Lugarno (14 page)

‘So what'll you do?'

‘If the name's not in the book I can crosscheck phone numbers and addresses. One of the tricks of the trade. What's wrong?'

Price had jumped from his chair and was pacing the small space there was to pace in. He stopped, looked around for an ashtray and I slid the w.p.b. towards him with my foot. He bent and stubbed the cigarette out. ‘I … I didn't tell you everything when we first spoke.'

‘No?'

‘No. The police are treating Sammy's death as suspicious.'

‘They always do that with overdoses.'

He lit another Camel and blew smoke impatiently in my direction. ‘No. This is to do with the phone call that alerted the emergency service. Someone was in the house. Someone …'

‘Take it easy.'

‘They always suspect the partner, don't they?'

I nodded. ‘It's generally a safe bet, but you're in the clear. You were at work.'

He shook his head. ‘No, God help me, I wasn't. I was at Junie's.'

Price dropped his cigarette on the floor and hid his face in his hands. I came around the desk, retrieved the cigarette and stubbed it out. I wanted to comfort him in some way but didn't know how. I touched him briefly on the shoulder and went back behind the desk. He was wearing an expensive suit like the ones I'd seen him in before, but now his tie was slipped down, the lapels of the jacket were wrinkled from its being thrown somewhere and there was something spilled on the front—at a guess, cigarette ash and whisky. His thick, dark hair was awry; he was one of those men with sinister dark-blue beard shadows, like Richard Nixon, and he was well overdue for his second shave of the day. He looked a mess.

I tried a firm but friendly tone. ‘Marty, you need to go home, swim in your pool, eat something, have another couple of drinks and get some sleep.'

That was a slip—how was I to know he had a pool? But pool owners don't usually object to people assuming they have them and, anyway, he wasn't listening.

‘I don't want to get her involved.'

With adulterers, as I know from personal experience, a statement like that can be code for,
I don't want to be found out.
But that didn't seem to fit Price's case just now. I made a gesture intended to be sympathetic. ‘The police will want to question her to confirm your whereabouts,' I said. ‘All being well, it shouldn't go any further than that. Have you made a statement?'

He looked sullen and in his dishevelled state that gave him an aggressive, threatening appearance that wouldn't go down well with the cops. ‘Not yet, but they said I'd have to make one. It's obvious you don't know who Junie is.'

I was wavering in my reaction to my troubled client—between respect, sympathy and dislike. ‘No, Mr Price,' I said, ‘I don't. Should I?'

‘She's Jade Delaney's sister.'

I switched off from music round about Dire Straits and couldn't tell the Spice Girls from Bardot, although I know the names. Jade Delaney was something different again. The media billed her as a cross between Joni Mitchell and Janis Joplin, both of whom I'd liked, so I'd taken the trouble to listen when she came on the radio and had even seen a video clip once. She was a tall blonde with white hair and a long jaw that was almost mis-shapen but wasn't. Stick-thin in black leather, she was erotic, anorexic, neurotic-looking, an assemblage of jangled nerve images that compelled you to look at her. All that combined with a voice that threatened to cause your head to explode and part you from your senses. I could
see the similarity to Junie—the pallor and the face structure, the huge eyes.

‘That's difficult,' I said.

‘The media vultures'll eat this up.'

There was truth in what he said. Everything Jade Delaney did or touched was newsworthy and a sister involved with a drug death was about as bad a story as her handler could dream of. Or maybe not.

‘A nine-day wonder maybe,' I said. ‘All publicity is good publicity for pop stars isn't it? Look at Keith Richards.'

‘That was then, this is now. It's all different. Drugs are out, God is in.'

‘Well fuck that.'

Price was pulling himself together again and he helped the process along with a cigarette. ‘Easy for you to say. Junie idolises her sister. The thought of damaging her in any way would tear her apart. And she's just on the brink of starting a singing career herself.'

None of this was cutting much ice with me. Presumably Junie volunteered to screw the boss whom she knew was married. No happy ending guaranteed. It seemed to me that Price had more important things to worry about, like who
might
have had a hand in his wife's death and what he was going to do about his daughter. I got up and sat on the end of my desk, a move calculated to budge him from the seat he'd settled down into with despair in his body language.

‘Look,' I said. ‘What you have to do is contact your lawyer. I assume you have one?'

He nodded. Blew smoke.

‘Talk to him and …'

‘Her. Cathy Jacobsen.'

Great,
I thought,
I hope you're not screwing her as well.
‘Her then. Tell her everything that's been going on, or as much as you feel able to. You know, about your wife's behaviour and what you suspect about Danni.'

‘Suspect bullshit, I
know!
Jason …'

‘Yeah, well you might not know as much as you think you do. You've admitted that you had poor communication with Danni. Leaving each other notes you said. And I think there were sides to Jason that weren't obvious. He wasn't the most truthful kid in the world. I think he got you in. I suspect he was a bit of an actor for one thing.'

He leaned forward, interested now. ‘And what else?'

Like he was fucking your wife as well as your daughter
, I thought. ‘He had more money than he should have for a start. And as you know I followed Danni this morning.'

‘And found her celebrating her stepmother's death.'

‘I didn't say that and I don't know that she'd think of her as a stepmother,' I said. ‘But she didn't look like a freaked-out druggie to me. She's hell on wheels with those rollerblades and a skateboard.'

He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up, rubbing his bristled chin. ‘I'm too buggered to think. I'll do what you say—ring Cathy for some legal advice—and go home and knock myself out.'

‘What about Junie? You should warn her.'

He moved towards the door like a man who'd just experienced bad cramp in both legs. ‘You'll look for Danni? I'm good for whatever it's costing.'

I nodded. ‘And what do I say to her when I find her?'

Price shrugged. ‘I don't know,' he said and went out the door.

I opened a window and waved at the fug of smoke Price'd left in the air. I had the office repainted a couple of years ago but old stains had seeped back through and as a good many of my clients seem to be smokers the ceiling has taken on that brown-grey look cigarette smoke leaves behind. What with a bit of mould, dead insects and spilled coffee and red wine, the place had quickly re-acquired the worked-in look I quite like.

I went back behind the desk for some more doodling on my diagram. Question marks dominated now. Had the police forensic team found traces of blood and glass in the Price bathroom? Whose fingerprints had they found apart from those of the family members? Jason Jorgensen's? Dr Cross's? The mystery emergency number caller? Mine? They certainly had mine on file from the brushes I'd had with them over the years and could run a computer check. Would that information get to Detective Stankowski?

Another question I had was: would Samantha Price shoot up again carelessly after her experience of yesterday? If she needed the fix wouldn't
she at least go cautiously with the stuff? Give it a trial run? Or maybe it was a suicide. She seemed to have had the reasons—a failed pregnancy and depression, a drug habit, an unfaithful husband, a hostile stepchild, a dead lover. But if it wasn't suicide or an accident, who would want to kill her? I put the notepad on the desk, unplugged the recharged mobile and was up and about to leave the office when the phone rang. I grabbed it.

‘Cliff? It's Tess.'

‘Tess? Oh, right.'

‘Shit, you sound as if you don't recall the name.'

‘I'm sorry, love. It's this thing I've got on. It gets curlier by the minute.'

‘I'm sure you'll cope. What've you found out about Ramsay?'

I sat down and tried to collect my thoughts. Ramsay was a long way from the top of my mental agenda and I had to struggle to recall where I was with him. I could feel Tess's impatience.

‘Is there someone with you?'

‘No, of course not. It's seven o'clock and I'm still in the bloody office.'

‘Don't snap at me. I've had a hard day, too. I had to massage a one hundred and twenty kilogram monster. I'm aching all over.'

‘I hope he enjoyed it.'

‘She. Cliff, I've got a glass of wine here. You tap your cask of red and we can start again.'

I did as she said and told her all I'd learned about Ramsay and his comings and goings.

‘Do you believe this Bonham woman?'

‘I do, yes.'

‘And where does his so-called “sugar momma” live?'

‘Concord.'

‘God, what address?'

I dug out the phone book and looked the name up. I read out the address.

‘Jesus Christ,' Tess said, ‘that's only one street away from where we used to live. What do you know about her, this woman he's supposed to be with?'

‘Virtually nothing.'

‘What does she look like?'

‘I'm told she's fat.'

‘Thank God for that. I was thinking he might be finding substitutes for me. The other one, Bonham, doesn't look like me, does she?'

‘Not a bit.'

‘Okay. It's still a bit weird that he's back in Concord but not as weird as it might be. I suppose it figures—Ramsay's never had a normal relationship with a woman. This sort of stuff might be something he can handle. I don't like the sound of him stealing from old women though. That's a shitload of trouble waiting to hit.'

I was almost through the cup of red and thinking about another. ‘What d'you want me to do?'

‘I can read you like a book, Cliff Hardy. I know that tone of voice. You want me to say let him alone to go to hell in his own way.'

‘I'll do whatever you want.'

‘I'll have to think about it … How tough is the other thing you've got on?'

I usually only told Tess the funny bits, if any, or
the barest outline of whatever I was doing and I saw no reason to change. I told her the case had taken me to parts of Sydney I didn't know well and that a male escort agency was involved.

‘I hope I never have to resort to one.'

Awkward. We made some uncomfortable noises and she rang off.

No listed Larson had the number Price had given me so the phone was either unlisted or in another name. I didn't have access to a reverse telephone directory and it was too late to call my Telstra contact who did. I could get, for a price, an address to equate with the twins' telephone number. That'd be first cab off the rank in the morning. The Ramsay Hewitt matter was on hold. I was facing at best some pub companionship followed by an empty house, some radio or television and a book and, unless I watched out, self-pity.
Be positive, Hardy,
I thought.
At least you've got a house.

I skipped the pub. Not in the mood. Instead I bought a bottle of decent white and some takeaway Lebanese in Glebe Point Road and headed for home. It'd been an early start and an eventful day and I was tired. I turned into my street and swore when I saw that the parking spot outside my house was occupied. I drifted on down the street and parked between a BMW and a sleek looking something-or-other—the street has gentrified since I arrived and I wasn't keeping pace.

I set the crook-lock—which any decent car thief can crack in about ten seconds—and hauled myself and my wet and dry dinner up the
footpath. When I got to my front gate the door of the car parked in my spot opened and a tall woman stepped out.

‘Mr Hardy? Inspector Beth Hammond. I'd like a word.'

I walked up, juggling food, wine and keys. ‘I'll be happy to oblige, Ms Hammond,' I said. ‘But I had an early start and a hard day and I haven't eaten since this morning. I'm going to eat this food and drink some of this wine and nothing's going to stop me. You can watch or join in if you want.'

She wore a black pants suit with a white blouse and her dark hair fell to her shoulders. The light in the street isn't great and I couldn't tell much about her features. Held herself well. ‘We'll see how it goes,' she said. ‘If I have to arrest you at least you'll have eaten.'

She looped the strap of her purse over her shoulder, opened the gate and winced a little at the squeak. I went up the path, opened the door and stepped aside.

‘After you,' she said.

Assertive. I turned on a light and got my first good look at her. She had regular, unremarkable features and wore no make-up that I could see. Her expression was determined and her movements were the same. She followed me down the passage to the kitchen where I turned on more
lights and plonked down the food and wine. ‘Have a seat.'

‘Thanks.' She squatted on one of the stools at the breakfast bench. Me, I need to lean back against a wall for support when I do that but she looked comfortable enough as she was, ramrod straight.

I opened the wine and picked up two glasses from the draining rack.

She shook her head. ‘Not for me.'

I poured a glass full and drank half of it, topped the glass up. I put the felafel and kebabs on a plate with the flat bread and opened the containers of hommos and tabouli. I extended a plastic fork to her. She half smiled and shook her head. Good smile and the hair swung nicely. She was a potentially attractive woman trying not to be.