Trudi got the job of copying the tape of the telephone call and trying to locate someone discreet who could advise on accents and speech patterns. The caller had some distinctive quirks of speech, a strange rhythm when he was in full flight. It meant nothing to me but it seemed possible that an identification of accent or background could narrow the field. January was making a list of ‘possibles’-married women with whom he’d been associated who might possibly have psychotic husbands. We looked up from the sheet of paper.
‘I can’t think of one.’
‘Try,’ I said.
‘I’ve got to talk to Hogbin and some others.’
‘And the press,’ Trudi said.
‘Christ, yes. They’ll be at me soon.’
‘You’re an old professional at that, Peter. I saw you at work in America. You can handle it.’
‘What’re you going to do?’
‘See if I can track Karen Weiner a bit. What’s the address of the city flat?’
He told me and I wrote it down.
‘What does she drive?’
‘Yellow Gemini.’
‘Where’s the hubby?’
‘Could be anywhere.’ January wrote a name on the page.
‘See if you can find out.’
‘We need Gary,’ Trudi said. ‘When’s he due back, Peter?’
‘Could be tomorrow.’ He wrote another name.
‘I’m off. I’ll stay in touch. You can go to my place to sleep if you like, Trudi.’
‘Thanks. What about you?’
‘We never sleep. See you.’
Karen Weiner’s flat wasn’t what I expected. No doorman or security system, no closed-circuit TV. It was in an old building, recently renovated, close to the Darling Harbour development. Four storeys, sandstone blocks, big windows, a bit of last century elegance in the middle of this century vulgarity. The building had been a bank or commercial house of some kind; the upstairs windows were narrow but long and they opened out onto small balconies around which some new ivy was twisting.
I had the taxi circle the block a few times while I weighed up the situation. A busy working day was coming to an end; parking spaces were starting to appear in the street. Pretty soon they’d fill up with movie-goers and recreational eaters. I got out around the corner and went down a lane behind the flats. From the top floor there’d be a good view of Darling Harbour; from the bottom the view would be of the lane and the yellow Gemini with the parking infringement notices on the windscreen.
The notices dated from two days before. Parking was allowed in the lane only between 11 pm and 6 am. It told me something but not much. The lane was narrow, flanked by the backs of buildings on both sides. There were doorways and recesses, a few rubbish bins and a skip carrying the debris from some renovation. No dog shit, no lolly wrappers, an area taking pride in itself. The entrance to the flats was adjacent to where the car was parked.
I tried the heavy door; it was locked but not fitted with anything complicated. A latchkey situation, more olde worlde charm. I used an illegal tool and had the door open inside a minute. Mrs Weiner’s apartment was on the top floor at the back; her door would have given me a lot of trouble if it had been properly locked but it yielded to a push. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. It was a solid door with a peephole, a deadlock, a heavy chain and a bolt. A quick look around the flat told the story: Mrs Weiner had been interrupted while she was having a cigarette and a drink and reading a report on oil futures. She had let someone in; the someone had come into the sitting room and there had been a scuffle. A Persian rug was rucked up and a pot had fallen from a stand, spilling dirt and rubber plant across the polished floor. The someone had taken Mrs Weiner into the bedroom and pulled clothes and shoes from a cupboard. She had resisted; a handmirror and some bottles of perfume and face lotion lay on the floor. A thick, dark stain on the pale grey carpet and some brown smears on a yellow pillow case were dried blood.
I went into the bathroom but there were no messages in soap on the mirror, no maps traced in blood on the toilet paper. I went back into the living room, trying to think. It was dark outside but lights were on in the flat. That meant the abduction had happened at night. Brilliant, Hardy, I thought. You get better all the time. I went to the window and looked out. A plane roared across, low in the sky and not far away. The view was west-over the dusty ditch where they were building the arcades and casino, over the freeways and the water, towards where Mrs Weiner’s lover’s constituents lived. I guessed that this was as close as she’d care to come to them.
Everything in the flat was expensive. It was a good bet that there’d be some fine liquor about. I was out of ideas and tempted. I resisted temptation in favour of routine.
My knock on the door of the other west-facing flat brought a round red face into the few inches between the edge of the door and the jamb. The space was spanned by a heavy chain at about eye level for the man inside. I heard a growl and looked down. A bulldog was thrusting its ugly face through the gap.
‘What do you want?’ He was short and probably fat to guess from the shape of his head. He had wild, woolly hair and popped eyes. I showed him my licence folder, quickly.
‘My name’s Hardy. I’m a private investigator. I wanted to speak to your neighbour, Mrs Weiner, but she isn’t in. Could you tell me when you last saw her?’
‘How did you get up here?’ The dog made a lunge at my leg but I could see it wasn’t going to make it and I stood firm.
‘I had a key, Mr…?’
‘I’ve told them we need a security door. All kinds of people wandering in and out, it’s crazy.’
‘What kinds of people, Mr…’
‘Willowsmith, Roger Willowsmith. All kinds and Mrs Weiner’s the big attraction. I suppose I shouldn’t have said that. Is she in trouble?’
‘I don’t know, Mr Willowsmith. When did you last see her?’
‘Yesterday or the day before. Back, Winston!’
Winston came forward, if anything. ‘Are you saying she had unusual visitors?’
He shrugged. The eyes seemed to protrude further with any movement he made. ‘Perhaps not. Just a lot of them. I’m very quiet myself. I’m nervous too. That’s why I have Winston.’
‘I see. So you didn’t see or hear anything unusual in the last few days? I mean to do with Mrs Weiner?’
‘No-o.’
‘You don’t sound sure, Mr Willowsmith.’
‘Well I don’t know whether it was to do with her or not.’
‘What? Look, could I come in so we can talk more comfortably?’
He pulled back and the chain went taut. For a moment I thought he was going to close the door, but the impulse to talk was stronger. ‘Are you crazy? I don’t let anyone in here! No one! You might be a mugger.’ He peered more closely at me. ‘Oh, my God! You’re carrying a gun!’
‘Easy,’ I said. ‘I could’ve shot you and Winston by now and bitten through the chain if I’d wanted to. Tell me about the something unusual.’
‘There was a man watching the place.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Where was he?’
‘Down in the lane. Along a bit from where her car is parked. In one of the doorways.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Nothing. Just watched. Everyone in the flats uses the door into the lane. I don’t know who he was watching for.’
Winston growled and strained the chain. ‘Show me where from your window,’ I said.
‘Oh no, I won’t. I’ve said all I’m going to say. You go away before I call the police.’
He closed the door and Winston yelped as it caught his nose before he could withdraw it. The door was too thick for me to hear anything more. So Willowsmith might not have heard Mrs Weiner being forcibly taken away. I went down the stairs to the lane and checked the doorways near the parked Gemini. In the second one I found a greasy bag that had contained chips wedged into a crack in the bricks. The door was dusty and unused. In front of it, sitting on damp, rank smelling concrete, I found two Diet Coke tins. One had a straw tied in a series of knots stuffed down inside it. The other was full to overflowing with urine.
I breathed out trying to keep the smell at bay. ‘Sammy Weiss pissed here,’ I said.