 

‘Shit, you’ve got a nerve. Okay, cut the charm. Let’s hear about your client.’

 

‘I haven’t met him, it’s all been done by telephone. He wanted photographs of that set of inmates at the hospital. The ones who exercise at that time. It seemed like a two man job to me, so I…’

 

I waved the beer can. ‘Don’t go into that. I might shove this down your throat. Did he say why he wanted the pictures?’

 

‘No. He sent me the money though. Cash. I needed it.’

 

‘If you’ve got any brains at all you must have known it was fishy.’

 

‘Haven’t you ever done anything fishy? Especially at the beginning? How did you get started?’

 

I could remember enough fishy things not to want to go on with that subject. ‘I had contacts,’ I grunted. ‘From when I worked in insurance.’

 

Greenway tipped back his head and poured down most of the can. ‘So did I. Actors. I was hired to beat up a guy and get a girl stoned and willing. I was hired to steal a script.’

 

‘Did you take the jobs?’

 

‘I tried for the script. I got the wrong one.’

 

We both laughed. ‘One time I…’ I stopped. I didn’t want to get into comic reminiscences. I put the beer can on the desk next to the gun. ‘Go on.’

 

He shrugged. ‘I was desperate for something… real. Otherwise I’d have to give this away, like I have with writing, acting… everything. So I got the photos. I’m supposed to get another thousand when I hand them over but I haven’t been contacted yet. What d’you think I should do?’

 

‘What’s the voice on the phone like?’

 

‘Muffled. Obviously disguised.’

 

‘Who told you where to break through the fence and when to do it?’

 

‘He did. My client. Look, this is a few weeks ago. I didn’t do anything for a while. I thought it over even after the money arrived. Then I checked on the place-went out there, talked to a girl who’d been… ‘

 

‘Annie Parker.’

 

That startled him. ‘Right. How’d you know? You’re better at this than I thought.’

 

‘No I’m not. She came to see me this morning. She needed somewhere to duck into for a bit. Why’d you drop her? She took it hard.’

 

He said he was sorry but he didn’t look it. ‘She was a junkie. She’d been on the street in her time. I was scared of AIDS.’

 

‘So you pissed off, like from Selwyn Street.’

 

He crumpled the empty beer can. ‘You don’t know what it’s like! People wasting away around you, dying.’

 

‘Especially if you’re bi?’

 

‘Yeah.’ Something about the way he spoke the word told me he was lying. He was a master liar but there was something showing just then. The tough, selfish facade showed a crack.

 

‘You and Annie could’ve had a test. Checked yourselves out. Why didn’t you try that?’

 

The crack opened; he rubbed his eyes and pushed back his hair. Suddenly he looked older, less vain.

 

‘Annie had the test. She was okay. I was too scared to have it. Still am. I pissed off because I was scared that if I showed up positive… well, I could lie and maybe give it to Annie. If I told the truth she’d drop me, wouldn’t she?’

 

‘Maybe not. Anyway, you might be clear.’

 

‘I’ve been around, Mr Hardy. Want another beer?’

 

‘Why not?’

 

He brought the cans and we sat drinking and not talking. I was thinking: Life had got more complicated since the time when we worried about VD. My two cases of crabs seemed laughable. They were talking about condoms again. If I’d had to invent a brand name for condoms it’d be Fiasco. Try Fiasco condoms, you’ll never…

 

‘Are you going to talk to this Dr Smith?’ Greenway said suddenly. ‘To get yourself off the hook?’

 

‘No, not yet at least. You’re not quite the arsehole you pretend to be. You’re in trouble and you’ve paid me for a couple of days. I can stick with it for a bit.’

 

‘Doing what?’

 

‘Doing the things you should have done. Finding out a bit more about the hospital. That’s the first thing.’

 

‘What else should I have done?’

 

‘Talked to Annie. Where’s your phone?’

 

It was in the bedroom. I sat on the bed and dialled my number. Greenway stood, long and tense in the shadow by the door. After many rings the phone was picked up.

 

‘Annie? It’s Hardy.’ I heard a groan and a sigh, sounds of despair.

 

‘Annie?’

 

‘What’s wrong?’ Greenway said.

 

I hushed him with a sharp movement of my hand. ‘Annie!’

 

‘I can’t,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t…” There was a crash and another groan and then a long, deep silence.

 

* * * *

 

9

 

 

 cut the call off and immediately dialled for an ambulance. I gave them the address and the details. I mentioned the doorkey but told them to kick the door in if they had to. I dropped the receiver and moved towards the passage.

 

Greenway made as if to block my path but he thought better of it and stepped aside. ‘Wait. I’ll come too.’

 

I didn’t wait. I charged straight out and headed down the stairs; I could hear Greenway behind me. He caught up by the time I reached the car and I let him in. I lost seconds fumbling for the unfamiliar spare key and I swore about it.

 

‘What?’ Greenway said.

 

‘Never mind.’ I started the car and revved it savagely. ‘What were you doing back there?’

 

He buckled on his seat belt. ‘Putting the phone on record in case he calls.’

 

That was grace under pressure I supposed, or just cold-bloodedness. I concentrated on driving, took some chances and made good time on the freeway and down through Surry Hills to Central Railway. Greenway sat quietly. He ran his hands through his Iongish hair a few times and betrayed the sort of agitation that he’d suppressed on our first meeting.

 

‘Have you got the gun?’ I asked him.

 

‘No. Think we’ll need it?’

 

I let the ‘we’ pass. ‘No.’

 

‘How did she sound?’

 

‘You know her better than me. She sounded more stoned than she could cope with.’

 

‘God. That.’

 

I made myself unpopular with other drivers down Broadway and Glebe Point Road. The ambulance was standing outside my house when we arrived. The white coats moved around on the footpath and I could see my neighbours’ faces at their fences and windows. I stopped in the middle of the street and walked to my gate. One of the ambulance guys held the gate closed against me.

 

‘I live here,’ I said. ‘I called you.’

 

‘Mr Hardy?’

 

‘That’s right.’

 

He wrote something on a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. ‘Is the young woman a relation?’

 

‘No, a friend. How is she?’

 

‘I’m afraid she’s dead, sir. The police’re on their way.’

 

I was aware of Greenway standing behind me. The Bondi colour had drained from his face. I drew him away towards the car. ‘Can you drive?’

 

‘Yes, of course.’

 

‘Okay. Just park the car down the street a bit, put the keys in the glove box and get lost. There’s no need for you to be part of this. I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I can.’ I gripped his arm and propelled him towards the car trying to look like someone giving and receiving support. ‘No fancy ideas either. Just do as I say!’

 

He nodded, got into the car, started it and edged forward. I went back to the house and no one stopped me from going inside. Annie was lying on the floor in the living room. The telephone, with the receiver off, was buzzing beside her head. She was wearing my towelling dressing gown and nothing else. The dressing gown had fallen open revealing her pubic hair and one small pale breast. Her hair was wet. The right sleeve of the dressing gown was pushed and rolled up almost to the shoulder. There was an indentation and bruise in the soft flesh above the elbow and a puncture mark in the taut skin just below the crook of her arm.

 

She’d showered and scrubbed her face. With no make-up and the strain gone, with her wet hair drawn back she looked innocent, like one of the young swimming champions of the fifties. I looked at her and tried to figure out how old she was. Twenty something, not twenty-five, not that much.

 

The cops found the syringe and sachet in the bathroom along with the belt that had been used as a ligature. They put these things in plastic bags and also bagged all the contents of Annie’s pockets. They put her clothes in a bag and they put her in a bag too and took her away. I gave them a statement: when I’d first met Annie and how; why she was in my house; what she’d said. I gave them as much of the truth as I could and they appeared to believe me selectively.

 

The detective in charge, a heavy, thorough type named Simmonds, asked me if there had been any heroin in the house when I’d left it that morning.

 

‘No,’ I said.

 

‘How can you be sure?’

 

‘I didn’t have any and neither did she. I searched her stuff while she was asleep.’

 

‘So she went out and scored?’

 

‘Or someone came by.’

 

‘Which?’

 

‘I don’t know.’

 

His shrug said it all: another dead junkie, who cares? Just as long as she doesn’t have a famous name-as long as she doesn’t sing or dance or act and isn’t somebody important’s wife or daughter. Annie was none of those things. Simmonds didn’t give me a hard time.

 

But it’s one thing to walk into a strange house and find a dead junkie and look for the quickest way to file and forget it and another to try to read the signs of what really happened. There were damp patches down the hallway to the front door but none beside the spare bed upstairs where Annie had dumped her clothes. The belt that had bit into her upper arm was hers. Annie had gone to the door after having her shower but she hadn’t taken the belt from her pants unless she’d done it before she went to the door. Why would she? She didn’t have any smack.

 

So someone had given her the smack and fetched the belt for her. A friend? Some friend. I wasn’t well up on the price of heroin and it really didn’t matter because from the quick look I’d got at the money the police had bagged it seemed that Annie’s twelve bucks were intact. I was sifting this through when there was a loud knock on the door. Feeling ridiculous, I got the .38 from its hiding place and went to the door. The outline through the misted glass panel was long and slope-shouldered.

 

‘Greenway?’

 

‘Yes.’

 

I opened the door. ‘I thought I told you to piss off.’

 

‘I did.’ He shouldered past me. He was wearing a light cotton jacket over his striped shirt and I could see a bulge in the pocket. The Nomad, no doubt. I waved him on and we went through to the living and eating space at the back of the house.

 

‘I saw them take her out,’ he said.

 

‘Yeah? Then what did you do?’

 

‘I caught a cab home. He called. I’ve got his voice on tape.’

 

* * * *

 

10

 

 

REENWAY brandished the tape and looked around. He noted the phone, with its receiver replaced but obviously not in its usual place on the bench. He put the tape in his pocket.

 

‘Where was she?’ he said.

 

I pointed.

 

‘The word in the street was accidental overdose. Is that right?’

 

‘No. At least not without some help.’

 

We went through to the kitchen which was dim now that the afternoon sun was low in the west. Greenway leaned against the sink while I made coffee. ‘Was Annie… what happened to her, connected to this other business?’

 

‘Your case, you mean?’

 

He nodded.

 

‘I don’t know. Do you? I see you’re carrying your gun. Does that mean you’ve got some ideas?’

 

He shook his head.

 

‘No,’ I said. ‘Guns usually mean no ideas. Have some coffee and let’s hear the tape.’

 

The voice was slow and deep; the background noise was an intermittent hum: When I can talk to you in person I’ll give you instructions for the delivery of the photographs.

 

We played it through five times. I drank two cups of coffee. Greenway kept glancing at the place where Annie had died as if he wanted to see her there and bring her back to life. ‘I thought of changing my message,’ he said, ‘leaving something specifically for him. But I decided that was being too clever.’

 

‘Good. You were right. Same voice, no difference?’

 

‘The same. Can you make anything of the background noise?’

 

‘That’s for the movies. I haven’t got voice-printing apparatus either and I can’t tell a southern Hungarian accent from a Romanian.’

 

‘I’m sorry. I know it’s a mess. I didn’t know what I was doing.’

 

I felt guilty for the sarcasm. ‘All right. It happens. We have to work out what to do. Where to look for him.’ I got a bottle of brandy which Helen had left behind. It was from her husband’s tiny vineyard, Chateau Helene, and it wasn’t bad. I put a shot in my third and Greenway’s second cup of coffee. It was after four o’clock; that’s late enough when there’s been a death or a birth or a marriage or a horse has won or lost. I felt like working on the bottle itself, Greenway sipped moodily; booze wasn’t one of his problems.

 

‘Have you ever had a phone call from someone who seems to know you but you’ve never heard of them?’ I said. ‘Just a quick call that leaves you puzzled about how the caller got on to you or even got your number?’

 

‘Mm, I suppose.’

 

‘This is a bit like that. You have to sit down and build up a story that hangs together. Like-well, he must’ve known so-and-so and got my number that way.’

 

Greenway grunted, unimpressed. I finished my coffee and poured some more brandy into the cup. I added the few drops of coffee that were left. ‘That’s what we have to do,’ I said. ‘If we assume whoever hired you got to Annie somehow and killed her, or helped, how could that be? What circumstances make that possible?’

 

We both stared at the walls for a while. Greenway sighed; I drank my spiked coffee.

 

Greenway shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. Nothing comes.’

 

‘Try this: Mr X was watching you from the minute he made the approach. He saw you come to me, saw us go to the hospital and followed me back here. Then he saw Annie come here. He’d seen you and Annie in company before and figured she must… ‘

 

‘Must what?’

 

‘It gets harder here. Must… know something, or have seen something. So he waited until I left and made a move. He used the smack to talk his way in.’

 

‘Well, it fits,’ Greenway said slowly. ‘But where does it get us?’

 

‘If we knew what he wanted from Annie we’d be on our way. Assuming it’s about the hospital, did she tell you a lot about the place?’

 

‘Not much. She didn’t like talking about it. I just checked on the routines a bit, you know. That was all I wanted.’ Suddenly he straightened up from the slump he’d been sitting in. The look of tiredness and semi-shock left him.

 

‘What is it?’ I said.

 

‘Annie kept a diary! She said she could look in her diary when I asked her about something, some little thing. I said it didn’t matter.’

 

‘It matters now,’ I said.

 

Annie had arrived without bag or baggage and she certainly hadn’t had a diary on her. So she’d left it, presumably with what she’d called her ‘stuff with ‘those creeps’. All I knew was that she’d tried to score in ‘the flats’ and some hoods in a red Mazda had given her a bad time. I told this to Greenway who nodded. ‘There’s a source in those flats down by the water. What’s her name?’ He snapped his fingers in the first theatrical gesture I’d seen from him since our first meeting when he was doing nothing else but. ‘Barbara-Ann. She’s got a straight front as a caterer but she deals in a pretty big way.’

 

‘I wonder if she’s got a red Mazda,’ I said.

 

‘I wouldn’t know.’ Greenway adjusted his jacket. ‘Why don’t we go and find out?’

 

I had a vision of Greenway breaking in a door and waving his Nomad with the one shell in the chamber and the safety catch on. ‘I’ll go,’ I said. ‘You’ve got other things to do.’

 

‘Like what?’

 

‘You’re going home to wait for the phone call. You’re also going to keep a very close watch on your own back. If you’re still being observed you might be able to observe the observer. That’d be a help.’

 

One part of him didn’t like it, wanted to be in on the gung-ho stuff; the other part wanted to play it safe. I helped him out by saying that I didn’t expect any excitement, just a quiet talk. He knew which part of the big complex Barbara-Ann lived in but not the precise number of her apartment. I told him I could manage and sent him back to Bondi with a promise to call when I knew anything. I wanted to take the Nomad from him but I didn’t; he was confused and green, but he had some pride.

 

I went out into the street, collected the keys from the glove box of my car and locked it. I strolled around the neighbourhood; I got some looks from people who’d seen the ambulance and one enquiry. I didn’t tell the enquirer anything she didn’t know already. It was after five, the air was cooling and the TV sets were being switched on and the drinks were being poured. I walked to the open section before the road dips down into the blocks of flats and stood looking across the water towards Pyrmont. The water was still; the light faded. I moved quickly into the shelter of the trees that fringe the walkway around the water and scanned the landscape behind and above me. I saw no flashes of spectacles, no quick movements. I waited; no car engines started, no birds broke cover and wheeled about in the evening sky.

 

* * * *

 

11

 

 

 went home, fed the cat and myself and waited until dark. I wore sneakers, pants that were a bit big so that I needed a belt to keep them up, and a loose sweater. The .38 went inside the waist of the trousers, under the belt. I walked down to the flats where lights were burning in most of the windows. I moved through the parking areas on to the concrete path that wound between the different blocks. Some of the windows on to the balconies were open; rock music and television made a confusing mixture of conflicting sound.

 

The phone book had supplied the lacking information. In the sections for caterers there was a small ad: ‘Barbara-Ann, Home Catering, small functions, Apartment 5, Block 3, Harbourside, Ludwig Street, Glebe.’ The place was in one of the better locations, high enough to command a good look at the water and with its fair share of waving trees to shut out the less salubrious views. The parking bay allotted to Apartment 5 held a red Mazda coupe.

 

There was no point in being subtle about it. No reason to throw pebbles at windows or climb up the ivy on to the balcony. There was no ivy anyway, and the balcony to Apartment 5 was ten metres up. I went through the glass door into the lobby and climbed the stairs. I knocked at Number 2. A middle-aged man in a cummerbund and dress shirt came to the door and said his name wasn’t Williams and that he didn’t know any Williamses in the block.

 

I thanked him after getting a good look at the security chain: not much good-a heavy shoulder, properly delivered, would tear it from the frame. I hoped my stiff neck wouldn’t hold me back. Up another flight to Number 5; I listened at the door-music and talk. I smelled marijuana smoke. Hardy, with all senses on the alert.

 

I took out the gun and held it low and out of sight. I knocked and pressed my ear to the door. The occupants didn’t fall silent or start cocking machine guns. The door opened ten centimetres and I saw a small woman with a mass of curling, red-gold hair.

 

‘Barbara-Ann?’ I said.

 

Her pupils were dilated and her eyes were red the way some pot smokers’ get. ‘Mmm,’ she said.

 

I hit the door with everything I had. The chain tore out and the door flew open whacking her in the knee and hip. She staggered back and I bullocked through the opening. I grabbed her by the arm and dragged her down the short passage to a living room with a white carpet, white leather and chrome fittings and air like at a NORML smoke-in. There were two men in the room, stoned and slow-reacting. One wore his shirt collar turned up. He was the pale-faced driver of the Mazda.

 

‘Hey, what’s this?’ he said.

 

I shoved the woman into one of the white chairs and stood behind her. She swivelled around to look at me. That made three pairs of eyes focussing on the .38. Paleface was half out of his seat; I waved him back down. The other, a flabby-faced kid, dropped the fat, smoking joint on the carpet.

 

‘You’d better pick that up or you’ll have a nasty burn there,’ I said. He bent slowly and recovered the cigarette.

 

‘We don’t want any trouble,’ the woman said.

 

‘Neither do I.’ I moved around and stood to one side from where I could have shot any one of them except that none was moving a muscle.

 

‘I know you,’ Paleface said.

 

‘You’ve seen me. I wouldn’t call it a relationship.’

 

‘Who is he?’ The woman was recovering fast; she was slim and lean, like a gymnast, about thirty and with small, hard eyes behind which a lot of fast thinking was going on.

 

‘My name’s Hardy, Barbara-Ann. I was a friend of Annie Parker. I’m here to invite you all to her funeral.’

 

‘We don’t know anything about that,’ Paleface said.

 

‘Shut up, Vic,’ Barbara-Ann said.

 

‘No, I want to hear about it. I want to hear about how you took her some smack and she OD’d on it. I want to know why.’

 

‘We didn’t… we didn’t!’ The kid’s voice was shrill. ‘You saw us drive off. We didn’t come back. We just

 

‘That’ll do then,’ I said. ‘You just what?’

 

‘Watched your joint.’

 

‘And what did you see?’

 

Barbara-Ann and Paleface Vic both looked at the kid. He found some courage among the fear somewhere and clamped his jaw. Barbara-Ann stirred in her chair.

 

‘You can just fuck off, whoever you are,’ she said. ‘You’ve got no business here.’

 

‘I’m a Federal policeman, Barbara-Ann. I’ve got business everywhere.’

 

‘See!’ The kid yelped as the burning joint singed his fingers. He dropped it on the glass-topped table. ‘She was with the narcs. We told you!’

 

Barbara-Ann and Paleface looked at me trying to make up their minds. I didn’t want them to do too much thinking. ‘It’s the girl I’m interested in,’ I said. ‘Not you lot. I’ll settle for two things-what she left behind her here and what you saw when you were watching my house.’

 

Barbara-Ann drew in a deep breath and tossed back her cascade of phony-coloured hair. ‘Then you’ll go?’

 

‘That’s right.’

 

‘What the fuck do I care? Lyle, get the bag she left.’

 

The kid got up and scurried out of the room. He came back quickly with a canvas bag. I kept my eyes on Paleface and gestured with the gun for Lyle to open the bag. ‘Let’s see what’s in it.’

 

Barbara-Ann reached for the bag of grass on the table. ‘We haven’t touched it.’

 

Lyle pulled out a shirt and some underpants. He stuffed them back and produced two paperbacks and a thick exercise book. Paleface was bracing himself. I told Lyle to put the books back and do up the straps. He did it and I reached for the bag, looped it over my shoulder. I was getting tired of standing up and watching people who didn’t like me. Barbara-Ann rolled a joint.

 

‘Okay, make it quick,’ I said. ‘What did you see? Hold off on lighting that, Babs, until we’re finished.’ I lifted the gun a fraction, aware that its effect was wearing off.

 

Lyle was the only one still scared. ‘We saw a guy arrive and go to the door. She let him in.’

 

‘What sort of a guy?’

 

‘Just a guy. You know.’

 

‘I don’t know. Young, old, tall, short, thin, fat? What sort of car did he drive?’

 

Paleface didn’t like being left out of things. He took the joint from Barbara-Ann, lit it and expelled smoke slowly. ‘A white Volvo. Middle-aged man, like you. Medium everything except for his hair.’ He ran his hand through his own lank, straggly locks, took another drag and handed the joint to the woman. ‘A baldy, with a thick moustache instead. The way baldies do.’

 

‘Okay.’ The bag was slipping from my shoulder and I shrugged it back up. Paleface must’ve thought this was the time to move. He came up from his chair bent low and ready to club my gun hand down. He was much too slow; I had time to step back and watch him lose balance as his move misfired. I hit him with the back of my hand along the side of his narrow, bony jaw. I felt the shock around the grip of the gun but he felt it more. He groaned and crumpled. A spurt of blood from his nose sprayed and smeared over the white carpet.

 

‘Now look what you’ve done,’ I said. ‘That’ll cost a lot to clean.’

 

Paleface rolled over on to his back. His eyes were fierce but wet; he sniffed back a nose full of blood. I stepped around him and stood beside Barbara-Ann.

 

‘Just for that,’ I said, ‘I get another question. Annie was here to score. Did she say anything interesting? Share any thoughts with you?’

 

‘She was hanging out.’ Barbara-Ann drew on the joint. ‘She had no bread and she tried to con us. That’s it.’

 

‘You’re a lovely person.’ I put the gun in my belt and walked out. I could smell the marijuana smoke all the way down the stairs and I heard two high-pitched yells and a slap before I was out in the fresh air.

 

* * * *

 

12

 

 

 had a white Volvo, a bald man with a thick moustache and an exercise book diary. Not a bad night’s work. All I needed was a drink and a feeling that I could make some sense of Greenway’s crazy, mixed-up case.

 

I went home and took the drink out on to the balcony for a while. I sat and watched the street. No red Mazda, no skulking figures or firebombers. I wasn’t surprised; they’d probably moved up to something heavier than the grass and were on the way to feeling that they were clever and brave and everything was all right.

 

I cleared a space on the bench beside the phone, switched on the reading lamp and opened Annie Parker’s diary. Someone said that historians are people who read other people’s letters. I’ve never done any historical research but I’ve read a few private letters and I understand the attraction. A sort of fly-on-the-wall feeling with a touch of taboo. Reading a private diary was much the same. Annie made half page entries, never missing a day. The diary began in the early part of the previous year and stopped two days before she died.

 

I flicked over the pages, just getting impressions at first. Adults who write a lot or take notes acquire bad habits-personal shorthands and squiggles that mean zero to anyone else. Or they take to typewriters and word processors and almost forget how to write by hand. Annie’s writing was neat and clear, a regular script without quirks, like that of a mature child. I remembered that she’d had a good school record before she went wild.

 

She kept a simple record of what she’d done, who she’d seen and how she felt. The entries were brief with the identities of people concealed: Saw C.A. and scored. Went to Bondi. Heavily hassled by L. who’s splitting (he says) for Bali. Wanted me to go with him. No thanks. Feeling better about F. She was concerned about her weight: 48 k. Not bad. And her health: Saw Dr Charley and got a prescription for antibiotic. No drinking for three days.

 

Greenway was ‘G.’. The entries confirmed what she’d told me-that they’d met at a drug clinic and clicked. She knew he was bisexual. For the time they were together the entries were brief and mostly positive: G. is a fantastic fucker and talker and I’m. not real bad myself when I get going. Trouble started between them over the AIDS test. She couldn’t understand ‘G.’s reluctance to have it. Then he disappeared. The entries after the breakup were black: Slept all day. Hanging out. Methadone is murder.

 

I turned back to her record of her period in Southwood Hospital. Have to hide this, she wrote. No diary keeping allowed Fuck them! Things didn’t improve. She had nothing good to say for the staff or the treatment but she liked some of her fellow patients: M.Mc. is a sweetie and he’s brilliant! Nothing wrong with him. What about A.P. ? The writing became crabbed and hasty: Long, creepy interview with DrS. today. No programme. No way! One entry was tear-stained: M.Mc. was done today. He’s finished. No-one home. A few days later the letters ‘E.F.’, ‘J. O’B.’ and ‘R.R.’ were encircled. Then, the day before she left the hospital she recorded: M.Mc, E.F., J.O’B. & R.R. have been transferred (they say).

 

The process by which Annie got out of the hospital was a little hard to follow through the maze of initials and other abbreviations. It happened a few weeks after ‘J.O’B.’ and the others were ‘transferred’. It seemed that a new member of the staff, a ‘Dr K.’t had helped her to secure a certificate of detoxification. A solicitor had done the rest. While in the hospital Annie had read a lot: The Brothers K., W & P., The I. of Dreams. She had come out resolved to find ‘M.Mc’ but there was no sign that she’d done anything about it. She was ‘maintaining’ and working at the clinic when she met ‘G.’.

 

It wasn’t hard to make a certain amount of sense out of it. Something was happening at the hospital that Annie was afraid of, wanted no part of. There appeared to be victims. It half-fitted with Greenway’s story of being hired by someone who was concerned about one of the patients. But that story had been an invention; he now said that he had knowledge of the motives of his hirer who was taking his time in collecting what he’d paid so much money for. It all got back to that-who hired Greenway and why?

 

I phoned him and got the answering machine. I read some more of the diary without gaining further enlightenment except into the character of Annie. She had lived day to day, without plans until she’d met Greenway. They’d discussed the future, something Annie had refused to do for years. That made it all the harder for her when, suddenly, there was no future anymore. She went back to recording and living her life in small, safe units. Except they weren’t safe. Police and pushers cropped up through the entries and they were sometimes one and the same.

 

She’d started the diary the day after her mother died as some sort of comfort for the loss. She talked to her sister and brother at the funeral and spoke lovingly of them. I didn’t recall the siblings but I had a clear recollection of the mother-a stout, strong-minded Cockney who’d never understood why Annie had got on to drugs but had never stopped caring about her, even though she’d suffered the usual thefts and let-downs.

 

In the pages that covered the time with Greenway Annie had made small sketches, post stamp size. There was a reasonable likeness of Greenway, some flowers, a few other faces. The sketches were happy. Her spelling wasn’t perfect but neither is mine. I felt I was getting closer to her and I felt a mounting anger at her death and the manner of it. There were more than a hundred pages blank in the exercise book. She was someone who’d taken bad knocks and had tried not to go under. She should have had those days and a hell of a lot more besides.

 

I phoned Greenway again and this time he answered in a harsh, broken whisper.

 

‘What’s wrong with you?’ I said.

 

‘Can you get over to my place, Hardy?’ he rasped. ‘He was here. He drugged me and he’s taken the fucking photographs.’

 

* * * *

 

13

 

 

’D had enough for one day. I got Greenway calmed down, established that he wasn’t injured and told him that we had some other leads.

 

‘What leads?’

 

‘I’ve got the diary.’

 

‘Jesus, that’s great! Bring it over.’

 

‘Forget it. I’ve got fifteen years on you and I need some sleep.’

 

‘Sleep! I couldn’t sleep.’

 

‘Yes, you can. Take a long walk. Take a pill. I’ll be over in the morning.’

 

‘No, Hardy, you can’t…”

 

‘I can. Listen, if your brain needs something to work on try this.’ I read him off my list of initials. ‘Chew on them. See if they mean anything to you.’

 

I finally got him off the line. I checked the doors and windows, wedged a chair in against the back door that won’t lock properly, and went to bed. My neck was still sore from the rabbit punch and my hand ached from the blow I’d given Paleface. They were the physical sufferings; I was still feeling bad about Annie. A lot of people had let her down and maybe I was one of them. Maybe I should have stayed with her. Bad thoughts. I had her diary under my pillow along with the .38 but it didn’t give me any bad dreams. I slept heavily, no dreams at all.

 

* * * *

 

Greenway answered the door looking like a man who hadn’t slept for a week. His hair was tousled, his stubble was long and his eyes were red. He smelt bad too.

 

‘Go and have a shower,’ I said. ‘I’ll make some coffee. I can’t talk to anyone who looks that bad, you remind me of myself when I was twenty-five.’

 

Greenway grinned. ‘Well, you made it to fifty.’

 

‘I’m not… You stink, and change your shirt.’

 

I made instant coffee in the kitchenette and prowled around the small flat. Greenway had spent some of his sleepless night cleaning up and the place didn’t look too bad. There was a slight smell in the bedroom and I located the source-a thick gauze pad which had been soaked in ether. Greenway had put it in a plastic bag the way he’d seen it done in the movies. I also located a large manilla envelope which had been sealed with masking tape and torn open. I had exhibits one and two on the table with the coffee when he came out, showered and shaved and in a clean T-shirt. He nodded and put three spoonsful of sugar in his coffee.

 

‘He was waiting for me.’

 

‘You put up much of a fight?’

 

‘Not much. God, he was strong and I was a bit pissed. I had a few on the way home. The photos were made into the bed, at the bottom. I thought it was pretty smart but he must’ve found them in no time.’

 

‘How long were you out to it?’

 

‘Not long. Half an hour, bit less.’

 

‘Nothing else taken or disturbed?’

 

He shook his head and drank some of his coffee syrup. ‘Have you got the diary with you?’

 

‘Let’s stay with this for a minute. You didn’t get a look at him, sense anything, smell anything?’

 

‘No. All I smelled was the ether. All I can tell you about him was that he must be heavy and strong. I’ve seldom… ‘

 

‘What?’

 

He waved his hand in one of his rare theatrical gestures. ‘Well, I’ve been in close contact with a few men, if you see what I mean. Not many as strong as this guy.’

 

‘Okay. Did you notice anything when you got home?’

 

‘Like what?’

 

‘Lights on, doors open, cars parked?’

 

He drank some more coffee and made an effort to remember. ‘N… no. There was a car across the road I don’t remember seeing before. I noticed because it was so clean.’

 

‘What kind?’

 

‘I don’t know about cars. No idea.’

 

‘What colour?’

 

‘White.’

 

I grunted. ‘Anything else?’

 

‘Don’t think so. Oh, hold on.’ He lifted his hand and brushed it against his ear. ‘I felt something before I went under. Something against my ear. Hair. I’d say he had a moustache. There’s something else too… but I can’t quite get it.’

 

‘That’s good enough.’

 

‘How is it good?’

 

I told him about the man with the heavy moustache and the white Volvo who’d been let into my house by Annie. He opened his eyes in surprise and then winced as too much Bondi sunlight hit them. I handed him the diary. ‘Did those initials mean anything to you?’

 

‘I heard Annie talk about someone she called Obie, could’ve been this O’B., but I don’t know.’

 

‘First name?’

 

‘No idea. Sorry. She said he was very smart, smarter than me. Something bad happened to him but I don’t know what.’

 

‘Read the entries for the time she was in hospital.

 

You’d better not look at what she wrote after you dropped her. You might think less well of yourself.’

 

While he read I phoned Frank Parker in Homicide for information on Annie Parker. He got a summary of the medical examiner’s report and proceeded to be cautious.

 

‘What d’you want to know?’

 

‘Cause of death.’

 

‘Narcotics overdose. Death through respiratory and cardiac failure.’

 

‘Heroin?’

 

‘No, morphine. How would you classify this death, Cliff?’

 

‘Probably an accident.’

 

‘I don’t think we have a category “accident- probably”; what about something more definite?’

 

‘Accident then.’

 

‘Nothing in it for me?’

 

‘Don’t think so.’ Frank said something about Hilde and his baby son which I didn’t hear because I wasn’t listening. My mind was running somewhere else. Morphine and ether. A white Volvo. Sounded like a doctor to me. ‘Hold on, Frank. Maybe you might be interested in this. I can’t tell you much now… ‘

 

‘But you want me to tell you something.’

 

‘Right. The Southwood Hospital in Sutherland. Might you have something on it?’

 

‘We might. I might have time to look. You might call me, eh?’

 

‘Thanks, Frank. Good about Hilde and the kid.’

 

‘I told you they had measles, you prick.’

 

I squeezed out of that somehow. When I put the phone down Greenway was closing the diary. He got a crumpled, much-used tissue out of his pocket and wiped his eyes. ‘Shit,’ he said.

 

‘Are you talking about yourself?’

 

‘You didn’t do such a great job either.’

 

‘Right. I feel like making some kind of amends, what about you?’

 

‘What can we do?’

 

‘We can break about five laws and take a look at the records of Southwood Hospital’

 

* * * *

 

14

 

 

REENWAY made more coffee and we drank that and then started on beer. I gave him my doctor theory and we looked through Annie’s diary for medicos. We came upon ‘Dr Charley’, the druggies’ friend, whom Greenway knew.

 

‘Not him,’ he said. ‘He’s out of his brain himself most of the time.’

 

We got ‘Dr S.’ and ‘Dr K.’ from the diary. S. would be Smith whom I’d met. K. meant nothing to either of us. Greenway began prowling the room restlessly. ‘How about checking the registration records to see if a doctor at the hospital has a white Volvo?’ he said.

 

‘That’d be harder than you think. Most doctors are incorporated these days, their cars are registered to their companies. Or they lease them. It’d be easier to go and look in the car park.’

 

‘Well?’

 

‘Yeah, maybe, but would you go to work in a car you’d used the way that Volvo was used yesterday? I wouldn’t.’

 

‘Hey!’ He dug around in a pile of newspapers on a chair, bent and looked on the floor. ‘Shit!’

 

‘What?’

 

‘He took my gun!’

 

‘Great! Well, it could be worse. It only had one shell in it.’

 

‘No. I loaded the full clip at home yesterday.’

 

I shook my head. ‘Well, it’s not so bad. We’re looking for a strong, bald doctor with a white Volvo, a fully loaded Browning Nomad and a thick moustache.’

 

Greenway shook his head slowly. I looked at him enquiringly. ‘I dunno about the moustache. I’ve remembered what I was trying to recall before. From acting-I smelled that spirit gum you use to stick on false beards and moustaches.’

 

I gave him a small round of applause. ‘Terrific recall. And I’ve just thought of something else.’

 

‘What?’

 

‘It could’ve been used to stick down a bald wig.’

 

We both laughed.

 

* * * *

 

Greenway was exhausted from his long day and sleepless night. He sank lower in his chair and his eyes kept closing and I had to tell him to go to bed.

 

‘What’re you going to do?’

 

‘Make telephone calls. Really run up a bill. We’re still using this bastard’s money, aren’t we?’

 

He yawned. ‘Suppose so. Okay, I’ll snatch an hour.’

 

Within ten minutes he was sleeping deeply, looked like he’d be out for six hours at least. I left a note in case I was wrong and drove to my office in St Peter’s Lane. That was a waste of petrol and effort. Nothing there needing attention. No lonely clients with Rita Hayworth legs. Even Primo Tomasetti the tattooist, with whom I could usually waste some time, was on holidays and his establishment was closed. I knew why I was there of course-to check the mail and the answering machine for messages from Helen. I didn’t know whether I wanted a message or not, but there was nothing.

 

Back in Bondi, I bought a late lunch-two big salad sandwiches-and a six pack in Campbell Parade and ate one sandwich and drank one can sitting on the grass and looking out to sea. It was fine and warm with a clear sky and a pollution-clearing breeze. When I was young I’d come here to surf. Now they came to score-and surf, probably. It was confusing. I examined the big painting on a signboard which showed what the redevelopment of the foreshore would look like-park, playground, pavilion. It didn’t look any different which was fine by me; I like Bondi the way it is.

 

Greenway was still asleep. I’d shaken the cans a bit and the one I opened in the kitchen sprayed. I swore and dropped another can. Greenway woke up and came stumbling into the kitchen. I handed him the frothing can.

 

‘Brunch,’ I said.

 

‘Great.’ He lifted the dripping can and took a long pull. I examined him while he was drinking; he was tanned and lean, almost thin but not unhealthy looking. I pointed to the sandwich on the kitchen table and he fell on it. If he was carrying the AIDS germ it hadn’t done any damage yet to his appetite or powers of recovery.

 

He munched and spoke around the lettuce and carrot. ‘Well, what now?’

 

‘You go to the clinic where you met Annie. Ask around. See if anyone was asking for her, or you. Try your description of your assailant on people.’

 

‘Description? Assailant?’

 

‘Improvise. Do your best. Wouldn’t be a computer buff, would you? I looked around but you don’t seem to have equipped yourself with a PC yet.’

 

‘I know a bit about them,’ he said huffily. ‘I can get by. Why?’

 

‘The hospital’s records are all on computer. It occurred to me the safe way to do it would be to break into the system. We could sit in comfort while a hacker found out all we wanted to know.’

 

He snorted. ‘That’s in the movies. It’s more complicated than that. You have to know the codes. You’d have to work on the hospital’s system first. Comes to the same thing-a break in.’

 

I opened a can carefully and waited for the foam to rise gently through the hole. ‘I feared as much. The old ways are always best,’ I said.

 

Greenway left and I phoned Ian Sangster who is my friend and personal physician, also sometime tennis partner and drinking companion. I asked him what he knew about Southwood Hospital.

 

‘Not a lot. Nothing really good.’

 

‘Anything really bad?’

 

‘No.’

 

‘How hard would it be to identify a doctor who works or worked there just from his initial?’

 

‘First or last initial?’

 

‘Don’t know.’

 

‘Jesus Christ, Cliff! What’re you playing at? There’s some very disturbed people at Southwood.’

 

‘How hard, Ian?’

 

‘Bloody near impossible. One of the things about the place that’s not quite… you know, kosher, is the turnover of medical staff. Pretty big.’

 

‘Who’s the money behind it?’

 

‘I’ve heard rumours but I’d rather not say-not over the phone to a person of dubious reputation.’

 

I was going to tell him that I wasn’t using my own phone and then I remembered that Greenway fell into the same category, sort of. I thanked him and hung up. The day was wearing on; I had a choice between another beer and a walk. I took the walk, trying to get out of the lengthening shadows into the afternoon sun. I thought about women-Helen and Annie and Cyn and others. All different, all difficult, all more interesting to think about than men.

 

I called Frank from a public phone.

 

‘What’s all that noise behind you?’ he said.

 

‘From the street. I’m using a public phone for security. No private phone is safe in the late eighties.’

 

‘Bullshit. Still, might be just as well.’

 

‘What’ve you got on the hospital?’

 

‘Nothing solid. The word is some of the staff need rehabilitating as much as the patients.’

 

‘Meaning?’

 

‘Southwood has been known to give people a second chance.’

 

‘I see. Anything known about the financial setup?’

 

His voice seemed to drop but it might have been my imagination. ‘Various sources. But a large medical practice with numerous… branches, is not unconnected.’

 

‘That’s interesting.’

 

‘Watch your step, Cliff. They’ve got lawyers… ‘

 

‘I’d never do anything against the law, Frank. You know that.’

 

* * * *

 

15

 

 

RIVING south with Greenway the second time was a very different experience from the first. He was alert, anxious to talk, and he seemed to think we had a good deal to talk about. First, he had to tell me about the success of his mission to the clinic.

 

‘I’m sure it’s the same guy,’ he said. ‘Thickset, bald, asking about Annie.’ He consulted his notebook. ‘Time’s a bit vague-a few weeks ago maybe.’

 

‘Doctor? White Volvo?’

 

‘Not known.’

 

‘Cut it out. You’re right though, it sounds like a piece of the puzzle.’

 

I’d seen one of the hospital’s computer terminals and he questioned me closely about it. Had I the make of computer and the model? Was there a printer attached? Did I see a photocopier? I wasn’t much help. With regard to Smith’s office I mostly remembered my aching head and the single malt.

 

He rubbed at some dirt on the windscreen. ‘Not very observant, are you?’

 

‘At least I didn’t get my gun stolen.’ It was a silly reply but it shut him up long enough for me to brief him on what we needed from the records: names corresponding to the initials in Annie’s diary and everything to do with them; a ‘Dr K.’ if possible; evidence on the hospital’s finances; drug irregularities.

 

Greenway nodded. ‘Anything else?’

 

‘Yeah. Anything that seems relevant.’

 

I questioned him about the hospital’s security arrangements which he’d observed on a preliminary visit, before he roped me in.

 

‘I didn’t see any patrols or anything like that. I don’t think there’s a resident security man. I think some kind of security service paid a couple of calls.’

 

‘You think?’

 

‘They did. Once or twice. I was pretty tired.’

 

‘That means a good alarm system. Could be tricky. How many patients and live-in staff, would you say?’

 

He thought about it for a kilometre or so. ‘Thirty-five patients, round about. The administrator’s got a flat in the grounds and there’re nurses on duty around the clock.’

 

‘Male nurses?’

 

‘I think… yes, I saw one.’

 

‘There’s your night-time security man. We’ll have to handle him somehow. Any ideas, Greenway?’

 

‘Call me Gareth.’

 

‘I can’t call anyone Gareth. How about Greenie?’

 

‘Jesus. Well, what about a diversion?’

 

‘You’re learning.’

 

* * * *

 

It was a dark night, no moon and Southwood Hospital didn’t go in for floodlighting. There were lights on some of the buildings and along sections of path that were used at night, but most of the place was in deep darkness. I drove past the front entrance and up a side street looking for high ground. We found it in a quiet street on the south side of the hospital. We sat in the car and pooled our knowledge about the layout.

 

‘How do we do it?’ Greenwood’s voice almost broke. He was nervous. I didn’t feel a hundred per cent confident myself.

 

‘We can go through the fence. It wasn’t wired before, no reason to think it would be now. I assume the buildings have alarms-doors and windows and such.’

 

‘You could set off an alarm in one of the buildings while I go for the administration building.’

 

‘I could. With a bit of luck I can disconnect the alarm before you go in. I’ve got the tools. If it’s not too complicated.’

 

‘That’s it then.’

 

‘You’ll need some time. We might need something to keep them busy for a while.’

 

‘Like what?’

 

‘Let’s not think too far ahead. We can’t anticipate what might happen.’

 

I got my burglar kit, packed into a soft airline bag, from the back of the car and checked the items. Metal things that might clink were wrapped. We cut the fence and moved down the slopes carefully, skirting the pools of light, until we reached the main buildings. It was after ten, late for a hospital where activity begins early. We checked Smith’s flat; a light was on and classical music was playing softly. We waited until the music stopped and the light went out. It was quiet in the wards; from a hiding place behind bushes near the spot where our charge of a couple of days back had ended, we could see dim lights, some movement, but the hatches were battened down.

 

‘Time to go.’ We bent and scuttled across to the long, low administration block. The alarm system was an infra red, magic eye job. I located the wiring and traced it to a point where I could work on the circuits. I had to freeze once and crouch behind scanty cover when a big man in nurse’s starched whites came out of the adjacent building for a smoke. Luckily, he smoked fast and didn’t look around. I immobilised the alarm and used a skeleton key on a side door.

 

‘You know what to look for.’ I held Greenway’s arm and hissed in his ear. ‘Be as quick and quiet as you can. Try to shade any light you have to use. I’ll set an alarm off if you need cover. Ignore it. I’ll set off another one if it looks like you’re spotted. That’s when you get out. I’ll meet you by the toilet block.’

 

He slipped into the building. I moved around the grounds willing everything to stay quiet. I could hear the soft pounding of the sea; a light wind moved the tops of the trees. Edgy and alert, I heard every bird call and dog bark; a ship hooted far away to the east. Nothing moved in the hospital grounds. I stationed myself by the alarm of one of the buildings near the swimming pool and squinted down to the administration block. Greenway had had about half an hour. A faint light showed in a window that should have been dark. The light moved. I swore.

 

My swearing seemed to act as a signal. The male nurse I’d seen before came out of the north wing and checked his watch. He looked around and saw the light. I broke the circuit and the alarm shrilled above me. The nurse came out again, this time with another man I recognised as the rabbit killer expert. I ducked back and moved across to a second building. They ran towards me. I broke another magic eye beam and a second alarm joined in with a high-pitched wail.

 

I tried to focus on the door, willing Greenway to come out but he didn’t. I could hear the two men running, not far away now. I was near the swimming pool where there was no cover. If they looked in the right direction they’d see me. I looked down the slope again and saw a red winking light. The high main gate was suddenly caught in the full beam of a patrol car’s headlights. Lights came on around the swimming pool; I was standing at the deep end, plainly visible in dark clothes in the eerie green light.

 

‘Hey, you!’ The rabbit puncher rushed towards me. His name was stencilled on the pocket of his starched uniform shirt-POPE. I ran around the edge of the pool. He came after me, quick and eager. I tripped on something made of metal and he was on me. He had short arms and came in pumping hard, clubbing punches. I ducked under a clumsy haymaker and punched him hard and low. He gasped and let go with a roundhouse swing that would have taken my head off. I rammed him in the groin with my tool bag-and he screamed and fell.

 

More lights were coming on and I could hear shouts. I still couldn’t see any sign of Greenway. Then I saw what had tripped me-a can of petrol standing beside a motor mower. A plastic oil can sat in the grass catcher. I grabbed the cans, unscrewed their lids and splashed them out into the swimming pool. I heard a groan and a protest from Pope. He was crawling along the edge of the pool towards me.

 

‘Get away!’ I had matches in the tool bag. I groped for them, lit five or six together. The man rolled off to his left as I threw the blazing matches into the pool. There was a roar and a sheet of flame leapt five metres in the air and danced across the lapping water.

 

* * * *

 

16

 

 

 ran away from the intense heat and light into the darkness, working my way towards the meeting point with Greenway. There was a lot of noise-men and women shouting and one of the alarms was still ringing. I heard glass break. Ahead I saw a flash of white and a crouched, fast moving figure.

 

‘Greenway?’

 

‘Here.’ He was carrying a bundle of paper, struggling to keep the flapping sheets under control. ‘What the hell did you do?’

 

‘Later. Let’s go!’

 

We raced up the slope towards our exit in the fence. I sneaked a look back before we scrambled through: the fire was dying down in the swimming pool; the front gate was open and the patrol car had pulled up in front of Smith’s flat. Lights were on everywhere-in the flat, in the wards and in the administration building.

 

We were both panting when we reached the car. Lights showed in some of the houses; shapes moved at windows. No time to hang about. I threw the bag into the car and gunned the motor. Greenway clutched his paper to his chest as we took off fast, the way the old Falcon never would.

 

We travelled a few minutes in silence. The eye I’d damaged a few years back that sometimes gave me trouble when I was under stress was aching now and watering. I slowed down. ‘There’s a flask of rum in the tool bag,’ I said. ‘Let’s have a drink.’

 

Greenway gave me first swig and then took one himself. ‘We did it!’ he said. ‘What was burning?’

 

‘The swimming pool. You don’t think I’d set fire to a hospital, do you? Did you find out what we wanted?’

 

‘Some of it. I haven’t exactly had time to analyse it thoroughly… ‘ He giggled and took another drink.

 

‘Okay. We don’t want you going into shock. Calm down.’ I could feel him glaring at me as I drove and I realised that the sarcasm was my expression of relief. I reached across for the rum. ‘We’ll stop somewhere soon and take a look. You did pretty well.’

 

He was glad to be mollified. ‘So did you. Some diversion.’

 

‘Yeah. I hope nobody got hurt. Have another small swig.’

 

We stopped at a take-away chicken place wedged in between the car yards in Kirrawee. I bought some chicken and Coca Cola and took it to one of the two tables. The tired-looking girl serving eyed me suspiciously. She pushed back her orange-dyed hair and rested her hip against the counter. ‘How long youse goin’ to be?’

 

‘Why?’ I said.

 

‘I’m closin’ up in twenny minutes.’

 

‘That’s long enough.’ I realised I was hungry. I ate the chicken and sipped the Coca Cola, after I’d put rum in it. Greenway was sorting papers. He ate some chicken; he had natural good manners and was careful not to get grease on the sheets. ‘What did you get?’

 

‘The patients are or were, Michael McCleod, Renee Riatoli, Eddy Forster and John O’Brien.’

 

‘Why were they there?’

 

‘Drugs.’

 

‘What? Drugs!’ The girl looked sharply at us and checked her watch. I dropped my voice. ‘Drug problems and they were operated on?’

 

‘That’s what it looks like. There’s a lot of psychology stuff-depression and all that, but when you boil it down… ‘

 

‘Shit! Where are they now?’

 

He shrugged. ‘Don’t know. I didn’t have much time and getting into some of the files was complicated. They sort of… exited the filing system. The codes’re a bit difficult to follow. I printed some of it out. I tell you, the printer sounded like a machine gun in there.’

 

‘What about the staff and the money angle?’

 

‘Nothing on the money. It’d have taken all night to get into that. The staff stuff’s strange, man. It’s as if files are being kept on them too, like the patients. Some of it’s stuff they wouldn’t like everyone to know. Kinky…’

 

‘Spare me. Is there a doctor with “K” in his name?’

 

‘Several. Some of the files are hard copy, I mean paper. The personnel stuff has photographs, good ones.’

 

‘That’d be in filing cabinets. How’d you handle that?’

 

‘In for a penny in for a pound. I jemmied them with a metal ruler. I took a chance and used the Xerox machine.’

 

‘That must’ve been the light I saw.’

 

‘There was no way to shield it.’

 

Greenway drank, and ate some more chicken; he licked his fingers and I noticed that his hands were steady. He’d handled himself very coolly throughout. ‘It doesn’t matter now,’ I said. ‘Let’s see the pictures.’

 

He arranged them on the table. I glanced at the seven faces quickly and then examined each in turn closely. I held up the third. Greenway nodded.

 

‘Dr Bruce Krey. He fits physically. Bald, see. No moustache but look at his shoulders. And his personal file’s a beauty. He’s had a fair bit of treatment over the years. Boy, does he have problems. I copied a fair bit of his file, didn’t bother with the others. Hardy?’

 

I was scarcely listening. The face was that of the doctor who’d examined me as I was regaining consciousness at the hospital on day one. His bald head had been covered then by some kind of cap. I’d misheard his name as ‘Grey’.

 

Greenway was looking pleased with himself. ‘Here’s the trump card. Shit, where is it?’ He shuffled the papers frantically.

 

‘Closin’ time,’ the girl called.

 

‘Christ, I can’t find it!’

 

I stood and collected the papers. ‘Take it easy. It’ll be there. This kid’s shagged, she wants to knock off.’ I left two dollars under the chicken tray and the girl gave me a smile as we went out the door. In the car I used a torch to help Greenway locate what he wanted. A single photocopy sheet.

 

‘It was on the boss’s desk,’ he said. ‘Look. Krey resigned today.’

 

* * * *

 

17

 

 

REY’S address was given in his file-25 Seventh Street, Jannali. I checked the directory, started the car and headed back up the Princes Highway. Greenway didn’t speak and I was happy to be left with my own thoughts. The intelligence that Krey was our man posed a lot of questions. ‘Dr K.’ was one of Annie’s good guys-he’d helped her get out of Southwood. So why was he an apparent instrument of her death? And why had he hired Greenway to do something that made no sense, especially when he was on the spot in the hospital himself? Just knowing Krey was a source of trouble took us no closer to knowing what the real trouble was and what had killed Annie.

 

Greenway coughed. ‘I don’t want to look nerdish or anything, but isn’t it something for the police?’

 

I concentrated on not missing the turn-off. My eye was still watering and I dabbed at it. ‘How would you like to explain what we did at the hospital?’

 

‘We’re investigating a crime, a series of crimes.’

 

‘What crimes?’

 

‘Murder for one and… ‘

 

‘Accidental death.’

 

‘Assault.’

 

‘On who?’

 

‘Me.’

 

I laughed. ‘You’re a bisexual out-of-work actor playing at being a detective. You’ve never even met your client. You’ve got no protection. Are you bonded?’

 

‘What’s that?’

 

‘Insured against damage you might cause, losses that might be sustained through your actions.’

 

‘No.’

 

‘I’m told this hospital has million dollar lawyers, the kind that own racehorses. You’d be so up to your balls in writs you’d forget what this was all about.’

 

He rubbed his hand across his face. ‘Yes,’ he said wearily. ‘You’re right. What is it all about, anyway?’

 

I made the turn. ‘We’ll go and ask Dr Krey. Let’s hope he’s home.’

 

* * * *

 

The road into Jannali wound around the natural features of the landscape. There seemed to be a lot of roadworks going on devoted to changing those features. The suburb was quiet, like a country town all closed down for the night. I drove through unfamiliar streets with big houses contending for the high ground to the down-market section where the planners seemd to have run out of names. I wondered what it would be like to have as your address No. 1 First Street, or No. 2 Second Street for that matter. Seventh Street was undistinguishable from the others-widely spaced fibro bungalows on standard sized blocks. It was short and dark; several of the street lights were out of commission.

 

‘Not much for a doctor,’ Greenway said. ‘Looks like the sort of place they dump defectors in-where nothing happens and nobody goes.’

 

He was right; the street wore an air of uniformity and dullness that didn’t seem to fit with the personality of Dr Krey as I remembered him. I recalled the vein bulging in his forehead and the sense of pressure building up in him like an overheated boiler. I imagined him living in a penthouse or a slum, not low-rent suburbia. I drove slowly past the house; no lights were showing but the tail end of a big white car protruded from the driveway on to the wide grassy strip-the street had no footpath.

 

Greenway leaned across me and squinted into the gloom. ‘Could be a Volvo.’

 

‘It is.’ I drove on to the end of the street and parked. Most of the houses had garages or carports but there were a few cars on the grass strip-kids’ bombs mostly but a few sedate sedans like mine.

 

I dabbed at my eye, found a torch in the tool bag and got out of the car. ‘You wait here.’

 

‘No!’

 

‘Shut up! D’you want people calling the cops? This is a nervous neighbourhood. You have to stay here to guard the documents and to give me a warning if anyone comes. Two honks, okay?’

 

‘Bullshit, no one’ll come.’

 

‘Just do as I say.’

 

I closed the car door quietly and walked along the grass. Although my footsteps were silent a few dogs growled in the backyards and some lights indicated late night movie watchers but I had the street to myself. I examined the car at No. 20. The Volvo was heavily laden with boxes, bundles and cases. Dr Krey was planning a trip. I moved cautiously towards the house. I could see now that there was a light at the back. I went into the garage and used my torch to locate its back door. This opened on to a bare patch with a trellis gate through to the backyard. No dog.

 

The house was quiet and I had a feeling that it was empty, the way you get a feeling after a few rings that no one is going to answer the phone. I’ve had the feeling often; sometimes I’ve been right and sometimes wrong. I had it once and walked in on three dead bodies. I tried the back door and it opened easily and quietly. That took me into a porch; the door to the kitchen was open. One light burned and the stove was warm. There was an oil heater with a red light glowing in the dark living room. I looked quickly into the two bedrooms, using the torch. Both empty and more or less stripped. One had been used as a study but all that was left were some newspapers. I stood in the front room smelling loneliness, frustration and fear. I moved the torch beam around carefully and saw something on the ledge above the built-in electric fire. I touched it and felt hard bristles and a soft backing-a false moustache.

 

Two honks sounded from the street. I switched off the torch and went to the window. Through the gap beside the blind I saw a burly man approach the house. He rested his hand proprietorially on the Volvo as he eased past it. Krey. He walked towards the front of the house. I took the .38 from my belt and held it at my side. I heard Krey’s footsteps on the path.

 

Two honks again, longer this time and louder. More company.

 

* * * *

 

18

 

 

 couldn’t see Krey now, he was too close to the house, but I saw his visitor-he wasn’t wearing his uniform whites anymore but, even in the badly lit street, I couldn’t mistake him-Pope, the rabbit killer. He seemed not to notice the car horn; he stood behind the Volvo, lifted his arm and levelled a pistol at Krey’s back.

 

I whipped up the blind and smashed the window. I yelled something and brought my gun out. Pope swore and fired. The bullet whanged into the door. I stuck my head out trying to get a better look and saw Krey crouched behind a bush near the front door. Pope’s attention was divided between his target and me.

 

‘Pope!’ I pointed the .38 at him. ‘Drop the gun.’

 

Pope hesitated. There were two sharp reports; the windscreen of the Volvo shattered and Pope screamed and reeled back. His gun flew in the air and he collapsed in a heap. Krey remained in a crouch; he held Greenway’s short-barrelled Nomad, still pointing it at the car.

 

‘Dr Krey, put the gun down.’ It’s hard to achieve much authority speaking through a broken window and Krey ignored me. I moved across the room, through the passage and opened the front door. He was crouched four or five metres away now; he’d jumped like a rabbit towards the corner of the garage. His eyes were wide and staring; he saw me step from the house and he raised the gun.

 

‘Don’t shoot,’ I said. ‘No more shooting.’

 

Greenway appeared beside the car. ‘He’s got my gun.’ He looked down. ‘This man’s dead, I think.’

 

Krey moaned and moved the gun.

 

‘Doctor, stay calm. I’m a witness. Self defence.’

 

Krey raised the gun and rested it with the muzzle on his right temple.

 

‘No, Krey. Don’t!’

 

He stood stiffly and moved into the shadows, just inside the garage. The shots had brought people to their doors and gates. Noise was building in the street. Someone ran across the road and bent over Pope.

 

‘Greenway,’ I said. “Try to keep those people back. Tell someone to call the police.’ I tried to keep my voice low and unalarming but I could hear Krey moving, shuffling back further into the darkness. ‘I’m going to try to talk to him.’

 

‘Don’t come in!’ The voice was sharp and clear.

 

‘I won’t, doctor, don’t worry. There’ll be some people to help here soon.’

 

‘I’m beyond help, Hardy.’

 

‘That’s not true. Tell me about it. You hired Greenway, did you?’

 

He laughed softly. ‘You’ve got a pretty good therapist’s voice, Hardy, but it won’t do any good. Yes, I hired him. I knew something rotten was going on at Southwood.’

 

‘Operating on drug abuse patients?’

 

‘Yes. Smith-trying to make a name for himself, going after American research grants. Barbaric!’

 

‘Easy. Why didn’t you make a report, go through the proper channels?’

 

He didn’t reply and I edged forward to the corner of the garage. ‘I can hear you,’ he snapped. ‘Stay there! No one would believe me. I’ve got a record of… instability.’

 

‘What about Greenway?’

 

‘It wasn’t a very clever thing to do. I hired him to cause trouble. I thought Smith might make some sort of mistake.’

 

‘You were acting when you and Smith interviewed me? After Pope had knocked me out.’

 

‘Acting? Yes, yes.’

 

He sounded edgy as hell; I had to keep pushing him but it was hard to know how hard to push. ‘Annie Parker,’ I said softly. ‘You helped her get out of Southwood.’

 

‘I’m sorry about the girl. I lost track of her after she left the hospital. Then I followed you home and she turned up. I didn’t mean to hurt her. The morphine was too pure or… I don’t know. Something went wrong.’

 

‘What did she tell you?’

 

‘The patients are dead.’

 

‘Did she tell you that?’

 

‘She brought me to see it!’ His voice rose and shook. ‘They were guinea pigs! That thug Pope picked them up and brought them in like Jews to Belsen. They’re dead. I know it.’

 

‘Perhaps you’re right.’ I heard cars in the street but thankfully no sirens. People were moving around and some of the voices carried to me. I hoped they didn’t reach Krey. I could feel waves of fear and despair coming from him through the darkness. ‘So you got the photographs back from Greenway and resigned your post. Look, it’s not so bad. You can get clear of this. The girl thought well of you; I’ve got her diary…”

 

‘Don’t tell me that. I killed her.’

 

‘Come out. Let’s talk properly.’

 

‘You still don’t see it, do you?’

 

‘See what?’

 

‘They’ll blame me. It’ll come out and they’ll blame me.’

 

‘How can they? You had nothing to do with it.’

 

‘They’ve got lawyers. They can do anything. That’s why I was going to kill him.’ The voice was soft, barely audible.

 

‘Kill who?’

 

‘Smith. I took a taxi. I went… to the hospital. No, I stopped the taxi and came back. I’m confused.’

 

‘Yes, you are, Dr Krey. Please put the gun down and come out. It’ll be all right.’

 

‘No. Stay back. That was Pope, wasn’t it? I see it now. Smith sent him to kill me.’

 

‘Perhaps he did. That’s in your favour.’ There was movement behind me; I looked and saw two uniformed policemen approaching with their weapons drawn. I waved them back. ‘There’ll be an enquiry. Smith is in trouble.’

 

‘Enquiry, Oh God, no. No, not another enquiry. I couldn’t stand that.’

 

‘Doctor…!’

 

The shot from the Browning was loud and sharp like ten stockwhips cracking at once. I bent low and moved into the garage. The torch beam swept across the oil-stained concrete slab and stopped on Krey’s face. He was on his back, eyes open; his head had fallen to the right a little so no wound was visible but the eyes were still and sightless.

 

* * * *

 

19

 

 

HE cops rushed in and were reluctant to listen to my explanations. They had wanted to alert the Tactical Response Force and were angry that it wasn’t necessary. One of them escorted me from the garage back to the street where Greenway was backed up against the Volvo. A big cop was practically standing on his feet he was sticking so close to him. Greenway was in shock or very nearly; he was pale and he seemed to have aged ten years. They took my gun away.

 

Two police cars roared into the street, swung on to the grass and braked centimetres from Krey’s neighbour’s fence. The constables got in some practice at crowd control. It was the most excitement Seventh Street had ever seen and everybody turned out. A hot dog seller could have done very well. I got cold standing around and was short-tempered when a detective arrived to take charge. He ignored everybody while he looked at bodies and guns. Then he listened to the most articulate of the uniformed men.

 

He nodded. ‘Bag them,’ he said. ‘Get these two to town. Don’t be rough.’

 

‘That’s because he respects our civil rights,’ I said to Greenway who needed cheering up.

 

The detective lit a cigarette. ‘I couldn’t give a shit about your civil rights, Hardy,’ he said. He waved the cigarette at a van pulling up across the street. ‘The TV boys’ve arrived. I wouldn’t want them to get the wrong impression.’ He squared his shoulders, straightened his tie and took a last drag on his smoke. He’d stubbed it out when a blonde reporter with cabaret makeup, a trench coat and spike heels shoved a microphone under his nose. . ‘Could you give us a statement, please.’ She smiled winningly for the camera and the cop.

 

‘Yes. We received a report… ‘

 

I turned away and dived into the back of the nearest car. The last thing I need in my game is TV pictures of me being taken in for questioning. Greenway was right behind me; he seemed to have forgotten his former profession.

 

* * * *

 

They took us to the new police headquarters, gave us coffee and brought in a smooth talking type to take statements and sniff the air. Greenway wanted to go back to day one but he tied himself in knots within a few sentences. I didn’t say anything.

 

‘Mr Hardy?’ Smoothie said.

 

‘I think we should give our accounts separately. I also think my lawyer should be here. He could represent us both.’

 

Greenway protested. ‘I can’t afford… ‘

 

‘You can’t afford not to,’ I said. ‘Sackville-here’s the number.’

 

Smoothie nodded. He wasn’t like a cop at all. ‘Very wise,’ he said.

 

It took a long time for them to find Cy Sackville and nothing could keep Greenway quiet. When he mentioned the hospital I glared at him.

 

‘Don’t worry, Hardy,’ Smoothie said. ‘We’ve got the documents from your car. We can put two and two together.’

 

‘I hope so,’ I said. ‘There’s a lot more than two and two in this.’

 

Sackville arrived; we made statements and were charged with trespass, illegal entry, arson and burglary. Greenway was charged with possession of an unlicensed firearm. Sackville tried to get us out that night but it was no go. We were held in the headquarters lockup, went before the magistrate in Glebe in the morning and were given bail.

 

When we walked out of the court Greenway and I were unshaven and rumpled. Sackville was his usual dapper self. Frank Parker was waiting in the sunshine. We shook hands. He nodded to Greenway and Sackville.

 

‘I told you to be careful,’ he said.

 

‘I was. Now tell me about Southwood Hospital.’

 

‘We paid a visit. Dr Smith got very confused about this bloke Pope. He made some damaging admissions.’

 

‘This won’t come to trial,’ Sackville said. ‘I’m rather sorry in a way.’

 

‘How’s that?’ I said. ‘You hate courts, hate and fear ‘em.’

 

‘True. But I would’ve liked to see how the prosecution handled the matter of arson of a swimming pool.’

 

* * * *

 

Like most things in life, I never came to a full understanding of it. Dr Krey wasn’t the most rational of individuals and his movements and motives in regard to his hiring and watching of Greenway, his surveillance of my house and some of his other thought processes could only be guessed at. Investigations showed he had a record of intellectual brilliance and emotional instability. Some years back he’d been at the centre of an investigation into radical drug-based techniques for relieving anxiety and depression. He’d come out of the investigation with major financial and personality damage.

 

Legal proceedings over Smith and Southwood Hospital became very involved. Smith was charged with conspiracy to murder Dr Krey but there was insufficient evidence to sustain the charge. Greenway and I concluded that Smith must have connected Krey with our raid on the hospital, but no one seemed very interested. The hospital’s records had been confiscated but Smith had destroyed or removed some of them in the hours between our break-in and the arrival of the police.

 

‘That was a terrible job,’ Frank told me. ‘You should’ve made the records secure. It’s a dog’s breakfast now.’

 

‘I had other things on my mind. That Pope was a dangerous type.’

 

‘Yeah. Doc Krey got off a lucky shot. Pope’d been shot before and he’d done some shooting. He was a hard case. Southwood had a few of them. And dodgy doctors. A real shithole.’

 

We were having this conversation in Hyde Park, eating sandwiches and trying to stay warm on a bench in a patch of sunlight on a cold May day. I flipped a crust at a seagull with pleasant markings and watched sourly while another bird got it first. ‘What about the patients who went missing?’

 

Parker shrugged. ‘Dead is my guess. You know how many people pop off in New South Wales every year?’

 

‘No idea.’

 

‘Over forty thousand. It’s a big deck to shuffle and Smith’d be just the boy to shuffle it.’

 

‘Krey said he found out something about them from Annie Parker. He reckoned Smith’d do anything to get into the big research grants.’

 

‘Yeah, you told me. And Pope netted junkies like butterflies. That’s not much use to us now, is it?’ Frank crumpled his paper bag and threw it five metres into a bin. ‘That Annie was a second cousin of mine. Didn’t know that, did you?’

 

‘No.’

 

‘Neither did I before this. That’s modern life- we’ve got kin we don’t know about all over the place. I’ve probably put a few of mine away. How about your mate, Greenway? What’s he doing?’ Haven’t seen him.’

 

* * * *

 

Greenway phoned me a few days later. He told me he’d gone back to acting and had a part in a stage musical. It was in rehearsal. He’d get me tickets.

 

Helen likes musicals, I thought. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You can sing, can you?’

 

‘And dance. And tell you what, I took the AIDS test. I’m clear.’

 

‘Great. Now you just have to find somebody the same.’

 

‘I’ve found him,’ Greenway said.

 

<<CONTENTS>>

 

* * * *