probably wasn’t another like it in a four-kilometre radius. I walked over William Street and down the hill into the ‘Loo. Jimmy Carruthers grew up there and used to eat ice cream outside the pubs while his mates were boozing. Jimmy was on his way to a world boxing title-a real one.
Then it was all narrow houses and stunted factories-blank faced buildings, mean, aggressive streets. But government money has been well spent for once; the houses have been scraped back to the sandstock bricks, the wrought iron has been restored, the tin roofs are painted. The factories have been torn down, leaving more open corners to the streets, or converted into Housing Commission flats that don’t clash with the original feel of the place. Rehabilitation only goes so far; there are still winos in the park which the concrete railway bridge keeps constantly in half-shadow.
Hilary Fanshawe’s office was in a narrow terrace house. The door was barely a metre from the street; there was no knocker or bell but a polished hunting horn was mounted on the wall beside the number. I pressed a button on the horn and heard a trumpeting blare inside. It was the sort of sound you didn’t want to hear more than once. The door gave a click and a pleasant voice came through the horn.
‘It’s open. Second on the left.’
I went into a narrow passage; five long strides would have taken me to the stairs, three took me to the second door which was open. The woman who sat at the desk facing the door was huge. She wore a black T- shirt; her jowls and chins settled down near its neckband. All this flesh was pale; she had green eyes and dark auburn hair.
‘Yes?’ It was the same voice I’d heard through the horn but sweeter and more musical. The Garbo of voices. I felt like looking around for the speaker but the fat woman’s mouth was moving. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Are you Hilary Fanshawe?’
She nodded. I wanted her to speak again to hear that sound.
‘My name’s Hardy. I’m a private detective. I’m trying to get in touch with a client of yours.’
I held up my licence and ID photo. She waved me to a chair in the small room. There were photographs everywhere photographs could be put, also magazines and film posters. ‘Bail?’ she said. ‘Maintenance? Loan default? I assume you’re some kind of process server?’
‘No. That’s not much in my line. Do a lot of your clients have that kind of trouble?’
‘Enough. I don’t suppose it’s something good then-an inheritance? I could use a client with some bread. I need investors.’
‘Don’t we all. No, Miss Fanshawe, I don’t deal in good news much either. He came to see me and then matters became rather confused. I want to see him again to straighten things out.’
‘Someone should straighten your nose out. How many times has it been broken? If you were on my books I’d list it. Can you act?’
‘No. Can Gareth Greenway?’
The name hit her pretty hard. She dropped the pencil she’d been fooling with and lifted her head so that some of the loose flesh around her neck tightened. ‘Who?’
‘You heard. Gareth Greenway, one of your clients.’
‘The one that got away.’
‘What?’
She sighed and the flesh slackened again. ‘He could’ve made it, I always thought. He was really good. He lifted a couple of the things he was in from shit to hopeless.’ She smiled; her teeth were as beautiful as her voice. ‘That’s a joke, Mr…?’
‘Hardy, Cliff Hardy.’ I think I gave my full name because I wanted to hear her say it.
‘You’re supposed to laugh, Cliff. God, it’s a double joke really.’
‘I’m sorry, you’re going to have to explain it to me.’
She shrugged. ‘He was good, as I say. With a bit of luck and persistence he could’ve got good parts, made a success. I’d have been pleased for him and pleased for me.’
‘But he gave up acting?’
‘Threw it in.’ She smiled and showed those excellent teeth again. There was a chuckle with the smile this time. ‘So that joke was on me. I hardly made a cent from him. The second joke’s sort of on you.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Gareth gave up acting to be a private detective.’
7
She really laughed then. The flesh on her upper body shook and quivered and tears ran from her large, green eyes. ‘I’m s.. sorry,’ she said. ‘It just struck me as funny. God, I’m losing my grip. You must have noticed that the phone hasn’t rung and no-one’s called since you arrived.’
‘It hasn’t been long,’ I said. ‘You’re probably in a rough patch.’
‘It’s nothing but rough patches.’ She wiped her face and rearranged it into something like a smile. There was a charming, witty woman in there somewhere behind the blubber. ‘Ah, well, I can always go back to voice- overs.’
‘Is that what you did before agenting?’
‘Yes, and after acting. After I got too fat. I suppose everyone was something before. You were something before you were a private eye.’
I didn’t want to get into that. I’d been a happily married organisation man; sometimes it sounded good. ‘Yeah. Have you got an address for Greenway?’
‘Are you going to cause him trouble?’
‘He’s caused himself trouble already.’
‘What’s be done?’
‘You could call it… impersonating a lunatic’
She clicked her tongue. ‘Gave you a performance, huh?’
I nodded.
‘Told you he was good. Impersonating a lunatic, what a part. Well, I don’t owe him anything.’ She pushed her swivel chair back and swung to her left. Her hand on the file card drawer was narrow, long-fingered and white. I’d heard there were people who made a living from having their hands and feet and ears photographed. I thought maybe she could do that as well as voice-overs, but I didn’t say so. She pulled out a card and read off the address, ‘1b Selwyn Street, wait for it-Paddington. He shared with someone. No phone. Can you imagine that? An actor with no phone? I had to send him telegrams.’
‘I can’t imagine a detective with no phone. D’you think he was serious about that?’
‘He showed me the ad he’d put in the paper.’
‘What paper?’
‘The Eastern Suburbs Herald, I think it was. It was something like Sherlock Enquiries, no, that’s not it. Greenlock Enquiries. Private. Confidential. That sore of thing. Greenlock, you see?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Holmes. Jesus. Did the ad give the Paddington address?’
‘Sorry. Don’t remember.’
‘When was this?’
She consulted an appointments diary on her desk. ‘Three months ago. January 7.’ The phone rang and she almost snatched it up. She crossed her fingers and looked at me. I crossed my fingers too. She lifted the phone. ‘Fanshawe Agency. Roger, how nice. Yes, I think so. Bruno? He’s available I think.’
I mouthed ‘Thank you’ at her; she showed the first class teeth in a wide smile and I left the office.
It was uphill from the ‘Loo to Darlinghurst and I was sweating when I reached my car. I drove to Selwyn Street where there were no parking places. I circled the block without finding a space so I double-parked outside number 1b which was a tiny terrace in a row that had been crimped and cutied like a poodle. A solid knock on the door brought a response from the balcony above me.
‘Yes? What is it?’
