business?' His breath stank of booze and bad teeth.
'No.'
'Okay, then. Sorry, sorry.'
I let him go and picked up the saw. 'Let's go inside before it pisses down. No tricks, Rex. A scratch from this rusty blade and you're a tetanus case, for sure.'
'No worries.'
I shepherded him around to the front of the house and we went in and down the passage to the kitchen at the back on the ground floor. Wain was a good ten years older than me and not wearing well. His sandy hair was thin on top and his belly ballooned his shirt front out over his belt. He wore a light grey suit that could have done with a clean and was missing buttons. He rubbed the spot where I'd hit him and stroked his nose. His face had hit the wall pretty hard.
I sat him down at the kitchen bench and gave him a solid scotch. He shook his head when I offered him ice, and tossed it down in one gulp. I poured another and one for myself. The rain came, thundering on the iron roof of the bathroom behind the kitchen-an add-on long after the house was built.
'Who's Logan?' I said.
'Shit, it doesn't matter. Just a pissed-off client. I got into your game after I left the force. I thought he might have hired you to get his money back or something.'
'You don't seem to be doing too well at it.'
He tasted his drink this time and looked around the room. 'You're not exactly coining it yourself. This isn't a single malt and this joint's a dump. Worth a bit though, I suppose.'
'How about we have the talk I wanted to have, since you're here?'
Wain was regaining his confidence. He picked bits of shrub and leaf from his jacket and deposited them on the bench. 'What's in it for me?'
'Are things that bad, that a professional discussion attracts a fee?'
'Matter of principle, Hardy, you prick. Never liked you and still don't.'
'It's mutual, Rex. Let's say I ask you some questions, and depending on your answers I decide whether what you say is worth any of my client's money. Otherwise, finish your drink and get on your bloody bike.'
The recovered confidence was tissue-thin. He drained his glass and pushed it at me. 'Okay. I'll have a bit of ice and water this time.'
It took over an hour and half a bottle of scotch to get anything useful out of him. He hadn't been the senior man on the Heysen murder but he'd done a lot of legwork and had sat in on all the briefings and progress reports. He was convinced that Heysen was guilty of hiring Padrone to do the wet work.
'Why?' I said.
'We talked to the sister, this hooker. Pammy, Priscilla… Pixie, that's it. William Street prostie. She reckoned Padrone told her he'd done it and that he was going to give her some of the money. Said she never got it, but we thought she was lying.'
I cast my mind back to the trial reports. 'That didn't come out at the trial.'
Wain shook his head. 'Cassidy, the D heading us up- he's dead by the way-was real pissed off about that. She shot through. We couldn't find her. Couldn't make anything of it, like. But it firmed us up on Heysen, you know how it is.'
I did, and I wondered if this lay behind Simmonds' idea that the police had more on Heysen than they could use.
'Go on.'
'With what?'
'You put the case together-means, motive, opportunity. What was Padrone's motive?'
'Shit, no worries there. He was dying of cancer and Heysen had been the only one to offer him anything. He offered to pay him enough so he could go to Germany for this special treatment. Padrone hated doctors anyway. Got the dough, did the job and then couldn't get permission to travel. He was fucked and he knew it, so he decided to take Heysen with him. End of story.'
Wain poured more whisky and water. When he drank it he showed the brownish teeth of a heavy smoker. He wasn't smoking now and his fingers weren't stained. He didn't seem like the type to have given up voluntarily, and I concluded he simply couldn't afford it. Wouldn't improve his mood.
'You haven't told me much.'
'Why the fuck should I? All you've given me is a shove around and some third-rate scotch. I don't even know why you're interested in this old shit.'
'You don't need to know. I was thinking of giving you some money if you could…'
'Do what? I'm on the bones of my arse, Hardy.'
'Your phone rings.'
'Christ knows why. I haven't paid the bill in months. Can't be long before I get cut off. Come on, what d'you want? I'll give it to you if I can.'
He reached for the bottle but I moved it away. It was just a feeling but the way he'd said end of story didn't play with me-didn't sound right for him.
'There was something more about Heysen, wasn't there? I know he was a prick who no one liked, that he treated you all like shit. I hear what you say about the sister's evidence that you couldn't produce. But I've got a feeling there was something more. Something to hide.'
That almost seemed to sober him. He rubbed at his bloodshot, defeated eyes and his shoulders slumped. He behaved as if he was looking down a long tunnel with no turning and no light at the end of it. 'Jesus Christ,' he mumbled. 'I thought just me and Cassidy…'
I poured myself a drink. 'Yes?'
'It's time to talk money.'
'I could go a couple of hundred.'
He shook his head and regretted doing it. 'Way too low.'
I considered. He wasn't an actor. 'Three.'
'Six.'
'Five tops.'
'Okay. Let's see it.'
'We'll have to go to an ATM. Time you were on your way anyhow.'
'Let's go. You can drop me at the ATM.'
'How'd you get here?'
'Fucking bus.'
'We'll walk. I've had a bit too much on an empty stomach to drive.'
He sneered at me, the confidence returning again.
The heavy rain had stopped. I put on a jacket and we walked to the Commonwealth Bank ATM in Glebe Point Road. Wain shambled along. He'd never been a solid performer as a detective, either police or private, but now he was a ruin. I drew out the money and we stood on the steps of the bank with the evening traffic passing and the people out to eat Thai, Italian, Indian, Lebanese, whatever, strolling by. The rain started again, lighter.
I held the folded notes in my hand. 'What was the whisper, Rex?'
There was no one close, but he looked around furtively. He appeared to be about to speak but he kept quiet. He cleared his throat and the sound was like a groan crossed with a whimper. I could smell his foul breath and the rain brought out the mustiness of his clothes. He looked hungrily at the money, then shook his head.
'Can't do it,' he muttered.
'We had a deal.'
'Fuck the deal. I can't do it.'
'I might go up a bit if the information's good.'
He laughed. 'There isn't enough money in this fucking bank.'
He meant it. He took a step away and turned up his collar. I handed him a fifty. He took it and stumbled down the steps into the drizzle.
