The Coast Road

murdered my father, but I think I know who. What I really want is to find out how she did it and make her pay.’

2

She might have had trouble getting started, but she’d rehearsed her story well and got it up and running smoothly. Frederick Farmer had been a successful real estate agent with offices in the western and southern suburbs, the Blue Mountains and the Illawarra. In his mid-fifties he’d sold out to one of the big franchises for several million dollars and spent the next fifteen years dabbling in the stock exchange and at his hobbies-gardening, fishing and golf. Elizabeth was his only child. His wife had died ten years ago and three years later Farmer, aged sixty-five, had married Matilda Sharpe-Tarleton, a divorcee twenty-five years younger than himself.

‘She calls herself Tilly,’ Elizabeth Farmer said. ‘That ought to tell you something. She’s about two years younger than me. Can you see me calling myself Lizzie?’

I could in fact. She was smooth-skinned and now that she was animated she looked younger and full of energy. I didn’t say anything because a reply wasn’t invited.

‘She married him for his money and led him a merry dance.’ ‘In what way?’

‘Tried to make him do things he was past doing- overseas trips, gym workouts, golf pro-ams. She even talked him into opening up another real estate agency when he swore he’d done with all that. She’s running it now with all his capital behind her and doing very well. I know what you’re going to say.’

‘Don’t say that. I don’t know what I’m going to say, so how could you?’

She made a defensive gesture. ‘I’m sorry. I’m getting worked up. The police…’

‘I’m nothing like the police.’

‘Of course. Well, they automatically thought I was a kind of poor woman’s Gina Reinhart. But it’s nothing like that. My father had money but not Hancock-style billions. We didn’t get on particularly well and it’s true that he left most of it to her. But I got some and I’m sure the will was kosher. It’s not about money. It’s about…’

I waited for the word, wondering-justice? revenge? vindication?

Suddenly she seemed deflated. She slumped back in her chair. ‘I’m not sure what it’s about. Call it closure.’

‘It won’t be closure if you turn out to be right. There’d be a trial of the person you have in mind, probably media interest, books, perhaps. Think of the Kalajzich case. You’ve already mentioned the Hancock circus.’

‘I know, I know. Call it jealousy then. She’s beautiful and rich and…’

I shook my head. ‘You’re not the type to be jealous of anyone. What’s your status here, senior lecturer?’

‘Associate professor.’

‘You don’t call yourself professor.’

‘I will when I get a chair.’

‘There you are. A successful career woman. I’ve known a few gung-ho academics like you and they all have one thing in common-when they get interested or involved in something they can’t let it go. They have to know.’

‘Prof Harkness was right,’ she said. ‘You’re the man for the job.’

Frederick Farmer had died when his weekender at Wombarra in the Illawarra had burnt to the ground. The house wasn’t new or fancy. It was an old weatherboard on ten acres that had once been mine land and later an orchard. Farmer, despite his wealth, wasn’t interested in high levels of personal comfort. He experimented with varieties of flowers, fished off the rock shelf and played golf at a nearby par 59 course. According to his daughter, he was spending more and more time at the coast and less with his wife, whom he’d come to dislike.

‘They investigate deaths like that pretty thoroughly,’ I said. ‘Especially when they produce young, rich widows.’

‘Of course. But on the surface of it everything appeared straightforward. Dad drank a bit at night and slept heavily. The old joint was full of stuff just waiting to give off toxic fumes-laminex, lino, vinyl, you name it. The wiring was ancient.’

I shrugged. ‘It happens.’

‘Not to him. He knew houses, he’d bought and sold them all his life. He was careful. He disconnected everything before he went to bed. Turned everything off and slept with a hot water bottle.’

‘What about the hot water service?’

‘Chip heater. He blew out the pilot light. Always.’

‘You told this to the police?’

‘Yes, but they took no notice. I think as soon as they saw the scotch bottles, the old two bar radiators and the chip heater they made up their minds. They said a radiator had been left on and a curtain had blown close to it and… whoosh. But it’s not possible.’

‘What about the hot water bottle?’

‘Ah. Right question. They didn’t find one. I don’t know how hard they looked. It wouldn’t have survived the fire, but no one believed me when I said he used one. I ranted on about it and Tilly…Matilda said she’d persuaded him not to use it, that it was a fogey thing. She’s lying. He loved his hottie.’

I liked her, I liked her honesty and the homey touches, but it sounded very thin. ‘How much money are we talking about? I mean, that your father’s wife inherited.’

‘Oh, the house in Wahroonga, the shares, the other bits and pieces, probably close to five million. I got the Wombarra place which I’d always loved, and some shares and things like my mother’s jewellery and some money she had. About three-quarters of a million.’

‘Big difference.’

‘Sure, but I’ve got a house in Newtown that I own and a job that I love. No dependants. I don’t need five million. She’s just got her face and her figure and her greed.’

‘Your father sounds like a pretty cluey guy. How come he went for a gold-digger?’

‘She’s a good actress, and she only showed her true colours after she got him.’

‘No pre-nuptial?’

She shook her head. ‘He hated lawyers.’

‘Can’t say I blame him.’

‘Look, I don’t expect you to work miracles, but surely you can look at the reports on the fire and the medical evidence and…do an investigation of some kind. And you could meet her and investigate her. See who she knows, what she does. If there’s anything…I know it sounds thin.’

‘Is she hands-on in the real estate agency?’

‘Oh, yes. She fancies herself a great saleswoman.’

‘It so happens I’m looking for office space. Where’s the agency?’

She grimaced. ‘Newtown. I see her far too often.’

‘I was in Darlinghurst. I wouldn’t mind Newtown.’

She smiled and the animation came back. ‘You’ll do it?’

‘I’ve got a feeling you’d sic Harkness onto me if I didn’t.’ I put one of my cards on her tidy desk. ‘I’ll take a look at it. Siphon off a bit of your money. Give me your number and I’ll fax you a contract. You can email me some of the relevant details-addresses, dates. People involved-like your father’s doctor, the police you spoke to, insurance and stuff.’

‘Thank you.’

‘No guarantees.’

She gave me a card with her contact details on it and we shook hands. She had a strong, cool grip and there was a faint tang of something astringent about her. Standing, she was tall, in the 180 centimetre bracket. I wondered about the no dependants. I wondered about a lot of things to do with her. I always do. People who hire private detectives aren’t like the normal run. They want to know other people’s secrets and they usually have some of their own, sometimes harmless, sometimes not. It makes the work interesting. Anyway, I did need to think about office space.

…