I filled her up. ‘You sound like an American.’
‘Was. Aussie now, married an’ divorced an Aussie. What’s your name?’
‘Cliff.’
‘Cheers, Cliffy.’
We drank some more. Her big, dark eyes started to take on a faraway look, and I reckoned that the time I had left to question her could be measured in millilitres. ‘Will you be going to Deirdre’s party, Ginny?’
‘Sure, always go to Dee’s. You goin’, Cliffy?’
‘I haven’t got an invitation, I’d like to see Dee though. Got some business to discuss among other things.’
‘Sounds boring, but I guess you’re sorta in the same business.’
I didn’t say anything but let her ramble on until I could pick up my cues. After some hiccupping, it became clear that she’d fixed on the idea that I was an airline pilot. I let her run with that, and agreed with her that I’d be retiring soon and had to look after myself. That seemed to satisfy her in the way of a connection with Deirdre Kelly. She up-ended the bottle and watched it drip into her glass. I had a hand ready to catch it, but she set it down with the excessive carefulness drunks have at this stage.
‘She’s okay, Dee. She’s okay, I don’ care what they say.’
‘Who says what?’
She bent her head to lap at the brim full glass. Strands of her hair fell in the wine and she let them drift into her mouth where she sucked them. She’d drunk nearly two thirds of the bottle on top of the load she already had, and her gaiety was dimming into something slow and studied. ‘Say she’s crazy, say she ‘magines things that don’t really happen.’
‘What do you think?’
The gloss was peeling off her fast. Sweat beaded her face and the wet strands of hair were dark and matted; the make-up around her eyes was smeared and her nose was shiny under the bright kitchen light. ‘Everybody makes up things. I do. You do, doncha?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Course you do. Dee’s friends’ve got no right saying things ‘bout her like that. Bet they make up things.’
‘Sure. Be interesting to meet a few of ‘em, guess what they’d make up.’
She banged her fist on the table. ‘Hey, you’re right. Like a party game: what’re your make-believes, bet I c’n guess.’ In her new mood the whim was taking on a solid reality. Less do it.’
I grinned and sipped.
‘Less do it tomorrow night. Lots there. You can come with me, Cliffy. Be fun.’
I nodded. Her eyes, which had been sliding around the room trying to find something to focus on, finally held on my face for an instant. Her head came forward in a disjointed imitation of my nod, but the movement kept on and her forehead hit the table with a light thud. She twitched once and passed out.
I sipped the rest of my wine and waited until her shoulders had slumped and she was breathing regularly. Then I prowled through the big apartment. Her bedroom was furnished in the same packaged style as the kitchen with matching double bed, built-in cupboards and dressing table. There were enough clothes to outfit Charlie’s Angels and none of them was cheap. The fur on the pile of cushions on the bed looked real. Other rooms held basic-furniture and there was no indication of where the funds came from.
I turned on a soft light by the bed, peeled the covers back to the black silk sheets and shoved some pillows into place. Back in the kitchen I located some aspirin and put them with a glass of water on the table by the bed. Ginny had slipped forward and was in danger of ending up under the table, literally. I picked her up, carried her to the bed and set her down. She stirred briefly and grabbed a pillow. On a sheet torn from my notebook I wrote: ‘Looking forward to the party. I’ll be here around nine. Love, Cliff.’ I added a quick and not too inaccurate sketch of an airline pilot’s wings to the bottom of the note, because I thought Ginny’s visual recall might be better than her verbal.
I put her keys on the bedside table, and her shoes neatly together in the hall. I turned off a few lights and thought I could hear a light snoring as I let myself out of the apartment.
21
Nothing had changed at number seven, no new lights, no new cars outside; professional pride didn’t impel me to identify the TV channel that was providing the voices. I drove back to Glebe with the slip of paper on which I’d written the midnight contact number in my jacket pocket. I kept feeling the paper as I drove, wishing it was something more substantial, wishing that I was causing things to happen instead of being Grey’s representative in Mountain’s game.
I got home with a couple of minutes to spare. I dialled and got a recorded message as I expected. It told me to speak after the blip.
Blip. ‘This is Hardy, Grey. I think I’m onto something but the relevant meeting is tomorrow night. Don’t hurt the girl or I swear I’ll come after you and break your back. I assume you’ll be in touch.’ I hung up feeling ridiculous at making threats into machines at the stroke of midnight. I waited. At five minutes into the new day the phone rang and the same voice as before spoke quickly: ‘Delighted to hear that you’re making progress. The girl is fine, although we’ve had some trouble in restraining Peroni. Don’t make empty threats. Hardy; it creates a bad impression. I’m going to read you your next contact number twice. I’ll expect a call twenty-four hours from now.’ He did that, I wrote the number down and the line went dead.
There are more ways to set up secure telephone contacts than there are to nobble horses and the Grey Organisation (as I’d come to think of it) seemed to be aware of it. I sat and brooded, forseeing a series of nights of telephone calls until there was nothing on the other end of the line. The thought chilled and depressed me. I went to bed where I had trouble finding sleep, and when I did find it, the sleep was troubled by dreams of Helen Broadway, Erica Fong and bloody objects arriving in the mail.
About ten the following morning, I got a call from Terry Reeves. The Audi had been found.
‘God,’ I said. ‘Where?’
‘Right outside the office.’
‘In what condition?’
‘Mint. You have anything to do with this, Cliff?’
‘Mate, I’d like to claim the credit, but I can’t. I’ve been on the trail of the bloke who took it, but I haven’t even got close to him. I think he’s in Sydney-that’s how it’s been, that vague.’
He grunted. ‘Well, I’m not complaining. Send me an account and I’ll fix you up.’
‘Okay.’ I was embarrassed; it felt like taking money for nothing and I went in for some self-justificaton. ‘Terry, there’s an organisation behind this; it goes interstate…’
‘I’m not madly interested, Cliff. Not very public-spirited of me, I know, but I’ve got a business to run. Unless you’re saying it could happen to me again?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Are you saying you can recover the other cars, mine I mean?’
‘No.’
‘I think we’ll call it a day then, Cliff. Thanks for what you’ve done. I can wear the insurance on the others, the Audi would have been the last straw.’
He was embarrassed, too. We both went polite and let each other off lightly, the way friends should. I’d keep my bill low, and he’d pay promptly. The Crusades were a long time ago. The business situation-left with no new client and inhibitions about billing the last one-was bad, but the side issues the Reeves case had generated threatened to be a disaster. I didn’t know where Erica was, or what Mountain was doing by returning the car. That was puzzling. Did it mean that Mountain had been in touch with Grey and that this was a move in that game? Would Grey have told Mountain about Erica, and what would Mountain’s reaction be? It was like fumbling around in a dark, locked room for a light switch that wasn’t there.
I knocked up a cheapo bill for Terry and drove to Darlinghurst feeling worm-like. The orange skirts and white
