the old farts. See if something can be salvaged from all this for the young people.' part two
PART TWO
14
A couple of days later I went to see Catherine Heysen and told her the results of my investigation.
'It's just possible an aggrieved client for illicit plastic surgery arranged to frame your husband, but the only credible candidate is either dead, overseas or totally hidden.'
She was her usual super-composed self. 'I see.'
'Even if that was true, your husband doesn't emerge as an innocent victim and your son's not likely to change his evaluation of him or himself on that account.'
'What if he learned that his father was actually a senior and highly respected policeman?'
'That's another matter. Have you decided whether to go ahead with the DNA test?'
'No.'
'May I ask why not?'
'I don't choose to tell you.'
There was no coffee this time and an even cooler atmosphere. I got up out of my chair. 'Your privilege. That's all I have to say.'
The composure shattered then like a fragile glass ornament dashed to the floor. She buried her face in her hands and sobs racked her body. I stood there, feeling useless. She wasn't the kind of woman you patted on the shoulder and said, 'There, there,' to. When she lifted her head, the carefully arranged hair was a mess and the perfect makeup was smeared and clown-like. Years of keeping up a facade had taken a toll and when the facade collapsed, it collapsed completely. She looked every day of her age, and tired.
Through her sobs she said something in Italian. Then she collected herself and I assume she translated: 'I want my son, I need him.'
'Yes,' I said. 'I can see that you do.'
'I've been a vain and foolish woman, Mr Hardy. I've done nothing useful with the advantages I've had. If I could just save my boy from the awful life he is in, that would be something.'
'Is he Frank Parker's son?'
She moved her hands around her head to smooth her hair and dry her tears. 'I don't know. Does it matter?'
'It doesn't matter to Frank, as you know. Might matter a bit to me.'
She said again: 'I don't know. Will you try to find him for me?'
It wasn't the time to tell her the little I'd teased out about William Heysen so far, but I liked her more at that moment than previously. Her distress was genuine and I'm a sucker for it. But not a soft touch. It'd be a paying job and I could count on Frank's help. I told her I'd try to find him, no matter whose son he was. I said I'd mail her a contract form.
I got the usual stuff together and opened a file with a recent photograph, the names of friends, contacts at SBS-his last place of work-car registration, details of credit cards he used and as close a physical description as his mother could provide. It didn't go much beyond 'tall, slim and handsome with dark hair'. She guessed his height at about six feet and his weight at eleven stone, call it 180 plus centimetres and 70 plus kilos. According to her, he had all his own teeth and no scars. He didn't wear glasses and he'd scarcely ever been ill in his life. He was clean- shaven and short-haired when she last saw him, which didn't mean he was now. She knew of no girlfriends in recent times. I didn't ask about boyfriends.
I spent a couple of days tracking down the friends and former flatmates and workmates. Some I found and some I didn't, but none had seen William Heysen for months. When I questioned them about his character, they all agreed that he was very bright and very unusual. A girl who'd had a brief affair with him said, 'I never knew whether he cared about me or not and in the end it didn't matter because he just stopped seeing me. No explanation, no reason. It was as if I'd never existed. Weird.'
I pressed her, asking about William's personal habits- drink and drugs and the like. She shook her head.
'Didn't drink much, but I remember this one time when I'd taken an eccy and he really sounded off on me. Told me how dangerous they were and how contaminated. He bloody lectured me about how they made them in Indonesia and how everybody got ripped off along the way. Sounded like he knew a bit about it.'
That was worrying. I've never had much to do with the drug community, and the few users I knew-a doctor who'd injected heroin for thirty years without ill effect, an ex-boxer who dealt with the boredom of retirement through the judicious use of cocaine, and a musician who took just about everything for a period, stopped cold turkey for a while to allow himself to recover, and then plunged back in-were of no help. The musician's ecstasy supplier was a biker who only dealt in local stuff because the higher quality imported product was too expensive.
I thumbed through my address book and found the number for Jon Van Hart who, last I heard, worked as a consultant for the drug squad. During my period of suspension, for something to do, I went to as many improving lectures and seminars around town as I could. Van Hart had given a lecture on the manufacture of speed and ecstasy and we'd exchanged a few words and our cards afterwards.
'I remember you,' he said when I got through to his mobile. 'How's it going?'
'Well, I'm back on the job. Looking for a bit of info on ecstasy. I know bugger-all about it or about drugs in general, apart from alcohol, caffeine, aspirin, paracetamol, codeine, pseudo-ephedrine.. '
He laughed. 'I'll help if I can.'
Stretching my information to the limit, I said, 'I'm hearing noises about someone I'm interested in importing the stuff from South-East Asia.'
'Indonesia?'
'Yes.'
'It's happening all right. There's been some interceptions and the police make a big noise about it, but I know and they know that the ratio of found to undetected is up around one to ten, maybe more.'
'How does it work?'
'I take it you don't want the chemical details?'
'No, the organisational.'
He told me that the stuff came in branded as legitimate pharmaceuticals with all the appropriate documentation, except that it was forged. The traffic relied on a certain level of official corruption at both ends and constant liaison between suppliers, shippers and distributors.
'Lots of comings and goings on entirely legal tourist visas. Tell me about the guy you're interested in.'
'He's young, very bright, studied chemistry, speaks Indonesian and a few other languages.'
'Perfect.'
'Where would I find him?'
'You wouldn't,' Van Hart said.
'Where would I look?'
'In transit.'
I was out of my depth and phoned Frank with the news. He got busy tapping his sources-serving and ex-cops, federal policemen and people in Customs. We met for a drink in a pub in Darlinghurst near the police HQ to compare notes. I'd tried to give the balance of Frank's money back to him but he'd refused to take it. Catherine Heysen had signed and returned the contract and given me a solid retainer so I was on a good earner, which only made it worse that I'd come up empty.
'Me, too,' Frank said. 'Absolutely bugger-all. Some people agree there's a supply coming in from South-East Asia pretty much the way Jon Van Hart laid it out for you. But Customs are in denial, and the intelligence types who used to take an interest are so devoted to finding nonexistent terrorists that they've got no time for anything else.'
'D'you reckon the asking around will have got through to William? Ripple effect, sort of?' 'Hard to say.
