Salt and Blood (8 page)

It had turned into one of those days Sydney can supply at almost any time of the year. The sky was clear and the breeze was light with no bite to it. The water was an intense, sparkling blue and the breaking waves were a laundry detergent seller's dream. I knew that the water contained concentrations of chemicals unknown in Sir Joseph Banks' time, and that the air held particles toxic to human tissue. But that was laboratory stuff. To the naked eye, Bondi Beach was perfect.

‘South end I think,' Rod said. ‘Waves look better. More of a challenge.'

‘If you say so.'

We walked along the concourse and down steps to the sand. The place had changed a little in recent times although the stadium erected for the Olympics beach volleyball seemed to have left no scars. A new lifesaver lookout post being built on the concourse was a bit of an eyesore and the
post-mounted rubbish bins on the beach were an innovation, probably necessary. The rails that ran around the concourse had rusted out and been removed sometime in the seventies if my memory served. Now they were back. I found a spot, scooped up sand for a backrest and lowered myself. Rod dropped his towel, kicked off his sandals and trotted down to the water with the big board firmly in his grasp. He went in without hesitation, waded to waist deep, straddled the board and started paddling. Paddling a surfboard looks easy but isn't, and just about anyone who tries for the first time falls off. Again, for a novice, the arm and shoulder muscles start to hurt after fifty metres. Rod Harkness didn't fall off and he looked as if he could just about take the thing halfway to New Zealand. He reached the breakers very quickly, well before two other surfers who'd started out at about the same time.

I put on my sunglasses against the glare and squinted. There he was in classic mode, bobbing in the swell, looking back to read the waves with an occasional sidelong glance to monitor the traffic. It made me remember my surfing youth at Maroubra when I'd spent hours in the water risking skin cancer and shark bite and paraplegia, all things that happened to other people. In a way I envied the aging rock stars who flew their helicopters and the middle-aged journalists who went on smoking thirty a day as if it couldn't happen to them. I knew that it could.

A decent wave built up behind Rod and he propelled his board forward, caught it at the first
strong movement of the water, and stood up. Immediately, he lost balance and fell off. Neatly, though, and he was back up and paddling out again before another two waves had passed him. I found myself hoping he'd catch the next one and he did. Whatever wrong move he'd made on the first wave he eliminated, and he rode this one conservatively but with a lot of skill until it carried him to every last metre of its energy. A confidence builder.

I watched him ride another couple and then turned my attention to the beach. Nothing suspicious in sight. I read a few pages about the old gunman who, to judge by the photographs, spent his whole time, summer and winter, in a suit, collar and tie with hat. Did no work on Bondi Beach. I yawned, cracked a can and drank it slowly. Nice work if you can get it. I read a bit more and then looked up to see Rod ride a long, curling one right into the shallows. He slipped from the board and undid his leg rope. He lifted the board clear and left the water. He waded ashore and raised his fist in a triumphant salute.

As he was trotting up the sand, a man who was adjusting his balls inside his togs blundered into Rod's path and caused him to lose balance and drop the board.

I watched lazily until I saw Rod pick up the board and swing it hard against the man's back. He went down and I was up and running towards them. The man was big and well-built but quick on his feet. He sprang up and moved aggressively forward, well balanced. Rod jabbed the board
hard into his chest and the man went down again. He was a street fighter. He scooped up sand, threw it at Rod's face and came in low, bullocking. Rod dropped the board and waited for him.

The question that was skipping in my brain as I raced across the sand, dodging people and trying to keep my balance was,
Is this it?
I had almost reached the pair as Rod misjudged the force of his opponent's rush and the level of his head. He took a heavy butt to the mid-section, lost his footing and went down. Then the man made the mistake of swinging a foot at Rod's head. A barefoot kick won't hurt much unless delivered by an expert, which this guy wasn't. Rod was adrenalin-pumped. He took the blow, grabbed the foot and twisted. The man roared in pain and went down on his knees as Rod got quickly to his feet. He drove a knee into the guy's face, held him by the hair and got into position to deliver a karate chop. I grabbed his forearm and stopped the swing. Rod struggled; he was stronger than me but unbalanced and I held him there long enough.

‘Stop it, you bloody idiot,' I hissed in his face. ‘Pick up that fucking board and let's get out of here.'

His eyes were starting from his head and a vein was throbbing in his temple. I bore down on his arm, locking it against his body. He sucked in a breath and the force seemed to go out of him.

‘Okay, okay,' he said.

I let him go. People had gathered to watch the fight, but at a respectable distance. Rod and I avoided eye contact with them and the man he'd
beaten. He was still on his knees with blood dripping from his nose to the sand, but he didn't seem to be seriously hurt. Rod picked up his board and we moved back up the beach.

‘Jeez,' I heard one of the spectators say, ‘that guy's got a murderous temper.'

I collected my things and Rod's sandals and stuffed them into the bag. Rod was standing and looking down at the sand, breathing hard. I threw his towel at him and he fumbled the catch. He looked diminished and afraid, nothing like the athlete who'd ridden the waves so triumphantly. ‘Let's go.'

He looked at me and his eyes had lost their fire and were soft and pleading. I almost felt sorry for him. ‘Did you think it was another serious go at you?'

He shook his head. ‘No. I just lost my block. But you're supposed to be on my side.'

I shoved at his shoulder and got him moving. ‘I am,' I said. ‘Maybe you'd have liked being charged with assault. That'd put you back in Rutherford House faster than you can shit.'

He plodded across the sand with his shoulders slumped like a schoolboy caught shoplifting and going home to tell his mum. ‘I didn't take the Valium this morning,' he said. ‘I felt good and didn't think I needed it. Not a good idea in the surf anyway.'

We reached the concourse and I directed him to a shower. He was obedient. He washed the sand from his legs and back. Then he rinsed down the board and the leg rope. He seemed childishly
pleased to have these tasks to perform. I sneaked a look back at the beach, where the disturbance caused by the fight seemed to have faded away. Lucky. If there'd been an inspector around or some officious type with a mobile phone …

When he was dry I gave him his sandals. ‘They never told us what medication you were on.'

‘Just Valium.'

Just Valium,
I thought.
Great.
And
without it
…? I couldn't count the number of mood swings I'd seen courtesy of Valium. The comment from the beach hit me again:
That guy's got a murderous temper.

10

The computer arrived at ten the next morning and Glen showed up soon after to give Rod his lesson. He hadn't said a word about the fight on the beach and seemed to have forgotten all about it, perhaps in the excitement of getting the computer. When we had a moment alone as he was unpacking the thing she handed me an envelope.

‘Copies of the wife's letters.'

I pocketed the envelope. ‘Looked at by whom?' 

She spoke, quoting, ‘Police experts confirmed that they were in the hand of Mrs Lucille Harkness and written in a state of extreme distress.'

‘As you'd expect. Have you turned up anything else?'

‘Some stuff about her. Bit of a good-time girl, apparently.'

‘Okay, here's something for you.' I gave her the bullet. ‘Dug out of the upholstery of my car. As I said, I thought you could use your old contacts to find out a bit about it.'

‘Why're you being so shitty?'

‘What?'

‘You know. I can feel the chill coming off you.'

I wanted to tell her what I'd seen on the beach and about the Valium and the misgivings I was starting to entertain about Rod, but I didn't. I hadn't the heart. She was smartly turned out again though less formal than last time. Her hair gleamed; her clothes became her; she smelled good, but it was more a matter of the way she moved and the gestures she made. A survivor of a few relationships, I knew the signs. No matter how intelligent and wary, a woman who's interested in a man gives off certain vibes. The object of her affection may not pick them up but an observer, especially a slightly jealous one, can.

‘Sorry,' I said. ‘It's nothing. I'm off to see this bloke who may possibly have been the shooter and …'

‘You didn't tell me about this.'

I grabbed my keys. ‘No time. Rod'll fill you in.'

Glen put the bullet in the pocket of her pink linen jacket. ‘I'm right. You are shitty,' she said.

Douglas A. Schirer, PEA, advertising himself in the Yellow Pages as ‘former NSW Police Service senior detective—3 citations for meritorious action' plus ‘discreet and hi-tech enquiries', had an office on the Great Western Highway in Five Dock. Not far to go. But Doug's ad included his phone number, fax number, mobile number and email address. After getting back from the beach yesterday and seeing Rod off to a late afternoon nap thanks to
his Valium, I'd rung the phone numbers and been shunted from one to the other. Then I went to an Internet café and sent Schirer a message suggesting a meeting to discuss a professional matter. He also had a website with his photograph—wavy hair grey at the temples with the regulation copper's bristly moustache, also with a touch of grey. Hard to judge from a head and shoulders shot, but he seemed to be on the large side; he hailed from the era when there was a height requirement for police. Now I was on my way back to my office to check the state of play generally with my business, but mostly to see if Doug had responded.

Darlinghurst changes only subtly, a touch here and a touch there. The email addresses and websites have sprouted on every second shop front and I fancied there were a few more fetish clothing stores in recent times. The street people cleared away for the Olympics were back, perhaps in greater numbers. It was said that the safe injecting room had cut down on street shooting-up but I hadn't been to that end of the Cross lately to find out. St Peters Lane, which my building backs onto, gets a clean-up from time to time but the old look—cardboard boxes, discarded implements, broken plastic milk crates—always creeps back in.

I went up to the office, checked the answering machine and fax and found nothing important pending. I made a cup of instant coffee and sat down at the computer. While I waited for it to boot up, I examined Lucille Harkness's letters.

Rodney

I can't take any more. I'm leaving with Rose. Please don't try to stop me.

Lucille

Rodney

I know you've been trying to find me. I told you not to and I mean it.

Lucille

Rodney

Don't make me hate you. Please. Please. Please.

L

Rodney Harkness

It's no good. You'll never understand. I'm sorry but there's nothing left.

L

The script was loopy, almost childlike, and the pressure on the ballpoint pen had varied almost from word to word. The last letter in particular was written in something between script and the printing of individual letters as if the writer was ready to stop at any time. If the police expert said this was evidence of extreme distress I was ready to believe it.

I folded the letters and put them in a folder with the copy of the contract I'd signed with Glen and the other papers she'd provided. The photographs of Lucille Hammond and Rose Harkness I kept tucked inside my notebook. I turned my attention to the computer and logged on for my email. Along with a routine message from the server, one
from the bank about getting online and one from my accountant suggesting that I make an appointment to see him to discuss my GST obligations, there was one from Schirer sent in the early hours of the morning:

Hardy

Heard of you. I'll be in the office for half an hour around 1 pm today.

The man worked long hours. I tapped out a reply that I'd be there, ignored the other messages and logged off. I had some time to kill so I looked up the document from Dr Jerry Weir, the psychiatrist. The address was a clinic in Mosman. I read recently that the mean price for a house in the suburb was now over a million dollars. Good place to do business. I rang the number and asked to be put through to Dr Weir.

‘What is it concerning?' the receptionist asked.

‘A patient.'

‘Are you a practitioner?'

Sure, I thought. ‘A consultant.'

A short pause and then a cool female voice came on the line. ‘This is Jerry Weir. Who am I speaking to?'

I tried to keep the unjustified surprise out of my voice. ‘My name's Hardy, Dr Weir. I'm a private investigator. I understand you gave an opinion recently regarding a Mr Rodney Harkness.'

I don't know whether or not I controlled my surprise but she certainly didn't. ‘Rodney? Yes, I did. Why, what's happened to him?'

Rodney?

‘Do you expect something to happen?'

‘Mr … Hardy, was it? I don't think I can discuss a case over the telephone.'

‘That's right. Could we meet?'

‘I don't know. This is most unusual.'

‘So's Rodney Harkness. It's important that I talk to you.'