You don't just wander up to a psychiatric facility, ring the bell, and ask to speak to an inmate. In the old days, when I was on passable terms with some of the police, I could've found out who arrested Geary and possibly got access to him that way. Not anymore. My doctor, Ian Sangster, wears a number of hats. I made an appointment to see him in the morning.
'Hammond Psychiatric Unit in Marrickville, Ian,' I said. 'Know it?'
'I know of it. I don't think you're a candidate for it quite yet.'
'Very funny. I want to talk to someone there.' 'In connection with what?' 'What else? Patrick's murder.' 'Let me make some phone calls.'
Ian got back to me a few hours later saying that he'd spoken to a doctor at the unit who was willing to allow me a short interview with Geary that afternoon, with an emphasis on the short.
'Dr Galena Vronsky,' Ian said. 'A very good clinician. Could be your type, come to think of it.' 'What did she say about Geary?'
'Nothing much, just that he's a violent paranoid schizophrenic resistant to medication. Have fun.'
Dr Vronsky was a slim, dark woman in her thirties. She was classically beautiful with violet eyes and sculptured features. She wore the standard white coat over a crisp blue blouse and a dark skirt, medium-heeled shoes. She sat me down in her office and I told her why I wanted to see Geary. I left out certain details, although there was something compelling about her and it felt almost shameful not to tell her the whole truth.
'How would you propose to go about questioning him, Mr Hardy?'
'I don't think I'll have to do much. Patrick Malloy and I were almost identical physically. If he killed Patrick and sees me he's bound to show some kind of reaction.'
'Possibly, but he's a very disturbed individual, so much so that it could be very difficult to read his reaction.'
'Do you think what I'm suggesting could do him any harm?'
She smiled and the temperature in the cold room seemed to lift. 'I'm glad you asked that. Ian Sangster vouched for you and your stocks just went up with me. No, I don't think so. He needs detoxing and medicating, and even then…'
She got up. 'Come on, and don't forget I'm in control of this.'
I followed her through a series of passages with rooms on both sides. Some were open and looked more like motel rooms than cells. The place was no bedlam, closer to a sedate rest home. We passed a recreation area where a couple of men were playing table tennis while others were bent over hands of cards. Dr Vronsky opened the door to a warm, glassed-in sunroom. Three men were sitting in armchairs staring out at an expanse of grass. An orderly in a tracksuit sat in a corner working on a crossword puzzle.
Two of the men turned to look at us as we entered and one nodded a sort of greeting. The third man continued to look straight ahead. Like the others, he wore street clothes.
'This is Mr Geary,' the doctor said. 'You have a visitor, Mr Geary.'
He turned slowly and slid his chair around on the polished floor to face me. His face was deeply lined, grey-skinned and slack. His sunken eyes were blank and uninterested. 'Fuck off, shithead,' he said. 'You too, cunt.'
His hands on the arms of the chair were trembling, but as soon as he'd spoken he swivelled around and resumed his former position. I followed Dr Vronsky from the room.
She leaned against the wall, distress showing in her face.
'He's waiting to hear his voice. He was mildly irritated that we interrupted him.'
'He was trembling,' I said. 'This assault, what did he do?'
'He kicked a woman. Kicked her until she fell and then kicked her repeatedly. How was your cousin killed, Mr Hardy?'
'By a shotgun.'
She shook her head. 'Not possible. He has advanced Parkinson's disease. He would be quite incapable of using a firearm.'
A dead end.
'This is a damn fine instrument,' Hank said, holding up Patrick's mobile. 'It's a BlackBerry, the latest.'
'Why do they call it a blackberry? It's a noxious weed.'
'Not in the US it isn't, at least, not everywhere. Anyway, it's one word, spelled with two capital Bs.'
'What will they think of next?'
'It has a speaker phone, wireless broadband, email, huge memory, you name it.'
'So you could get up his phone numbers, his emails, photos, all that?'
'With ingenuity, yeah, in theory.'
'Meaning?'
'He uploaded almost everything to…'
'Where?'
Hank shrugged. 'No way to tell. A server, most likely.'
'You said almost.'
'Do you remember someone taking a picture of the two of you outside some pub or other?'
'Yeah, the Travellers Arms in Dublin. A Japanese tourist took it.'
Hank fiddled with the phone and handed it to me. 'He kept that picture, nothing else.'
I looked at the photograph. Its quality was vastly superior to any of mine. It showed us standing outside the pub; Patrick with his fiddle case under his arm and me with a rolled-up newspaper held in much the same way. For once we were wearing similar clothes dictated by the weather-jeans, sweaters and light slickers. I had a few days' stubble because my shaver had conked out, and we looked like twins again- same height, same build, same pose. I remembered that the obliging Japanese photographer had smiled and said, 'Twin brothers,' as he returned the mobile, and then, 'Brackberry,' and we'd nodded and thanked him.
I took a deep breath and put the mobile on the desk.
'If I'd been there…'
'You'd likely be dead,' Hank said. 'Automatic shotgun, right?'
'Yes.'
'That's a serious killing. He wasn't about to leave any witnesses. It was a Perry and Dick situation.'
Hank had just finished reading the copy of In Cold Blood
I'd lent him. He'd said it was one of the best books he'd ever read. I agreed.
'You're right,' I said. 'I've got to work on this.'
'Sure. I remember when you were showing me the ropes in this business and you told me to stop at every piece of information and ask yourself what conclusions to draw.'
'Okay.'
'In this case just two-the guy had something to hide and he was fond of you.'
It looked like another dead end but that often happens and you just have to scratch away until you draw blood somewhere else. I knew someone at Consolidated Securities, the firm Patrick said he was selling out to. The company was a big, international outfit, handling investigation as well as conventional security matters, and one of its policies was to mop up as many smaller operations as it could to increase market share. One technique was to recruit one-man PEAs like me. I'd been approached several times but wasn't interested. Eventually they'd get around to Hank. I phoned Bruce Carstairs, the executive who'd made the offer to me.
'Cliff Hardy,' he said and cleared his throat.
'Don't be embarrassed,' I said. 'I'm not after a job.'
As a practitioner scrubbed permanently off the books by the licensing authorities, my market value was nil. I told him I wanted some information about their acquisition of Patrick
Malloy's share in Pavee Security. Acquisition of that sort was Carstairs' area of expertise.
'Not sure I can tell you anything-commercial confidentiality and all that.'
'He was my cousin and a friend and he was shot to death in my house. I'm helping the police in their investigation and I just need to know a few things-nothing about the money.'
A pause and then he said, 'I'll help as far as I can.'
'Who was his lawyer?'
'He didn't have one. He was legally trained and did all that side of the work himself.'
'What about his bank? He must have paid the money in somewhere.'
'I see what you're getting at. No harm in telling you this, it's on the public record. There was no money involved. It was a straight share transfer-his in Pavee, and it was a substantial but not an outright majority holding, for a number of ours.'
'Can you tell me when it all went through?'
I could hear the keys clicking and remembered what Patrick had said:… all computers and bullshit. Carstairs came back on the line and gave me several dates. The last few coincided with the time of our trip.
'Emails and phone conversations to tie it up?' I said.
'Of course.'
'What about signatures?'
'All provided earlier. Look, I'm sorry… for your loss, but everything was perfectly straightforward. Agreement was reached easily with both parties perfectly happy.'
'Isn't that a bit unusual?'
'It's not unique. Was there anything else?'
I thanked him and rang off. He hadn't remarked on the physical similarity between Patrick and myself because we'd never met. Our dealings had been solely by phone and email.
Two days later I got a call from Dan Munro at Pavee Security. He reminded me that he'd been at the funeral and asked if I was willing for my phone number to be given to a woman named Sheila Malloy.
'Who is she?'
'She says she's Patrick's wife.'
'His wife?'
'That's what she says. I've got her on the other line, Mr Hardy, and she's very insistent.'
'Tell her I'll meet her anywhere she chooses at whatever time.'