‘A glass of red, please.’
Good choice after a hard day’s work. I got two glasses of the house red and we sat where I could keep an eye on whoever came in. She looked tired, as though she was lacking sleep, but perhaps it was just long hours at the desk late in the week. The wine was smooth and she drank half the glass in a couple of quick pulls.
I told her what Bobby had said about her making him feel better than he was, and how Ray Frost had echoed the words in his eulogy. She smiled and had some more wine. ‘I’m drinking more than I did,’ she said.
‘Understandable.’
She didn’t turn heads, but there was something about her manner, the way she sat, her composure, that drew attention. I told her about my meeting with Mary Oberon without mentioning the knife.
‘How did you get her to tell you that?’
‘I applied moral pressure.’
She smiled and some of the tired look fell away. ‘I’ve no idea what you mean, but do you think now that Alexander Mountjoy killed Bobby?’
‘I’m not sure, but he’s the prime candidate.’
‘Can you go to the police?’
‘No, there’s no proof. I want to ask you to do something, if you’re willing.’
‘That sounds ominous.’ She emptied her glass and got up. ‘I’m going to need another drink. How about you?’
I nodded.
‘Watch my briefcase, please.’
The place had filled up and she had to wait to be served. She spoke to a couple of people. It was obviously the watering hole for publishers. One of the men tried to engage her but she smiled and shook her head. He looked disappointed. She returned with two glasses and a small carafe. She poured.
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Contact Michael Tennyson.’
‘Jesus. You don’t mean meet him?’
‘No, I want you to say you’re returning his gifts and that he has no chance with you because you have someone else in your life now.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘If you agree, I want us to go around together. Like now, and go to other places. If Tennyson has someone following you he’ll see us together. Even if he doesn’t he’ll find out in some way. He has the contacts.’
‘Yes, I’m sure he has. But why?’
‘If he sent Mountjoy after Bobby he’ll very likely send him after me.’
We both drank some wine. She dipped a finger in the wine and drew circles on the table. Her nails were short, unpainted but well cared for. She looked up and examined me as if she was seeing me for the first time. She saw greying but thick hair, weather-beaten skin and a nose shaped by other men’s fists. No oil painting but not a gargoyle either.
‘You mean we’d have to appear to be lovers?’
‘Something like that.’
She nodded. ‘You’re a bit old for me, but I think I could make it look convincing.’
15
We kept it up for ten days. We went to dinner three or four times, met for lunch a couple of times and I stayed over at her flat, sleeping on the couch, two nights, and she spent one night in my spare room. I drove her to work on two mornings. She took my arm in the street sometimes. After a week she phoned Tennyson and told him there was a new man in her life.
‘He was furious,’ she said. ‘He called me foul names and said he’d make you sorry you were ever born.’
‘Good.’
‘Aren’t you afraid?’
‘No. I’ve had a lot of experience at dealing with threats and threateners.’
‘I believe you. What happened to your shoulder?’
I’d tried not to show any sign of the injury but she’d picked it up. I told her and she made a face.
‘We caused a lot of trouble, Robert and I, didn’t we?’
‘None of it your fault, Jane.’
It was all very strange. I’d never had a platonic relationship with a woman before. I enjoyed her company. She was very intelligent and had a sense of humour. Her flat was crammed with books-mostly history and biography, a few of which I’d read. Her taste in fiction was more highbrow than mine, but she had a scattering of good lighter stuff. We talked books a bit and politics. She was editing a biography of William John MacKay, the policeman who pulled Francis de Groot from his horse after he’d slashed the ribbon to mark the opening of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. MacKay went on to become Commissioner of Police. It sounded like the sort of book I’d read and she was interesting about it.
We played it straight, no flirtation. She was still grieving for Bobby and she was right-she was much too young for me and, anyway, something serious was at stake. I enjoyed it, but it did leave me acutely aware of my singleness.
Megan spotted us at dinner in Newtown and rang me the next day.
‘Who is she, Cliff?’
‘A client.’
‘Nothing more? You seemed very friendly.’
‘Nothing more.’
‘Are you sure? She was giving you the look.’
‘What look?’
‘The look a woman gives a bloke when she’s getting interested in him.’
‘No chance of that.’
‘I worry about you. You should be looking for someone.’
‘I’m always looking for someone, it’s my job.’
‘That’s right, joke-but too long on your own and you’ll dry up, get set in bachelor ways. Before long you’ll be washing your underwear in the bathroom basin and wearing your socks for a week.’
‘Is that what bachelors do?’
‘Yes.’
‘How would you know?’
‘I’ve read about it.’
‘I’ll try to remember it, love, but if it’ll set your mind at rest there is someone I’m hoping to catch up with when I’ve finished this job.’
‘Sounds as if you’re making it up.’
‘No. She’s a singer. I’ve got her CD somewhere. I’ll lend it to you.’
‘Wow!’
A couple of times as we went about our phony courtship I had the feeling that we were under surveillance. But it was a fleeting feeling, hard to be certain and not something I could act on. I was sure we were followed on the roads twice, but as soon as I took action designed to draw the driver closer or trap him, he peeled off. A white Commodore. The second time Jane noticed.
‘We were being followed, weren’t we?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t try to get away.’
‘No, I tried to let the car get closer to have a better look at the driver.’
‘But?’
