I backed out onto the footpath. A young man in a singlet and jeans was leaning over the railing. Sunlight glinted on one long, dangling earring.
‘I’m looking for Gareth Greenway.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘This is the address I have.’
‘He moved out when I learned that I had it.’ There was a bitter edge to his voice; he sounded like the people I used to interview who’d let their insurance lapse before the fire that wiped them out.
‘What?’
‘What d’you think? AIDS. Gareth’s not the caring and sharing type.’
His hair and beard were dark stubble over thin, tightly stretched skin. Bones protruded around his neck and along the tops of his shoulders. He was deeply tanned but he still looked sick.
‘When did he go?’
He shrugged and folded his arms. The upper parts of his arms were fleshless, thinner than the forearms. ‘A couple of months back.’
‘D’you know where he went?’
‘No. Bondi someplace. That’s all. Have you got a cigarette?’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ His skull-like face went back into the gloom.
Sometimes I wish I’d get a case that would take me west, to Broken Hill. As it is, I always seem to be heading east, down to the sea. I drove to Bondi Junction where the office of the Bondi Tribune is located. Hilary Fanshawe thought the paper Greenway had advertised in was an Eastern Suburbs rag and it seemed likely that he’d put the ad in a few papers in that area.
Everything is new in Bondi Junction and seems to be getting newer. Some of the people are old but they look as if they belong somewhere else. I had no trouble getting permission to look through back numbers of the paper. These sorts of papers are grateful for any interest shown in them. A bright-eyed young woman took me to a room which was glass on three sides. I was the only reader and everyone who walked in the corridors on all sides looked at me. No chance of making any sly excisions.
I found the ad in the issues for the first two weeks in January. Greenlock Enquiries-discreet amp; determined. Negotiable rates. At least he didn’t claim experience. I wrote down the telephone number that accompanied the ad, thanked Bright Eyes and left feeling that I’d earned lunch and possibly dinner.
I had a sandwich and coffee in the mall and then I phoned my home number. No reply. Greenway picked up his phone on the third ring.
‘Greenlock Enquiries.’
There was plenty of background noise in the mall to help and I deepened my voice a bit and spoke slowly. ‘Mr Greenlock, I… ‘
‘No, no. My name is Greenway. Greenlock is just the name of the agency. How can I help you?’
‘Mr Greenway. I have a matter. I need some help.’
‘Yes. Mr…?’
‘Barton, Neil Barton. I’d like to see you. Are you free now?’
‘I am. The address is Flat 3, 12 Curlewis Street, Bondi. Can you find that all right?’
‘Is it near the beach?’
‘Very near. A few doors away. My office is above a supermarket.’
‘I’ll find it. Thank you. Thirty minutes?’
‘That’ll be fine.’
I hung up feeling slightly foolish about the charade. Neil Barton was an uncle of mine, an old Digger. I hadn’t seen him for twenty-five years and his name just jumped into my mind. Weird. I found myself thinking about tricks of the mind and psychiatry as I headed for Curlewis Street. I was looking forward to talking such things over with Gareth Greenway. At the back of my mind was some concern about Annie. I told myself that was foolish-she’d been handling herself in a rough world for a long time and she was a survivor, like Uncle Neil, who’d come through Tobruk and other tight spots.
Number 12 was a large groceries and fruit barn with a two-storey cream brick structure behind it. There was a side entrance flanked by four letter boxes with Greenway’s number above one of them. A card was Scotch- taped to the inside of the fruit shop window at eye level: Greenlock Enquiries, G. Greenway Enquiry Agent, Unit 3. I went along beside the building to a double doorway; the doors had glass panels but they were dirty and smeared. Only one of the doors opened and that let very little light into a lino-covered lobby. Flats 1 and 2 were on this level. A flight of stairs led up into more darkness.
The stairs creaked loudly and the banister was shaky. I found a switch for one of those lights that stays on for not quite long enough to let you see what you want to see. I pressed it and got enough low-wattage light to see the door to Flat 3. The door was half open. I knocked and pushed it fully open.
‘Mr Greenway?’
There was no answer. I stepped into a short, narrow passage. I could smell marijuana smoke and take- away food. Rock music was playing softly further inside. A door to a kitchenette on the left was ajar. I went through to a small living room which was crowded with heavy old-fashioned furniture, a filing cabinet, a TV set and a medium-sized office desk with two chairs. ‘Congratulations, Mr Hardy. You found me.’ I turned quickly. Greenway had come quietly from the kitchenette; he stood in the dim hall two metres away from me and he had a gun in his hand.
8
I’d had too much walking and talking and driving to be in the mood for it. I side-stepped to make him move the gun and I jumped forward fast while he was doing it. I kicked at his right knee and swung a short, hard punch at the inside of his right forearm. I connected with both; he crumpled and yelled; the gun flew from his hand and skidded across the tattered carpet. I felt twinges of pain in my bruised and battered neck but they didn’t stop me landing a solid, thumping right to Greenway’s ear as he went down.
I bent and picked up the gun, a Browning Nomad. 22, very light with its alloy frame but enough pistol to do the job if you could use it.
Greenway pulled himself up into a sitting position against the wall. ‘That wasn’t necessary,’ he said. ‘It isn’t loaded.’
I looked at the gun. ‘Why d’you say that?’
‘The magazine-I checked it.’
I released the spring-loaded magazine. ‘Yeah, but there’s one in the chamber. One’s enough.’
His eyes widened. ‘God. I didn’t know.’
I squatted down in front of him and tapped the barrel of the gun on his knee. ‘You don’t seem so brain damaged now, Mr Greenway.’
‘Be… be careful with that.’
‘The safety’s on now. I think it’s time we had a little talk.’
I helped him up and he hobbled to a chair. I pulled out the comfortable-looking chair from behind the desk and sat opposite him about a metre away. He rubbed his knee with his right hand; that hurt his forearm so he stopped rubbing.
‘You really worked me over,’ he said.
I bent my head and moved it stiffly. ‘Know what? I took a first class rabbit killer from one of the hospital guards. We’re not quite even yet.’
‘How did you find me? I mean, I’m glad you did but… ‘
I put the Nomad on the desk and swung it around so that the muzzle pointed at his chest. ‘Me first, mate. What’s this all about? Why did you come to me with that phony story and the phony job?’
He grinned. ‘Took you in, didn’t I? With the lobotomy act?’
‘I’m getting impatient. This gun’s probably illegal and Dr Smith at the hospital wants to throw the book at
