‘Mister. Mister!’
The voice, young and piping, was close to my ear and a hand was shaking my shoulder. I looked up and was blinded by the low sun.
‘You’re going to get wet, Mister. Tide’s coming in.’
My saviour was one of those truants, jiggers they call them now-aged about ten, skinny and brown, a true habitue of the beach. I thanked him and scrambled to my feet. Another minute or two and one of the more thrusting waves would’ve soaked me.
‘Thanks, son.’ I found a dollar in my shorts pocket and gave it to him. He looked at it doubtfully. I found a fifty cent piece and gave him that, too.
‘Thanks, mate.’ He ran towards the kiosk, flicking sand all over me with his take-off.
I collected my stuff and stood on the beach looking at the water. The surf was high and loud and the board riders were doing fine. Most of the swimmers had gone but there were still a few little kids playing on the rocks and bigger kids lounging around the surf club. Away to the south I could see people walking on the beach and a few immobile figures holding long rods and looking like permanent fixtures at the water’s edge.
I was stiff from sleeping on the hard sand in an awkward position. A hot shower would have been good but the sheds didn’t run to that. I stood under the cold water and rubbed and soaped and did knee bends until I felt loose. I hummed a few bars of The Sultans of Swing’ and a teenager gave me a sideways look. I did a rapid calculation: he’d have been five or six when the song came out. I remembered my father crooning Bing Crosby numbers, off key, in the bathroom with the door open. I remembered the smile on his face and the pleasure he was getting. He must have been imagining himself in Manhattan, in a tux, with slicked-back hair and a willowy blonde waiting to dance with him. Instead, he had a semi in Maroubra and my ratbag mum, my sister and me. I went on humming defiantly until it was time to turn off the water.
It was too early to go calling on the Senior Sergeant but not too early to find out where she lived. Burwood Road branched off Dudley Road in Whitebridge. The houses were generally upmarket and tasteless, colonnaded, triple-garage horrors, but hers was one of a set of four cottages facing the entrance to the Glenrock Nature reserve. The cottages were identical in structure but had undergone some changes over the years-bits added, verandahs closed in. My guess was that they were mine managers’ houses, several notches up from the workers’ houses. Glenys Withers’ house was the last in the set, possibly the cheapest to buy, because it was in a dip and would not have had an ocean view. It was also the least adulterated.
I drove down the gravel track to Dudley Beach through light timber and scrub that didn’t look to have changed since settlement. The ocean opened out in front of me after a particularly sharp and badly cambered turn and I almost missed the first stunning impact of the view as I fought the steering wheel for traction. The beach was long, wide and curving with rugged rock formations at either end. From this elevation and direction the water looked almost threatening, as if it would not be confined by the bay but would sweep up the sides and carve chunks out of the coast. Maybe it would. There was a car park at the bottom of the road, a rutted, half-hearted affair of posts and wire fences. It was a safe bet that not many of the BMWs and Volvos I’d seen in the Whitebridge driveways would risk their suspensions on the road or stand here in the blazing sun on a summer day. Dudley was still a beach for the people who went places on foot.
‘Come in, Mr Hardy’
She was wearing a black silk shirt and a blue and white horizontally striped skirt that came down well below her knees. Shoes with a bit of a heel. She had her hair pushed back from her face and held with some kind of a clip. Her forehead sloped back and her blue eyes seemed to bulge slightly. She smelled slightly of wine.
Peter Corris
CH14 — Aftershock
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Nice house. Best in the neighbourhood.’
She laughed and moved aside to let me into the hallway. ‘Aren’t they awful? And they keep getting worse. I’d had my eye on these houses for years and nearly went mad when they came up for auction.’
I had a folder under my arm which contained a selection of the Oscar Bach material. I’d hoped to impress her with it, but right now I was the one being impressed. The hall was painted in soft colours and the hardwood floor was highly polished. The place smelled of natural things-wood, earth and flowers. We went through to a sitting room-cum-kitchen that held a lot of light and just the right amount of furniture.
‘White wine or beer?’ she said.
‘Wine, thanks.’ I put the folder on the pine table and looked through the back window. The view was of open, lightly timbered country rising back up towards a ridge covered with the sorts of houses that decorated Burwood Road. She handed me a stemmed glass and followed my gaze.
‘When I was little, all this was open way back up to the mine. These houses were all owned by BHP-leased to the mine managers and engineers. They sold them off a year or so ago.’
‘You were lucky some developer didn’t buy them up and level them.’
She nodded. ‘Lucky by six months. A bit earlier when the developers were flush, that’s exactly what would’ve happened. As it was, the houses went to people who wanted to live in them. Sit down. Let’s talk. What’ve you got?’
I sat and couldn’t help laughing. ‘You call that talking?’
She picked up the half-full wineglass that had been standing on the table and took a sip. ‘I suppose not. We have to trade, do we?’
That had been my thought but now, looking at her, it didn’t seem to make a lot of sense. The little bit of the house I’d seen spoke volumes-she lived alone, independently, made her own choices. Sleek brown hair and blue eyes, slim, shapely body below the slightly padded black silk shoulders. I was dry-mouthed and needed the wine. ‘Glenys doesn’t suit you,’ I said.
‘I’m called Glen, mostly’
We stood simultaneously and I reached for her. Her body was strong and soft at the same time and she was taller than I’d thought. We came together at the thighs and I felt her arms go around my waist. I put my hand behind her head and searched for her mouth. We kissed like thirsty travellers finding a well in the desert. Her mouth was soft and it opened and we probed each other, taking something and seeking something more. When the kiss ended we were standing clamped together; I could feel her breasts against my chest and I put my hand up to touch them. She undid a button and put my hand inside. She was naked under the blouse; my fingers closed over the soft, cool flesh and I felt her nipple rising.
Then her hand was over mine, holding it still, preventing further exploration. ‘Are you married or living with someone?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘That’s good.’
Her bedroom was large and at the front of the house. I’d been right about the water view. From the window I got an impression of moonlight and stars, tree tops and clouds. I lay back with my head propped up on two or three pillows and didn’t bother to try to make the images any clearer. Her head was on my chest and her hands were patting her groin. She was making little moaning noises.
‘Good,’ she said, ‘that was so good.’
She was right. It had been good, tentative to begin with as we discovered what worked, what was exciting and unusual. We used our hands and mouths and I only entered her at the very end, almost as a courtesy that neither of us cared too much about. That, of course, made it all the more exciting and we finished by bucking and thrusting each other into sweaty exhaustion.
‘It’s only about eight o’clock,’ she said. ‘And we haven’t eaten.’
‘Hmm. I wouldn’t say that.’
She laughed. ‘D’you want to go out to eat, or something, Cliff?’
I kissed the top of her head. ‘No. I’ll eat anything you’ve got in the kitchen that isn’t actually moving. I’ve had a very hard day- interviews, research, surfing, sleeping on the beach
‘What beach?’
‘Redhead. Why?’
‘Nothing. I thought you might’ve gone to see Mr Jacobs with your information.’
‘I can’t do that until I talk to you.’
I felt her body stiffen slightly as some of the sexual languor departed. Well, it had to happen. I felt lazy and relaxed physically, but as I lay there and looked out at the night sky I was aware that this was only part of the story. I hadn’t only come there to fuck. We seemed to reach similar states of mind simultaneously; she rolled away and reached for her shirt which was on the floor by the bed and I swung my legs clear and felt for my pants. We were holding up the garments, arranging them for putting on, when we both burst into laughter. We rolled on the bed, hugging and kissing and I felt the soft swell of her belly and the warmth between her legs.
‘I’m too old,’ I said.
‘Don’t be silly. Do the best you can. I don’t mind.’
It was another half hour before we dressed and went back to the kitchen-dining room, both now seriously hungry and thirsty. Glen wasn’t much into house-keeping. She had bread and cheese and eggs and a lettuce and tomatoes and onions and that was about all, apart from breakfast cereal and milk and some grapes. We boiled the eggs and laid the rest of it out, minus the cereal, on the table and ate it with a few glasses of the white wine to wash it down. I took the Bach file from the floor where it had fallen and showed it to her. It wasn’t a time for negotiation-we were into the realm of trust or the past two hours had meant nothing at all.
She read through the papers as she ate and drank, diluting her wine with mineral water so that after the first two glasses it was scarcely alcoholic at all. I followed suit, heavier on the wine.
‘How did you get on to this?’ she said.
I told her about the interview with Mark Roper and the opening of Oscar Bach’s box.
She examined the map with the crosses and pulled a face. ‘You’re hoping it’s negative on these four places for rapes and abductions?’
I nodded.
‘Don’t know yet. The computer records aren’t that good. I’d have to say it’s maybe for Wentworth Falls at least.’
‘What’s the case?’
‘Sixteen-year-old. Not the type to go missing, but vanished without a trace. Pretty blonde girl. Isn’t it amazing? We fucked while we were holding on to this sort of information.’
I shrugged. ‘They screwed in Belsen. Did you find out anything else about Schmidt?’
She tapped the photostats into a neat pile and slipped them back inside the manilla folder. ‘Sort of. If anyone had bothered to look he would’ve shown up as very odd. His commercial references don’t check out. He didn’t register his business, didn’t have any insurance. The name is a deed poll job, pretty recent. The driver’s licence is an outright fake. He must have known somebody in that racket.’
‘That figures,’ I said. ‘The question is, did he assault, rape or kill anyone in any of those four locations? If he did, you have to act on this, Glen.’
‘I know. Get in touch with the detectives who worked on the cases, if there are any, contact the parents… shit! Well, that’s my problem, but I can see yours-Mr Jacobs.’
‘Right. He’ll probably fire me. He won’t want to hear any of this. Now that’ll be OK by his son, Ralph
‘Who probably put the frighteners on you the other night.’
I looked at her, possibly with my mouth hanging open.
She reached over and touched the healed cuts on my face. ‘We know about Ralph. He’s a Sydney smoothie now, dead respectable, but not so long ago he was a real head-kicker. It wasn’t too hard to figure out that he’d try to discourage you. Didn’t work, did it?’
‘No. I’d rather like to meet him again.’
‘Again? So he warned you off?’
‘The motto on my tombstone should read “he only had himself to blame”.’
She digested that as we cleaned up the kitchen. She smoked a cigarette while she made coffee. She’d put on her silk shirt and her knickers but her legs were bare and I admired her slightly chunky calves as she moved. She caught me looking. ‘Perv,’ she said.
‘You’re safe for tonight.’
‘You underestimate yourself, or me. Are you staying?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ll come to your motel if you like. How’s the bed?’
‘I think it’s got automatic massage.’
‘Unnecessary. What’s wrong?’
I would have been hard put to say. I liked her more than any woman I’d been with in years. The sex had been good and we were communicating well and building something, maybe. But I didn’t know whether that was what I wanted. I could hear Helen Broadway’s voice and the worst thing was, as I drank some wine and smelled Glen Withers on my fingers, the smell reminded me of Helen. There was no way to tell her this. I grinned and put the sheets back inside the manilla folder. My brain raced to find something to say to her that would explain my movements. ‘Glen,’ I said.’ All that checking and talking to detectives is going to take time. After tomorrow I probably won’t have an employer but there’s something I’d still want to do. You’ll think it’s crazy.’
She came across and gave me a kiss that tasted of salad and cigarette. ‘No I won’t. You want to go down to Heathcote and talk to Rory Coleman. I’d want to do the same. Just so long as you come back.’