It was terrible.’
She told me that Cook had had a paid-up life insurance policy and, while the company wasn’t happy with the circumstances, she got a payout. Not the full amount, but enough to settle the most pressing debts.
‘They weren’t as bad as Col had made them out to be,’ she said. ‘That puzzled me, but it stopped the insurance company from insisting on invoking the suicide clause.’
She said she came out of the legal battles with enough to finance a move back to Sydney where she’d come from.
‘I’m a Maroubra girl and I went back there. You’re from Maroubra too, aren’t you? My solicitor-I was seeing him about something else, but I sort of steered him round to talking about private detectives-told me about you.’
Indeed I was. I’d been ocean-dipped, salt-sprayed and maybe skin-cancered there at least ten years before her. I had no intention of going back, though. The solicitor’s name didn’t ring a bell, but it was a bond of some sort and the job didn’t sound too hard on the operational level. The emotional side of it might get a bit sticky for Andrea later if the man did turn out to be her husband and not David Richmond, the way it said in the photo caption. But that wouldn’t be my problem.
She smiled when I said I’d help and, as I suspected, a smile improved her looks a lot.
‘Did your husband have any brothers or cousins? This could be a family resemblance.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No brothers or male cousins.’
That made it time to caution her. ‘This sort of thing happens, Mrs Cook. Men take off and start new lives, new families.’
‘I have to know,’ she said. ‘If you find that it is Col and what he’s doing, I’ll think about what to do next.’
That seemed fair enough. She was a qualified pharmacist and had a job in a Maroubra shop that was doing OK. She was buying a flat and could write a decent cheque. I got a six-year-old photo and some details on Col: born Melbourne, 1952; 180 centimetres, brown hair, olive complexion, solid build; no spectacles, hearing aids or false teeth. I looked at the photo. Like the man in the clipping, he was wearing tennis gear. He held a racquet as if he knew how to use it. Maybe.
“Was he a good tennis player, your husband?’
‘Oh, yes-very good. A schoolboy champion.’
‘Any peculiarities? I mean scars or birthmarks, anything like that?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Nothing. He’s a very normal man. In every way.’ We both noticed that she was using the present tense. She took another look at the clipping before handing it to me.
‘You’ve talked to someone about it now,’ I said. “That can help in itself. You’re still sure?’
Firm nod. ‘When can you…?’
‘Today,’ I said. ‘But it could take a while. I’ll be in touch.’
I waited until she’d gone before lifting up the L-Z. It doesn’t look impressive but it often works. Not this time though — no Richmonds in Petersham, Stanmore or Marrickville. Worth a try. I phoned the tennis club and was told that the competition players practised on Friday evening. Tomorrow. That was OK; I had bills to pay, phone calls to make, people to meet.
The Petersham Lawn Tennis Club was on Stanley Road, Marrickville. I hadn’t expected to find any actual grass courts there, but I was wrong. There were three in a group behind a dozen or so with the usual synthetic surfaces. I parked in the street and took a look at the courts, feeling nostalgic. There used to be a lot of grass courts around Sydney, green in winter, bare and yellow in summer. Bastards to play on, with their uneven surfaces and tricky bounces, but in the 1950s grass was the recti surface, like at Wimbledon, Forest Hills and Kooyong. These survivors were well-maintained and the people playing mixed doubles on two of them were having a good time.
The serious business was taking place on a hard court near the clubhouse. I wandered through the gate, behind the social players and took up a position near the court. It was after six but with daylight saving in operation, the light was good. So were the players. Two men were playing a hard-hitting singles, going all out, whipping top and underspin shots across court and rushing the net at every opportunity to make punching volleys. I watched a few games. Both had grooved, kicking serves and good footwork. The difference emerged in the third game-the shorter guy was a fraction faster and had a little more variety in his game. When he had to scramble for a shot he did something quirky with it. He won more of the points that mattered.
Two men sat on a bench outside the clubhouse watching the play. They wore tennis gear and exchanged remarks from time to time about shots made and missed. One of them was the subject of my enquiry. Height is hard to judge when the person’s sitting, but 180 centimetres seemed about right. He had the pleasant, open face and the square shoulders of the Colin Cook in the photograph. There was a fair bit of grey in his hair, but then, the photo was six years old. Col was getting on for forty now. Still only maybe. I moved a bit closer. A few of the social players wandered around. They looked respectfully at the men I was watching. Tennis obviously had its serious side at the Petersham courts, although I could see the illuminated Tooheys sign near the driveway to the clubhouse and, from the sound of it, some of the activity inside was more social than sporting.
‘Help you, mate?’
One of the pair watching the players had got up and fronted me. Evidently I’d ventured a bit deep into private territory. Maybe he thought I was a spy from Leichhardt or Waverley. I was caught on the hop and couldn’t think of anything clever or devious to say, not that there was any real need.
I said, ‘I wanted a word with David Richmond.’
He shrugged. ‘After the set, all right? Dave and me have got a bet on.’
I looked across at the court. The two players had come off. The score must have been 6–1. David Richmond was standing mid-court waving a ten-dollar note.
‘OK,’ I said, but the man I’d been talking to was already on his way. He went onto the court, put his ten bucks along with Richmond’s under a spare racquet, and took up his position. He hit a ball to Richmond who whacked it back, flat and hard. I turned my back on the court and walked away. Colin Cook had held his racquet in his right hand and had absolutely nothing unusual about him, according to his missus. Dave Richmond hit a classic, one-fisted backhand, like Rod Laver or John McEnroe-left-handed.
‘He’s left-handed, Mrs Cook.’
‘Oh.’
I didn’t know whether to say I was sorry or not. I had her clipping and photograph on the desk in front of me and I’d made out a refund cheque for some of the money she’d paid me. I told her on the phone I’d be sending these things in the mail.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure. It would be impossible for a right-handed person to play tennis like that. I once saw Boris Becker change hands to reach a shot, but that was just a little flick. Mr Richmond’s left-handed.’
‘But he does look like Colin?’
‘I’d say so, yes. Older, of course.’
‘Of course. Well, thank you, Mr Hardy.’
And that was that, or so I thought. The Cook file became one of the very slimmest in my drawer and I got on with other business. Two days later I was walking towards my front door when David Richmond stepped from behind the overgrown vines that fill up most of the garden. The weapon he was holding looked like a cut-down. 22 rifle. He had it levelled at my belt buckle.
‘I want to talk to you, Hardy.’
I felt for my keys. ‘You don’t need the popgun for that.’
‘Keep your hands clear.’
‘Keys.’
‘Bugger the keys. We’re going to my car. The gun’ll be inside my jacket but still pointing at you. Don’t get any ideas.’
From the way he spoke and moved I concluded that he was serious. That made him dangerous and obedience the best policy. He guided me towards a Volvo parked two cars away from my Falcon. He opened the front and rear passenger doors on the kerb side and told me to get in the back. I did and he flicked the door closed
