hope.’
It sounds dumb, but I made noises that suggested she had the right man for the job. All I can say in my own defence is that she had a strange ability to convince you that what she wanted was both reasonable and in your best interests as well. I wasn’t a complete innocent, though. I left her well before boarding time to give her the opportunity to duck away and do something different if that’s what she had in mind. I watched her from a discreet distance. She looked at the departure board and her watch. Then she went to the newsstand and bought a magazine. When the flight was called she was one of the first through the door.
It was mid-afternoon. I’d arranged to take Cyn out for dinner so I had a few hours to fill in. I hadn’t heard from Alistair Menzies and it seemed like a good idea to find out how much of his cheque was still mine. I rang the office from the airport and was told that Mr Menzies could spare me ten minutes at 4.30. I agreed. That gave me time for a sandwich and a quick drink in the bar. I was glad I wasn’t a professional if it meant only having ten minutes at 4.30.
On the drive back to the city I decided that my client was suffering from an excess of imagination and caution. There seemed to be no reason why a man would be killed for changing his mind about getting divorced. And the judgement of a woman who’d certainly gone into shock immediately after the shooting was bound to be faulty about the intentions of the assassin. I’d extract a promise to pay from Perkins if I could, and that would be the end of it.
Menzies was subdued and preoccupied. He agreed to the cost of repairing my camera being a justified expense and seemed uninterested in recovering any of his retainer. All he wanted to know was whether the police had mentioned a suspect.
‘Not to me,’ I said.
‘Presumably the murderer was hired?’
I shrugged. ‘Who knows? Depends on what sort of a bloke Meadowbank was. He could have had a hundred enemies, gambling debts, criminal associates.’
‘He was an eminently respectable businessman as I understand it. Also, unhappily, a philanderer.’
‘How’s his wife taking it?’
‘Calmly.’
The bushy eyebrows moved, but not in a way to convey any meaning to me. Was he worrying about losing his fee for handling the divorce, or did he think she might be charged with arranging the murder? My ten minutes were up but he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to rush me out so I thought I might as well put in a little work on my next case.
‘Was the Meadowbank divorce on the up and up?’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘I mean, was there any arrangement to provide a co-respondent, conveniently?’
His jowls quivered. ‘The Queen’s Proctor can be very hard on that sort of thing.’
Not an answer, but it saved me a hunt through a divorce law textbook. Now I’d be able to go straight to the index. As I got up to leave I said, ‘Do you happen to know a lawyer named Andrew Perkins?’
No mistaking the eyebrow language this time- a scowl of disapproval. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘His name came up in connection with something I’m working on.’
‘If he is a principal, I would advise you not to touch the matter, Mr Hardy. Our profession is famous for reticence with regard to the shortcomings of its members. But take my word for it, Andrew Perkins is a barrister and a double-dyed scoundrel’
Dinner in the Malaya restaurant in George Street went well. Cyn could eat prawn sambal hot enough to fry your socks and this kind of food always put her in a good mood. Made her randy, too. I drank enough Quelltaler hock to push away the feeling that the Virginia Shaw case was going to lead me into difficult territory. We ate in the Malaya often. Customarily, I was feeing a day of office-bound boredom and domestic tension thereafter. Tonight was very different. I snapped into a young-and-devoted mood, squeezing Cyn’s long, firm thigh, joking and keeping my cigarette consumption-something she hated-to a minimum. I ate one of her red-hot prawns and put on my Peter O’Toole voice-the tone he uses when he shows the young airmen how he can snuff out a burning match with his fingers.
‘The trick is, my deah, not to mind!’
Tears were coming to my eyes as the chilli seared my tastebuds.
Cyn laughed. ‘I’m going to miss you, Cliff. Don’t fuck anyone in our bed. OK?’
Eleven hours later I was back where I’d been the day before-in the departure area at Mascot airport. Cyn and I were both a bit hungover, a state that induces introspection rather than concern for others. Anyone watching us might have thought we were friends or business associates, until the boarding call came. We put our arms around each other and hugged hard.
‘I’ll ring you tonight,’ she said.
‘Have fun. Get all the water levels right. Don’t forget the tides.’
‘Bye, Cliff.’
I watched her tall, narrow figure vanish through the door. Then I dashed to the window and saw her walking across the tarmac to the plane. She wore a blue linen suit, white blouse and medium heels. Every other man in the boarding party looked at her. I waved, even though there was no chance of her seeing me through the smoked glass. She ducked her head as she entered the plane. Six weeks. I wondered why she hadn’t suggested that I come up and visit her. The money? Don’t fuck in our bed. What about other beds? I was as suspicious as hell, and I made it worse for myself by waiting until the plane took off.
I lit a cigarette and watched the clouds swallow the plane. I had a bad feeling about this. I wanted to rush back to the house and check a few things-had she taken her black satin nightdress and the silk pyjamas with the leopard-skin pattern that she called her ‘rooting rags’? And what if she hadn’t taken them? What would that mean? I shook my head, knowing that these thoughts were profitless. Hangover thoughts, brought on by spicy Asian food, too much wine and too little sleep. Only one cure. I’d brought a flask of brandy from the house and I headed for the coffee shop to mix up some medicine.
6
The airport was beginning to feel like a better place to operate from than my office. It had coffee, a toilet, wash basins, telephones, parking space and it cost nothing to hang around there. I phoned the number Virginia Shaw had given me and got a cool female voice on the line.
‘Andrew Perkins and Associates. Juliet Farquhar speaking.’
‘Miss Farquhar, my name is Cliff Hardy. I’m a private investigator. I’d like to see Mr Andrew Perkins as soon as possible, please.’
‘In what connection, Mr Hardy?’
‘In reference to Miss Virginia Shaw.’
There was a pause. I imagined her buzzing through to put the question to the boss. It didn’t sound like the kind of operation in which people actually got up and walked across the room to do things. It occurred to me that I should know where Perkins and Associates was or were. I started to hunt in the telephone directory.
‘Mr Hardy, are you there?’
I’d dropped the book and was scrambling for it when she spoke. A page tore in my hands and I swore.
‘What did you say?’
‘I beg your pardon. I’ve… spilt my coffee. Yes, Miss Farquhar?’
The coolness was positively chilly now. ‘Mr Perkins has no client by that name. Perhaps you have the wrong information. There are a number of legal practitioners named Perkins.’
‘I’d like to see him anyway.’
‘Mr Perkins will be out of Sydney on business for the next few days. Perhaps you could call back next
