Lugarno (7 page)

‘Where?'

‘At Lugarno, around there. The body was
weighed down by a set of golf clubs.'

‘I don't believe you.'

‘It's true. A full set of clubs with a top quality bag and all the shit they pack in—balls, towels, drink bottle, wet weather gear, shoes and Christ knows what else—and you're up to around thirty kilos. The bag was tied to the body with thick cord. Fills up nicely with water. Would've worked okay except that a houseboat came along, anchored for a bit, pulled up the anchor and snagged the bundle. A ferry used to run from there and they hauled the body and the bag up onto the dock.'

‘The best laid plans,' I said.

‘What?'

‘Never mind. When d'you calculate he was killed?'

‘Haven't got that information as yet.'

‘And you wouldn't tell me if you had because you want me to account for my movements from the time I met him to, let's say, an hour before they found the body.'

‘You're paranoid. I checked up on you before coming here. I don't think you go around killing people. Not that you haven't killed a couple.'

‘Self defence.'

‘Yeah. What I want you to tell me is why you saw Jorgensen yesterday, where and when.'

I drank some more coffee. ‘Get out your notebook. The where and when is easy. It was at the Milperra Golf Course, mid-morning. He was practising some shot or other. We talked and I gave him my card. He stuck it in the pocket they have
in those shirts.' I touched my chest on the left, high up.

He made a note. ‘OK, but what did you talk about?'

I sighed as I drained the mug. I got up and went to the stove for a re-fill and to buy time to think. I was in a bind. My client was expecting to negotiate with the police prosecutor and if I spoke about the matter he could probably kiss that hope goodbye. And I could do the same with the case. Couldn't do it.

I came back to the bench with my coffee and lifted it in an inquiring gesture. He shook his head, all business.

‘I can't tell you what we talked about. It concerns a client and his affairs and in my business that's the bottom line.'

‘I see. Do you have any reason to believe that your … business could be related to Mr Jorgensen's murder?'

Nicely put,
I thought. Of course my head was buzzing with just that possibility. Had my talking to Jason put him in the river? Not a comfortable thought. I tried to keep both face and voice neutral. ‘I'd be lying if I said no. Truth is, I just don't know. And I'm very sorry. He seemed like a decent kid.'

He snapped the notebook closed and stood up. ‘I'm not so sure about that from what we've heard, but I won't give you any more than you've given me which is not fuckin' much.'

Tough now, but not all that convincing. I didn't respond.

He put the notebook away. ‘Thanks for the
coffee. I think you'd better talk to your client. Unless we make some progress on this pretty soon we'll have to circle back to you as one of the last people to see him alive and that'll mean more pressure than a chat over a cup of coffee.'

I nodded and shepherded him down the hall to the door. Before he left he handed me his card, not without an ironical twitch.

I flicked it with a finger. ‘I'll make sure to keep it on me at all times of the day and night. I'll tell you something, Stankowski. Whoever strangled that kid would have to be strong. He was as athletic as hell and big with it.'

He went through the door and turned back before he stepped carefully across the lifting tiles on the porch onto the cracked concrete path. ‘Oh, didn't I tell you? His head had been laid open to the brain matter by a blunt object.'

I phoned Price at his office and was told he was out. I left a message for him to ring me on the home number or the mobile. I wanted to see him in person to gauge what impact Jason's death had had on him, if he knew about it, and to see for myself if I was the bearer of the news. Stankowski was right that I could only fend off police questioning for so long and I needed to talk to Price about that too. I'll go a long way for someone who has a serious problem, but there comes a point of self-preservation. With Jason dead, the first line of attack on the drug supplier, not that it had looked very promising, was cut off. Maybe Price would have some other ideas.

As I showered I inspected the bruise on my stomach and tightened the muscles that should tighten better than they do. Thinking back, I realised that Baldy probably hadn't put quite all he had into the punch and that was why nothing was damaged inside. I didn't feel like giving him another go because what he'd done was quite enough. Bending hurt and so did straightening up.

I shaved and had some more coffee and ate some toast so that I wouldn't be putting the pain-killers straight in on the stomach lining. By the time I was dressed and ready to face the world it was mid-morning and Price hadn't called back. I felt I couldn't make a move without talking to him first so I turned my attention to the other matter on hand—Ramsay Hewitt.

I took the postage stamp size photo of Ramsay Hewitt down to the graphics place in Glebe Point Road that provides my business cards, both kosher and false. Daphne Rowley, who regularly beats me at pool in the Toxteth Hotel, shook her head when I showed her the photo and asked if she could blow it up.

‘It'll be grainy.'

‘It's not going in
HQ.
It just has to be recognisable.'

Daphne scratched the ear of the dog she takes into the shop with her every day. The dog is big and black and fierce if Daphne tells it to be. As a friend and long-time customer I get a tail wag and a yawn. ‘Good-looking fellow,' Daphne said. ‘I like blond men.'

‘Thanks.'

She gave out a sound peculiar to her, something between a laugh and a grunt. She lets it go when she sinks a tough shot and earns another free drink. ‘I'll digitalise it and I could touch it up a bit.'

‘Just as long as it still looks like him and not Lleyton Hewitt.' Daphne is a big Lleyton fan.

She touched her ample chest where ‘Daphne's Graphics' fits easily on the T-shirt. ‘He can ace me anytime. Go for a walk, Cliff. Coupla minutes.'

I went down the stairs to the street and wandered along enjoying the familiar sights, sounds and smells. At times like this I know I'll never leave. Dave Sands' memorial is up at the Broadway end and I sometimes think I'd like them to scatter my ashes in Blackwattle Bay at the other end. I went into the Gleebooks second-hand store where I spend much more time than in the new books shop, and browsed for something to read after
The Perfect Storm.
Hard act to follow. I bought a copy of Jeff Wells'
Boxing Day
, all about the Burns-Johnson fight at Rushcutters Bay in 1908. I sometimes play a game with people:
What three historical events would you like to have witnessed?
Myself, I always go for the execution of Charles I, then the landing of the First Fleet and I waver between Burns-Johnson and the second Darcy-McGoorty fight.

Daphne did a magnificent job as always. Ramsay Hewitt, postcard size. The new Ramsay with the clean shave and the trimmed and washed locks and minus the look of angry disappointment he used habitually to wear. Like this, the resemblance
to Tess was stronger—the straight nose, high cheekbones.

‘Hunk,' Daphne said. ‘I suppose he's five foot two?'

‘Six one at least.'

‘Ooh. Bring him around when you find him.'

‘I like the “when”. How much?'

‘I'll figure it out and fax you the invoice, plus GST.'

Strathfield again on a day that promised to be changeable. Cloud was building up in the west and the wind had a fluctuating feel to it. I had on a blue button-down shirt, dark trousers and my Italian shoes with a shine. This time I looked the street over more carefully and revised my first impression. There was money invested here but also possibly a lack of cash flow. Some roofs and windows needed attention—I should know, mine are the same. Not all the front gardens were well-tended and some of the driveways featured oil spots and stains, indicating that the resident cars weren't in the very best of condition.

I started about ten houses away from the target house, on the other side. In my respectable outfit, freshly shaved and with my hair tamed and carrying the photograph and my licence folder opened, I reckoned I passed muster as a responsible Private Enquiry Agent on a missing person case.

Some doors didn't open, others did a fraction and all my spiel got was a shaken head. When I was ten houses past I gave up on the other side and crossed the street. I got similar no-shows and
head shakes at three doors and then something else. This was one of the less affluent-looking numbers. The guttering sagged a bit and sun and wind had done a job on the woodwork. No security bars. Still, efforts were being made to keep up. The grass had been cut fairly recently but the garden beds needed weeding. This was one of the few without a garage and the Toyota parked out front wasn't a recent model. The man who answered the door was elderly and a bit stooped but with bright blue eyes. I gave him the story.

‘Let me see.' He let the door swing open and stepped out into the light on the porch. He lifted the glasses suspended on a cord around his neck and examined the photograph.

He dropped the glasses as if reluctant to admit to the vision problem a second longer than he had to. ‘Yep, I've seen him.'

‘Mr …?'

‘Bolitho, Tom Bolitho.' I gave him my card. We shook hands and were away. He pointed to the table and chairs set out on the porch and we sat down.

‘You say his sister wants to locate him. Maybe he doesn't want to be located. Maybe she's his wicked stepsister who wants to do him out of his inheritance?'

I grinned. ‘Come on.'

‘Yeah, I read too much rubbish. When you get to my age you look for excitement wherever you can.'

‘There's not too much in this I'm afraid, Mr Bolitho. He …'

‘Tom. Fancy a drink?'

Occupational hazard. ‘Why not? What're you having?'

‘At this hour, light beer.'

‘That'll do me. Thanks.'

He went into the house and came back with two Hahn Lights. Good choice. We twisted, said ‘Cheers' and drank.

‘No,' I said, ‘it's just that he was a bit of a handful but seems to have settled down. He's been out of touch with his sister for a couple of months and she's the anxious type, you know.'

Those blue eyes in the wrinkled surrounds were shrewd. ‘But what brings you here, specifically?'

I was ready for that. ‘He rang his sister a while back and said he was living in Strathfield. He mentioned the street and the number. She remembered the street, or thought she did. This is Henry Street, right? She thought it was either Henry or Edward. I've tried Edward with no luck. She didn't remember the number. So I'm trying Henry Street.'

‘Kings of England.'

‘That's right.'

He took a good swig of his Hahn. ‘Sorry lot on the whole. Didn't they stick a red hot poker up the arse of an Edward?'

‘I'm shaky on my royal history.'

‘I think they did. Probably deserved it. As for that Henry the V8—that's what I call him, Henry the V8, because he had eight wives.'

I smiled and took a drink to conceal the pain. Bad joke anyway, and I was pretty sure on the basis of the TV series that it was six.

‘I've forgotten what we were talking about.'

I put the photograph on the table beside my bottle and tapped it. ‘Him.'

‘Oh, yes. Well, if you say he's not in trouble. I wouldn't want to dob the boy in.'

I shook my head. ‘No trouble.'

‘I've seen him a few times. He comes and goes. Stays in that big, flash place a few doors away. The one with the high side fence and everything just so.'

‘I think I've seen it.' As soon as I said that I wondered if he'd set a trap for me. If he'd spotted me the day before he'd know I was lying. But he didn't react.

‘Spent a lot of money there she did.'

‘She?'

He drank some more beer and warmed up to the work of gossip. ‘Husband died a few years back. About the time my wife went. No, a few years after. I had my eye on her for a while but then she really went to town—new clothes and hairdo, facelifts, all that. She's ten years or more older than she looks.'

‘I see. What's her name, Tom?'

He shrugged. ‘Don't know.'

I nodded and had a drink, momentarily saddened. The old bloke had looked for a replacement wife and she'd suddenly put up a generation gap to add to the financial gap between them. He'd probably never even spoken to her.

‘And this young bloke comes and goes. He stays overnight d'you mean?'

‘For sure. Drives that Merc right in,' he winked.
‘Not the only thing he drives in, I reckon.'

I fished out my notebook and scribbled. ‘Old Mercedes, eh? I don't suppose you got the number?'

‘Old, nothing. Bloody new or near enough. Silver-grey. No, I had no reason to get the number. All I can tell you is that it's got a sticker on the windscreen—sort of parking permit like for doctors and nurses and that at hospitals.'

Tom would know more about hospitals than universities but his information sounded spot on. I asked him when he'd last seen the man and his Merc but he was vague. ‘Couldn't say. Last week, week before, last month? Find it hard to keep track of time nowadays. It was before the last party anyway.'

‘Party?'

‘Didn't I say? She throws these big parties every Wednesday. Be on tonight, I reckon. Lots of people, lots of cars. Quiet though, no trouble. I have to say that.'

I finished the beer and thanked him for it and the information. He went to stand up but decided against it and sank back in the chair. ‘Are you going to pay her a visit?'

The lonely, long past it, voyeur in him was showing. ‘Maybe. I'm not sure.'