The boarding house looked peaceful enough. A couple of residents lounged at the gate yarning to anyone who would stop. They stepped aside to let me pass and went on talking as if I didnt exist. I went up the steps and in the front door to the familiar smells neglected and neglectful men generatea compound of sweat, tobacco, beer, fast food, urine and dirty socks. There were two occupied rooms on the ground floor along with a kitchen and a sitting room, and I guessed three or four on the two levels above. That put Barry Whites room, number 4, one floor up.
I dont know where White had lived when he was riding high as a corrupt copper, but it must have been a million times better than this. The stairs were narrow and dark with gaps in the uprights and a rickety railing. The carpet was worn and lifting, a hazard to anyone with poor eyesight or a load on board, and that most likely applied to many of the residents. I went up quickly and reached a landing dimly illuminated by a small window that hadnt been cleaned since the end of World War I. I knocked on number 4; I got no answer but the door swung slightly inwards.
I went in and at first noticed only that the room smelled cleaner than the hall and the stairs. My eyes had adjusted to the poor light and the brightness in here made me blink. Whites room must have been one of the better ones in the establishment. He had, as well as the room itself, a glassed-in balcony, and light was flooding in from there through closed French windows with clean panes. White had made an effort. The bed was neat; some books and magazines were neatly stacked on a dresser beside it. On a small table there was a toaster, a loaf of bread and a tub of margarine. A carton of long-life milk, a packet of tea and one of sugar and a jar of instant coffee were lined up precisely on a shelf.
I opened the French windows and saw my client. He was sitting in a cane chair and he was wearing the same shirt and tie Id seen him in on the previous two days. The only difference was that the tie and the front of the shirt were stained dark brown with his blood. His head had flopped forward towards his chest but hung there, as if he might lift it at any minute. But he wouldnt. I didnt need to feel for a pulse or put a mirror to his mouth. The blood was in a pool in his lap below his paunch and had soaked down the length of both trouser legs. When you lose that much blood youre history.
I let out the breath Id been holding and took a look around the balcony. There was almost nothing to see. Lino on the floor, a couple of struggling plants in pots on a shelf and a packet of Drum and a lighter with an ashtray on the floor. Three butts. The windows were fixed except for a small louvred section which stood partly open. This was evidently where Barry sat when he smoked, thought his thoughts and dreamed his dreams. He didnt have to worry about giving up the grog and the smokes and losing weight and eating lettuce now. A slight breeze came in through the window and ruffled his freshly trimmed hair.
On closer examination it was clear that White had been shot twice at close range. One of the bullets must have hit an artery that pumped out the blood. Perhaps the second shot came later, as insurance. It had taken me about forty minutes to get to the boarding house and White must have made his call after 11.39 from a phone box nearby or somewhere in the house. He couldnt have been dead for more than about half an hour before I got there. There was no smell of cordite in the air but with modern weapons there isnt necessarily. And a silencer can take care of the noise. The police could question the residents about comings and goings but from the indifference Id encountered at the front gate, it was unlikely that theyd glean much.
I had questions of my own, particularly about Whites mysterious backer. I did a quick search of the room and his belongings, poking through the drawers in the dressers, checking the pockets of his two jackets and three pairs of pants in the wardrobe, looking under the bed and flicking through the books and magazines. All the search told me was that someone else had done the job before me. Several of the pocket linings were displaced the way they get when the pockets are gone through, and the socks and underwear had been disturbed. There were no personal papers insurance documents, letters, bills, photographs but he could have had another storage place for them. The clincher confirming the previous search was that there was no wallet, no address book, no credit cards, no moneynone of the things a person needs to get through the day.
There was a pay phone in the hallway near the kitchen, perhaps the phone White had used to call me. I dialled the emergency number, asked for the police and told my tale. I was instructed to stay where I was. There was no point in going anywhere. Frank Parker and Max Savage knew of my dealing with Barry White and would put two and two together when they heard of his death and theyd expect me to play it straight. I could expect some unpleasantness from the police but nothing I couldnt handle. Theyd try to make me tell them what White and I were up to and I wouldnt. Our contract was locked in my safe and theyd need a pretty strong court order to get at it. Theyd threaten me with obstruction and Id tell them to see my lawyer, although I didnt actually have one. Perhaps Id give them Wallace Cavendishs name.
The uniforms arrived first, then the detectives, then the forensic guys and lastly the body-movers. They took over the sitting room and I showed my PEA licence and other ID to just about all of them it seemed, and told my story at least three times. They made me turn out my pockets and took the keys to my car for a look-see, but in general I was treated with more respect than usualmaybe because of the suit. The residents of the house were stirred up by the activity, some got agitated and there was a certain amount of anti-police aggression displayed. As my patience was stretched by the repetition, I began to enjoy that. Detective Sergeant Fowler eventually gave up a half-hearted effort at pressuring me and produced a pocket tape-recorder.
How about you give me your statement, Mr Hardy? You seem to have the gift of the gab. Ill get it typed up and you can come in and sign it. Then well see what happens next.
Fair enough, I said. I rattled off a strictly edited version of the events of the past few days while Fowler smoked, looked bored, and occasionally checked that the light on his recorder was still glowing. When I finished he hit the OFF button, butted his fifth or sixth cigarette and stood up.
Right. Redfern station, lets say, three oclock this afternoon, if thats convenient.
Sure. No complaint, but your attitude strikes me as a bit casual, Detective Sergeant.
Fowler shrugged. Barry White was a fucking dog, he said.
This development left me with what would have been an ethical dilemma if there were any hard and fast ethical rules in the PEA business. There arent, not really. Of course youre supposed to have a client and a contract but no-one would blame me for pursuing the matter Barry White had brought to my attention and, if I ran into any sticklers for the letter of the law, I could always round up Leo Grogan as a standin. Of course, I was assuming that if Whites death was connected with the Beckett inquiry, there was a certain amount of danger involved. There was the prospect now of a bigger cut of the reward to be considered. All in all, going on seemed worth the risk.
Sudden death can have curious and unexpected effects. Id felt almost nothing on finding White, while searching his sad room and dealing with the police. But as I drove away I experienced something like a sense of loss, or a feeling about the transitoriness and futility of everything. A dark mood settled on me and, instead of heading back to the office and picking up the threads of the inquiry or getting in touch with Max Savage, I found myself driving down Glebe Point Road, heading for home. I had no idea of what Id do there beyond have a few drinks and a walk in the park. I knew I wanted to get out of the suit.
I parked outside my house, edging in between my neighbours Kombi van and a green Laser I hadnt seen in the street before. I got out and noticed a woman standing on the other side of the street looking intently at my house. She was tall and full-bodied in a stylishly cut charcoal grey suit. She wore a white blouse and her hair, almost the same colour, hung to her shoulders. She saw me looking at her and did a kind of double-take.
Something wrong? I said.
She crossed the street slowly and her leather shoulder bag swung slightly as she moved. Im sorry, she said, pointing at my shabby terrace. Is that your house?
Yes, it is.
I dont suppose youd be interested in selling it?
Every week I get circulars from real estate agents telling me how many buyers theyve got for properties just like mine in the area, what prices theyve fetched at auction for just such places, and how theyd be happy to help me sell. Some are cheap productions with blurred print, others have nice borders and clear, artistic photographs. Whatever, I put them all in the recycling bin. This was the first direct, human approach in that vein and it made a difference. The house looked bleak and neglected, the way I felt, but something about this womanthe animation in her face, the big, dark eyes and sculptured featureslightened my mood.
I dont know, I said. Could be. What agency are you from?
She smiled. Great teeth. Oh, Im not a real estate agent. Its just that Im looking for a house in this part of Glebe. Theres one on the other side a bit further down but I dont like it much, so I came up here just to scout about.
We were standing quite close together now and I liked the sensation. Her perfume was pleasant and she had an easy grace that made me feel relaxed. I see, I said. Well, houses come up from time to time. My names Hardy, by the way, Cliff Hardy.
Her hand came up naturally and we shook. Hi, Im Claudia Vardon.
Her accent was something like Greg Normans Australian overlaid with American. Her hand was very dry, strong grip. No wedding ring. Her eyebrows were dark and her complexion was olive, making a startling contrast with the almost white hair. I guessed her age at about forty, but Im a rotten judge of womens ages. I let go of her hand reluctantly.
You say you just might be interested in selling, Mr Hardy?
I shrugged. I think about it from time to time… A car turned into the street and came around the bend too fast. We had to jump out of the way and we collided, hip to hip. I reached out to steady her and felt the firmness of her body.
We dont get many hoons like that, I said.
She wasnt rattled by the speedster, nor embarrassed by my touching her. Pleased, if anything. I was glad I was wearing my suit and had shaved carefully. How about the flight path?
Not too bad here. But well be getting a few planes soon. Would you like to have a look at the house? Chances are a planell go over and you can get the idea. Where do you live now, by the way?
In the city. Used to be Hunters Hill. The planes were terrible. Yes, all right, if it wont put you out.
We went between my car and the Laser which she nodded at. I cramped your parking space. Sorry.
Thats OK. I opened the gate and went ahead of her, pushing back some of the banksia that overhangs the path. The porch tiles have lifted where roots have got to them and there is a slight crack in the masonry from an old subsidence. If she noticed, she didnt comment. The house is cleaned twice a month by George and Shirley, a pair of local characters who do a good job, so that it smells OK but a bit musty from under-use. Claudia Vardon walked in confidently, peeked into the room off the hallway and gazed up the stairs. As luck would have it, sunlight streamed in through the skylight I put in a few years back and gave the upstairs a promising glow.
Very nice, she said. You havent mucked it all up.
Far from it. Its pretty original. Two out of three fireplaces intact. No aluminium windows.
She laughed. I hate those things.
Me, too. Look, put your bag down and have a good snoop through. Ive had a tough morning and Im going to make a sandwich and have a glass of wine. Would you like something?
She slung her bag at a chair and it landed neatly. Ive had lunch, thanks. Some wine would be great.
I took off my jacket and headed for the kitchen. I heard her going up the stairs and grinned as she hit the step that squeaks like a mouse. I made a cheese and tomato sandwich, finished off the remainder of a bottle of Long Flat White in two swigs and opened another. I had a glass poured for her when she came through to the kitchen.
Its a good house, she said. Youve been here a while?
Mm. Have a drink.
She took a solid sip. I dont think you want to sell this place. You and it seem to go together. I think youd be lost anyplace else.
I heard the low rumbling from above. I pointed at the ceiling. Hang on. Listen.
We stood close together, almost touching, listening to the plane overhead. When it passed she touched me on the shoulder. Not bad at all.
No, thats about it. Come and have a look at the back.
We carried our glasses out into the courtyard that I bricked in a rough fashion when Cyn and I first moved in here a hundred years ago. Grass grows through the cracks and some of the bricks have broken but it doesnt look too bad. Shirley waters the plants and pulls up some of the weeds. A biggish mulberry tree gives some shade and stains a section of the bricks. The plastic outdoor furniture is white-spotted with bird shit.
If you stand on the fence you can see Blackwattle Bay, I said.
She lifted one elegant black shoe. Not in these heels. Its a great place for you. Very spare, very masculine. Dyou mind if I ask what you do for a living?
Im a private detective. You?
I was a solicitor and shouldve stayed with it. Im recently divorced, hence the great house search. The Hunters Hill place is sold and Ill get halfshould be enough to buy something around here. I love Glebe even though its changed. I lived here when I was a student at Sydney.
We both drank wine. We both smiled. Will you go back into practice? I said.
Hell, I dont know. Why?
I need a lawyer.
Her head went back and she laughed. I wanted to kiss her smooth brown throat. Does that mean youve got lots of money or lots of problems?
Prospects of both.
Thats interesting. Im not sure what Im doing. Im very rusty on everything, but we could talk about it.
Good. Whatre you doing tonight?
She finished her wine and looked down at the glass. Nothing. Waiting.
Have dinner with me in Glebe. Indian, Lebanese, Spanish, French, Italian, you name it.
Why not? she said. Indian sounds good. Dyou think I should wear a sari?
You could, I said. You could.