‘Yeah.’ Then we were kissing again and soon after that we were on a big low bed under a window. We satisfied the first, hard, need quickly and then lay close and talked and let a slow warmth creep over us. The second time was slower and I was conscious of the whole of her body and her experience; her slim, strong arms and the long legs that trapped and held me lightly. I lay there in the dim light listening to her breathing and then my breathing fell into synch with hers and I slept.
I woke at five o’clock and got up quietly. I dressed and was copying down the number of her phone when I heard her move in the bed.
‘What are you doing?’ She sat straight up and I could feel a wave of tension flow across to me. I leaned down and kissed her bare shoulder.
‘I have to go Kay. I’ve got your number. I’ll call you.’
She grabbed my hand. ‘When?’
‘Tonight and every night until this is fixed. Then I’ll come back here.’
‘When you’ve finished the job?’
‘Yes.’
‘Business first.’
I knew what she meant the way I’d always known what Cyn had meant — the missed meetings and the professional drinking and the sleep binges. She flopped back and curled up the way she had in the motel.
‘Canberra specialises in quick affairs Cliff,’ she said. ‘I’ve had men propose to me over breakfast and fly to London at lunchtime.’
‘I’ll call you tonight at eight. I promise.’
‘I hope so,’ she whispered; she rolled over away from me, twisting the sheet around her.
I let myself out quietly and negotiated the sideway; the dew was heavy and the overhanging branches dripped on me as I pushed through them. It wasn’t like walking away from a good, quick roll in the hay, it wasn’t like that at all.
I made myself unpopular at the motel by hauling the manager out of bed and paying my bill. From the look he gave me I would’ve bet the first thing he did after I’d gone was check the towels. It was going to be a hot one in Canberra; the sky was a blank blue and a heat haze was forming over the mountains. The air was still cool but a west wind was promising to make it dry and gritty within an hour. I cruised through the quiet streets along with the dogs and joggers and gave my newly cleaned car its head when we reached the highway. The drive from Canberra to Sydney has got easier in the last few years. They’ve punched through some hills and by-passed some of the towns. A good drive in a good car can do it in under four hours. It took me nearly five.
I was dry and hungry when I reached Glebe. I collected the mail and newspapers and went into the house; dust drifted about in the beams of light and the cockroaches, blissfully undisturbed for a few days, ran for cover. I cleaned myself up and made a meal with limp things from the fridge and plenty of cold wine. The papers carried a lot about the economy, all lies, something about prison riots, mostly lies, and profound analyses of events in the Middle East. There was no mention of Henry Brain. Four bills almost cancelled out the Chatterton money and as far as I could remember there was nothing else coming in. I called my answering service and learned I’d had two callers — Cy Sackville and Verna Reid.
I phoned Sackville who told me not to get into any trouble for a few weeks because he was going to a conference in Athens and planned to trip around Europe for a bit afterwards.
‘Who pays?’ I asked.
‘You do mate, the taxpayer. Now about this Chatterton business. I couldn’t get a lot on Henry Brain. He was a barrister, a good one, and he got struck off for drunkenness in court. That’s going back a bit; he never applied for reinstatement.’
‘He stayed drunk.’
‘There’s a lesson in that for you,’ Cy said primly. ‘On the Chatterton estate I can’t help you much. Young Booth didn’t know who gets the dough, Dad hasn’t told him. There are a few funny things about it though.’
‘Like?’
‘Well, the secrecy for one thing. Booth junior says it’s unusual for Booth senior to be so close-mouthed. It might mean that the estate is tied up in some way. Also, someone else has been asking about it.’
‘Who?’
Booth doesn’t remember his name, some bloke who traped an acquaintance with him at a squash court. Big chap was all he said, looked as if he needed the exercise. That probably made Boothie feel smug — he’s in great shape.’ Cy himself is as thin as a stick of spaghetti which he eats in large quantities. He never exercises; he’s a workaholic who burns the weight off by mixing ambition with performance.
‘What did this big bloke say?’
‘Not much I gather and Booth probably didn’t give a lot away. He’s with an old firm, a conservative one, and Boothie knows that he’s not the brightest. He plays it pretty cagey.’
‘When was this and are you sure that’s all?’
‘A couple of weeks ago it was. Only other thing Booth recalled was that mention was made of the old lady’s companion — Miss Reece?’
‘Reid.’
Cy grunted, he wasn’t used to getting things wrong.
‘D’you want to be filled in on all this Cy?’
‘Not really. It’s bound to be sordid and I’m trying to clear my head for the holiday. I’ve got a lot to do, I’ve got to check on Greek scuba gear and I’m thinking of buying a Citroen over there and shipping it back… what do you think?’
‘Great idea,’ I said. ‘Give me the old one.’
‘I’ve seen your car, you don’t deserve a Citroen.’
He gave me the name of the man who would be filling in for him and a run-down on his prejudices — they seemed to cover everything I did and stood for. He sounded like the right man to brief the prosecution if I got into trouble.
After hanging up I went to the car and dug out my notes on the case and added a few more facts. I sat and thought; I had a cigarette and some more wine; I wrote Kay Fletcher’s number in my book. When I couldn’t stall any longer I rang the Chatterton number. Verna Reid’s voice came over the wire like a chill Melbourne wind. She didn’t seem to want to connect me with Lady C but I insisted and the line stayed live. While I was waiting I wondered whether Miss Reid was in line for the money, a heartbeat away from a fortune, and where her boyfriend and Richard Selby fitted into the picture.
The phone crackled. ‘Mr Hardy, are you there?’
I said I was.
‘I expected to hear from you sooner. Where have you been?’
‘To the south coast and Canberra.’
‘What have you learned?’
‘Henry Brain is dead — you know that. Nurse Callaghan is dead too.’
A long sigh whispered through. ‘So you have nothing to report?’ Her voice was empty of any interest in the lives and deaths of Brain and Callaghan. She’d known them both but they meant nothing to her except as stepping- stones to what she wanted. It reminded me that the Chattertons were ruthless elitists, not humanitarians. There was no point in caring whether the old woman got what she wanted or not. It was a job.
‘I didn’t say that,’ I said soothingly. ‘I spoke to Brain before he died and I may have spoken to the doctor who delivered your grandson. I’m in the process of tracing that person now.’
‘Who is he?’ she said excitedly. ‘Tell me about him.’
I stalled. ‘I don’t think that would be wise; he may not be the right man and it may not be possible to locate him.’
‘I’ve never heard so many may nots. I hope you’re not covering up a failure, Mr Hardy.’
That caustic arrogance in the voice made me want to slam the phone down but I took a breath and used the only weapon I had.
‘I’ll give you one more may not,’ I said harshly. ‘You may not like him when and if you meet him.’
‘If he is the right man, Mr Hardy, he will have character, he will be fundamentally sound.’ Her tone was less confident than the words. ‘Perhaps you can tell me one more thing: since you are determined to play cat and
