We ate and drank whatever was in the fridge. Felicia touched up her drawings and developed some of her pictures in a darkroom that was part of the flat’s second bedroom. I dipped into Robert Hughes and wondered whether I was related to the old lag Henry Hale, who arrived on the Third Fleet and endured the hell of Toongabbie. My maternal grandfather had been a Hale. I praised the photographs, which seemed to capture every detail of the park and add something to them. Perhaps Felicia’s grief. But we spent most of the time together in bed.
At nine o’clock the next morning we were on the road to the south coast. I was wearing the clothes I’d worn the day before; but I keep a towel and swimming trunks, a sweater, shorts, thongs and sneakers and a jacket in the car, so I wasn’t ill-equipped for the trip. I had my Autobank card and my answering machine was switched on. I had the device to monitor it sitting in the glove box of the Falcon, about ten centimetres from the Smith amp; Wesson. 38. I had a woman who made me laugh and felt like a friend and a lover and a sparring partner. What the hell else did I need?
It was a grey but not threatening day. I’d done work in Wollongong and Port Kembla and some of the farther-flung south coast towns before, but some years back. I thought I was familiar with the route, but Felicia had to jog my memory at a couple of the turns and bypasses.
‘Did you know D.H. Lawrence lived in Thirroul for a while?’ Felicia said as we went into the National Park.
‘I saw the film.’
We talked about the film of Kangaroo and related matters all the way over the Audley crossing and past the turnoffs to Maianbar and Bundeena. On the other side of the park the sky seemed to clear; a couple of hang-gliders hovered, high above the coast from Otford Heights.
‘Things I’ve yet to do,’ I said. ‘That and scuba diving.’
‘What about parachuting?’
‘I’ve done that in the army.’
‘How was it?’
I looked at the hang-gliders; one of them executed a turn and swoop, and soared far out over the sea. ‘Not much fun.’
‘Do you find your work fun, Cliff? All this questioning and digging into lives and pushing people around?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I like che blondes and brunettes.’
She looked out the window, and I felt the chill.
‘Sorry. That was dumb. There isn’t much of those things you mentioned. Just now and then. Mostly it’s dull routine stuff. I don’t mind it- I’m independent, I can think my own thoughts.’
‘Mm. This is awkward, isn’t it? You screwing the widow in the case. Ever done this before?’
‘Come on, Fel. You’re not the widow in the case to me. That’s not how it is. You’re you, I’m me, Barnes was Barnes, the job’s the job. Things can be kept separate.’
‘Can they?’
‘Look, I know a guy who married three sisters. Three. The first one died and the second marriage didn’t work out because she left him. He’s been with the third sister for fifteen years. He told me that when he thinks about it, he never thinks of them as sisters. They’re individuals.’
She smiled. ‘That’s a nice story.’
‘It’s true.’
‘I don’t care whether it’s true or not. It’s a nice story.’
The temperature was more pleasant for the rest of the drive.
The Todds’ holiday house was a 1930s-style, double-fronted weatherboard bungalow, on a bluff about a hundred metres back from the ocean. I carried Felicia’s overnight bag through the rather gloomy passage to the back of the house. The light was held out by bamboo blinds drawn down low on all windows. When Felicia lifted the blinds I saw that the view of the water was a bit blocked by trees and other houses, but there was more than a glimpse.
‘When can I see Lawrence’s ghost?’
She pointed out the window at a narrow stretch of rocky beach at the bottom of a steep path. ‘Down there at high tide. Or is it low tide? I forget.’
I put the plastic shopping bag that held my few possessions on the floor and moved quietly around the big room. It ran the width of the house. The room had a closed-up, musty smell. It occurred to me that this was probably her first visit since Barnes’ death. We both felt the awkwardness. In holiday houses people have fun, drink and eat a bit, spend a lot of time in bed and forget their cares. That’s what those places are for. We were both wondering if the mood was transferable.
‘I think I’ll do some drawing,’ she said.
I nodded. ‘I’ll go into Bulli and poke around.’
‘We’re well back from the scarp here. It stays warmer later. It’d be good to have a swim around four.’
It was just past eleven. She was giving me my marching orders for five hours while she dealt with her memories and emotions.
‘Right,’ I said. I kissed her on the forehead. ‘What provisions should I get?’
‘Nothing. I’ll take a walk to the shops. If you want Drambuie or something exotic you’d better get it yourself. Jesus!’
‘What?’
She had opened a door that led to a narrow passage and out onto the deck that ran along the back of the house. The intense light outside showed where the door to the deck had been jemmied open and later pushed back into the frame.
‘Have a look around,’ I said. ‘See if anything’s been disturbed.’
I went out onto the deck. An agile person could have reached it easily from the overgrown garden. Behind the house was a narrow lane and the backs and sides of other houses. No problem. The surf crashed on the beach around the headland. Felicia had taken off her sandals and I didn’t hear her on the deck until she was beside me.
‘Someone’s been through the place,’ she said. ‘Nothing taken, nothing damaged. I suppose they’re going through the Redfern flat right now. Unwrapping the tampons. What is this, Cliff? What’s it all about?’
‘I don’t know. You’d better come with me.’
‘No chance. This is my house and I’m staying here.’ She stalked away and when I went back into the house I found her clicking bullets into the magazine of a. 22 repeating rifle.
‘Hey. What’re you doing?’
‘Go and earn your money, Cliff. Don’t worry, I know how to use this. I’ll be all right.’
‘Those things’re illegal now. Don’t you read the papers?’
‘I don’t give a bugger. This government’s on the way out. Bloody fools. They can’t enforce that law. Every country cop’s got a couple of guns himself. It’s madness.’
A gun lobbyist, for God’s sake. I left.
Sergeant Trevor Anderson wasn’t a whole lot of help. He was youngish for his rank, anxious to please but new in the district and very light on for experience.
‘I don’t think I can add anything to what you already know, Mr Hardy,’ he said. ‘There were a couple of witnesses or people on the scene pretty quickly. You’ve got their names.’
‘Yes. Was there any other traffic on the road?’
He pushed back his sandy hair, which was a bit longer than normal for a cop. He also wore spectacles. It looked as if he was hoping to rise to Commissioner by force of intellect. He checked his notes carefully. ‘Apparently not.’
‘What does that mean, sergeant?’
‘None of the witnesses mentioned any. Is that all, Mr Hardy? I’ve got work to do.’
Merv Simpson, one of the firefighters, was at home. He had recently been laid off from a coalmine and he was happy to pass the time of day. Trouble was, he couldn’t tell me anything. He had seen the fire, not the accident, and he was sure that Clarrie Bent, who had helped him, was in the same boat.
‘Talk to Warren,’ he said. ‘Warren Bradley. He got us on the blower. Poor bugger sits up all night. He mighta seen a bit more.’
Warren Bradley’s wife read my card carefully, studied my face and then showed me through to the back verandah of the house, which was in a bushy setting back from the steeply descending road. Bradley was a heavy-set, middle-aged man with grey hair and a pale, pudgy face that looked as if it had once been tanned and hard. He was sitting in a wheelchair, staring out over the treetops towards the water.
‘Be patient with him,’ Mrs Bradley whispered. ‘He’s a bit difficult.’
‘I’m not bloody difficult, Mildred,’ Bradley said, ‘and I can hear your whispers a hundred yards away. Who’s this?’
I went up to him and stuck out my hand. ‘Name’s Cliff Hardy, Mr Bradley. I want to have a few words with you about the accident on the Pass a few months back.’
Bradley shook my hand. His palm was soft but there was strength in his grip. “Bout time someone did that. Take a seat.’
I sat on a straight-backed chair beside him. Mrs Bradley hovered. She was a thin, nervous woman who looked as if she had never known the right thing to do.
“What about a couple of beers, Mildred?’ Bradley said.
‘Do you think you should, dear?’
‘Yes. I think I should. Stop worrying, love. The money’s due any day.’
‘It’s not the money. It’s your health.’
Bradley let out a bellow of laughter; his big, deep chest gave the sound resonance and volume. ‘My health! Just get us a drink, there’s a good girl.’
She left the verandah, closing the screen door quietly behind her. Bradley slapped the tops of his thighs. ‘Mine accident,’ he said. ‘Both legs buggered for good. Compo’s coming through, but.’
I nodded. ‘No hope?’ I said. ‘Physio? Operation?’
Peter Corris
CH12 — O'Fear
‘Stuffed,’ he said. ‘Mind you, I miss the fishing more than the bloody work. What d’you want to talk about?’
‘Sounded to me like you wanted to talk.’
‘Yeah. Well, I was in a shitty mood back then! Having a bad time with all this.’ He touched his legs again. ‘Couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t what you’d call co-operative. I was giving Mildred a bad time. Everybody.’
Mrs Bradley came back with a tray on which were four cans of Fosters, two elaborately shaped glasses and a bowl of peanuts.
‘Good on you,’ Bradley said. ‘Do you, mate?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thanks. What about you, Mrs Bradley? Are you having a drink?’
She smiled, shook her head and drifted away.
‘Never touches it,’ Bradley said. He popped two cans and pushed one towards me. He poured a little beer into one of the glasses, swilled it around and drank it. Then he took a pull from the can. ‘Can’t stand those bloody glasses, but it’s not worth the trouble to say so. Cheers.’
I repeated his manoeuvre and took a swig of the cold beer. Fosters isn’t my favourite, but it was my first drink of the day, which helped it along. ‘I got the feeling Sergeant Anderson didn’t have too many clues.’
Bradley snorted. He took a handful of peanuts and put them in his mouth. He chewed and spoke around them. ‘Doesn’t know his arse from his elbow. Sent some kid of a constable up here to talk to me the day after. Bugger that.’
‘What did you see, Mr Bradley?’
Bradley drained his can in two massive swallows and popped another. ‘I’ve thought about it a bit. It’s hard to be sure. I’d had a few.’ He tilted the can. ‘And I’m on these painkillers- make me pretty woozy sometimes.’
‘But it was two a.m. on a good, clear night.’
‘Yeah. You seem a reasonable sort of a bloke. What were you before you got into this game? Not a copper?’
‘No. Soldier, timber worker, insurance investigator.’
Bradley nodded approvingly. ‘I reckon he was run off the road.’
I drank some more beer and took a sidelong look at him. He didn’t have the appearance of a fantasist or self-dramatiser. Bitter, but who wouldn’t be? ‘Go on,’ I said.
‘It’s hard to be sure. Take a look. The trees block the road a bit.’
I leaned forward and looked. The drop made the distance hard to judge, but the road couldn’t have been more than a hundred metres away and the view was mostly clear. ‘Where did he go over?’
Bradley took more nuts, chewed noisily and pointed.
A clear stretch went into a wicked bend. A section of the metal siding marking the edge of the shoulder was freshly painted. The trees ringed the road before and beyond the place on which his finger was trained.
‘It’s partly a feeling,’ Bradley said. ‘Or I might have just heard it. I dunno. But I think there was another car or a four-wheel drive… a truck or something, real close… too close. And it kept on going.’
‘And you didn’t tell the police?’
‘Like I say, I was pissed off with them.’ He drank deeply. ‘I phoned Merv Simpson and Clarrie Bent, and they got down there with the extinguishers and the bags pretty smart. I done my duty.’
‘Right.’ The beer was warming up in my hand and not tasting so good, but I drank some more. ‘Did you hear him brake or did he go straight over? Was he skidding? What happened?’
‘Bloody mess,’ Bradley said. ‘Straight over, but there was stuff flying everywhere-barrier posts, branches, you know? Door wide open… Look, you haven’t had any nuts. D’you want this other beer?’
It wasn’t something to take back in triumph to Felicia, but I felt a degree of satisfaction. Something was happening now — the surveillance and break-ins-and this was the first clue that something had happened then. I negotiated the steep roads above Bulli carefully and rejoined Lawrence Hargrave Drive for the drive back to Thirroul. Coal trucks used to hammer along these roads to the risk of everyone else on them, but they’re much quieter now. Good for drivers, bad for the area. The sun was dropping below the scarp, cooling the day down fast. The sea sparkled but there was a brown smudge on the horizon where the pollution drifting down from Sydney meets that coming up from Wollongong. Nowhere’s perfect.
I ran the Falcon through the gates Felicia had opened and parked beside the house. She came to the front door minus the. 22 and seemed pleased to see me. We kissed. She had been shopping. We had a beer and ate grilled fish and salad. She had been to the local library, seen a few acquaintances in the street. Nothing unusual had happened. She seemed tense, though.
‘I have to collect the pictures tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I don’t want anything to happen to them. I’m nervous about it.’
‘I’ll be there. Stopping things from happening’s supposed to be my forte. It’ll be all right.’
We went for a walk on the beach, drank coffee on the deck and went to bed. I had my pistol in its holster rolled up inside my beach towel. She put the. 22 under the bed. We laughed about that and were tender with each other. I was pulled from a deep sleep by the insistent bell of the phone. It was 3 a.m. and the phone was nearest to my side of the bed. I hesitated about answering it, and Felicia reached across me.
‘Yes? Michael? Yes, he’s here.’
She passed the phone to me.
‘Hardy,’ Michael Hickie said, ‘hope this isn’t awkward for you.’
‘It’s all right, Michael. What’s up?’
‘It’s O’Fearna. He’s been stabbed.’