She might have had trouble getting started, but she’d rehearsed her story well and got it up and running smoothly. Frederick Farmer had been a successful real estate agent with offices in the western and southern suburbs, the Blue Mountains and the Illawarra. In his mid-fifties he’d sold out to one of the big franchises for several million dollars and spent the next fifteen years dabbling in the stock exchange and at his hobbies-gardening, fishing and golf. Elizabeth was his only child. His wife had died ten years ago and three years later Farmer, aged sixty-five, had married Matilda Sharpe-Tarleton, a divorcee twenty-five years younger than himself.
‘She calls herself Tilly,’ Elizabeth Farmer said. ‘That ought to tell you something. She’s about two years younger than me. Can you see me calling myself Lizzie?’
I could in fact. She was smooth-skinned and now that she was animated she looked younger and full of energy. I didn’t say anything because a reply wasn’t invited.
‘She married him for his money and led him a merry dance.’ ‘In what way?’
‘Tried to make him do things he was past doing- overseas trips, gym workouts, golf pro-ams. She even talked him into opening up another real estate agency when he swore he’d done with all that. She’s running it now with all his capital behind her and doing very well. I know what you’re going to say.’
‘Don’t say that. I don’t know what I’m going to say, so how could you?’
She made a defensive gesture. ‘I’m sorry. I’m getting worked up. The police…’
‘I’m nothing like the police.’
‘Of course. Well, they automatically thought I was a kind of poor woman’s Gina Reinhart. But it’s nothing like that. My father had money but not Hancock-style billions. We didn’t get on particularly well and it’s true that he left most of it to her. But I got some and I’m sure the will was kosher. It’s not about money. It’s about…’
I waited for the word, wondering-justice? revenge? vindication?
Suddenly she seemed deflated. She slumped back in her chair. ‘I’m not sure what it’s about. Call it closure.’
‘It won’t be closure if you turn out to be right. There’d be a trial of the person you have in mind, probably media interest, books, perhaps. Think of the Kalajzich case. You’ve already mentioned the Hancock circus.’
‘I know, I know. Call it jealousy then. She’s beautiful and rich and…’
I shook my head. ‘You’re not the type to be jealous of anyone. What’s your status here, senior lecturer?’
‘Associate professor.’
‘You don’t call yourself professor.’
‘I will when I get a chair.’
‘There you are. A successful career woman. I’ve known a few gung-ho academics like you and they all have one thing in common-when they get interested or involved in something they can’t let it go. They have to know.’
‘Prof Harkness was right,’ she said. ‘You’re the man for the job.’
Frederick Farmer had died when his weekender at Wombarra in the Illawarra had burnt to the ground. The house wasn’t new or fancy. It was an old weatherboard on ten acres that had once been mine land and later an orchard. Farmer, despite his wealth, wasn’t interested in high levels of personal comfort. He experimented with varieties of flowers, fished off the rock shelf and played golf at a nearby par 59 course. According to his daughter, he was spending more and more time at the coast and less with his wife, whom he’d come to dislike.
‘They investigate deaths like that pretty thoroughly,’ I said. ‘Especially when they produce young, rich widows.’
‘Of course. But on the surface of it everything appeared straightforward. Dad drank a bit at night and slept heavily. The old joint was full of stuff just waiting to give off toxic fumes-laminex, lino, vinyl, you name it. The wiring was ancient.’
I shrugged. ‘It happens.’
‘Not to him. He knew houses, he’d bought and sold them all his life. He was careful. He disconnected everything before he went to bed. Turned everything off and slept with a hot water bottle.’
‘What about the hot water service?’
‘Chip heater. He blew out the pilot light. Always.’
‘You told this to the police?’
‘Yes, but they took no notice. I think as soon as they saw the scotch bottles, the old two bar radiators and the chip heater they made up their minds. They said a radiator had been left on and a curtain had blown close to it and… whoosh. But it’s not possible.’
‘What about the hot water bottle?’
‘Ah. Right question. They didn’t find one. I don’t know how hard they looked. It wouldn’t have survived the fire, but no one believed me when I said he used one. I ranted on about it and Tilly…Matilda said she’d persuaded him not to use it, that it was a fogey thing. She’s lying. He loved his hottie.’
I liked her, I liked her honesty and the homey touches, but it sounded very thin. ‘How much money are we talking about? I mean, that your father’s wife inherited.’
‘Oh, the house in Wahroonga, the shares, the other bits and pieces, probably close to five million. I got the Wombarra place which I’d always loved, and some shares and things like my mother’s jewellery and some money she had. About three-quarters of a million.’
‘Big difference.’
‘Sure, but I’ve got a house in Newtown that I own and a job that I love. No dependants. I don’t need five million. She’s just got her face and her figure and her greed.’
‘Your father sounds like a pretty cluey guy. How come he went for a gold-digger?’
‘She’s a good actress, and she only showed her true colours after she got him.’
‘No pre-nuptial?’
She shook her head. ‘He hated lawyers.’
‘Can’t say I blame him.’
‘Look, I don’t expect you to work miracles, but surely you can look at the reports on the fire and the medical evidence and…do an investigation of some kind. And you could meet her and investigate her. See who she knows, what she does. If there’s anything…I know it sounds thin.’
‘Is she hands-on in the real estate agency?’
‘Oh, yes. She fancies herself a great saleswoman.’
‘It so happens I’m looking for office space. Where’s the agency?’
She grimaced. ‘Newtown. I see her far too often.’
‘I was in Darlinghurst. I wouldn’t mind Newtown.’
She smiled and the animation came back. ‘You’ll do it?’
‘I’ve got a feeling you’d sic Harkness onto me if I didn’t.’ I put one of my cards on her tidy desk. ‘I’ll take a look at it. Siphon off a bit of your money. Give me your number and I’ll fax you a contract. You can email me some of the relevant details-addresses, dates. People involved-like your father’s doctor, the police you spoke to, insurance and stuff.’
‘Thank you.’
‘No guarantees.’
She gave me a card with her contact details on it and we shook hands. She had a strong, cool grip and there was a faint tang of something astringent about her. Standing, she was tall, in the 180 centimetre bracket. I wondered about the no dependants. I wondered about a lot of things to do with her. I always do. People who hire private detectives aren’t like the normal run. They want to know other people’s secrets and they usually have some of their own, sometimes harmless, sometimes not. It makes the work interesting. Anyway, I did need to think about office space.
…
Whatever chicanery goes on inside the buildings, the grounds of Sydney University are still pleasant to walk around. I drifted up from the old linguistics building, past something new and soulless and then strolled by the Fisher Library to the new set of wide steps put in to run down to Victoria Park. There used to be a gap in the fence and a rough track up from the park worn by feet that wanted to go in the logical, short-cut direction. The authorities eventually recognised the reality and they’ve done a good job. In a few years the steps and rails will look as if they’ve always been there.
A cold breeze had got up and I was underdressed in a light jacket, shirt and jeans. Some of the students on the steps had taken a better reading on the day and wore or carried coats. They probably had umbrellas in their backpacks. Spring in Sydney.
I went down the steps and decided to walk a couple of k’s around the paths. I’d neglected my gym-going lately and a brisk walk to raise a sweat might help me to re-dedicate myself. The pool wasn’t open yet but pretty soon the lappers would be at it in the early morning before work and the mums and dads would be hauling the kids in for lessons at twenty bucks a half hour. I’d been taught to swim by Uncle Ian, who I realised much later was no kin but a man having an affair with my mother. It hadn’t exactly been a ‘chuck him in at the deep end’ kind of instruction, but near enough. I got the hang of it quickly enough and survived the surf at the south end of Maroubra beach for many years. I hadn’t been in the water much in recent years and I could probably do with a few lessons. Maybe, I thought, but let’s not make too many good resolutions all at once.
I stepped it out around the park for half an hour with my mind running over the few minor cases I had on hand, how much I disliked working from home, and what I had begun to think of as the enigma of Dr Elizabeth Farmer. By the time I’d walked home I felt sufficiently virtuous and energised to knuckle down to the computer and complete reports on the current cases-resolving a couple, opting out of one, putting another on a low heat backburner. I had my standard contract on file. I printed one out, found Dr Farmer’s card and faxed her a copy. She’d be up for an eight hundred dollar retainer and a daily rate of four hundred, plus expenses. Nice to know she could afford it. I guessed that a nearly professor was on a pretty good screw and her inheritance wasn’t peanuts. Nice to think of some of it coming my way.
After faxing I went back to the email and found that she’d sent a brief message to say that she’d assemble the information I wanted when she got home and send it through. A big plus that, an efficient client, especially one who looked like the Germaine Greer of twenty-five years ago with a cool grip developed by hitting woods or metals or irons, or whatever they call them. But I had the idea that Dr Farmer wasn’t interested in male partners at golf or anything else. Just a feeling.
I was scribbling down a few points on the interview with Elizabeth Farmer, working towards drawing up a list of things to do and the order to do them in, when the phone rang. I let the answering machine pick it up.
‘Mr Hardy, my name is Karatsky, Marisha Karatsky. I’m in desperate need of your help. My daughter is missing. She’s only fifteen and I’m very troubled about her. I…’
The desperation was evident in the shakiness of her voice and the shortness of her breath. I picked up the phone.
‘Hardy speaking. Try to calm down, Ms Karatsky. I know it’s hard. Maybe I can help. Where are you?’
‘I… thank you, Mr Hardy, I’m right outside, on my mobile.’
Reluctantly, I’d scribbled my home address on a few cards I’d left here and there after losing the Darlinghurst office. I said something encouraging and hung up. I went downstairs, opened the front door and ushered the woman in. She was small and dark with thin features and what my gypsy grandmother called gypsy eyes-dark and hooded with the skin below them looking bruised. Grandma Lee had them, so did I to a degree. Ms Karatsky wore a long leather coat buttoned to the neck and boots with medium heels. Her hair was a wiry tangled mass. No makeup. There were no rings on her hands and she was shaking with tension as she leaned against the wall.
‘Thank you. Thank you.’
The spring wind had brought spring rain and the shoulders of her coat were wet.
‘Come in and sit down. Can I get you something? Coffee? A drink?’
‘I’m sorry. Have you got any cognac?’
‘I’ve got brandy.’
‘Brandy, yes, of course. Some brandy, please.’
Cheap stuff for lacing coffee, but with the wind busy outside as the light died and the rain spattered on the roof, just the thing. She took off her coat and I hung it over the stair rail. She was wearing a red silk blouse and an olive green knee-length skirt. One sleeve of the blouse was buttoned at the wrist and the other had apparently lost its button and flapped freely. Happens to me. Gold watch, light gold chain around her neck.
I got her seated in the living room after clearing some newspapers from a chair and brought in two wineglasses and the bottle. I haven’t got any snifters. I poured the drinks, handed her one, pulled over a stool I use for reaching the higher bookshelves, and sat. It felt more professional than slumping into one of the saggy armchairs.
Marisha Karatsky took a good pull on the brandy and let it slide down. She didn’t exactly shudder but I got the feeling she was used to something smoother. I had a slug and it tasted okay to me as the first drink of the day. But that always tastes good, whatever it is.
‘Take your time and tell me what’s happened.’
She told me she worked freelance as a translator, providing subtitles for German, Russian and Polish films and television programs. Her father was Polish, her mother Russian and the family had lived in East Germany before immigrating to Australia. Her daughter, Kristina, was wild and easily influenced, she said. She’d left home two months before. Her mother had traced her to a shared house in Tempe from a scribbled note she’d found in Kristina’s room. She went there but the place was empty, apparently uninhabited. Neighbours said it was a house where people came and went. She hadn’t contacted the police.
‘It’s not easy for people like me, East Germans, to deal with the police. Also, Kristina uses drugs. I want to find her but I don’t want to put her in prison.’
‘What about her father?’ I said.
She shook her head and took another drink, as if the mention of the word needed a defence. Then she smiled, showing perfect, small white teeth in a broad, thin-lipped mouth. ‘A youthful indiscretion. Nothing more.’
It sounded like a subtitle.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘If you can give me a photograph and description of her there’s a few moves I can make. I can go to the Tempe place and ask questions. I know people who. . monitor the sort of scene Kristina’s got herself into. I can ask around and try to pick up a trace, but I probably don’t have to tell you it’s a dangerous world with many casualties. And this is a big country with lots of ways to lose yourself. Some of them safe, some not.’
She put her drink carefully on the floor, went across to her coat, took a manila envelope from an inside pocket and handed it to me. Inside was a photograph of a dark-haired girl heading fast towards young womanhood. She looked quite like her mother with slightly broader features and a sulky expression that was perhaps trying for sultry. It was only a waist upwards shot. She wore a black T-shirt with ‘Heart Ache’ printed on it in pink. Earrings, several, nose-ring, one.
‘She could be beautiful,’ Marisha Karatsky said, ‘but she can be a devil. Do you have any children, Mr Hardy?’
Not something I talked about much but this seemed like an appropriate time. ‘A daughter. I didn’t raise her but we got together later. She’s in America and doing okay, last I heard.’
‘You are lucky. There is more information for you.’
I shook out a page of typescript. Kristina’s date of birth was given, her height and weight-175 centimetres, 56 kilos-much taller but skinny like Mum-and a short list of names and places.
‘Those are some of her friends and some of the places she went to. I’m not sure if they are all still…’ she waved her hands expressively. ‘Around.’
I nodded. ‘What about school?’
‘Ah, another reason for no police. She stopped going to school last year. The truant service can’t be very good because no one has contacted me. I must tell you that she never stayed at any school very long-always absent, pretending…I love my daughter, Mr Hardy, and I believe she could become a successful person. She is musically talented and can dance like a thing on fire. But she is lost at the moment and I don’t want for her to be lost always. Will you help me? I can pay you. I earn good money.’
‘I’ll be honest with you, Ms Karatsky. A resourceful young person with experienced friends can be impossible to trace-even with a fairly warm trail. In cases like this, what I do is try very hard to learn something useful very quickly. If I do, there’s some hope and I ask for a retainer and a contract is signed. If not, I think it’s unfair to take any money beyond the initial expenses. I’m sorry if it sounds severe, but…’
She rose smoothly from her chair and moved towards me and I felt impelled to stand. She gripped my upper arms, raised herself on tiptoe and kissed me on both cheeks. I felt her firm breasts press against me somewhere above my belt. She smelt slightly of brandy. There are some people you meet and forget instantly and others who make such an impact you know they’ll stay with you. It’s a matter of looks, voice, smell and more. It had been a long time since I’d met a woman who stamped herself on me in that way and Marisha Karatsky was just such a one.
‘Not severe,’ she said. ‘Not at all. Thank you. Thank you very much.’