minutes. I worked through the papers pretty fast looking at the business news mostly and checking the correspondence columns trying to get a feel for the shape of things as they were then.
Mark Gutteridge got a fair bit of coverage as a canny and successful land developer, but there was nothing out of the ordinary about it — no shady deals hinted at, no subsidiary companies collapsing and ruining shareholders. His death got a big spread and there were follow-up stories over the next few days. I read this stuff closely to brief myself for the meeting later in the day. The reporters were starved of facts from the start. The cops were close-mouthed about their investigations and the coverage soon tailed off into human interest material about Gutteridge and his family. There were a couple of good photos of Ailsa, an indifferent one of Bryn and one of Susan that was so poor that it took imagination to relate it to the person I knew. There was no mention of robbery, no details on the gun or the wound, and the coroner’s verdict came in as smooth as silk stockings on shaved legs — “Death by his own hand while of unsound mind”. I made a few notes, tucked them away in my pocket and told the attendant that I’d finished with the papers.
I left the library looking for somewhere to have lunch. I approached a cafe in a new chrome, concrete and glass building and a name on a directory board jumped out at me. Sleeman Enterprises’ office was on the fourth floor and I took the lift up just for the hell of it. The decor was all plastic, glass and middle-of-the-road wall to wall carpet. There were a few pot plants, not so many as to prevent the employees seeing each other, and a general air of work being done. A desk just outside the lift had a sign reading “Inquiries” hanging above it and a dark-haired girl looked up from her typing when she saw me peering keenly about. A good sign that, a receptionist who can type. She asked if she could help in a voice that suggested she was serious about the offer. I took out my wallet and extracted a card a little guy who’d come to my office a month ago had given me. He gave me the card but he knew I was a lost cause.
“My name is Riddout,” I said, “Claude Riddout, I’m from Simon’s Office Furniture and Decor.”
“Yes Mr Riddout?”
“Well, I was just visiting a client on another floor and I thought I’d glance in on a few other establishments just to see if our services might be required.”
“I don’t think…”
I waved both hands in the air. “No, no, I can see that everything is very nice here, very tasteful indeed, I compliment you, it must be very pleasant to work in such surroundings, very pleasant indeed. You wouldn’t believe the drabness I see in some places.”
I’d succeeded in boring her silly in half a minute which is good going.
“Yes, it’s fine, now uhmm… is there anything…?”
“No, no, if I could just look about a little, take a wander down a corridor or two? I promise I won’t intrude on anyone. I’d hate to interrupt the workings of such a smooth running organisation. Just a peep, just a professional peep.”
She grabbed the out although she had to cover herself. “Well, I really shouldn’t allow you to, but if you make it brief I suppose it’ll be all right. The stairs are at the end of that corridor.”
She pointed, I ducked my head at her and set off down the passage. There were three offices off to the left along one passage, one on each side of a short connecting corridor and a further three or four on both sides of another passage. Some of the offices had names on the door, some didn’t. Some were partitioned to permit a secretary to work away out of sight of her master but within beck and call. Along one wall was a large map of Australia and the Pacific islands. Little pins with red heads were stuck in at various points — all the mainland capital cities as well as places like Geelong and Wollongong, and here and there among the islands — Port Moresby, Suva, Noumea, Pago Pago.
The biggest office had Walter Chalmers’ name on the door. The next biggest was occupied by Ross Haines. I opened the door to Haines’ secretary’s cubicle and said “Oh sorry” to a startled blonde. I did the same to Chalmers’ secretary and got an ice cold look from a middle aged woman wearing violently dyed red hair and a Chanel suit. I went back to the lifts past the receptionist who saw me coming, put her head down and kept it there like Anne Boleyn on the block.
I grabbed some fruit from a street stand and made do with that for lunch.
At 3.45 I was at the hospital and as unpopular as a bikini in a nudist camp. I’d been shunted about from reception desk to waiting room and back again, but, given the size of the place, I’d made it fairly fast into the hospital director’s office. He had a couple of medical degrees, Harvard business administration ticket, a hyphenated name and he didn’t like me. He looked clean-cut like an American lawyer and he spoke in a clipped upper class voice like an English doctor.
“This is all extremely irregular, Mr Hardy. Hospital routines are delicate things, not to be tampered with lightly.”
I didn’t say anything, the fact that I was there meant that I was going to get what I wanted and if I had to take a little crap from him along the way I would. He ran his hand over his greying crewcut and riffled through some papers on his desk.
“However, the two ladies are not dangerously ill, private patients of course so no one will be disturbed.”
What he meant was that the two ladies were rich and rich people who’ve been well treated in hospital sometimes remember that when they’ve got their chequebooks out. I nodded.
“Dr Pincus and Sir John concur in the matter,” he went on, “so I think it can be arranged.”
I don’t know how hospital directors are fixed for status and prospects, but this one had elected to keep two medical heavies very firmly on side. That was fine with me. I grinned at him infuriatingly. He levelled up his papers and plonked a solid silver paperweight in the shape of a kidney on top of them. It was my day for making people glad to get me out of their sight. He flipped an intercom switch.
“Are we ready for Mr Hardy?”
He looked relieved at the reply and even more relieved when the door opened and a male nurse presented himself. The boss said, “Nurse Mahony will attend to you, Mr Hardy.” I said, “Thank you” and he pretended not to hear me.
The nurse was tall and brawny; anyone who made jokes about him might very soon be attended by him in his professional capacity. I had trouble keeping up with him as he strode down the corridor. I broke into an undignified trot, then checked myself.
“Slow down nurse,” I panted, “and tell me where we’re going.”
“Sorry sir,” he slowed imperceptibly, but he called me sir. “We’re going to the conference room on the fourth floor. It’s a sort of VIP room. We get business executives and politicians in here from time to time. In for check-ups and so on. They sometimes need facilities like telex machines, computers and tape recorders. We’ve got them here, got a computer terminal and all.”
“Great, what about the ones who have to stay in bed?”
“It’s a big room, the beds can be wheeled in and arranged with writing tables and so on alongside. The room will hold ten beds. The hospital can provide a stenographer.”
“I don’t think I’ll need that, but it sounds like a good set-up. You sound proud of it.”
He gave me a sideways look and grinned. “It’s interesting,” he said. “One gentleman died in there when he got some bad news on the telex. Very wealthy gentleman he was.”
“Serve him right,” I said.
“That’s what I say. Here we are.”
The room was all he’d promised. It looked like a boardroom except for some of the chromium fittings and it smelled antiseptic instead of cigars and good booze. There was a long table with slots in for the beds. When in place the person in bed was within reach of a cassette tape recorder, a set of earphones, a telex keyboard, a fresh writing pad and a row of sharpened pencils. A chair was drawn up to one of the slots, two others were occupied. Ailsa sat propped up by pillows, her arms were bare and her hair was shining like a burnished helmet. She smiled at me as I came into the room in the shadow of Nurse Mahony, it looked as if all was forgiven. Susan was opposite her slumped down in her bed. There was a huge lump under the bedclothes from the waist down which made her look like a victim of Dr Moreau. She looked peeved and anxious.
It wasn’t going to be easy.
