“Not much,” I said. “I feel awkward around large amounts of money, I don’t get enough myself to practise on.”
“That’s a pity, we must see to that.”
We went through the gate, she stopped and looked around.
“Where’s the car?” she said.
“What car?”
“Your car!”
“It’s parked back in town, I caught a ride with the albino. We’re walking.”
She shook her head. “No way, it’s too far.”
I was getting a bit tired of her and my voice wasn’t gentle.
“Look Susan, you have three choices, walk, wait here for me to drive back from town or go up to the house again and call a cab. It’s late but you might just get one to take you to Sydney, if you do he’ll ask why you’re not using the Fiat. You’ll have to lie, later you’ll have to explain to the cops why you lied. You can wait here if you want to, but who knows when things are going to break. I think you’d better walk.”
She nodded and we started out. It was dark, the road was rough and Susan’s thin-soled slippers weren’t ideal for the job but she didn’t complain for the whole forty-five minutes. She didn’t talk except to confirm the direction a couple of times. I tried to draw her out about the house and the family connection with Cooper Beach, since she obviously knew the area pretty well, but she wasn’t responsive.
Bryn had gone over the high side closer to the next town, Sussman’s Wharf, than to Cooper Beach, and I was hoping that the police and ambulance action would come from there when the wreck was discovered. That’s the way it happened; when we trudged into the little township the streets were as quiet as a Trappist prayer meeting. One milk bar cum eatery was open at the far end of the main street and the pubs were still serving a thin scattering of hard cases. My car was where I’d left it and the keys were where I’d left them. There was no obvious sign that anyone had taken any interest in it, but I prowled around it a bit just to be sure. Susan obviously thought I’d lost my mind, she sat on the grass looking beat but not downhearted until I was satisfied. She got in looking dismayed at the peeling vinyl and the general air of ruin. It was probably the oldest car she’d ever been in apart from vintage models in rallies with some of the chaps from her brother’s school.
“Why were you crawling about in the dark just then?” she asked after we’d got moving and she’d found that the passenger side seat belt didn’t fasten. I told her about the bombing of Ailsa’s car again and asked her if she’d forgotten.
“Stop trying to trip me up Hardy,” she snapped. “I’m not crazy.”
“You’re cool, I’ll say that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your twin brother’s dead and you’re here exchanging insults with me.”
We were on the winding road up to the tollway and I couldn’t get a look at her until we made the highway. When I got on it and could glance across I could see that she was gripping the sides of her seat and weeping silently.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “that was cruel, you’ve got the right to feel whatever you feel.”
“That’s the trouble,” she said, “I don’t think I feel anything. I think that’s why I’m crying.” She brushed her hand across her face and made an effort to steady her voice. “I’ve got some questions for you, Mr Hardy.”
“I have some for you,” I said.
“Well, let’s try a few as far as we’re each prepared to answer.”
“OK, you first.”
“Do you think Bryn and Dr Brave were behind everything that’s been happening, the bombing, Giles and so on?”
“No.”
“Who then?”
“Someone else, or others, plural.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, I have suspects, just that.”
“Are you going to try and find out for sure?”
“Yes.”
“Can I hire you to do that?”
That conflict of interest seemed infinite. “No,” I said, “afraid not. Thanks just the same for the compliment.”
“Why not?”
“I’m already retained on the job.”
“By Ailsa?”
“That’s right.”
“And just how do you feel about her?”
“You just reached the end of your questions, my turn.”
She rummaged about in the glove box among the odds and ends and spent Drum packets and slammed it all back in frustration.
“Haven’t you got anything to smoke except this vile tobacco?”
“No. Do you know anything about the files?”
“Not a thing, I wish I did.”
I let that pass to avoid side-tracking her. “What did Bryn mean when he said you would once have done anything for him? You reacted very strongly.” She jerked up in her seat. “Nothing, nothing at all,” she said quickly, “we were once very close that’s all.”
“I see. This may or may not be related. What did your father have on you and Bryn that kept you in line?”
“Who told you that he had something?”
“Never mind, what was it?”
“No.” She slumped down and ran her fingers through her hair, lifting and dropping the wings, her voice was old and thin as it had been back in the clinic. “No more questions.”
“One more, do you remember exactly who was around the night your father died?”
“I could, I have an excellent memory when conditions are right. I’d have to sit down and think about it.”
That brought it back to me, the reason I’d had a flash about bringing Ailsa and Susan together. The key to all this was somewhere back four years ago when Mark Gutteridge had killed himself. I needed to know all I could about that night. It didn’t seem like the right time to put this to Susan, so I let her answer stand and we drove on together in silence towards the smoggy lights of Sydney.
Susan gave me the address of a friend she could stay with for the night and I took her there. I stopped the car outside the place, a tizzed-up terrace in Paddington, got out and went around the car to open her door. She stepped out and put her hand on my arm.
“Thank you, I’m going to see Dr Pincus tomorrow,” she said.
“I know,” I said. Then an idea hit me. “Try for St Bede’s.”
“What?” She looked at me, puzzled and deeply tired.
“If he wants to put you in hospital, ask to go to St Bede’s.”
“Why?”
“I hear it’s the best anyway, so you’ll probably go there as a matter of course. But as well as that it might help me if you’re there.”
She was too tired to pursue it, she shrugged her shoulders, pushed open the stained wood and iron gate, and climbed the steps to the house. I saw light flood out from the open door and heard a woman’s voice say Susan’s name in startled but welcoming tones. The light went out.
19
