We left it that Frank would get in touch with me as soon as he had anything useful. I told him I’d have a word with Tickener about a former senior police officer prepared to make revelations. I couldn’t tell whether or not Parker was serious about that; it would have gone against at least one of his prejudices-a belief that all journalists were frustrated somethings-else; and therefore untrustworthy. The tennis, the lunch-skipping and the abstinence suggested to me that Parker had action in mind rather than talk.
When I got back to Glebe it was after four o’clock, much closer to six than twelve and, therefore, by that logic, time for a drink. I changed my underwear and socks and tucked the denim shirt into my pants-a complete re-vamping of the wardrobe for me. The gun was in a clip under the dashboard of the Falcon. I was working on a big white wine and soda, sucking at the ice, when the phone rang. Helen Broadway, I thought, no, not yet.
“Hardy? This is Paul Guthrie.’
‘Yes, Mr Guthrie?’
‘Ray’s been here. Everything’s a shambles. Could you come over?’
‘Where’s here?’
‘Northbridge; you’ve got the address!’
‘I’m coming. Anyone hurt?’
His voice was a bitter rasp. ‘Physically, no.’
I gulped down the rest of the drink and hurried out to the car. It wasn’t a good time of day to negotiate the approaches to the Harbour Bridge, the bridge itself or the exits, and the going was slow. The traffic stayed sluggish on the other side and it wasn’t familiar territory to me. I had to jockey for the correct lane and I’d forgotten that the Cammeray bridge goes over parkland, and not water. But I found the turn-off and followed the golf course boundary into the heart of the suburb.
As I passed the big houses with the occasional private tennis court and the almost obligatory boat in the drive, I tried to interpret the message in Guthrie’s voice. All I got was a distress signal.
The houses got bigger as I approached Guthrie’s address; the driveways got wider and the gardens began to resemble private parks. As befitted a man who had made his pile, Guthrie had a house in the prime position. It was at the end of a point and had a water frontage-that’s where the house would be seen to best advantage, from the water. The non-aquatic entrance was at the back where a wide, gravel drive swept in under old peppercorn trees to a shaded yard as big as a three-hole golf course. I parked with the other cars-a Fairmont and a VW Passat-and went up the railway sleeper steps to a bricked patio that held a lot of outdoor furniture and a big barbecue. The swimming pool was away in a corner near the tennis court.
Guthrie had the door open for me before I reached it. We shook hands and went down a short passage to a sunroom with cane chairs and a rug over polished boards. Guthrie was wearing old slacks, sneakers and a tennis shirt. His short hair, usually brushed flat, was sticking up; there were deep pouches under his eyes.
‘D’you want a drink or something? Thanks for coming.’
‘That’s okay. No, no drink. Just tell me what happened.’
‘Ray came storming in here a few hours back. Right out of the blue. He’d been up to Newport, and he was raving about his stuff on the Satisfaction being disturbed. Furious about the photos you took.’
‘What did you say?’
‘He didn’t give me a chance to think. I lied-said I didn’t know anything about it. I said I’d looked through his things, but that was all. He got me so angry I didn’t mind lying. That boy’s in trouble.’
‘How did he behave, was he violent or anything?’
‘Seemed on the brink of it the whole time-crashing and banging. He called me for everything then he sounded off at his mother and that got me going. She was shocked, just by the look of him.’
‘How’s that?’
He ran his hands through his hair which produced the sticking-up effect. ‘He’d been drinking. Wasn’t drunk, but affected by it. I never knew Ray to have more than a couple of drinks. He seems to have got older all of a sudden. It’s funny thing, as your kids get older you just adapt to it on a day-to-day basis. Bit of a jolt when you get it in a lump. And that bloody moustache…’
‘What did he say to his mother?’
‘I didn’t hear much of it. I tried to calm him down, but she asked me to leave them alone for a bit while she tried to talk some sense into him. I don’t know what he said but pretty-soon he’s shouting and stalking out of the house like a lunatic and she’s in her room crying. God, I wish Chris was here; he’d show some sanity!’
Guthrie looked like a man out of his depth, or like someone called on to do something foreign to his nature. It sounded as if he’d lost his temper pretty quickly: I tried to imagine a confrontation between the neat, compact little man and the moustachioed individual I’d seen the night before. It seemed like a bad mix of characters and styles.
‘Did he see Jess when he was up at Newport?’ I asked.
‘Don’t know. If he did, he didn’t say. Is it too soon to ask you what you’ve been doing?’
I gave him a quick report and showed him the photos. He put on a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles to allow him to study the picture of the dark man more closely. He shook his head and handed it back.
‘Don’t know him. Never seen him. Was Ray drunk?’
‘No, they only had a couple of drinks.’
He looked at the group picture again. ‘Something between him and the woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘God help him. I wish you could have followed them.’
‘I tried.’
‘It’s the police angle that worries me as much as anything.’
I nodded. ‘Someone raised the possibility of ex-cops.’
‘God, is there anything worse?’
‘Not much.’ I felt disloyal to Parker and others by saying it, but there was a lot of truth in it. This thing was going to get worse before it got better; and I couldn’t see any point in softening it up for him. ‘Did you tell your wife about hiring me?’
‘Yes. She seemed to think it was a good idea.’
‘You didn’t tell Ray?’
‘No, but… I think that’s one of the things he was ranting about. Something about being followed. That must be about you and the other night. He might’ve accused Pat of putting someone on to him. It’s all pretty confused in my head now.’
‘I’ll have to see her.’
He unhooked the spectacles and looked at them as if he hated the evidence of his ageing. Then he shoved them into the shallow pocket of his shirt, where they dangled precariously.
‘I’ll talk to her. Hang on.’
We’d had this exchange standing up in the middle of the room. One wall was taken up with framed photographs and another by a bookcase which held a clutter of books and magazines-mostly about boats. I wandered over to look at the photographs. The oldest one showed Guthrie with a boyish physique at the oar in a scull along with his partner who looked almost identical. They had the toothy grins of young title-winners. There was a picture of Guthrie in the Olympic team wearing the dowdy uniform of those days. Then the subjects became familial and property-oriented: Guthrie, possessive and smiling, standing beside a small and pretty dark woman; two adolescent boys crewing a yacht with their step-father; Ray Guthrie sitting at the wheel of a Mini moke.
I browsed in the bookshelf, but I’d rather look at water and swim in it than float on it or read about it, and I wasn’t very interested until I came to Technique of Double Sculling by Paul Guthrie. It was published in 1975, not much more than a pamphlet, and it was dedicated to Ray and Chris. Paul Guthrie had taken on the role of father early and seriously.
Guthrie came back and escorted me down a passageway to a room near the front of the house. The passage turned twice; it was quite a long walk.
‘She’s in here’, he said. ‘D’you want me to stay or what?’
‘How do you feel about it?’
‘Might be better if you have a talk on your own. He’s her son.’ There was a lot of hurt in the last phrase and it struck me how much store Guthrie put by this family he had constructed. The threat to it was more than just a threat to something comfortable and familiar, it was a threat to his future. No way to be helpful there. I nodded.
‘I’ll be around if you need me’, he said.
I knocked on the door and pushed it open. The bedroom was full of late afternoon light through a big bay window with a deep seat built into it. There was a double bed in one corner of the room, a cedar chest and big wardrobe with mirrors. It was neat but not too neat; there were clothes on the bed and shoes on the floor.
If Pat Guthrie had been pretty ten years ago, she was something more than that now. She had an elegant narrow head with fine, delicate features. The grey blended with fair streaks in her mid-brown hair to look interesting. She had a wide mouth that looked capable of expressing all the emotions. There wasn’t much emotion showing now, though; she was sitting in a chair by the bay window, but her gaze was on the floor, not the spectacular view.
‘Mrs Guthrie’, I said softly. ‘I’m Cliff Hardy, your husband…’
‘Come in, Mr Hardy. I’m sorry we have to do this in here. I just can’t face the rest of the house for a while.’
‘That’s all right.’ I walked into the room and she shifted the chair so I could sit in the window recess. She was wearing a white dress with a square neck that showed the intricate bones of her neck and shoulders-birdlike, but not scrawny. She was deeply tanned, and had dark eyes and eyebrows as some Celts do. I’d have bet on a Scots or Irish maiden name. There were tear marks in her light make-up and a damp spot on her dress. She was handsome; she had a fine house, a good husband and two sons. She was also deeply miserable.
‘I know a bit about the background to the troubles with Ray’, I said. ‘Can you tell me what was disturbing him so much today?’
‘Didn’t Paul tell you?’
‘He told me about a dispute over Ray’s possessions on the boat. But there’s more to it than that. You tell me.’
‘How do you know there’s more?’
‘From looking at you. From the way you were looking at the floor. From the way you’re looking at me now.’
Her mouth moved into what could have been a smile if there’d been any warmth in it. ‘That’s absurd. You must be a charlatan to say things like that.’
‘Uh huh. I’d bet what’s on your mind goes back way beyond today, way beyond three months ago when Ray took off. It goes a long way back.’
She’d lifted her head politely when the conversation began; although she was deeply troubled there was no weakness in the face-her firm jaw and high cheekbones were striking and strong. But she was sceptical- Scots, I thought, I’d have bet on Scots.
‘How could you possibly know that?’
‘It isn’t so hard. I’ve seen a lot of people in distress. But really, it’s just transference: if I’d been sitting and looking the way you were I know I wouldn’t have been thinking about today or yesterday.’
‘You’re right, of course. But I don’t think I can talk about it to you.’
‘I think you have to, Mrs Guthrie. I don’t have any degrees or certificates, but I know about this kind of trouble. I like your husband. I want to help.’ I was carrying my photograph collection with me in an envelope-they were starting to get a little battered. I took out the one of the group in the Noble Briton and the one of the dark stranger with the bald head and the cop’s walk and passed them across to her.
‘Here’s your son, just the other night, with two of the most unpleasant people in Sydney.’ I pointed to Catchpole and Williams. ‘And with someone else who doesn’t look all that nice.’ I moved my finger across the surface of the photo. ‘Do you know him, Mrs Guthrie?’
She glanced, looked away quickly. ‘I’ve seen the woman.’
‘When?
‘Today. She was in the car with Ray. I don’t know the man.’
I took out the old, creased photo of the Digger lighting his fag and held it for her to see. I didn’t let go of it.
‘You know him, don’t you?’
‘Yes’, she said softly. ‘I know him. He’s the boys’ father.’