Farmer’s death, the insurance on his land and elements in the Wollongong underworld was at the heart of the matter. And my only way forward was to take a close look at Wendy Jones.
I was back at Waterfall when my mobile rang. Law abiding citizen, and not sure how far Barton of Bellambi’s writ ran, I pulled over to take the call. Reception was good; Purcell, the undercover cop I’d given my mobile number to, came in loud and clear.
‘Where are you, Hardy?’
‘On my way back to Sydney, a bit battered and bruised.’
‘How’s that?’
I told him what had happened and he whistled, an unpleasant noise over the phone. ‘You see him?’
‘Not up close. Bikie, possibly. What’s this call about?’
‘Thought you might appreciate a bit more on Wendy.’
‘All you’ve got. Thanks.’
He read off the registration number of her red BMW. I scrabbled in the glove box detritus for a ballpoint and wrote it down. ‘Okay. Got it.’
‘She’s gone up to gamble. That’s her thing whenever she gets her hands on any money. Look for her at the casino.’
I groaned. ‘Not at Randwick?’
‘Wendy’s a night owl.’
‘Ah, it’d help to know what she looks like.’
‘I’ve got a picture somewhere. You’ll know her. I’ll scan it in. Give me your email address.’
I gave it to him and could hear the clatter of computer keys-your modern undercover guy. ‘Any idea where the money came from?’
‘What’s a Beemer cost these days, even second hand? Twenty grand? More? I wouldn’t know. And a splurge in Sydney? Another ten? It’s a big score from somewhere but I haven’t a clue. Gotta go. Good luck, Hardy.’
I drove on with plenty to think about and an aching body in need of some TLC. Nothing in sight. My phone rang again. This time it was Dr Farmer asking me to call on her at her place in Newtown. Why not? It was on my way and I could show her my ragged shirt as evidence that I’d been out and about on her behalf.
Her house was about half the size of the one Matilda Sharpe-Tarleton lived and worked in, but that didn’t make it small. Those single-storey, narrow-fronted terraces can open up to something spectacular inside and hers did. She met me at the door. She wore a tracksuit and had recently showered so that her hair was still spiky and wet. She looked healthy but troubled. A set of golf clubs rested against the wall halfway down the passage.
‘I played this morning in the comp,’ she said as we moved down towards a big, skylighted area where a lot of money had been spent.
Golf courses weren’t my favourite places at the best of times and particularly not today, but I made a polite response. She had coffee percolating. She poured two mugs full and we sat down under the skylight. The back of the house was all timber and glass and her tiny bricked courtyard was a riot of plants. Wide pine steps ran up to a mezzanine where I’d bet there was a queen-size bed.
I took a swig of coffee. ‘Great house.’
‘We like it. Mr Hardy, I was all set to go off to work when Sue Holland called in here.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘Very, and thank Christ Tania wasn’t here. You probably gathered that Sue and I had a thing going some time ago. Well, I met Tania and it went wrong and Sue’s been angry and sad and all that. Difficult at times.’
I nodded and worked on the excellent coffee.
‘At first I thought she was going to go over it all again. How she’d loved me and I’d betrayed her and all that. But she didn’t. She was sort of apologetic. She’s accepted an offer on her property at Wombarra.’
That got my attention. ‘I got the impression she loved the place, couldn’t live without it.’
She stared out at her sunlit greenery and I had the feeling she was reliving old memories, some good, some bad. She gulped down coffee and got the focus back. ‘I’d have said the same. She didn’t tell me the figure but she said it was just too much to refuse. She can relocate in the area with money to spare.’
‘Did she say who the offer was from?’
‘Some solicitor or other. I don’t think she mentioned a name. I don’t think Matilda could be behind it. I doubt she’d have the sort of money Sue was talking about or would want to spend it that way.’
‘Does it set you thinking?’
‘You mean would I sell for enough money? No, not if it’s got anything to do with killing my dad.’
‘It could have. It sort of ties in with-’
She cut me off. ‘There’s more. She asked me to tell you that she’s been working on that impression she had of the person hanging around Dad’s place. You remember?’
‘Sure.’
‘She says she now thinks it was a woman. A sort of bulked-up woman. She stressed that this wasn’t some dyke fantasy. You asked her about a vehicle, she says.’
‘Right.’
Elizabeth Farmer pushed her damp hair back from her striking face. ‘I don’t know where all this clarity of recall’s come from, maybe from suddenly becoming rich, but she says she heard a motorbike start up after she’d seen this… person. You don’t look surprised, Mr Hardy.’
I finished my coffee and fingered the rents in my dirty shirt. ‘I’ve been dealing with bikies down there for the last twenty-four hours, thirty-six, maybe. One friendly, most not. I’m not surprised.’
‘You got hurt again? I don’t-’
‘It’s all right. My pride mostly. There’s something very strange going on in the Illawarra, Dr Farmer, and you’ve put me right in the middle of it.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, that’s not right. Don’t say that. You still want to find out why your father died?’
‘I do.’
‘So do I, and I’ve got an ally or two.’
We sat quietly for a few minutes in those up-market surroundings. My thoughts drifted to Marisha Karatsky and the only moments of comfort I’d had since this whole thing started.
She broke in. ‘I can tell you something-if Sue Holland says she heard a motorcycle engine you can believe it. She was a motorbike dyke in her day.’
‘I believe it,’ I said. ‘Tell me, what does Tania do?’
‘She’s an accountant. Why?’
‘I need someone to go to the casino with me. An accountant sounds right.’
I explained about Wendy Jones and the possibility of finding out, through her, what might be going on down south.
She made a face. ‘Why can’t I go?’
The last time I’d taken a client into what might be called an operational situation, the client had been shot and later abducted. I could hardly tell Dr Farmer that, so I fell back on not involving a client at the sharp end as a professional principle. I asked her if Tania would be willing.
‘She’d love it. She complains about the dullness of her job.’
‘She knows about all this?’
‘Of course. We’re married.’
It was said as a challenge but I didn’t respond. I knew that same sex weddings were going on all the time and that they probably had the same ups and downs as the other kind and de facto set-ups. Downs and yet more downs in my own case.
‘Ask her as soon as she comes in. Tonight would be best.’
‘It won’t be dangerous?’
‘No.’
‘She’ll do it, I know she will. But just supposing she won’t, what would you do?’
I shrugged. ‘Hire a professional. That’d cost you more money.’
‘So you…haven’t got anyone…?’
‘No.’
