form of a narrow brick path, artistically overgrown and lightly layered with dog shit. Small dog shit-there was nothing crude or obvious around here. I walked up the path, through smoked glass doors and up carpeted steps. No dog shit. Carmel Wise’s name was still on the tenants’ board, under glass, bracketed with that of Judy Syme- Studio Eight, Stage Three. Studio? Stage? Of course.
I ignored the lift and took the stairs. What, pass up a chance to ascend by foot to Stage Three? Not Hardy. As I was bounding up, almost bouncing off the walls, I was aware of someone coming up behind me. A young man, long fair hair, jeans and T-shirt. An artist, no doubt. I got to Stage Three and knocked on the door of Studio Eight. Before I’d regained my breath, I felt his hand on my shoulder. He pulled and I came around with the pressure.
‘What…?’ I said.
He punched me in the stomach, or tried to. There was some space between me and the door and I used it to shove my spine back as I saw the punch coming. That took some of the steam out of it but there was enough left to make it hurt in my slightly winded state. He was big, his biceps bulged in his T-shirt sleeves and there was no fat on him. But he was more used to standing or lying still and lifting things than to moving and hitting. He swung at me with his big right arm and I swayed away from it and hooked him in the ribs. Then he swung his big left arm, reasonable thing to do, but a bit obvious; I blocked it and spun him around so that he hit the door with his back stiff and his head thrown back. He hit hard and sagged. Then the door was pulled open and he pitched back. I stepped aside and watched him fall.
‘Michael! What are you doing?’ A woman with wet hair and wearing a white bathrobe stood in the doorway.
‘He’s looking for his contacts,’ I said. Michael started to struggle up and I put my foot on his back and pushed down hard.
‘Don’t do that!’ She shook her head and a spray of water covered me.
‘Tell him not to assault people who knock on your door then.’
‘Knock? It sounded like a horse hitting it.’
I lifted my foot and let Michael stand. He was red in the face and puffing. He flicked his fair hair back and brushed dirt off his T-shirt. Nothing looks sillier than a muscle man trying to think.
‘I thought… I thought he was one of them,’ he said.
‘One of who?’
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’ She took a step back and alarm showed in her face. Good face, as dark and intelligent as Michael’s was fair and stupid. I took out my stamped and signed ID and showed it to her.
‘Didn’t Mr Wise’s office phone to say I was coming?’
‘Oh God, of course. Michael, you are an idiot!’
‘Don’t understand,’ he muttered.
‘He’s here about Carmel.’
‘So were they,’ Michael said.
‘Now I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Can we go in and have a talk?’
‘Yes. Come on. I’m sorry.’
‘Me too?’ Michael said.
‘Definitely,’ I said. ‘Hope I didn’t hurt you.’
He looked glum and pushed past me following the woman. Studio Eight was a big room with a polished wood floor, white walls and huge windows. The trees of Centennial Park looked close enough to touch. There were posters on the walls, paintings and carvings. The cooking and eating went on at one end and there were two doors, evidently to bedrooms in the wall opposite the fireplace. Cushions and beanbags over by the windows, a big stereo, no television.
The woman pulled the sash of her robe tighter and held out her hand. ‘Judy Syme.’ She nodded at the man who’d thrown himself down on one of the big cushions. ‘This is Michael Press.’
‘Cliff Hardy.’
Press looked like a big, lazy dog lying on the cushion. ‘Who is this guy, Jude?’
‘You tell him. I’ll put some clothes on. I was having a shower when you two started to batter my door down.’
I walked over to the window and looked out over the park. I could see a bit of the racecourse too, but I preferred the park which is free-the racecourse costs you money. ‘Carmel’s father hired me to investigate her death. He thinks the police are on the wrong track.’
‘What track are they on?’ Press rubbed his ribs where I’d hooked him. ‘You a boxer ever?’
‘Amateur only. They think she was a porno queen. A peddler of smut.’
Press laughed. The laugher started and he couldn‘t stop it even though it apparently hurt his ribs. He rolled on the cushion and slapped the floor. Judy Syme came out wearing a tracksuit and sneakers.
‘What now?’ she said. ‘Stop it, Michael, you fool.’
Press gasped and stifled the mirth. ‘He says the cops think Carmel was dealing in dirty movies.’
‘Huh.’ She took a packet of cigarettes from a slit pocket in the front of the suit and lit up. She was slim and nervous looking, too impatient to look pretty. ‘That’s nonsense. Nobody who knew Carmel could possibly think that. She regarded porn movies as…,’ she waved the cigarette, ‘… nothing.”
‘Did you tell the police that?’
‘They wouldn’t listen. They hardly asked.’
‘D’you remember the name of the policeman you talked to?’
‘No.’
‘Drew?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did he do here?’
‘Nothing much-looked in her room. There’s nothing to see-some clothes and books. You can have a look too if you like.’
I nodded. ‘Okay, in a minute. Tell me why Michael here got so heavy and who you mean by “they”?’
She dropped the cigarette into a dish on the ledge over the fireplace. It hissed and a curl of smoke floated up. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘I would,’ Press said.
‘Michael drinks light beer. I drink wine. Which would you prefer?’
‘Wine, thanks.’
‘Eight per cent,’ Press said.
‘What?’
‘Alcohol. That’s too much.’ He slapped his hard, flat stomach. ‘It’ll put the weight on.’
‘I worry it off,’ I said. Judy Syme came back with a can of Swan Light lager and two glasses of white wine. She lowered herself onto a cushion without spilling a drop. I crouched awkwardly, got my bum on the floor and let my legs move forward.
‘You’re stiff,’ Press said. He popped his can and I accepted my glass. First nourishment since breakfast.
‘Cheers,’ I said. ‘I may be stiff but I haven’t got bruised ribs.’
‘Stop it,’ Judy Syme said. ‘I wish Michael had been around in the time before Carmel got shot.’
‘Why? What happened?’
She took a sip. ‘Some men came here. Twice. Looking for Carmel.’
‘What did they do?’
‘Barged in, pushed me around. Trashed her room.
‘What did they say?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Twice you said. When was this?’
‘The first time was a week or so before…before she got killed. The second time was the night before.’
‘Did you tell Drew this?’
She lit another cigarette. ‘Yes. He took down the descriptions, but he didn’t seem very interested.’
I got my notebook from my jacket pocket. ‘Give me the descriptions.’
