They found my late client, Norman Scholfield, at the bottom of a half-built office block in the city. That is, they found part of him there; the office block is destined to rise twenty-five storeys above our fair city and Norman came off the twentieth which is just a concrete shell. He’d bounced on the scaffolding a few times on the way down and this smeared and scattered him around a little. Still, my card was in pristine condition in his pants pocket, which was why Detective Sergeant Frank Parker was sitting in the client’s chair in my office. The last bum on that chair was the now fairly widely distributed Norman’s, but I didn’t tell Frank that.
‘What did you make of him?’ Parker said.
I shrugged. ‘Man in trouble, real or imagined. He had a delivery to make to an address and he needed protection.’
‘What was he delivering?’
‘Money, what else? Said he was paying off a bet.’
‘You believed that?’
I shrugged again. ‘People pay on bets, happens every day. Times are tough, Frank. He was a nice guy; I liked him. In this business liking the people who hire you is a bonus. He paid up like a gentleman.’
‘I bet he did. Where was the delivery to?’
‘Well, that’s another thing-wasn’t as if it was a meeting in a sewer. How about you answer a question or two before I have to give my grand-mother’s maiden name?’
Frank looked interested; that was what made him more agreeable than the average cop-he had more on his mind than charge sheets and beer. ‘D’you know your grandmother’s maiden name?’
‘One of ‘em, yeah. Come on, Frank. Give a bit.’
‘Norman had a few convictions and a few near misses. Nothing big, nothing very bad-fraud mostly.’ He grinned at me. ‘People found him a nice guy.’
I let that pass.’ I didn’t think he was Fred Nile. So the money was hot?’
‘We don’t know, we didn’t find any money; but the thing is, the forensic boys noticed some dye on his hands. You know, the kind that gets on money that men with stockings over their heads take out of banks.’
I was reaching back for my wallet before he finished talking. ‘He gave me a couple of hundreds; I broke one of them.’ The other hundred dollar note was nestling in cosily with a couple of twenties and some others hardly worth talking about. I pulled it out and handed it to Frank. He looked at it.
‘Looks clean to me. Got an envelope?’
I passed one across and he put the note in it. ‘Want a receipt?’
‘Bet your arse.’
‘You’ll have to come down to the station to get one.’
I spread my hands. ‘I’ll trust you. Well, let me know how it checks out.’
‘Don’t be funny, Cliff. Norman wasn’t up there for the view, and there’s too much of that tie-dyed money floating around for comfort. This is a serious matter, and I want the address you went to.’
I looked out the window while I considered it. Scholfield had commented on the view when he was in the office: ‘Water view’, he’d said, meaning the road repair trench that had filled up from the burst main. We’d had a few laughs and he’d paid me two hundred dollars for two hours easy work. I thought I owed him a little posthumous consideration.
‘I’ll take you there,’ I said. ‘Unexplained client death is bad for business.’
Frank said okay, put my hundred bucks away in his pocket and we went downstairs.
I thought about the pub Scholfield and I had stopped at on our way to Hunters Hill, but I didn’t mention it to Frank; he wasn’t likely to tell me what his boss had said to him about the case or the other leads they might be pursuing, so why should I flap my mouth? The police driver drove like they all do, as if the roads were built for them alone. We made good time to Hunters Hill. The house was a big, white-painted place, almost showy with its lush garden and the ironwork picked out in black on the gates and the driveway being just long enough to have a small, prestigious, bend in it.
We sat in the car and looked at the house.
‘You sure he went in?’ Frank said. ‘He didn’t just hide in the bushes for a while?’
‘He went in, stayed half an hour, maybe less, came out. I waited out here. He took a bag in-lightweight, zippered thing-and came out with his hands in his pockets.’
‘What then?’
‘We were in my car. I drove him back to town. Dropped him in Broadway.’
Frank snorted. ‘You must’ve had a peg on your nose the whole time. You didn’t see anyone in the house?’
I shook my head.
‘Eloquent. Okay, let’s take a look.’
The three of us got out of the car, crossed the street and didn’t bother trying to look inconspicuous. It was an unusual experience for me- pushing open a gate and marching up to a front door without having to think about pretending to be someone else or how to prevent the door being slammed in my face. I tried to enjoy it, but somehow it didn’t seem to be as much fun.
Frank rang the bell until the chimes inside got boring. Back off the porch and down around the side: the lush garden didn’t look so lush up close. It had been carefully tended in the past but was beginning to look a little dried out at the edges. The back of the house was an extravaganza in glass; double doors were set between ceiling-to-floor windows; cane blinds shaded cork-tiled floors. The driver looked enquiringly at Frank and when he got the nod he pulled out a bunch of keys and started on the lock. I glanced across at the big garage with its double roller-door and heard the lock open before I could look back. None of us pulled his gun; we’d all been inside empty houses before and we were not afraid.
It was a lot of house to be standing empty-four bedrooms, two bathrooms, big modern kitchen and rooms for sitting and eating in. All the relevant activities could’ve been done there with considerable comfort, but it didn’t look as if much of anything had gone on for some time. There was a layer of dust over a lot of the surfaces: a trained observer might have detected more; as for me, I’d say the odd person or two had had a snack and a drink and a wash of the hands lately. The toilet had been used, too. The power and water were on and the phone was connected; there was food in the cupboards and more plus beer and wine in the refrigerator. Like all snoopers, we began by creeping and ended by stamping our feet. We didn’t say anything because there was nothing to say. Re-grouped at the back door, we looked to Frank for leadership.
‘Let’s try the garage,’ he said.
‘Funny,’ I whispered. ‘That’s what I was going to say.’
The driver looked enquiringly at Frank again; with a different superior he might’ve got a chance to practise his kung-fu, but Frank was used to me. He closed his eyes and mimed counting to ten. ‘Cliff,’ he said. ‘I wish I could have you on the force, with me out-ranking you, just for a little while.’
We were walking towards the garage. ‘What would you do, Frank?’
He stopped and looked back at the house. ‘Right now, I’d send you to look up in the roof and down into the foundations.’
‘Messy,’ I said. ‘Let’s hope we find the money and the bodies and the confessions in the garage.’
The driver was an artist-the roller-door came up just like it does in the commercials and we stepped into a space big enough to hold three cars and light enough to play table tennis in. But there were no cars and no table tennis table-instead, there were a couple of benches covered with jars and retorts and plumbed for hot and cold water. There were bottles and brushes and magnifying glasses and a microscope. There were powders and pastes, tubes of goo and glass plates with metal clamps. I followed Parker as he ranged along the nearest bench; the biggest bottle had a screw top and Parker spun it off.
‘Well?’
‘Can’t be sure,’ he said. ‘But I think it’s the blue stuff that gets onto the money.’
‘You know what that makes this set-up, then?’
‘Yeah,’ he growled. ‘Looks like this is where they try to get it off.’
And that was the way it looked a few days later when a microscopic examination of my hundred dollar note had been made. Frank Parker rang me with the good news.
‘Serial number checks with a run stolen from a bank in Parramatta last month. Traces of the dye-not visible to the naked eye. Someone’s found a way to take it off.’
‘What about my money?’
‘Sorry, mate. Evidence.’
‘Great. What about the house?’
‘Nothing. Clean as a whistle. Leased under a phoney name, paid for in cash.’ His laugh was a harsh bark. ‘Cash?’
‘Don’t be bitter. You must have something to go on.’
‘Not a bloody thing. Looks like they just cleared out after your pal Scholfield went for the jump.’
‘Are you looking for people who’ve turned blue lately?’
‘Have you got any other helpful comments, Cliff?’
‘Can’t you just take a photo of it?’
‘What?’
‘My hundred bucks.’
That finished the conversation with Parker and left me wondering what to do next. It wasn’t that I didn’t have a case on hand; I was on a retainer from a security firm to check on some of their employees who were suspected of not rattling the doors they were supposed to rattle and not shining their torches where and when they were supposed to shine them. It was night work mainly, but not exclusively. I had the job for a month and was only half way through. The company didn’t expect a perfect record from its men, apparently that was unheard of; it was a question of ‘acceptable levels of-non-performance’. I ran over some of the results I’d got so far, but I couldn’t keep my mind on the job. I kept getting pictures of Norman Scholfield trying to cope with worry in a good-humoured way. I didn’t like the idea of someone throwing him off a twenty-storey building-that was too much for good humour. Then I remembered the pub.
Balmain has lost a lot of its good pubs to the bulldozer and to solicitors who’ve wanted interesting-looking buildings for their offices in which they can arrange the conveyancing of other interesting buildings. But this one was a survivor, and Scholfield had directed me there with a note in his voice like pride. It was down by the water with a balcony that gave you a good view of the container terminal; but there’s something agreeable about drinking while other people work. We had a beer in the sun and he’d borrowed my pen. I saw him ring directory enquiries, scribble on the phone book and then make a quick call. He gave me back the pen-a thick-writing ballpoint with purplish ink.
It was much the same time of day again when I got to the pub and I bought a beer and retraced my steps. The water was still there and the container terminal; the directory was there too and the numbers stood out clearly on the page in thick purple backhand.
I sipped the beer and thought how unprofessional I was being, but then, that’s one of the advantages of my non-profession. I dialled the number and heard a heavily accented woman’s voice on the line.
‘Yes? Yes?’
‘Norman Scholfield, please.’
There was a pause and then the voice came through slowly and emotively. ‘He is not here. Who is calling, please?’
In this business you make all sorts of half-arsed judgements; I took a punt now that this voice belonged to someone who wasn’t glad that Norman had free-fallen without a ‘chute. ‘I’d rather not say on the phone. I have something that might interest him. Could you ask him to meet me? Are you in touch?’
‘Yes. Where should he meet you?’
I named the pub. ‘I’ll be up on the balcony, he knows the place. We had a drink here a few days ago. I’ll have a can of Fosters all ready for him. Umm… I take it he’s just stepped out or something? I would like to see him soon.’
‘Yes. An hour?’
‘Good. Thank you.’
I went for a walk around the streets, wondering what was going to happen next. It was a mild winter day; the sunshine was fitful and the water turned from a greenish blue to a hard grey in response to it. A small yacht moved along in the choppy water looking incongruous against the backdrop of cargo, machinery and work. Fifty-five minutes later, I was back on the balcony with a fresh beer and a clean glass and a can of Fosters in front of me.
She came in. Dead on time. She was tall, with black hair, olive skin and eyes and a nose like a Coptic mask. She was wearing a camel-coloured coat and boots and as she stood in the doorway there wasn’t a man within sight who wasn’t staring at her. She walked over to me and sat down and I could feel and hear breaths hissing out between clenched teeth from all around.
‘Norman couldn’t come,’ she said.
‘I know. He’s dead.’ I opened the beer can and poured some into my glass. ‘This was his drink, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. That was his drink.’
‘And who’re you? I know you’ve got a new phone number lately. I’d say Norman was important to you, and you don’t look like a relative. I don’t know anything else about you.’
‘Why did you want to see Norman?’ She tramped right over what I’d been saying as if the words were a minor nuisance.
‘I didn’t, I wanted to see you.’
She made a move to get up but I got my hand across, gripped her arm and pressed her down. ‘Wait. Let’s talk, what harm can it do? Will you have a drink?’
She subsided and shrugged. In the smooth, brown skin of her face, especially around her eyes, were lines of strain and desperation. Her face looked too strong to ever show unhappiness as we lesser mortals do, but it was there. I got her a gin and tonic, and drank the Fosters while she took a few sips. Her teeth were even and white and she had long, slender bands with pink, polished nails cut short. She had a black turtleneck sweater on under the coat, no jewellery. I told her about my brief association with Scholfield, my scouting about with the cops and then waited for her contribution.
‘You didn’t give my number to the police?’
I shook my head.
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I don’t know. If he was working with some people at getting dye off stolen money I don’t really care. It sounds like a pretty dumb scheme and he didn’t look dumb to me. I liked him. I suppose I’m just curious. Do you know who killed him, or why?’
‘No. If I did, I would kill them.’
‘Perhaps it’s just as well then.’
‘I don’t understand you.’ The skin tightened along her exquisite jawline; she was like an arrow in a bow-all lined up with the string tight.
I finished the beer. ‘Revenge is old-fashioned.’ I muttered. ‘Let it go.’
‘No! He was a lovely man, so funny. We laughed all the time. I know he was not always honest, not so very honest. But he didn’t hurt people, just…’ She waved her hands and all the men looked at her again.
‘Institutions,’ I said. Frank had told me that Scholfield’s frauds were insurance jobs, mostly.
‘So. He was a gentle man. I think the one who killed him should be dead too. I would feel better then.’
‘In gaol,’ I said. ‘We don’t kill people anymore for murder, not here.’ I don’t know why it was, maybe just the idea of her feeling better because her man’s killer was out of action got to me. I’d come close to Norman’s condition more than once and no one would have given a damn. Not that I’d really want anyone to. It was a confused sort of feeling. She nodded vigorously.
‘Gaol. Yes. For a very long time. Will you work for me?’
‘Eh?’
‘You are a detective. You worked for Norman, you can work for me. I can pay you enough. Find out for me who killed him.’
The proposition rocked me, but maybe it was what I had in mind all along. She told me that she was from the Philippines and had come to Australia as a sort of mail-order bride. She thought her blood was more Indian than Filipino but she wasn’t sure. This had happened almost ten years ago, when she was eighteen; she’d put up with six years of near-imprisonment until Scholfield had broken her out. She didn’t give me the details and I didn’t ask. She and Scholfield had been lovers since then, on an irregular basis because he was often out of town. He’d help set her up in business as a handicrafts dealer. The way she told it, she had immigration and tax problems and Norman had marital problems, but she’d loved him and he was all aces to her.
‘Did he tell you what he was doing, I mean… recently?’
‘No. He never told me details. Big, he said. Very big. He treated it as a joke. But I don’t think it was a joke. He was very worried when he rang me the last time.’
‘Was that…’ I searched my memory and came up with the date. ‘And about this time of day?’
‘Yes.’
‘He was worried, I was with him. He was worried two hundred bucks worth.’
‘I will pay you ten times that to find who killed him.’
‘Put it like that and I’d be glad to. Where would I start? Any ideas Miss…?’
‘Seneka, Louise Seneka. I don’t know. I am thinking.’
Just to watch her think was a pleasure. She’d drunk about two-thirds of her drink, but the ice had melted and she’d lost interest in it. I’m a bit that way with a g amp; t myself, so I tend to slug them down. She didn’t smoke or fidget in any other way. She sat and concentrated and you could almost feel the force of the concentration. Scholfield had been a tall, slim man with thick fair hair, cut short. He wasn’t handsome but he looked extremely healthy, which almost amounted to the same thing. They’d have made a good, contrasting pair. One thing was sure, with a woman like that to keep company with, he wouldn’t have jumped.
‘He left something for me to post, in a coat at my place. I didn’t do it. After he was dead I didn’t want to look.’
‘Could be a start,’ I said. ‘Let’s go. How did you get here?’
‘A taxi.’
‘We’ll go in my car then.’ We went down the stairs and out onto the street. My car was parked around the corner and I took her arm to steer her; her arm was incredibly slender but felt very strong. I was completely distracted by her physicality; the warmth and the light bones. I was utterly off-guard, and when the man moved from behind the car next to mine and dug the gun into my ribs it took me slow, dumb seconds to react. And that made it too late.
‘You and the lady get in the car. You in the front and her in the back. I’ll kill him, lady, if you don’t get in.’
I propped and she must have felt me go rigid as I gripped her arm. She got the message and went with me as I shuffled towards the black Fairlane. The gunman tapped me to indicate how I should bend and prodded me forward. I went. He was good; his big heavy body dealt with me and blocked her off at the same time. She got into the back with him, and I sat down beside a youngish Asian who started the car and got it moving quickly and smoothly. I felt the gun on my neck.
‘You got a gun?’
‘No, I don’t usually carry one when we go out for a drink.’
‘Don’t shit me, Hardy. You never met her before. We’ve been trailing you since Scholfield used you to chauffeur him to Hunters Hill. This is the first interesting thing you’ve done. That was Norman’s favourite pub.’
That made him information-rich as well as gun-rich, a dangerous combination.
‘She’s a client. What’s the idea?’
His voice was level, almost bored. ‘The idea is you shut up until we get where we’re going.’
‘Where’s that?’ He answered me with a vicious dig of the gun into my neck and I shut up. The Asian drove like an angel; his hands barely moved and he touched the brake pedal as if it was a soap bubble. The car glided back towards the city as the afternoon light died and a little sprinkle of rain settled the dust. The driver left the freeway at Darling Harbour and wound up through the streets that avoid the bridge approaches. It was dark when we stopped in a lane which dead-ended in a high, dark ruin that was overdue for demolition. The gunman hustled us out of the car, and the driver backed out of the lane and took off.
A dead-end and sheer brick walls on either side, there was nothing to do but obey the gun. He shepherded us to a deeply recessed door and ordered me to knock on it. I did and stepped back when bright light hit me as the door opened. A small, dark man in a suit stepped away from the door and the gunman motioned Louise Seneka and me to pass him.
‘Any trouble, Willie?’ the man in the suit asked.
‘None. What’s up? Why the suit?’
‘Appointment. I’ve got to go out.’
‘You mean you’ve got no guts for it.’
We were standing on frayed lino tiles in a lobby with an old lift and a badly hung door standing open. Through the door I could see a room with a chair and desk. The whole place had an uncomfortably spare feel to it, but the feeling might have just been a product of the rather strained conversation of our hosts.
‘This is a mistake,’ I said, just for the sake of saying something.
‘You might think so very soon,’ Willie said. ‘You’re staying, Barnes. Let’s get them in there and get on with it.’
Barnes took out a handkerchief, which was dirty. It looked strange coming out of the pocket of his clean suit; but then, he didn’t look as if he wore a suit all that often. He wiped his sweating, red face and then his hands. ‘All right,’ he said.
We all trooped through into the office-like room and Willie kicked the door shut behind him. There was a chair in front of the desk and he pushed me down onto it. Barnes pointed to the corner of the room behind the desk.
‘Go and sit over there.’
Louise Seneka looked at him. ‘On the floor?’
‘Yes.’
‘What are you going to do?’
No one said anything to that; she walked across and crouched in the corner.
‘Right down!’ Willie barked. She sat, and looked defiant.
There was no natural light in the room, just harsh fluorescence; I could smell dust in the air, also fear, mostly mine. Barnes went behind the desk and Willie perched on it, about three feet away from me.
‘No beating about the bush,’ Willie said. ‘Norman Scholfield gave you something, you or the woman. It’s ours and we want it. Hand it over!’
I glanced across at the woman; she’d opened her coat and I could see her slim body, held straight and tense. Our eyes met and she shook her head.
‘Can’t help you,’ I said. ‘Spent two hours with the bloke. He made a delivery, I went along for company. That’s it’
‘Maybe the woman’s got it,’ Barnes said. Willie got off the desk and went over to the corner. ‘Well?’
She shook her head. ‘Just like him,’ Willie said. ‘Nothing to say. Could be he was protecting you?’
She looked at him with those dark, hooded eyes and if he could see anything in them except hate and defiance he was sharper than me.
‘Looks like it.’ Willie put his foot on her bent knee and pressed down. She gasped sharply but kept looking straight at him. Willie smiled and moved his foot. He stepped back and circled around behind me.
‘Put your hands behind you, ‘round the chair.’ He clipped me lightly on the back of the head with the gun as he spoke and I did what he said. I felt something rough bite into my wrists; I resisted, but with a couple of jerks and a steadying touch with the gun he had my hands tied.
‘Okay,’ Willie said. ‘Last chance. Anything to say?’
My shirt was wet by now and I could feel my scrotum tightening and a nerve dancing in my face. I shook my head.
‘Barnes.’ The small man loosened his tie and pulled his collar open. He bent and reached into the back of the desk. What he came up with was a small blowtorch. I watched, fascinated, while he primed and pumped it. The flame shot out, red and yellow, and the torch gave out a low roar. Barnes moved around the desk; he was sweating as much as me, but what really sliced into my consciousness now was that he liked it. He fought against it-probably every time-but come right down to it, this was his jollies. It was a nasty sight-the roaring torch, Barnes’s rictus of a smile and his running nose. I could feel the heat of the flame and I thought desperately for something to throw them, anything. Nothing came.
I heard Louise scream as Barnes brought the jet close to my ankles, but he was past hearing anything. The flame seared into my stretched skin and seemed to cut to the bone. I felt, rather than heard, my bellow and strength flooded into me, brimming me full. I lashed out with my feet and the torch and Barnes went flying back; I reared up and whipped around, carrying the chair with me. The back fell apart and I rushed at Willie before he could get his gun up. I hit him with everything at once-head, foot, shoulder; I threw my body at him like a missile and hurtled him back into the wall. He hit it awkwardly and hard and the breath went out of him in a rush. I stumbled and fell to my knees-both knees hammered down into Willie’s chest with my full weight.
It seemed like minutes before I could force myself back up. I heard the torch roaring softly and when the mist had cleared from my eyes, I saw Barnes lying on the ground, still and twisted. The jet of flame was playing on his outstretched hand, but he didn’t move. I went over, hobbling, and eased the torch away with my foot. My hands had been tied to the struts of the chair and there was some slack in the cord; I used the flame to cut through it. One side of Barnes’s face was a red-black mess; one eye was obliterated, the other was open and still.
Louise Seneka stood with her back to the wall. She looked like a bronze statue-a statue with a gun in its hand. The gun was pointed at Willie.
‘It’s all right,’ I gasped. ‘Don’t shoot him.’ I moved towards her and she swung the gun on me.
‘Stop there! I know about guns. Do what I say or I will wound you and kill him. Is the small one dead?’
‘I’d say so, yes.’
‘Good! Animal, both animals!’
‘Sure. Let’s get the police.’
‘No, not police. I must know why Norman was killed.’
‘We’ll find that out from Willie.’
Willie had recovered his breath-almost-and had propped himself up against the wall. He was cradling his shoulder and his pale, fleshy face was chalky white. There was red spittle around his mouth, but he didn’t look close to tears. His eyes were on the gun. The woman saw it and smiled.
‘He thinks I won’t shoot him. He doesn’t know about the Philippines. I have seen many people shot; I have seen my brothers shot and I have shot two men myself.’
‘I believe you,’ I said. ‘But we don’t want any shooting here. This one’s not a big fish, he’ll talk to save his own skin. We’ll find out what happened.’
‘No! He will have reasons not to talk. There will be lawyers and much time wasted. I want to know now! Get up!’
Willie could see she meant it; he hoisted himself up, still supporting one arm.
‘Shoulder’s broken,’ he said.
The blowtorch sputtered, coughed and the flame died. We all looked at it. The woman gestured with the gun.
‘Go out to the lift.’
We went out into the lobby and I pressed the button to call the lift. My ankles were screaming where the flame had touched them, but I could walk; standing still was harder. I leaned against the wall while we waited for the lift in the silent building. It came. She herded us in and pressed the button for the top floor, the eighth. The lift was old and creaky and slow. As we passed the floors it looked more and more as if the building was unoccupied.
The top floor was stripped clean; it was bare boards and peeling walls. There were large windows along one wall with some of the city night light coming through them, not much. Louise glanced around and saw a heavy swivel chair near the lift.
Willie stood stiffly, watching her, watching me.
‘Get over to the window, animal! Hardy, bring the chair.’
The window was an old-fashioned job which had a low, knee-high sill and extended up above head height. She pointed at it.
‘Break the bottom part of the window with the chair.’
Willie got the idea a fraction ahead of me. ‘No!’ he said.
‘Break it!’
I slammed the chair into the window frame; the old wood gave and the bottom panes fell through, leaving an empty space for about a metre above the sill.
‘Sit there!’
Willie sat on the sill, keeping his feet firmly anchored on the floor and as much of his body inside as he could.
‘Move the chair this way, Hardy, and stand by the window-there.’
I did as she said and she sat on the chair, facing Willie and the open gap and about a metre and a half back. She raised the gun.
‘Tell me.’
Willie got it out in gulps and gasps: the people he worked for had a double scheme running-counterfeiting, and removing the dye from hot money. The plan was to get both kinds of money into circulation by confusing the authorities. It was all to do with serial numbers and switching denominations-elaborate stuff. Norman had been in on the counterfeiting side of it and had flipped when he’d heard about the other aspect of the deal. He’d wanted out, and tried to get some leverage by nicking one of the counterfeiting plates. The masters said the mess was Barnes and Willie’s responsibility and Willie said they were handling it alone.
‘Anyone know you picked us up?’ I said.
‘No. The driver doesn’t know who you are.’
‘What did Norman tell you about the plate?’
Willie spoke carefully, watching his balance, ‘He said something about a coat, that was all. Then he shut up. Wouldn’t say a word.’
She looked at me. ‘The coat, at my place. He protected me from the animals.’ She looked back at Willie. ‘So you killed him. You threw him from twenty storeys.’
‘It was an accident. I was just trying to scare him.’
She sighed and seemed to relax. ‘You tell me, Hardy, that in this country a murderer goes to gaol for a long time.’
‘That’s right,’ I said, but I was thinking-some times.
She moved up from the chair; Willie leaned in from the sill. She beckoned me close and handed me the gun. I took it. An automatic, S amp; W model. 38, I thought. Willie eased forward and up.
Louise Seneka moved faster than Carl Lewis; she spun the chair and rammed it hard into Willie’s midsection; he doubled-up, reeled back and she whipped the chair into him again. He went through the window in a helpless collapse and his scream seemed to flow back in through the gap and fill the room. I rubbed my sleeve over the chair and the lift buttons; she didn’t even look into the room at the bottom and I didn’t go in. We hadn’t touched anything in there. We were out of the building and had covered a couple of couple of blocks before the sirens started. She didn’t speak in the taxi and neither did I. We collected my car in Balmain and drove to her flat in Bellevue Hill, still with the minimum of speech.
The flat was big and light and had just enough east Asian decoration to be interesting. She opened a closet and took out a heavy tweed overcoat on a hanger. From an inside pocket she pulled out a flat, brown paper-wrapped package about the size of a video cassette. She handed it to me. A post office box number and address was printed boldly on the brown paper.
‘You think I was wrong?’
‘You said taking revenge would make you feel better-did it?’
As I spoke, my eye fell on a bright poster on the wall; the burst of colour reminded me of the blowtorch flame and I went cold inside. She considered my question.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Good.’
‘You need treatment for your legs.’
I looked down; from the instant Willie had gone out the window until that moment, the burn hadn’t hurt. I saw that the synthetic material of my socks had singed and hardened, and was sticking to the raw, burnt flesh. It hurt like hell.
‘I know a doctor, better get to him.’
‘I would like to pay the expense, also for your help, Mr Hardy. Thank you.’
She held out her hand and I shook it. Her skin was warm, and there was the same strength in her hand that I’d felt in her arm. She was strong all over and inside as well. She’s the most beautiful thing in the world, I thought, and then I realised that the pain was making me dopey.
‘Okay, Miss Seneka,’ I said. ‘I’ll send you a bill.’
I headed for home, wincing every time I had to use the clutch and brake. At home I could phone my Doctor mate, Ian Sangster, who’d come over and dress my wounds and prescribe some pills I could take with alcohol. Before I got there, though, I stopped at the end of Glebe Point Road, hobbled to the rail and threw the parcel and the S amp;W. 38 as far as I could out into the dark water.
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