How’s Helen?’
‘She’s up the bush,’ I said, ‘worse luck.’
19
I sat in the library next to the reporters’ room at The News, and read the article about the professional persons who used drugs recreationally. In a way, it was like reading Bill Mountain’s synopsis; the people interviewed talked freely and articulately, but they had been given false names, and it was hard to tell whether they were lying. None admitted to being hooked, and none would give any information out on how they obtained the drugs. The drugs, doses, effects and justifications for what they were doing, they would talk about ad nauseam.
The reporter presented the material straight and with an oddly incurious air, as if he had found his informants rather boring. Hard facts were few-the North Shore was one of the centres of the activity and the participants feared only two things-exposure as drug-users to their straight professional colleagues, and accidental overdose.
I called on Harry after I’d read the article. I knew the protocol now.
‘Great piece,’ I said. ‘Your idea?’
‘Partly.’
‘Any reaction to it?’
‘A lot. Plenty of denials, advice from doctors about the perils of addiction, worried letters from employers who suspected their staff and from staff who suspected other staff. Lots of defensiveness and paranoia.’
‘Police response?’
‘Complete silence. Before you ask, Cliff, I checked the files on the two people Artie named. Nothing on Gamble, minor item on the woman. She was attacked outside her flat a few months ago and got cut up a bit. Claimed to have no idea of the reason.’
‘Thanks, Harry. With all this information at your disposal, why don’t you write a novel? They say there’s big dough in it if you get it right.’
Tickener rubbed the smooth shiny skin on the top of his head. ‘Fuck you, Cliff. I’ve written six, can’t get ‘em published. Now that you’ve thoroughly depressed me, you can piss off.’
I went, leaving him to rub his shiny head. Maybe if he rubbed it the right way it’d conjure up a genie who’d help him get his novels published.
An instinct told me that this was something like the right track. Dealing with the young, upwardly-mobile drug-interested sounded just like Mountain’s style, and the subject seemed like a good fresh one for popular fiction. One article in The News was hardly over-exposure.
It was late in the afternoon, with heavy traffic building. The weather had turned uncertain; the sky was a leaden grey, purplish in the distance, and the wind was an irritable, swirling thing that seemed to be snapping at the nerves of the people in the street. More than usually, they were jay-walking, misjudging speeds and mouthing obscenities at the drivers, me included.
Part of Elizabeth Street was being torn up and, with the number of lanes reduced, the cars moved along in snarling, resentful jerks. It took me almost an hour to get from Broadway up to St Peter’s Lane, and I had an aching head and a dry throat when I got there. An hour of swearing and being sworn at is bad preparation for anything; the stairs up to the floor where my office is seemed to have doubled and got steeper, and the corridor looked longer and gloomier than usual.
I opened the door, and the letters inside skittered across the floor. I left them there and ran the answering machine tape. The first two calls signified nothing; the third was crisp and to the point:
‘Hardy,’ the voice was light, neutral-sounding-possibly Grey’s. ‘Message: call 827 3410 before midnight without fail. Whether you have anything to say or not.’
I wanted to talk back to the voice, ask it to be reasonable, enter into dialogue, maybe work out a deal. But the message was as brief and uncommunicative as a classified ad. Grey had a sound psychological grasp though. After another business message the voice came through again:
‘The girl is in good health.’
Unless Hardy screws up. I thought. I ran the rest of the tape in hope that there might be some good news on it. The last message was a somewhat breathless one from Lambert, the literary facilitator, asking me to call him urgently. I got Maud first, but she put me through without any chat. When Lambert answered, I imagined I could see him twisting his head in that nervous, persecuted manner. I felt like doing some head-twisting myself.
‘Oh, God! Thanks for calling, Hardy. Another section of the synopsis has just arrived.’
I thought I’d ask the sleuthly question first this time. ‘How was it delivered?’
‘What? Oh, by mail. Special delivery or something.’
‘Posted in Sydney?’
‘How do I know? Oh, I see, the envelope. I’ll get Maud to look. Does it really matter?’
‘Don’t know,’ I grunted. ‘Well, what does he say?’
He wasn’t a complete fool, and he remembered that he was getting my time for free. ‘What have you come up with?’
‘Some things, some names. I could be getting closer. But what he’s writing is still crucial. I need to know.’
‘Of course. Well, it’s frightful, gripping stuff… but very disturbing.’
‘Can you still hear the cash registers?’
‘I’ll ignore that. I’d be a hypocrite if I said it wasn’t commercial; but the disturbing thing is that the suicide motif seems to be getting stronger. The hero…’ he broke off and coughed, ‘well, the protagonist is well and truly hooked on the drugs he’s selling, and he’s developed a new interest.’
‘Hold on, I’m more interested in threats. He’s still being threatened by the original crims, the car people?’
‘Umm, he feels so, and also by people involved in the drug business. He’s stepping on toes there, but there’s something worse.’
‘Jesus, worse?’
‘It’s another level of threat, really, and coming from himself. He’s sort of splitting into two personalities and the one threatens the other with physical extinction.’ I could hear the excitement in his voice; maybe the breathlessness had come from ringing me while reading the last few words. ‘It’s extraordinary. I’ve never read anything like it-very contemporary and powerful.’
‘You’re writing the reviews, Mr Lambert. I wouldn’t if I were you. Any note with it?’
‘No.’
‘I’m going to need to see this. Can you run me off a copy? I’ll come by and get it now.’
‘I can do that, yes. Do you really think you’re getting somewhere?’
Oddly, I thought I was. I had a feeling that I was gaining on William Mountain, but I also had a feeling that he knew he was being gained on. I made encouraging noises to Lambert, and left the office. On the stairs I remembered that I hadn’t made a note of the contact number Grey, if it was Grey, had left. I swore, and went back and wrote it down. On the stairs again and I realised that I hadn’t looked at the mail; this time I just swore and kept going.
Maud was waiting for me just inside the door at Brent Carstairs. She handed me a manila envelope, ritually, as if it contained the Bruce-Partington plans, and waited for me to make a smart remark. I fooled her.
Lambert evidently didn’t want to see me, and I could live with that. I wanted to think of the synopsis as cards in my hand and Erica’s safety as the pot. I didn’t want to see Lambert’s bow tie or the best-seller-at-risk look in his eyes.
When I got back to Glebe, Hilde was there collecting some pot plants from the garden and some other things she’d left behind in the house. She was about four months pregnant, very happy, and had never looked better. She kissed me and stood back.
