Folly's Child (23 page)

‘Good day, Mr O'Neill. Robert Gascoyne. What can I do for you?'

Tom shook the outstretched hand.

‘I'm grateful to you for sparing me your time. As I told you on the telephone I am working for the British and Cosmopolitan Insurance Company. They paid out on the lives of both Greg Martin and his companion, Paula Varna, when his yacht blew up in 1967 and naturally they are anxious to ascertain whether in fact they were the victims of fraud. According to what we read in the newspapers this may well have been the case. A woman has made a report to you, I understand, to the effect that Greg Martin, at any rate, is very much alive. A Maria Vincenti from Darling Point as far as I remember.'

‘Maria Vincenti. Yes. Won't you sit down, Mr O'Neill?'

The police chief, Robert Gascoyne, was big, bronzed and with an indifferent manner. He had been born and raised in the flat farmland around Echuka, Victoria, but he had lived in and around Sydney for the past thirty years and the laid-back attitude of the Sydneysiders had rubbed off onto his naturally taciturn manner just as the year-round sunshine had tanned his skin. Besides this a career in the New South Wales police service had made him cynical; now, approaching retirement, he longed only to be free to spend more time on his boat, fishing, with nothing but the seabirds and a few cans of Fosters or Castelmaine XXXX for company. People – you could keep them. He'd had enough dealings with the shits of this world in the last thirty years to last him a lifetime. Bums, hoodlums, petty crooks and murderers, he'd dealt with them all. He knew a loser when he saw one – and the Italian woman who had come to him with a far-fetched story about the supposedly re-incarnated Greg Martin was a loser, even if she did live in luxury and was supposed to be the heiress to a family textile fortune back home in Italy. Worse, she was a lush. Gasgoyne had no respect at all for people who couldn't hold their drink.

‘I understand she claims to have been living with Greg Martin for the last twenty years,' Tom said, settling his file on the desk.

‘So she says', the police chief agreed non-committally.

Tom's eyes sharpened. ‘You don't believe her?'

‘If I believed every story I'd been told in my career I wouldn't be sitting where I am today,' the police chief returned, unsmiling. ‘Look at it this way. There is always a certain amount of glamour attachéd to a story like this and there will always be crooks and cranks searching for some kind of notoriety. How many times, for instance, has someone come up with a sighting of Lord Lucan? As for Mrs Vincenti, or Trafford, as she has been calling herself, she is hardly the most reliable of witnesses. You haven't met her, I take it?' Tom shook his head. ‘ Well, when you do you'll see what I mean. She has money, yes, and plenty of it. She's been used to attention all her life, one way and another, and now she isn't getting it. She drinks like a fish. Besides all that she is clearly a woman with a grudge – against Michael Trafford, her common law husband. Have you any idea the lengths a woman scorned will go to, Mr O'Neill? Believe you me she would not be the first lady to try to land a man in one hell of a lot of hot water for the sake of revenge.'

‘So you are not following up her claim?' Tom persisted.

‘I didn't say that.' The police chief ran a hand through his thinning hair. ‘Look, I'll be straight with you, and save both your time and mine. There is more to this business than meets the eye – a few details the press haven't managed to get their mucky paws on yet. The story Mrs Trafford came to us with wasn't a straight forward accusation as to the identity of her common-law husband. That was only part of it. The rest was a charge we do have a duty to investigate, whether we believe there's any substance to it or not. But before I tell you about it I must have your assurance that you will treat what I am going to say as confidential – I won't expect to read the gory details in my morning newspaper.'

‘That goes without saying,' Tom said stiffly. ‘I don't like the gutter press any more than you do.'

Gascoyne nodded. ‘Very well. According to her story, Mrs Vincenti's reason for coming to us was because she believed herself to be in danger. She alleged an attempt had been made on her life and that her common-law husband had taken out a contract on her.'

Tom whistled. ‘A contract for murder? Why the hell should he do that?'

The chief sat back rolling a pencil between his fingers. ‘As I mentioned earlier, Mrs Vincenti is a very wealthy woman. I would imagine it is her money that set them up in their mansion on Darling Point and has kept them in style all these years. Oh, they were well established as a couple, and known to be big spenders. Michael Trafford dabbled in real estate and the world of finance and probably made more in a year than I make in ten but the real shekels came from her. Now it seems Trafford has set his sights on a younger woman and wants to set up home with her. Tough on poor old Maria, but to tell the truth, having seen her I can't say I blame him. But of course she is the one with the purse strings. Leaving her would cut him off from the main source of his income. Besides which her will is in his favour. So, according to Maria, he decided the best way to get his freedom
and
the wealth he had come to enjoy would be to have something happen to her.'

Tom nodded thoughtfully. ‘Dramatic stuff. What aroused her suspicions?'

‘A few weeks ago she narrowly escaped being run down by a car. At the time she was shaken, but thought nothing of it, though she alleges Trafford ‘‘reacted strangely'' – her words. Then she began to suspect she was being followed and she saw what she took to be an intruder lurking in the garden late at night when Trafford was out with a business associate and it was the maid's day off. The doorbell was rung but she refused to answer it and rang for police assistance. One of my men went out to the house but found nothing suspicious, though there was no doubt Mrs Trafford was terrified out of her wits. According to her story Trafford returned home some time after midnight bringing his business acquaintance with him – so that he would have a witness to the discovery of the body, according to Maria. She alleges that he appeared shocked at finding her alive. After the colleague left there was one hell of a row. Trafford threw some belongings into a suitcase and walked out. She hasn't seen him since.'

‘And what does Trafford have to say about all this?' Tom asked.

‘Sweet FA. We haven't been able to interview him yet. Maria doesn't know where he went that night and his office don't know either or if they do they aren't saying.'

‘But you are looking for him?'

‘Enquiries are in progress. But I wouldn't hold your breath. He could be anywhere. Australia is a big place, Mr O'Neill.'

‘So I've noticed,' Tom said drily. ‘As a matter of interest, what is your gut feeling? Do you think she's telling the truth?'

Gascoyne shrugged. ‘ Stranger things have happened. But I'm a cynic. An illegal immigrant with a profile as high as Martin's living under our noses for twenty years? It takes a bit of swallowing. And off the record the woman is a hysteric with a drink problem. As I said earlier, we have a duty to investigate allegations of attempted murder. But it's my guess we'll find nothing more sinister than a domestic situation. The guy has walked out on her, simple as that. But she can't – or won't – accept it.'

‘How did the newspapers get hold of the story?' Tom asked.

‘She told them. She was put out, I think, that her report to us didn't get us running around like headless chickens.'

‘But she didn't tell them about the attempts on her life.'

‘No. Apparently not.'

‘That's strange, don't you think?'

‘Not really. There's no explaining how a woman as unstable as Maria will behave. She got cold feet no doubt. Anyway, her story has attracted enough attention just as it stands. Half the newspaper hacks in Australia are camped out at Darling Point. We've had to station an officer out there to stop them bothering her – after bringing the whole shebang down on her own head she had the gall to complain they were trespassing on her property.'

‘So she got what she wanted,' Tom said thoughtfully. ‘Police protection.'

‘A pretty ham-fisted way of going about it.'

‘But successful. Not even the most brazen hit-man would try anything with half the world's press and a copper on the doorstep.' He stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, sir. And thank you for being so frank with me.'

‘Will you be pursuing your investigation?' Gascoyne asked.

Tom nodded. ‘I have a few more lines of enquiry to follow up, yes, if it's not treading on your toes. I have to be quite sure that the whole thing is a figment of Maria's imagination before I close the file. You see unlike you I have some very good reasons for hoping to prove Greg Martin and Micheal Trafford are one and the same – given all the component parts, a million good reasons, you might say.'

Gascoyne held out his hand. ‘Well, good luck to you. I only hope that if you unearth anything you think we should know about you will be as straight with me as I have tried to be with you.'

‘Naturally.' Tom shook the outstretched hand. ‘I'll be in touch. And thanks once again for all your help.'

He left the office and Gascoyne stared after him, deep in thought. Was it possible he was wrong about Maria Vincenti? Could it be there was a substance to her allegations? Well if there was O'Neill would get to the bottom of it, he was confident. And if not …

Gascoyne stared at the mound of reports on his desk and sighed. For a moment he wished he was young and keen again like Tom O'Neill instead of jaded and bogged down by the morass of paperwork which seemed to have very little to do with real police work. But it was a fleeting desire only. In his time he'd done it all. Now he wanted nothing more than to be free to close his office door on the lot of it for the last time, take out his boat and get on with some serious fishing.

The taxi descended the hill to Double Bay, swung around and began to climb again towards the luxury homes that stood like jewels in a crown on exclusive Darling Point. The sun beat down mercilessly, shafts of bright burnished gold in the clear Australian air. The sky was aggressively blue, almost close enough to touch; far below the sea was precisely the same shade of blue but freckled with silver.

In the front passenger seat of the taxi Harriet sat hugging her bag on her knees. Sydney – city of silver and blue. The almost hurtful brightness of it had been her first impression as the 747 came in to land – the bay, the Harbour Bridge, the many faceted roof of the Opera House, all catching the brilliant sunshine and reflecting it in a mesmeric kaleidoscope of light. In spite of her preoccupation she had been impressed – who could fail to be? But already after a night at the Sydney Hilton the spectacle had faded, relegated to the back burners of her conscious mind. If she had come as a tourist she might have dwelled on it, savoured it. If she had come to work her photographer's eye would have been busy looking for new angles to capture it on film. But she had come as neither. Sydney was merely the place where she might at last, after twenty years, learn of the fate of her mother.

Harriet shifted slightly in her seat. Her stomach had tied itself into knots of tension and her silk shirt, moist from perspiration, clung both to her neck and to the vinyl seat. The houses they were passing were large and impressive, architect-designed, red brick or slabs of shining white like an elaborately iced wedding cake, each with its own verandah, and in front of them the gardens were vivid with marigolds and roses. This was to be expected, of course. The Greg Martin who had juggled millions of dollars – albeit sometimes illegally – would never have settled for anything but the best and Maria Vincenti or Trafford or whatever she called herself was an heiress in her own right. Money would be no object to her. Perhaps it was the reason why they had been able to live undisturbed here for almost a quarter of a century. Riches bought respect, whatever the cynics might say.

Far below the sparkling blue bay was busy with yachts from the marina at Rushcutters and glancing down at it Harriet felt her stomach tighten another notch. Did one of them belong to Greg Martin – once a sailor always a sailor? Or did he feel after the explosion that he never wanted to set foot aboard one again? No – impossible. If he had been haunted by the experience he would never have chosen to settle here within sight of the marina however prestigious the homes. Further proof, if any were needed, that what had happened off the coast of Italy had been no accident.

Harriet averted her eyes sharply then forced herself to look again. Before this was over she might well have to face something a good deal more painful than the sight of a few luxury yachts. If she was not prepared for that she might as well abandon her quest and go home here and now, bury her head in the sand as Sally and her father were doing. And she had no intention of doing that.

Behind her sun-glasses Harriet's eyes narrowed slightly. She was puzzled by their attitude, their anxiety that the carefully constructed veils of twenty years would be stripped away and the past, and whatever had happened in it, come to light. It was a response she would have expected from her father – he had always played the ostrich where unpleasant facts were concerned, and she could understand that he had no wish to re-open old wounds. The pain he still felt was evident – perhaps it stifled any curiosity he might otherwise have felt. But Sally … Harriet could not understand Sally's attitude at all. Surely she must want to know what happened to Mom just as I do, Harriet thought – to know for sure if she is alive or dead. If she is alive, to see her again, if she is dead to make sure justice is done to the man responsible for her death. But Sally seemed even more reluctant to face the ghosts of the past than Hugo was, and right up until Harriet's departure she had continued to beg her niece not to go, to leave well alone.