Marrickville Park is my kind of placea big, open space, roughly mown with a football oval, plenty of trees, not too many flowers and some grass tennis courts tucked away in one corner. The croquet lawn in the opposite corner is a bit of an anomaly, but live and let live. You dont see grass tennis courts much any more. They remind me of the great days of Australian tennisHoad and Rosewall, Laver and Emerson, Newcombe and Roche. They werent such great days in other waysBob Menzies, six oclock closing, Vietnambut I yearn for them sometimes when I hear about crack and child pornography and the hole in the ozone layer.
I parked in Frazer Street and wandered through the park to the courts, kicking at pine cones. I was having trouble being objective about this twisting, turning mess of a case I had on my hands. Id started out greedy for a hundred thousand dollars, had entertained thoughts of a whole lot more money and now was mostly hoping that Claudia Vardon, or whatever her name was, wasnt too deep in the criminal soup. Who was I to be judgmental? Id recently killed a man, falsified evidence and served a gaol term. As a private investigator I was more or less on probation. My personal needs were greater than my professional standards and I knew it. Had always known it.
Two good players were on the courtsa baseliner and net-rusher. The baseliner had a double-fisted backhand like Agassi and the serve-volleyer had obviously modelled his game on Edbergs. It had always seemed to me that a serve-volley player should beat a baseliner because that game requires a high passage over the neteasy meat for the volleyer. It hadnt proved true over the years, but here on a suburban court, with a couple of fit A-graders at work, it was. The surface made the difference. The grass took the Edberg-style underspin and flat shots and kept the ball low. The Agassi clone couldnt get topspin on either side and had to hit up. Stefan was there at the net and Andre was dead. I felt like applauding. But it would be like applauding the dinosaurs. Id read that less than 5 per cent of professional tennis is played on grass these days.
I wasnt convinced that Claudia was one of the kidnappers, or an associate of one. It didnt seem to fit. Against that, Peggy Hawkins was certainly just such a player in the game. Why not someone similar from the opposing side that turned out to be unopposed? It was all confused by my feelings for her which were mixed to say the very least. The strong sexual attraction had to be balanced against the ruthless way shed used and manipulated me. My ribs were still sore and I still had sutures in my torn ear and I felt humiliated about being delivered home like a gift-wrapped package. I had a strong wish to meet up with those three blokes again with the odds better balanced.
As I watched the balls go over the net and hit the fences with the force good players can generate, I realised that the best way to resolve all my dilemmas was to act like the volleyertake the high ground and the initiative. I had to try to find Claudia Vardon before she phoned me and started calling the shots all over again. It had to be Claudia whod met with Leo Grogan and set the ball rolling. The dark hair was no problem.
It seemed reasonable to begin in Glebe. She appeared to be able to keep track of my movements there. Shed certainly known when Id got back the other night. Most likely shed just driven past, but if her intention was to keep really close tabs on me there was a chance she was staying somewhere nearby. There are no flash hotels in Glebe, just good, serviceable motels like the Rooftop and the Haven Inn on Glebe Point Road and the University Motor Inn across the way from what it gets its name from. Im quite well known in all three of them, especially the Rooftop where Ive occasionally put witnesses and other parties who needed putting. It has a swimming pool where youd imaginea big plus in summer and, besides, anxious people like to be able to go up on a roof and look down on the world thats giving them a hard time.
I did a quick check on the motels, giving them my description of Claudia and the car. Three blanks. I extended the search to Chippendale and Camperdown but came up with the same result. I couldnt see Claudia staying in a backpacker hostel. The Blackwattle Bay end of Glebe is full of blocks of flats and flats become available for short-term leases and sub-lets. Claudias operation had obviously been well-planned, so securing a second base in advance wasnt out of the question. More in hope than expectation, I toured the streets and looked in on the car parks. I knew a few of the residents and could ask them later, but the more I carried out this exercise, the more I realised I was kidding myself. She was too smart to be found by the equivalent of turning over rocks.
I went home to find a message from Max on the answering machine. The house seemed emptier and more desolate in the day than at night. The empty rooms and the bachelor routines I mostly enjoyed felt like signs of failure and put me in a bad mood. I phoned and got ready to go into the usual routine with Penny.
Penny, this is Cliff. Max wants to talk to me.
And I want to talk to you. Did he say anything.
About what?
About me! Who dyou think?
I hadnt given it any thought since my attempt to read Maxs body language. That was too slim a foundation to make a comment on, and after my wasted effort I wasnt feeling obliging. No, nothing.
He will. Ill put him on.
I wished I could feel as optimistic as Penny and I was feeling more sour by the minute when Max came on the line.
Ive been onto that Redfern DFowler. He says…
A guy named Freddy Persil shot Barry. I got all that from Grogan.
A pause, then Pennys voice, choked with anger. Dont do that, Cliff! You know he cant hear you. Whyre you screwing him up like that?
Im sorry, Penny. I havent had a good morning. Look, Ive found out a few useful things. Ill put them in a fax.
Why wont you talk? she said angrily. Wait on, Max! Im trying to…
Everyone was getting shirty. To tell you the truth, I find this method of communication bloody difficult. Lets be up to date about this. Tell Max to fax me what he wants to tell me and Ill do the same.
She hung up in my ear.
I felt shitty about it, but then, I felt shitty generally. I made a drink and wrote out a fax giving Max the gist of what Id learned from Leo Grogan. I tried to be objective, listing the only two possible connections Claudia could have to the Becketts that she was a former confidential employee of Cavendish or associated with the kidnappers. I favoured the first option and said so. I stressed that, in my opinion, working through her was the best way to progress. I didnt say that Id spent hours wandering around Glebe looking for her.
I sent the fax and went up the street for some more wine and whisky and food which, for me, generally means fruit, bread, eggs and anything else my eye lights on. My mood improved on the walk and I exchanged greetings with a few of the shopkeepers and spent more money than Id intended. I was contemplating replying to Maxs communication with an apology when I approached the house and saw something fluttering on my windscreen. Another carpet cleaner, I thought. I put the carry bags down on the hood and plucked the paper from under the wipers. I unfolded the sheet of yellow legal foolscap. The message, in bold, flowing felt tip, read: Nice try, Cliff. Call you tonight at 9.
C
It could have gone either way. I could have been furious at her arrogance and my incompetence or been amused at the cheekiness of it, the gall. The second way won, but my reaction was perverse. I realised that I was glad to have had her watching me. As far as I recalled I hadnt picked my nose or spat on the pavement. I looked up and down the street, half expecting her to be there, laughing at me. She wasnt, of course, but she could have been in any of the cars that had been on the road. Dark hair, dark glasses, the Laser was probably hired, so a different car. Why not?
A taxi turned into the street, one of those taxis with a high roof. It pulled in behind my car and Max got out. He helped the driver run Pennys wheelchair down the ramp and onto the pavement. Max gave the cabbie a card and as he was running it through, the wheelchair came purring towards me.
Hello, Penny.
Cliff. We decided not to let this bullshit go any further.
Thats good. I was mentally composing an apology fax.
Penny gestured at the paper in my hand. Whats that youve got there?
Ill explain inside over a drink. The taxi drove away and Max came up to stand proprietorially behind the wheelchair. Gidday, Max. Ive just invited Penny in for a drink. You can come too if you like.
Where she goes, I go.
I looked at Penny. Ah, I said.
Max frowned. Whats the mean?
Private joke, I said. I thought you were only interested in widows.
Max? Penny said.
I opened the gate. Another private joke. I win. After youse.
Terrace houses are not wheelchair-friendly, but we had no trouble getting Penny inside and installed in the living room with a glass of wine in her hand. Something had clearly happened between them, but for the moment Max, who accepted a small Scotch, was all business.
Were got a lot of dope on Sean Beckett, he said. Apparently, hes a nutter.
Max, Penny said. Thats inaccurate.
All right. A neurotic; unstable, disturbed, whatever you want to call it.
I drank some Scotch and wondered when Claudia would call and how to handle it. I tried to concentrate on what Max was saying but it was hard. Ive been called unstable and disturbed myself. Dont know about neurotic. Whatre the signs in his case?
His marriage broke upguess when? Immediately after the Beckett thing.
Marriages break up, I said. Mine for one.
Sorry, I didnt know that. How long ago?
I forget. Long time. OK. What else?
Hes been in therapy ever since. Hes a raving hypochondriac, spends a fortune on doctors and health cures. Hes obese, really huge. Ive got a picture of him, look.
Max took an envelope from his pocket and showed me a grainy photo of a very fat man. Two chins rested on his tie knot.
Could be genetic, I said. We dont know anything about his mum.
Yes, we do. She was an accountant, helped old man Beckett get his start. She died not long after the divorce. Here she is, and the daughter.
Penny was looking around the room, maybe noting the cobwebs and frayed carpet, maybe wondering if the bookshelves could take much more of a load before collapsing. Id wondered that myself.
Youve been busy, I said.
Max sipped his Scotch. Penny has.
More photos. A pleasant-faced woman, kept from being attractive by close-set eyes that gave her an owlish look. Estelle Beckett favoured her father, who was a handsome man. The picture was a studio portrait and probably flattering. She had good bone structure and even features and knew how to use cosmetics and how to pose to make the best of them. She was good-looking but not a patch on Ramona which, as she projected vanity and self-absorption, must have been a problem for her. No suggestion of a weight problem, though.
OK, I said. Seans a very troubled individual.
Penny glanced across at me. Thats almost civilised.
Max took the photos back and tucked them away. Hes on the board of this and that, as the mother told you, but hes worse than useless. He was managing director of a couple of things for a while but people had to step in to prevent them from going bottom up. He rakes in more money than you and I can imagine, but for all that hes a… what was it, Pen?
A cipher, Penny said.