Blood Is a Stranger (2 page)

Harry experienced the UK's jingoistic fervour, and this kindled his passion for the US to smash somebody – anybody. When Reagan biffed Grenada, then Libya and Iran, Harry was ecstatic. But Cardinal was worried. He was a highly decorated Korean war veteran wary of over-exuberant American foreign policy. While Harry waved the flag and screamed for action from the safe confines of Scarsdale, New York, his father spared a thought for the guy on the front line. He had been there.

Yet, despite differences, Cardinal loved his son, and lived in the hope that he would bury his politics, marry and mature into a compassionate and good scientist.

The thought that this dream was dead depressed and
tired him on what seemed to be the longest day of his life. He told the reception desk at the Wentworth to hold all calls, and was asleep within minutes.

Rhonda Mills let go an inner whoop of delight as she spotted the BMW pulling up in South Yarra's Anderson Street and began walking towards Bill Hewson, her best Intelligence contact, as he got out of the vehicle. He was tall, thin and gaunt with a shock of fair hair, which, even as she watched, he gave an habitual push off his forehead.

Rhonda waved to him, but he ignored her as he slipped through the least conspicuous entrance — gate ‘C' — to Melbourne's Royal Botanical Gardens.

Mid-afternoon on a fine spring day, it was perfect for such a meeting. Rhonda, a TV investigative journalist, was blonde and attractive, with large green eyes and a button nose. Her figure vacillated between shapely and plump, depending on her discipline and diet. She had long ago capitulated to a penchant for fine food and wine, which, coupled with her thirty-seven years, threatened her career. It was one reason she had to keep up her professional reputation through contacts such as Hewson, who were invaluable for leads and expert verification on espionage or foreign political stories.

Rhonda followed Hewson through gate ‘C' and was surprised not to see him waiting for her. She hurried along the right fork of an asphalt path that meandered around the gardens, featuring towering oaks, Chinese palms, English elms, and sprawling Moreton Bay figs.

Rhonda stopped when she was confronted by an angry black swan watching over its fair chicks. She retreated past a grass tree shaped like a huge bottle brush, only to feel strong arms wrap around her. It was Hewson.

‘Christ, three eyes!' she snapped. She pushed herself free. Hewson smiled and touched the rim of his dark sunglasses, which he wore to hide a wandering eye.

‘I don't like frights, thank you,' she admonished him. She squinted at a sign near the grass tree. ‘Especially under a
Xanthorrhoea australis.'

They strolled down the path and on to the central lawn, where young couples braved the crisp air by taking off sweaters to soak up the warm, late September sun.

Rhonda recited the generic names of the trees:
‘Myrtaceae
. . .
Rosaceae . . . Papilonaceae
. . .
Moraceae
. . .
Cupressaceae
. . .
Palmae
. . .” She spotted a tourist, who seemed to be photographing a sprinkler on full blast.

‘Sprinklus maximus,'
she observed, and drew a rare laugh from Hewson.

‘Did you manage to find out what that ‘D' notice was for?' Rhonda asked.

‘You're the only journalist we know who seeks info every time Canberra slaps on press censorship,' Hewson said. He spoke in a voice that always sounded as if he had swallowed ground glass. ‘Who tips you off?'

‘Now, Bill,' Rhonda smirked, ‘you know I never betray confidences.'

They passed a small Indian pavillion, almost hidden by the spring-flowering climber, Lincoln Star, and violet blue Japanese Wisteria opposite Tennyson Lawn. A Merton Hall schoolgirl was sitting alone inside having a casual cigarette.

‘Can you speak about the ‘D'?' Rhonda persisted.

‘This is the most difficult one you've been onto,' Hewson replied. He glanced at her and added, ‘I was wondering why you thought Lucas Heights might be involved.'

‘A hunch. A murder so close to the most important nuclear reactor in the country. It was worth a few phone calls to see if there was a link.'

‘Who mentioned murder?'

Rhonda looked away. ‘I was informed that a body was taken from the scene.'

They approached the kiosk on Ornamental Lake.

‘Perhaps you could tackle this from another angle. Try
Missing Persons.'

At the kiosk, swans, ducks, coots, moorhen and sea gulls mingled with the tables on the lake's edge. About twenty people were taking tea.

Rhonda remained quiet for several seconds. She worked through Hewson's oblique remarks. It was always the way with ASIO contacts. Clues to pieces in a jigsaw were about all you ever got, and you had to work hard for them. You wondered if it was the truth and why the clues had been given in the first place.

‘When you say Missing Persons,' Rhonda began cautiously, ‘do you mean from Lucas Heights?'

They stood near a table. Hewson was not interested in having a snack. He looked uncomfortable in full view of the people in the kiosk.

‘I mean missing persons,' Hewson repeated. They reached Eel Bridge. An Indian woman in a cobalt blue sari was leaning over the rail throwing breadcrumbs to the eels congregating in the water below. Hewson looked at his watch. This was the sign that he was not going to give any more. He turned and began walking towards the pine lawn.

Rhonda tried a long shot. ‘A year ago there was a rumour that the US had got us into the Star Wars programme. Has this incident got anything to do with that?'

‘We are not involved in the US Strategic Defence Initiative.'

Hewson quickened his step up the eastern lawn and back towards gate ‘C'

‘I must be going,' he said.

When they reached Anderson Street, he shook hands with her, and leant forward to kiss her cheek.

‘I'm confused,' she said, ‘at a higher level, of course,' and then watched a little helplessly as he drove off in the BMW.

Cardinal awoke at 4 pm from a dreamless void, but the torrent of waking thoughts made him wish he was dreaming. He wondered if the faceless body would haunt him forever. The most pressing thought was his need to visit Harry's house.

Cardinal showered and dressed in faded-blue jeans and sneakers. He made black tea in an attempt to help himself over his jet-lag. Then he went out wearing his favourite white ‘Bogart' hat, and hailed a taxi. The ride west from Elizabeth Street in the city's heart to Bronte, next to Bondi, took fifteen minutes. Gardyne Street, where Harry lived, swept down to a park, then a surf beach. A score of surfers and surf-boarders were braving the cool, late afternoon to catch waves. The surf was up.

Cardinal left the taxi at the top of a steep climb. As he walked down and checked numbers, an Asian girl carrying a camera came out of a house and marched briskly down the road away from him. Cardinal took little notice until he realised that she had been at number 53A, Harry's house.

By the time he reached it, she was well on her way down a sloping lane to the beach. Cardinal shielded his eyes and watched her until she was out of sight. He pushed open the gate, which was practically unhinged, and hesitated at the sight of sixty high steps to the front of the federation-style brick house, built, he imagined, around 1910, on the nob of a small hill. The front lawn, which was more like a wall, hadn't been cut for months.

No one answered his knock at the front or back doors. He peered in through a kitchen window and could see a surfboard. He tried windows and, when he could not get in, decided to track down the Asian girl. He walked to the beach and spotted her taking photos. He moved closer but still could not place her nationality. She was dark and sensual, if a little plump, and wore tight jeans and sweater. Her face was a saucer shape, her eyes wide and her lips full. Her expression had an overall vulnerability,
and she seemed evasive, if not secretive.

The girl had watched him for some time. He was the only person on the beach apart from the hardy surfers.

‘I saw you come out of number 53,' Cardinal said, pointing up to the street. ‘Do you live there'

The girl looked apprehensive as she stood on rocks only a few metres from Cardinal.

‘Could I speak to you,' Cardinal said. ‘I'm Harry Cardinal's father.'

The girl was taken aback. She took a few steps towards him.

‘Did you know him?' he asked.

‘I lived at the house. Harry was a good friend.'

Cardinal frowned. ‘You were his girl?'

The girl blinked and seemed reluctant to answer. ‘We only lived together for a few months,' she said.

Cardinal threw out his hand. ‘I'm Ken Cardinal,' he said in an effort to relax her.

‘I am Kim Lim.'

‘You're Indonesian?'

‘Few people guess right.'

Cardinal frowned. ‘Was it serious?' he asked, ‘I mean, were you planning to marry?'

Kim hesitated. ‘We had discussed it.'

‘Then you must feel the loss I do,' Cardinal said, dropping his head.

‘Yes.'

‘Could I have a look over the house?' he asked. ‘I just want to see how Harry lived.'

‘It's very messy,' she said, as they began to walk from the beach. ‘The police went through it.'

‘I'll have to sort out his things,' Cardinal said.

‘I recognise you now,' she said with more composure. ‘Harry showed me photos. He was very proud of you.'

‘In a strange way we were close,' Cardinal said. He trudged up the steep lane to Gardyne Street, and then on to the house.

‘Would you like . . . will I make coffee,' Kim said as they entered the living room. She disappeared and Cardinal wandered around the room. Several excellent portraits held his attention. Some were of Harry, who was blessed with robust good looks. Others were of a raven-haired Eurasian. Still more showed the two together enjoying themselves in beach shots. Cardinal looked closely at some framed photos. One was a prized snap of Harry with General Pinochet in Chile, which even now filled Cardinal with rage. Another, with Harry's mother, brought tears to his eyes. He had to remind himself that both were dead.

Cardinal turned around to see Kim standing behind him. She had put his coffee nearby on a Japanese table without him hearing a sound.

‘They're yours?' he asked.

She nodded.

‘They're excellent of Harry,' he said. ‘Could I have some? I could have prints made. And who is that girl?'

‘A friend . . . to both of us.' She sat down and sipped her coffee.

‘What's her name?' he said, taking a seat.

‘Hartina Van der Holland.'

‘Do you have her number or address?'

‘I think she is on holiday,' she said, her edginess returning. Cardinal felt uncomfortable.

‘Could I see the rest of the place?' he said, putting down the coffee, which was lukewarm. Kim seemed reluctant.

‘I don't care what state the place is in,' Cardinal said.

‘But the police. They have been through . . .'

Cardinal stared at her. ‘I'm his father!' he said.

She got up. ‘I'm sorry,' she said, leading him to the stair. ‘So many people, so many times.'

‘Who was Harry renting this from?' he asked.

She turned to him in surprise at the top of the stairs. ‘It's not rented,' she said with a frown. ‘Harry bought it.'

Cardinal looked incredulous.

‘Did his work help him out?'

‘How do you mean?' she asked, ushering him into the bedroom.

‘Did they get him a low interest loan?'

‘He never mentioned that sort of thing to me.'

‘What did it cost?'

‘Seven hundred and fifty-five thousand.'

You know that much, Cardinal thought, but said, ‘He must have had a substantial loan. I can't believe he had that kind of money.'

Kim made no effort to elaborate, but led him up the stairs to a newly renovated, pine-panelled bedroom. It had a three metre square skylight, and a balcony with a superb view of Bronte beach, shouldered by sheer cliffs either side of it, which looked from that aspect like a golden carpet leading to the awesome, dark blue Tasman Sea.