‘I’d like to go to the coast.’
‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Might know something more by then.’
She clinked her keys in her pocket and I thought she was leaving, but she put her arm half around me, reached up and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Be careful,’ she said.
I did the slow circuit of the streets around the park again with the same result. Then I headed for Coogee. It was a high-mileage day. One of the penalties of the job. The meat and bread had soaked up the wine and the strong coffee was doing its job. Metabolically I was in good shape; emotionally not so good. Something was happening between me and Felicia Todd and I had the uncomfortable feeling that neither of us was in control of it.
It was a magic night in Coogee. The waves were curling up and lying down quietly, hitting the beach like a soft drumbeat, and the sky was clear out over the sea. Above the land were light, high clouds, the kind that obscure the moon for a few minutes and then move on. No sign of the car in question. I parked a hundred metres from the Todd house and walked along the quiet street. You don’t have to be in a car to watch a place. I’ve watched from roofs in my time, even from trees. The wild, scarcely tended front garden was ideal for watching. A couple of lights were on inside, but I expected that. I didn’t expect the shadow that moved, low and fast, in the front room.
I didn’t have a gun; I didn’t have any weapon except my ill-humour. I pushed open the gate and began to move towards the house, keeping to the cover provided by the shrubs and bushes. I searched with one hand for something to throw or hit with, but found nothing. I reached the side of the big front porch, which was high above ground level. The set of steps leading directly up to the porch and front door was bathed in moonlight. I swore under my breath, slipped out of my jacket and stuck my foot in the latticework under the porch. With a bit of a jump and grab I could pull myself up over the rail. I jumped and grabbed and pulled.
My shirt ripped, but that was the only sound I made. I tested the boards on the porch and round them solid. The front door was standing slightly open. I took two cautious steps towards it. A car horn honked twice loudly and I heard a squeal of tyres. I looked in the direction of the sounds and saw a car accelerate past the house and skid around the side street. I jumped forward, shoved the door open and ran into the house. I was halfway down the passage when I heard glass breaking at the back. The dog next door howled. I dashed through to the kitchen. The glass door that led to the terrace was wide open with one of its panes smashed. Glass crunched under my feet as I looked out at the yard; the fence was low and the drop to the street wasn’t much. You’d be unlucky to hurt yourself getting over it. No blood on the floor. A clean getaway.
The dog stopped howling and no lights came on in the house or the flats around. So much ror neighbourliness. I went through the house, which had been thoroughly and messily searched. The alarm had been professionally short-circuited at one of the windows. I turned off the television set, which was showing a state government advertisement about how good things were and how they were going to get better. I cut the palm of my right hand cleaning up the glass and ran water on the cut. The water turned red as it flowed out of the sink. First blood to the other side-whoever they were.
The shirt was a write-off. I ripped the sleeve out and used it to tie up the cut, which was bleeding freely. I locked the back door and pulled the front door shut. Anyone watching would have seen a man with a bleeding hand, dirty pants and a torn shirt rummaging in the shrubbery for his jacket. But I could probably have dug a grave or danced the carioca-no one was looking.
On the drive home to Glebe I tried to figure it out. I concluded that someone knew Felicia Todd wasn’t at home. Did that mean they knew where she was now? Probably. I could imagine a watcher phoning through the message to the searcher that Mrs Todd was going to be busy for the night. But the night had ended abruptly. Was she in danger? Probably not. These people seemed to avoid confrontation. Some comfort in that. Not much. The cut hand throbbed and the rough bandage made driving difficult. I made the turn into my street clumsily and rammed the gutter with my tyres when I stopped.
My house smelled of damp. At least it didn’t smell of cat. I was in a foul mood. I cleaned the cut, put a dressing on it and went to bed. I was almost asleep when the thought came. Two honks probably meant trouble at the front, three meant the back. Smarter than me. I shouldn’t have looked at the street. As soon as I heard the noise, I should have gone straight in.
11
As it happened, I knew Kevin O’Fearna’s solicitor slightly. Brian Dolan was one of the old school of city lawyers, slightly tarnished by long association with politicians but never mentioned in an enquiry, never newsworthy. I phoned him and confirmed that O’Fear was still on remand.
‘When does his case come up?’ I asked.
‘The police are having trouble with the witnesses. What’s your interest, Mr Hardy?’
Dolan was a man you instinctively lied to. ‘A non-legal matter. Just out of curiosity, what would his bail be?’
‘It’s ten thousand dollars, which is a bloody scandal.’
I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. ‘Wouldn’t his mates be able to put that up?’
‘Kevin doesn’t exactly have any mates just now.’
O’Fear had once told me that only lawyers and priests called him Kevin. I hoped I wouldn’t be talking to any priests. I cut off Dolan’s next question, thanked him and hung up. A call to Long Bay got me a tedious wait on the line and then a 10.45 a.m. visiting slot. I told them I was working for Cy Sackville, which was a lie, but they’re used to lies at Long Bay.
Visiting a prisoner is taking a punt. He can always change his mind and refuse to see you, which is his right. It’s not a bad trick for a bored inmate to play on an outsider. Luckily, O’Fear wasn’t much given to boredom. He was a regular gaolhouse lawyer by all accounts and, when he wasn’t giving advice, he was probably gambling, or talking or singing. I turned off Anzac Parade, parked in a side street and walked back. It was a sunny morning with a light breeze, but neither that nor the flower beds beside the long, grey concrete ramp to the barrier could make the place cheerful. The guy in the glasshouse checked me over and waved me through to the entrance. I filled in my slip, writing clumsily with the bandaged hand, gave it to one of the beefy Ulstermen who run the place, and sat down on the wooden bench next to the rubber tree plant and the other visitors.
Over the years I’ve visited a good many men in Long Bay. Those visits tend to blur into one mostly depressing memory. Much sharper is the recollection of the time I spent here on remand myself. The second case I handled as a private detective involved a runaway girl. I found the girl and I also found that her father had been committing incest with her since she was ten. I wasn’t tactful or understanding. I put the father in hospital and the girl and the mother told the police that I had assaulted and robbed him. I was new at the game and out of my territory in Parramatta. I was wary of the cops, and my lawyer knew less law than I did. I was only at the Bay for ten days, but that was bad enough. In gaol you get more insults and abuse in a day than in ten years on the outside. Since then, they tell me, it’s got worse. If the screws have become a bit more careful in dealing out abuse, the crims have got more reckless. In my time sex was mostly in the prisoners’ heads; now it’s on the floor and in the toilets and no pleases and thank yous.
When you visit a convicted prisoner you have to submit to a thorough search and deposit most of your belongings in a locker. Visitors to people on remand get a less rigorous going-over. Still, the guard prodded at my bandage and snarled back at me when I swore. He let me into the visiting room and told me to sit and wait.
‘How long?’ I said.
‘Long as it takes,’ the guard said. From the look on his hard, pale face, the only thing that’d make him smile would be the sound of bone breaking.
I took a deep breath and sat in the chair facing the door. It was a small room with lino tiles on the floor and a dusty window set too high up to reach. The pale yellow light indicated reinforced glass. The table and two chairs were bolted to the floor. The ashtray was plastic and deeply scarred by crushed-out butts. I recalled that I crushed out a few hundred in my ten days.
