today.’
She moved aside and let me in.
‘Chris’s room’s through here.’ I followed her down the passage to a bedroom near the back of the house. The rock music was soft now and the place smelled of incense and coffee. They were good sounds and smells and I let up on the authoritarian manner.
‘Nice place’, I said. ‘What’re you studying?’
‘Politics.’
‘Always study with the music so loud?’
‘Yes, it drowns out the real world.’
‘Ah. In here?’
She nodded and left me to it. The room was small but well lit from a big window. There was a mattress on the floor with bedding neatly folded on it. A student’s desk had books and papers on it and a pen-it looked as if it had been got up from abruptly and never returned to. That was the neat half of the room: on the other side there was a big armchair covered with dirty clothes; there were food scraps balanced on the arms, empty glasses and cans on the floor beside it. There were wadded-up tissues and a bloodstained handkerchief. Between the cushion and the side of the chair I found the plastic cap of a disposable syringe. The room looked as if it had been inhabited by two different people.
I went out, and located the student sitting with a pile of books and notes at the kitchen table. The rock was still soft. She looked up, exasperated.
‘I thought you said you’d go?’
‘In a minute. What happened to Chris?’
She shrugged. ‘He went on to drugs.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You must know something.’
‘He went away for a while, a week maybe. When he came back he looked very bad, sick. That’s when he started on the stuff. He was only here from time to time-he’d paid some rent in advance.’
‘He didn’t say anything about it?’
‘He once said it wasn’t his fault, and another time he said he was ashamed of it. But they all say that.’
Sympathy wasn’t her big thing. I took out the photo of the dark man and held it out for her. ‘Have you ever seen him?’
‘Yes, he was here. I think he’s the one who brought Chris in the first time he was sick. He was around a couple of times after that.’
‘Hear his name?’
‘No.’ She reached out her hand for the knob of the ghetto-blaster and I left her to impair her hearing.
11
At the airport I put through a call to Paul Guthrie. I located him at his city office.
‘Have you seen Chris?’
‘I’ve seen both of them. Don’t be alarmed, but Chris is in the hospital. He’s okay.’ That was stretching it a bit, but a long distance phone call is no way to handle the subtleties. I gave him the details of the hospital and the ward and the businessman in him let me finish. ‘His mother should come up here, perhaps’, I said. ‘I’ll give you the details when I get back to Sydney.’
‘Who hurt him? How did he get in hospital?’
‘He hurt himself, Mr Guthrie. But he had some help. Ray’s in worse shape in some ways. I can’t explain now, but he may think his brother’s dead. He thinks I’m an enemy and he knows you hired me.’
‘But Ray’s not hurt? Or sick?’
‘No, but he’s sort of out of control. You’d better take some precautions.’
‘Ray wouldn’t hurt me.’
‘Maybe not, it’s hard to say. If he arrives, just try to keep him calm, and stay calm yourself.’
‘Do you know what the hell this is all about, Hardy?’
‘Not yet. I’ve got some ideas but not enough information.’ That was true; it was also true that I was trying to safeguard Pat Guthrie’s interests while working for her husband. Tricky.
They were calling my plane and I rang off, still trying to reassure my client. No scanner again. I sat, tightly wedged between a fat man with body odour and a woman who knitted the whole way. I couldn’t concentrate on the Hughes book and the clicking of the needles and occasional elbow dig kept me from sleeping.
I thought about the information I had: both brothers had been jerked violently out of their routines and normal habits, and the man I still thought of as ‘the cop’ was involved in the jerking. Ray was stirred up about his real father, but the connection between that and his present wild behaviour was a mystery.
It was a strange case; I’d seen the subject of my enquiries twice but hadn’t made any meaningful contact. I had divided my loyalties between my client and his wife. I supposed I’d done some good by getting Chris to the hospital earlier than he would otherwise have made it. It didn’t seem like much of an achievement to report to Grandma. Especially with Ray Guthrie thinking of me as an adversary.
The turbulence started about half an hour out of Sydney and intensified as we got closer. The pilot announced that Sydney was being swept by a storm and that we could expect some delays and confusion. I fancied that the body odour got a little worse, but the needles never missed a click.
A summer storm had hit; the gutters and the people had all been caught in light clothes without coats or umbrellas. Those who’d made dashes from the car park or taxis to the terminal looked as if they’d waded there neck-deep. Strangely, everyone seemed to be good humoured about it; the city had had a long dry spell and perhaps the people were ready for the water as well as the plants. I wasn’t, myself-the drivers of old cars don’t like it.
I drove home cautiously on tyres that would make Jack Brabham weep. I skidded twice and had a heady moment when the wipers hesitated, but I said ‘mush’ to them and they kept going. I parked outside the house and toted my bag up the path through the rain. I was tired from the long day, the travelling and the depressing effect of seeing what heroin can do to a young, healthy man. I wanted a shower and a drink; I wanted to listen to Ella Fitzgerald; I wanted to see Helen Broadway. Instead, I got Frank Parker.
He was sitting halfway up the stairs, which put him about ten metres from the front door and head to head with anyone coming through it. It was a shooting gallery arrangement, with Parker in the shooter’s spot, — he was in shadow and whoever was in the doorway was beautifully framed against the light. Parker had a gun in his hand and he was ready to shoot.
‘Jesus, Frank!’ I dropped the bag and was almost alarmed enough to try putting up my hands. Parker stretched his long legs in front of him and stood up just a couple of steps above the floor. He came down the steps, favouring his left side. He lowered the gun to his side; I closed the door behind me and we met halfway up the passage.
‘The dentist let me in’, he said. ‘Must be handy for a bloke in your game and with your personality to have someone around who can fix your teeth.’
‘Put the bloody gun away.’ I went past him towards the kitchen and the fridge. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘Since last night.’
‘Sorry I didn’t change the sheets.’ He didn’t say anything to that and I didn’t find out why until later. ‘I need a drink.’
He followed me through to the kitchen, where I decided that wine wasn’t the answer. I got the whisky out of the cupboard where it usually lives a lonely life, grabbed a glass and poured a short one. ‘Cheers.’ I put it down, took a deep breath and looked at him.
He had a rumpled look which was unusual for him and he’d missed a shave; for a man with a beard as heavy as his that’s like missing two shaves. He set the safety on the revolver with his thumb and put it on the table. I held
