much had the information down pat. I hummed and hawed a bit and then said I was impressed by her place of business and wondered if I could get something like it. Perhaps combine office and home.
She smiled, and for the first time I saw something of the shark in her expression. Just a flash. You didn’t need a realtor’s licence to know that the real money was in big terraces in almost any condition as long as they had walls and a roof.
‘It’s a sound idea,’ she said. ‘I have an apartment here on the upper level and I find it very convenient. As an investment, property in Newtown can scarcely be beaten.’
I nodded. ‘I like the idea. Somewhere at the hub, like here and maybe something on the coast. Have you got a weekender, Mrs Farmer? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘No, not at present. But I have my eye on some land.’
Personal stuff over, we got down to details and she made me some appointments-none of which I intended to keep-to look at office space and roomy houses with the potential to double as work and home. Super efficient, she tapped keys and printed me out a sheet with the appointment details-times and addresses-and the names of what she called her ‘associates’.
I didn’t have to pretend to be impressed. I was. It struck me that she enjoyed every element of what she was doing. The ash blonde hair, drawn severely back, came slightly loose and she flicked it away without worrying about it. Her makeup didn’t conceal the encroaching lines around her eyes and mouth and wasn’t intended to. She wore a dark suit with a V-necked silk top under it that showed off the smooth column of her neck. No lines there to speak of.
We finished our business and she stood and extended her hand again. ‘Where are you from, Mr Lees?’
I gave her my try at an enigmatic smile. The one that went with the broken nose and the hooded eyes and that, depending on the circumstances, can look dumb or desperate. ‘Why?’
‘Don’t be offended. These days, one has to be careful. I have to tell you that a corporate client renting property through me has to go through a security check. Not stringent, but…’
I laughed. ‘You think I look like an Arab, is that it?’
She didn’t answer.
‘I’m mostly Irish, Mrs Farmer. And not IRA-not at all, at all.’
I went away with the cards of a few of the agency’s representatives in my pocket and a fair degree of confusion in my mind. Elizabeth Farmer’s portrayal of what I supposed should be called her stepmother seemed wildly inaccurate. Matilda Farmer was no empty-headed gold-digger but a shrewd, well-organised and capable businesswoman. She fancies herself a super saleswoman, Elizabeth had said. That was wrong. She was that without a doubt and possibly something more.
The indications were that the business was doing well. The injection of a few million dollars would have set it solidly on its feet, but it was nothing like a hobby or vanity affair or a tax dodge. Not that my assessment really changed anything. Elizabeth’s judgement that Matilda had Frederick Farmer murdered for his money only needed a slight readjustment to read: for his money and control of a business she knew she could turn into a gold mine. Central was the question of Matilda’s character-the purpose of my visit. I had my own opinion now, rating the woman pretty highly. Ruthless, though? Quite possibly.
I called into the pub on the corner of King Street and Missenden Road, just up from the hospital. It had been thoroughly revamped since I’d last been there, when it was a hangout for locals including the residents of the many boarding houses in the area, boxers and footballers from the two gyms nearby, and people visiting friends and relatives in the hospital and thanking God they could get away. Now it was all carpet and muted light with pinball and slot machines and red wine at five dollars a glass.
I sat on a stool and looked out through a tinted window at the street. As I watched, a Camry station sedan slipped into a parking space about twenty metres away. Elizabeth Farmer got out from the driver’s side and another woman from the passenger side. She was younger, smaller and blonde, wearing a knee-length suede coat, black slacks and high-heeled boots. The two women linked arms and set off down the street.
One question answered, quite a few still to go.
4
Tempe was only a couple of kilometres away and I decided to take a look at the house where the missing Kristina had stayed. Sharing suggests paying rent and how does a fifteen-year-old get money to pay rent? A few ways I could think of, all tricky and all likely to leave a trail. I skipped lunch in the interest of my waistline, hauled out the trusty Gregory’s, and located the address Ms Karatsky had given me.
The street was a narrow dead-ender with the traffic roar of the Princes Highway as a backdrop. The houses were small and tightly packed; a few had had the renovator’s wand waved over them but most hadn’t. Ten years ago, rents would have been cheap and there would probably have been squats in this area-houses from deceased estates left to rot, or places where rising damp and decayed roofs had driven out owners and renters. Now the semis and narrow, freestanding houses were all occupied with the residents on mortgages or paying hefty rents. Position, position, position-you could get to the CBD in lots of ways from here. Sydney being Sydney, many of the people had driven their cars. No off-street parking. Oil stains in the vacant spots showed that the street would be solidly parked on both sides at night. Outside number 12, the place I was interested in, were plenty of oil stains but no vehicle.
Number 12 was a faded brick semi with a gap-toothed wrought iron fence and an overgrown scrap of front garden. A peppercorn tree, sprouting slantwise from behind the fence, hung high and bushy over the footpath, reaching almost to the gutter. Pedestrians would have to brush the branches aside to get by. Bad news for joggers and I was sure there’d be some around these parts.
I pushed open the sagging gate and went up a weed-broken path and some well-worn steps to the narrow porch in front of the house. None of your fancy tiling here; this place had gone up when austerity was the go. There were bars on the windows and a solid security screen. I pressed the buzzer and took out my PEA licence folder and the photograph of Kristina. A barefoot young woman in jeans and T-shirt opened the door and stood behind the screen.
I explained my business, showed her the ID and the photograph.
‘Yeah, she was here. Next door told us about her mum but we weren’t home.’
‘And she told me. Could I come in, please?’
She wiped the back of her hand across her nose and sniffed. ‘Why?’
‘I thought perhaps I could have a look in the room she had. See if she left anything behind.’
‘She didn’t.’
‘I mean a professional look. Could be something you missed.’
‘You’re a real private eye, right?’
‘Yep.’
She unlatched the screen door. ‘Suppose it’s all right. I love those movies. You see
‘Many times.’
‘Me too. Come in, Mr…?’
I showed her the folder again as I edged inside. ‘Hardy. And you are…?’
‘Denise. Kristina had the second room off to the left. Harry’s in there now and it’s full of his shit, so you probably won’t find anything.’
‘Just a quick look, then.’
She padded down the threadbare carpet behind me. I stood aside and let her open the door. The smell from inside nearly knocked me back against the wall. Denise grinned and sniffed again. ‘I’ve gotta cold. I’ll get a tissue.’
The smell was made up of tobacco, marijuana, sweat and dirty socks. Harry, whoever he was, dropped his clothes where he stood, liked his window closed and his sheets stiff. Denise was right, there could be no trace of a previous occupant in here. I was backing out when I heard a shout from the front door.
‘Denise, how many fuckin’ times have I told you to keep that fuckin’ screen locked?’
