Ian Sangster had been right about the sleeping. A few pain-killers and a couple of glasses of wine got me under, but I’m a restless sleeper at the best of times and when I rolled onto the shoulder I woke up yelling. I slept in snatches, waking often. If I managed to keep pressure off the shoulder, the arm stiffened up on me. It was a bad night. When I was in the army in Malaya, the brass told us that sleep-deprivation and disruption was one of the ways the Chinese would torture us if we were captured. The other ways involved bamboo splinters and water. Losing sleep sounded like the softest option then, but after this night I wasn’t so sure.
I was glad to see the sky lightening and to hear the cat mewing for food. I found the cans Glen had bought and opened one awkwardly. I didn’t have a lot of gripping power in my left hand. First time I’d ever felt the lack of an electric can-opener. I read the paper, ate breakfast and had a shower as hot as I could bear. The heat seemed to ease the shoulder and allow me a little movement. I stretched it until the pain made me sweat and need another shower. I decided to ignore the injury, use the arm as normal and put up with the pain. I drove the Pulsar into my office, determined to be purposeful and productive, the way all the politicians kept urging us to be.
I put the high-powered Ms Cornwall’s file in an envelope and addressed it. Then I attended to some untidy small matters, putting off the moment when I’d have to decide my next step in the service of Gina Galvani. The phone rang, a further welcome delay.
‘Hardy.’
‘This is Peter Carboni, Mr Hardy- I think it’s time for us to have our talk. I’d like you to come down here.’
‘When?’
‘Why not now?’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Let’s talk about it when you get here. I’ll expect you in fifteen minutes.’
‘Make it twenty.’
Visiting police headquarters isn’t one of my favourite activities. There are few pats on the back and, although these days there aren’t usually any whacks over the head either, it’s still an unsettling experience. The difficulty I have is trying to believe that the cops, with all that manpower, firepower, computer power and influence are on the same side as me. I’ve never heard of a private detective becoming a policeman. There’s a certain amount of movement the other way, but the examples aren’t encouraging.
I identified myself at the modernistic reception booth, went through a metal detector, and was escorted up two floors to Carboni’s office. He opened the door for me, nice touch.
‘Have a seat. I hope you don’t smoke. It’s a smoke free zone.’
‘Funny,’ I said. ‘It used to be compulsory to smoke in cop shops.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
Carboni was a smooth number. Above average height, medium build, dark hair and plenty of it. He looked conscious of his neat, pleasing appearance but not vain about it. His office was small and functional with the obligatory computer on the desk and a certain amount of random paper. It looked like a surface where work got done. I sat in an imitation leather chair and looked at the landscape picture he’d hung on the wall to take the place of a view. The windows were high and small. Most of the light was artificial; the air-conditioner was quiet and effective.
‘Well, things happen around you, don’t they?’
‘I’m not sure I know what you mean.’
‘You took a bit of a thumping in Rozelle the day before yesterday I hear. Walked away, but you don’t look the best. Want to tell me about it?’
I told him about it, briefly, leaving out almost everything about Vita and finishing with the files arriving intact. He was interested, but not sympathetic. I didn’t make anything much of finding the files where the police had already been, but he scribbled a note about it. I entertained the suspicion that he was more of a politician than a policeman, looking for the main chance.
‘And what do you make of all that?’
I shrugged and wished I hadn’t. The shoulder hurt like hell, but true to my resolve I tried not to show it.
‘I haven’t a clue. As I say, the two cases didn’t go anywhere, and all I found out was that Scott was troubled. I’m still interested in his notebook.’
‘Maybe you’ll find it where all others have failed.’
I ignored the sarcasm. ‘Maybe. Look, I’m impressed by your intelligence network, Sergeant. I didn’t think that Rozelle stoush had attracted any attention. But you didn’t get me down here just on account of that.’
‘That’s right.’ He picked up a sheet of paper and glanced at it. ‘A complaint has come in about you, Hardy. From a Mr Kenneth Galvani. He claims that you’re exploiting his sister-in-law. According to him, ah… you’ve convinced her that you can find her husband’s murderer and you’re going to bleed her dry while you play detective.’
‘That’s crazy. She approached me. I’ve got her signature on a contract
Carboni waved his sheet of paper dismissively. ‘Grieving widow, easily influenced. He says you were rude at the house function after his brother was buried and that you were abusive to him on the phone.’
‘He’s crazy. And he’s lying.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. He’s upset. Why don’t you ask Gina about all this?’
‘Mr Galvani says she’s ill and staying at her mother-in-law’s place. There’s two little fatherless girls to take care of, distressed relatives. I’m Italian myself and I know how a family like that behaves. I don’t think it’s quite the time to put those sorts of questions to Mrs Galvani.’
I sat back in my chair, trying to make sense of this. Gina had expressly said she wanted to keep her distance from the Galvanis and would use her insurance money to do so. Was it the right time to mention the money to Carboni? Almost certainly not. I was in a bind. Carboni let the sheet drop onto his desk.
Peter Corris
CH18 — Casino
‘So where are we?’ I said. ‘I take it your investigation hasn’t progressed in any way?’
Carboni nodded. ‘That’s right.’
In his place, I might have shaken my head and said no, but Detective Sergeant Carboni was a positive kind of fellow. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re trying to tell me something?’
‘I’m not telling you anything. It’s your licence. You know the way things are in your game these days. Is your record good enough to withstand a formal complaint from a highly respectable source?’
I decided that I didn’t like him and I got up from my chair. ‘Point taken. I don’t have to bother the Galvanis. It looks as if the casino’s the way to go. I guess it always was, but it seemed worthwhile to tie up those loose ends first.’
He leaned back in his chair to look up at me. ‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea. That’s where we’ve been concentrating, of course. It wouldn’t help for you to get in the way.’
I was slow I suppose, but now I could see where he was coming from and what his message was- hands off the marvellous Sydney casino, the money-spinner, the tourist trap and what else besides? I didn’t know whether he was obeying instructions from higher up or was working on his own behalf, and I didn’t care. I’d moved towards the door but now I took a step back.
‘I don’t like being warned off!’
His big brown eyes opened wide in well-acted mock surprise. ‘Who’d do a thing like that?’ he said.
I left the building swearing under my breath about the bastardry of policemen. For all I knew, he might have invented the Galvani complaint, or provoked it for his own reasons. I was so angry I didn’t even think of trying to enlist Frank Parker’s help. I had a down on all coppers, Italian, Australian, Hindu-bloody-stani, male and female. I stalked back to my office, too enraged to feel any pain in my arm or to give a sling to any of the Darlinghurst street hustlers who approached me. I usually give once in the morning and once in the afternoon, trying to be fair to young and old, men and women, white and black. Today, they were all out of luck.
I’d contrived to get a council sticker that enabled me to park the Falcon close to the office. Not so, of course, with the Pulsar, and an infringement notice was fluttering from underneath the wiper. I moved the car and took the notice up to the office. Another expense item for the Galvani file. It took a few very painful arm-stretches and a full mug of red wine to get me steady enough to ring Gina’s number. I got Ken’s voice on an answering machine inviting me to leave a message. Somehow, I kept myself from being abusive. I rang off quietly and looked at the wall. The building is in an advanced state of decay and some interesting cracks have opened up in the old plaster walls. I squinted and let the cracks in my wall form patterns. All I could see was a rough outline of Italy and the old rhyme jumped into my wine-heavy head:
Long-legged Italy
Kicked poor Sicily
Right into the middle
Of the Mediterranean Sea
Not very helpful.
I searched through my pockets until I found Vita Drewe’s card. I laid it on the desk and looked at it for a while. I drank a half-mug of red and felt it hit my empty stomach. I was full of anger and frustration and randiness as I grabbed the phone and rang Vita’s work number.
‘This is Vita Drewe.’
‘Vi, Cliff Hardy.’
‘Hey, hello. I had a feeling you’d call.’
‘What kind of a feeling?’
‘You wouldn’t understand. How’s your shoulder?’
‘Not too bad. Remember how you said you like to put on the glad rags once in a while and throw your money away on roulette?’
‘Not my money, but sure, I remember. I look great in sequins and heels. Very Sigourney Weaver, or so I’ve been told.’
‘I’ll bet you do. How about tonight? You can play with some of my client’s money.’
‘So this is business?’
‘And pleasure. So long as you don’t ever, ever call me Cliffo.’
‘You’re on,’ she said.