By Peter Corris
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C |
ome on, Cliff,’ Lily said, ‘tell me about your worst case, your worst cock-up.’
‘Why?’
‘Confession’s good for the soul.’
‘I don’t have a soul.’
‘Neither do I. Tell me anyway.’
Lily Truscott and I are partners, sort of. Separate houses—Glebe and Greenwich—and we’re together in one or another by arrangement dictated by work. Lily is a journalist and often out of Sydney. My work can take me anywhere at any time with very little notice, but we were together in Glebe one evening, just talking, drinking a bit. The case was a long time ago and the scars had healed, so I told her about it.
* * * *
I’d cleaned the desk in my Darlinghurst office, not that there was much to clean, when the knock came on the door. A Mormon, I thought, or a JW or an SDA. They’re everywhere. I needed a sign: NO JUNK MAIL—NO GOD SQUAD.
I got up to repel the invader at the threshold. I opened the door to find a man who certainly didn’t have a Pentecostal look about him. He was casually dressed in jeans and a flannie, with sneakers. He was tall, a little soft-looking, with thin fair hair. His hand came out tentatively.
‘Mr Hardy, my name is John Turner. Mario Ongarello suggested I see you.’
‘I know Mario, known him for years. Please come in, Mr Turner.’
Mario was a florist at the Cross. Way back, my then wife, Cyn, was in St Vincent’s with encephalitis and complications. I bought flowers every couple of days and struck up a friendship with Mario. Cyn recovered. Maybe the flowers helped. Anyway, over the years we’d have a drink together, talk boxing, disagree about soccer versus rugby. Good bloke, apart from that, but I’d never expected anyone in his line of work to present me with a client.
Turner stepped into the office, looked around briefly and took the chair I pointed to. He put his hands on the desk as if to steady himself.
I went behind my desk, opened a notebook, picked up a pen. Just props.
‘What’s the problem?’
He took a few seconds to answer. ‘I’ll try to be as clear and concise as I can,’ he said. ‘My wife died four years ago. She drove her car off the Great Ocean Road down in Victoria. D’you know it?’
‘I was there once a long time back. Dangerous then.’
‘It still is, especially if you drive a high-powered car at speed and haven’t quite got the skill to go with it. Paula drove a Porsche. The car went through the rail and down into the water. It was winter and the sea was wild. The car, what was left of it, washed up, but Paula’s body was never found.’
‘Like Harold Holt.’
‘What? Yes, I suppose, something similar.’
Prime Minister Holt had vanished in the surf at Cheviot Beach in 1967—quite a long way east of where he was talking about. I was young at the time and barely remembered it, but the event was regularly revived in the media on the anniversary. It’d be well and truly history to him, but it’s always worthwhile to test a potential client’s grasp. Politically incorrect, but who cares? I guessed his age at forty—max.
He went on. ‘Paula was a wealthy woman. She was a little older than me and she’d built up a sporting goods consultancy business. She negotiated with the management of sports stars for their endorsements and helped to organise the manufacture of equipment bearing their names. All done overseas on the cheap, of course. Then she was involved in handling the importation, the advertising and distribution.’
‘It sounds lucrative.’
He nodded. ‘Very. But she worked incredibly hard to get it that way. She was a triathlete in her younger days and she had the contacts and the respect—both very important in that business.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘I worked for her. I had the qualifications as well—a business degree and I’d swum competitively at a high level. I worked hard, too, and we ... clicked. We appreciated each other’s abilities. We married. Standard stuff—boss marries worker, except in reverse, gender-wise. When everything was running smoothly, she ... we began to have fun—holidays, beach house, the Porsche for her, an Audi for me. She was thinking of branching out into wine tourism. And so the trip to Victoria on her own—I hate the cold. It was a new challenge.’
I nodded. I’d always tried to avoid new challenges, finding the old and present ones quite enough
‘Paula’s will left me very well provided for. The house, the consultancy in its entirety. There were no children. Her mother was still alive but they’d had a falling out years back and hadn’t had any contact, although Paula knew where she lived—in Darlinghurst. There was no mention of her in the will. I ran the business for a while but gradually eased out of it and sold it eventually. There were cashed-up bidders, and I judged that it had needed Paula’s special touch. I’m taking a long time to get to the point, aren’t I?’
He smiled and his bland, composed face came alive. Easy to see why the boss’d go for him. There was charm in the smile. He reminded me of an actor whose name I couldn’t quite call to mind—someone who could play on the emotions with a look.
‘Take the time you need.’
‘When the business was sold it was worth less than I’d thought. There were ... encumbrances—outstanding debts and loans that were hard to trace. The house carried a bigger mortgage than I’d expected. I admit I didn’t try too hard or get my people to pursue it. I had enough. Plenty. I began to take an interest in the stock market and did pretty well. Do I sound cold?’
He did, a bit, but you have to cut a potential client some slack. ‘I wouldn’t say so necessarily, Mr Turner. You sound sane and sensible. Grief has its place, I guess, but it never did anyone any good in the long run. After a while it’s mostly just self-pity.’
‘True. I was very fond of Paula and we got along well, but it was never a grand passion. Anyway, as I say, I soldiered on. Then just last week I happened to see in the paper that Paula’s mother had died. I’d never met her, you understand, but the name and the address matched. I have a lawyer friend—he made discreet enquiries. She suicided apparently and left quite a bit of money and instructions that she was to be cremated and her ashes scattered from Tom Ugly’s Bridge over the Georges River—she and Paula had lived in Sylvania when it wasn’t as expensive as it is now. She’d made arrangements in advance with a funeral parlour.’
He stopped talking and drew a breath. ‘Sorry I’m still being so long-winded.’
‘Don’t be. Better to get the details upfront. And it’s interesting—the Tom Ugly’s touch.’
‘It gets more interesting. I don’t know why, but I found out when the cremation was to take place and I went along. I never got to say goodbye to Paula, so I suppose I was sort of filling in that gap in a funny way. Well, I was the only person there and I bought a wreath on the way, but there was another wreath. I mean, she, Claudia Ramanascus, didn’t know anyone. She didn’t know her neighbours. She was dead in the flat for a week before anybody
‘You’re saying?’
‘The wreath had to be from Paula. I know it’s a guess, an assumption, but as I see it there’s no other possibility.’
I could have told him there were always other possibilities, but the story interested me too much. I doodled on the pad, giving him time to collect himself.
‘The wreath came from Mr Ongarello’s shop down the road from here,’ he said finally. ‘I went to see him and asked if he knew who had ordered it. He didn’t, he’s busy, he has assistants, things are done over the phone and online. I’m afraid I became upset and told him something—not that much—of what I’ve just told you. He suggested that I see you to find out if an ... investigation is feasible.’
I’d been watching him closely and decided that the actor he resembled was William Hurt. He had the same thin hair, pale eyes and winning smile. My suspicious nature made me wonder if, as well as looking like an actor, he was one. But his manner was direct and his story was intriguing. There were questions, though.
‘Faked deaths have happened before,’ I said. ‘There was John Stonehouse and that other one not so long back.’
‘But they got caught. It can’t be easy to bring off.’
‘No, but as I’m sure you know, with all crime more gets away than gets caught. Just suppose she is still alive and I could find her. Wouldn’t that jeopardise your financial position?’
‘No. As I said, there was no life insurance to speak of and the assets weren’t quite what was expected. I had some investments of my own at the time and I worked with that as well as with what I got from Paula’s estate. What I have now I mostly accumulated through my own efforts and I could prove it. Besides, if you did find her I wouldn’t want to ... expose her.’
‘Why bother to look, then?’
He released the slow smile again. ‘D’you remember Kerry Packer saying that acquiring Fairfax would amuse him? It’s a bit like that. No, that’s not quite honest. I admire her if that’s what she did, but I do feel ... tricked. I’d like to know. I’d like to know how she did it. How she squirreled away a good deal of money. Not that I want it, not that I’m entitled to it.’
‘You’d also like to know why.’
‘Yes.’
‘How about—with whom?’
He shrugged his broad ex-swimmer’s shoulders. ‘If it worked out that way, so be it. But as I say, I don’t bear any serious grudge. If you can find her and have some solid evidence, an address and a photo, say, I’d take it from there.’ He plucked a wallet from his shirt pocket and extracted a couple of hundred-dollar notes as if they were tens.
I wasn’t sure that I quite believed him. People’s motives in coming to private detectives are often devious, but he told a good story and evidently had the money to pay for my time, which I had plenty of. I went through the usual routine—told him my retainer and fee structure, and that no outcome could be guaranteed. He showed a polite interest, signed a contract and paid the retainer. He handed me a full-length photograph of his presumed-to-be-late wife. Tall, slender, as you’d expect for a triathlete, with just a suggestion of weight gain around the face.
‘Now,’ I said, ‘who’s this lawyer who made the discreet enquiries?’
‘Do you have to know that? I told you what—’
I moved the signed contract back towards him a little. ‘I need to know, or this is cancelled by mutual agreement. And you get your money back, minus a small deduction for my time.’
He studied me for most of a minute. ‘Mr Ongarello said you were thorough. I’m beginning to see what he meant. Okay, his name is Simon Amherst. He’s a solicitor and his firm is Amherst and Bruce. They’re in the book. Good afternoon.’
He was getting up from his chair as he spoke— suddenly not charming, not pleased, not giving me time to be polite.
‘You realise that if she is still alive and you just satisfy your curiosity and do nothing more, you’d be conniving at ... I don’t know ... some kind of civil, maybe criminal, deception?’
He smiled again. ‘I wouldn’t worry a whole hell of a lot about that, Mr Hardy. Would you?’
* * * *
My first port of call was Mario’s shop. He greeted me in his Mediterranean way—big laugh, slap on the back, offer of a drink in his office. It was late in the afternoon, so why not? Some grappa’s like paint stripper, but not Mario’s. The stuff went down smoothly. I swear I could see olive trees and the Colosseum when I closed my eyes.
‘Mr Turner,’ I said. ‘The widower, or maybe not.’
‘Ah, yes.’ He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a credit card slip.
‘You told him you didn’t know who bought it.’
‘Different things—what I tell him and what I tell you. I wanted you to talk to him first. I can’t just give out information about customers. D’you think he’s genuine, Cliff?’
‘I’m flattered by your confidence in me. I’m not sure about him, but I’ve taken the matter on.’
‘Fair enough. Anyway, what I said was partly true. I don’t remember who bought the wreath, but this is how they paid.’
I examined the slip. The customer had paid with a MasterCard that had nearly two years of life left before it expired. It was a company card for Victory Motorcraft.
Back in the office, I phoned Bob Lawson, who worked for a credit checking company and did freelance stuff for people like me. He gave me the address.
‘Post office box in Ballina, up north,’ Bob said. ‘You lucky bugger. Off up there, are you, all expenses paid?’
‘Including you. Thanks, Bob.’
The Yellow Pages for the Northern Rivers area told me that Victory Motorcraft was a luxury boat-building operation on the Richmond River. The advertisement was minimalist—a thumbnail photo, phone and fax number, no names. Bob was right—at that time of year with a well-heeled client, a trip to Ballina was definitely required.
I flew there, hired a car and went to look for boatbuilding operations along the river. Winter down south, pretty mild up here. I needed the air conditioning in the car.
It didn’t take long to find the place. A quick look in my battered copy of Exploring Australia had told me that the river used to be home to dozens of boat builders but the business had gone elsewhere. Victory Motorcraft consisted of a large shed on an acre of land hard by the river. There was a slipway, a wharf or jetty with rails running from the wharf to the shed, winches, a small crane and other equipment unfamiliar to me.
I parked above the site where I could get a good view of it through my field glasses. A big, expensive, apparently brand new boat that looked ready to go was tied up at the wharf with people clustered around it. Three men in casual dress, two more in overalls and a woman. I trained my camera on her and adjusted the focus and the zoom. A bit older, a bit leaner and more tanned, but the woman was definitely Paula Turner, nee Ramanascus. I took several photographs of her in profile and then two full-face when she turned away, with a nod at one of the overall-wearers, from the river. Job done—hers and mine. She shook hands with the non-workers who stood looking at the boat and strode back towards the shed. She moved like an athlete, long striding, loose.
I had a boozy, slightly troubled night in Byron just for the hell of it and flew back the next day. I thought about it. From what I remembered of the Great Ocean Road, the ‘accident’ would have been difficult to stage. She must have needed help at that point and perhaps at other points. Resourceful woman. Was it any of my business? I couldn’t decide. I had the photos developed, typed up a report and Turner came by after I phoned him. The retainer had covered everything but he thanked me and gave me a bonus.
* * * *
When I finished talking Lily looked disappointed. ‘What’s so bad about that? Cliff works fast, does good.’
‘Turner shot them all.’
‘Jesus. Who?’
‘His wife, her lover up in Ballina, and Amherst, the lawyer who helped her set it all up. And himself.’