The Undertow (6 page)

The recovered confidence was tissue-thin. He drained his glass and pushed it at me. ‘Okay. I'll have a bit of ice and water this time.'

It took over an hour and half a bottle of scotch to get anything useful out of him. He hadn't been the senior man on the Heysen murder but he'd done a lot of legwork and had sat in on all the briefings and progress reports. He was convinced that Heysen was guilty of hiring Padrone to do the wet work.

‘Why?' I said.

‘We talked to the sister, this hooker. Pammy, Priscilla . . . Pixie, that's it. William Street prostie. She reckoned Padrone told her he'd done it and that he was going to give her some of the money. Said she never got it, but we thought she was lying.'

I cast my mind back to the trial reports. ‘That didn't come out at the trial.'

Wain shook his head. ‘Cassidy, the D heading us up— he's dead by the way—was real pissed off about that. She shot through. We couldn't find her. Couldn't make anything of it, like. But it firmed us up on Heysen, you know how it is.'

I did, and I wondered if this lay behind Simmonds' idea that the police had more on Heysen than they could use.

‘Go on.'

‘With what?'

‘You put the case together—means, motive, opportunity. What was Padrone's motive?'

‘Shit, no worries there. He was dying of cancer and Heysen had been the only one to offer him anything. He offered to pay him enough so he could go to Germany for this special treatment. Padrone hated doctors anyway. Got the dough, did the job and then couldn't get permission to travel. He was fucked and he knew it, so he decided to take Heysen with him. End of story.'

Wain poured more whisky and water. When he drank it he showed the brownish teeth of a heavy smoker.

He wasn't smoking now and his fingers weren't stained. He didn't seem like the type to have given up voluntarily, and I concluded he simply couldn't afford it. Wouldn't improve his mood.

‘You haven't told me much.'

‘Why the fuck should I? All you've given me is a shove around and some third-rate scotch. I don't even know why you're interested in this old shit.'

‘You don't need to know. I was thinking of giving you some money if you could . . .'

‘Do what? I'm on the bones of my arse, Hardy.'

‘Your phone rings.'

‘Christ knows why. I haven't paid the bill in months.

Can't be long before I get cut off. Come on, what d'you want? I'll give it to you if I can.'

He reached for the bottle but I moved it away. It was just a feeling but the way he'd said end of story didn't play with me—didn't sound right for him.

‘There was something more about Heysen, wasn't there? I know he was a prick who no one liked, that he treated you all like shit. I hear what you say about the sister's evidence that you couldn't produce. But I've got a feeling there was something more. Something to hide.'

That almost seemed to sober him. He rubbed at his bloodshot, defeated eyes and his shoulders slumped. He behaved as if he was looking down a long tunnel with no turning and no light at the end of it. ‘Jesus Christ,' he mumbled. ‘I thought just me and Cassidy . . .'

I poured myself a drink. ‘Yes?'

‘It's time to talk money.'

‘I could go a couple of hundred.'

He shook his head and regretted doing it. ‘Way too low.'

I considered. He wasn't an actor. ‘Three.'

‘Six.'

‘Five tops.'

‘Okay. Let's see it.'

‘We'll have to go to an ATM. Time you were on your way anyhow.'

‘Let's go. You can drop me at the ATM.'

‘How'd you get here?'

‘Fucking bus.'

‘We'll walk. I've had a bit too much on an empty stomach to drive.'

He sneered at me, the confidence returning again.

The heavy rain had stopped. I put on a jacket and we walked to the Commonwealth Bank ATM in Glebe Point Road. Wain shambled along. He'd never been a solid performer as a detective, either police or private, but now he was a ruin. I drew out the money and we stood on the steps of the bank with the evening traffic passing and the people out to eat Thai, Italian, Indian, Lebanese, whatever, strolling by. The rain started again, lighter.

I held the folded notes in my hand. ‘What was the whisper, Rex?'

There was no one close, but he looked around furtively. He appeared to be about to speak but he kept quiet. He cleared his throat and the sound was like a groan crossed with a whimper. I could smell his foul breath and the rain brought out the mustiness of his clothes. He looked hungrily at the money, then shook his head.

‘Can't do it,' he muttered.

‘We had a deal.'

‘Fuck the deal. I can't do it.'

‘I might go up a bit if the information's good.'

He laughed. ‘There isn't enough money in this fucking bank.'

He meant it. He took a step away and turned up his collar. I handed him a fifty. He took it and stumbled down the steps into the drizzle.

7

I
phoned the Parkers and got Hilde.

‘Hello, Cliff. Haven't seen you for a bit. Been busy?'

‘Yeah. How are you, love?'

‘I've got my bloody time of life which isn't much fun.'

‘Bit young for that, aren't you?'

‘You're losing track of time. I'll be okay. I'm trying some herbal stuff that's said to be good. When're we going to see you?'

‘Soon, I hope. Is Frank around? I need a bit of help with something.'

‘I'll get him. Make it soon.'

No outright lies there, but close.

‘Hello, Cliff. Results already?'

‘Hardly,' I said. I decided to work my way towards the subject—an old habit. ‘A couple of things I'm interested in. Padrone's medical records. Nothing about them in your notes.'

‘I should've mentioned that—they went missing.

Heysen was happy to produce them but they couldn't be found.'

I skimmed through the pages of Frank's notes. ‘What about this receptionist—Roma Brown? Didn't she know what happened to them?'

‘Cassidy interviewed her, not me. He was a sloppy cop.

Fat slob. God knows how he got the rank he did.'

‘Corrupt?'

‘Back then, who knows? Anyway, he said she didn't have a clue. You think the records are important?'

‘Dunno. How about Rex Wain?'

‘What about him?'

‘Was he any good?'

‘Better than Cassidy.'

‘Not as good as you?'

‘Modesty forbids. He was all right. Thick as . . . I was going to say thick as thieves with Damien Cassidy, but I never heard they were on the take. Why the interest?'

I told him about my interview with Wain, how down on his luck he was and how he and Cassidy seemed to know something about the Heysen case that no one else did.

Something he wouldn't tell me for any money. Frank was quiet, taking this in.

‘Frank?'

‘It wouldn't be the first time senior police kept secrets from juniors. Not always dodgy either. There can be valid reasons. But this sounds strange. You believed him?'

‘He wanted the money like a dog wants a bone. He
needed
it.'

Frank said he hadn't a clue what the hidden information might be. He hadn't been full-time on the Heysen case but he'd attended most of the briefings and thought he was in the picture. I said it was an angle I'd have to do some work on. He sounded depressed when he responded—understandably, thinking back to the state of the police force in those days—so I didn't tell him his information on the other detectives was out of date.

‘How's Hilde?' I said.

‘Okay. I'll put her back on. She wants to talk to you.'

That was a worry—had she twigged that something was being hidden from her?

‘Cliff, I just wanted to know if you were still with Lily,' she said.

‘Ah, the word
with
doesn't quite cut it. She's still staying here while her place gets fixed up. She's away at the moment, in Adelaide. But . . . it's going well.'

‘Good. Bring her over for a meal.'

I said I would and rang off.

It was interesting that Padrone's medical records were missing. Interesting, but what it pointed to I had no idea.

I rang Catherine Heysen.

‘Mrs Heysen, Cliff Hardy. I'm wondering if you remember a woman named Roma Brown.'

‘No.'

A minion, not worth remembering.

‘She was the receptionist at your husband's surgery.'

‘Oh, yes. I remember now.'

‘Do you happen to know where she lived? I want to talk to her. Perhaps your husband had a Teledex or something?'

‘He did. The police took it and never returned it. But I remember that she lived very close by. The surgery was in Crown Street, and I recall Gregory saying she was never late because she lived just around the corner. He was a stickler for being prompt. But what street he meant I don't know.'

‘Thank you. That's a help.'

‘Have you made any . . . progress?'

‘I hope so. Goodnight.'

I brought my notes and expenses up to date. Fifty bucks for Rex Wain. No receipt.

That night the storm picked up again and the branch I'd sawn at came crashing down. The noise woke me and I checked on the window. Intact. I made a mental note to retrieve the ladder and do something about the branch, but my mental notes don't always get acted on.

Next day I located an address for Roma Brown in a mid-1980s electoral roll in the Mitchell Library. The address checked with one of the many R. Browns in the phone book. She was in Burton Street, which meets Crown just below Oxford, so it all fitted. I rang the number without expecting to get her in business hours but she answered. I explained my call by saying that I was working with a police officer writing a book about some of his old cases, such as the murder of Dr Bellamy, and wanted to tie up some loose ends. She gave a little yelp of pleasure.

‘I'd be delighted to see you, Mr Hardy. I haven't got many distractions these days, apart from my little hobby. When do you want to come?'

I was only a hop-skip-and-a-jump away, so we agreed on half an hour to give me time to find a park. The block of flats dated back a bit, to the sixties maybe, with the plain lines and absence of extra comforts of that time. No balconies. I buzzed her flat and she released the heavy security door. I ignored the lift and went up the four flights of stairs for the cardiovascular benefit. At her door I buzzed again and she opened it with the chain on.

‘Mr Hardy?'

I looked down. She was in a wheelchair. I showed her my PEA licence and she undid the chain.

‘Do come in.' She backed the wheelchair expertly and we went down a short passage to a small living room with a minimum of furniture to allow her to get about. She pointed to a chair and drew her wheelchair up in front of me so that our knees weren't far from touching. She was in her fifties, good-looking in a fair, faded kind of way, and very thin. She wore a neat grey dress and black shoes that looked expensive. In fact nothing in the room looked cheap.

‘Have you ever been in a wheelchair, Mr Hardy?'

‘Once or twice.'

‘I've been in one for twenty years. I had a car accident.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Yes, so am I, but I was lucky. The man who hit me was very wealthy and heavily insured so I wasn't left destitute. That gets all that embarrassing disability stuff out of the way.'

‘I'm not embarrassed,' I said. ‘In your place I'd probably be a cringing alcoholic mess. You're not and I admire you.'

‘That's kind, but you might surprise yourself. Pray God it never happens. Now what did you want to know about Dr Heysen and poor Dr Bellamy? I
am
intrigued.'

An interesting choice of words, I thought, and it clearly indicated whose side she was on. But the lie about a book being written had struck the right note. Bookcases in the sitting room were filled to bursting. I squinted at the titles.

‘I'm interested in the missing medical records for Rafael Padrone. Do you remember anything about that?'

She paused, and for a minute I thought she was going to close up, but she was only collecting her thoughts. Some of them must have been pleasant because she smiled and something of the prettiness she must have had in her youth came back into her face. ‘I remember quite a lot. I particularly remember the police officer who interviewed me. Do you know that he sat in my office and smoked without asking my permission and that he picked his teeth.'

‘Cassidy,' I said. ‘You can say whatever you want about him because he's dead. I'm told he wasn't mannerly.'

‘That's putting it mildly, but I have nothing more to say about him. Well, he asked for the Padrone file and I looked for it and couldn't find it and he became very rude. He virtually accused me of stealing it. “Why would I do that?” I said, but he wasn't the sort of person to reason with.'

‘Do you know who took the records?'

‘I have a very good idea. Another policeman came who was more polite, but I still didn't tell him my suspicion.'

‘Why not?'

The rejuvenating smile again. ‘I wasn't a middle-aged cripple back then, Mr Hardy. I was a lively woman. I was a very good dancer.'

‘I believe you,' I said. ‘Also intelligent.' I pointed to the bookcases. ‘I can see George Eliot, Trollope, Lawrence, Waugh, Martin Boyd . . .'

‘Have you read them?'

‘Bits of, not as much as you. I was more Conrad, Stevenson, Maugham, Hemingway, Idriess.'

She nodded. ‘Some strange things went on in that surgery. I was concerned, but it was a very good job, well paid, convenient to where I lived, and I liked Dr Bellamy very much. I wasn't medically trained, I couldn't judge the . . . ethics.'