saw newspaper reports on the men and the work. “It could be very useful, Paul. Can I take it away? I’m too bushed to…”
“Of course, of course. Take it. Give it back when you’ve finished your enquiry. That’ll force you to come and see us again. Here, I’ll get you something to put it in.”
He rummaged in the cupboard for a plastic bag and found one just as Ray walked into the kitchen. “Shouldn’t use those things, Paul,” he said. “You should see them in the harbour. It’s chocka.”
Guthrie straightened up and handed me the bag. “I know. I know.” He glanced at Ray. “You OK, son?”
Ray nodded and unscrewed the lid of the coffee jar. “Reckon I can get the pictures developed later tomorrow. I mean today. You know.”
I put the scrapbook in the plastic bag and tied its handles together. “Thanks. I’ll give you a ring.”
Paul Guthrie said, “You’ve found your client’s father then, Cliff?”
“Odds on.”
“Poor woman, but it’s better to know than to wonder.” He was speaking from experience, as a man who’d had a time of wondering whether his stepson was alive or dead.
I shook hands with both of them and left, carrying the scrapbook encased in polluting plastic. It sat beside me on the passenger seat as I drove home. Live to ninety and leave behind scrapbooks on your big jobs and the love and respect of a son, I thought. Not bad, Captain Guthrie, sir. Not bad at all.
I woke up late and eased into the day gently. A long, hot shower got rid temporarily of the ache in my kicked ribs and helped with the stiffness that had come from positioning a forty-plus-year-old body on a boat on Sydney harbour on a cold winter night. My cuts and bruises were healing well, though-maybe it was the sea air. For want of better company, I’d taken the scrapbook to bed with me. I hauled it out to read while I drank several cups of coffee. I threw the plastic bag in the rubbish bin, wondering vaguely where it would end up.
Inside the cover Paul’s father had written: ‘David Alexander Guthrie, MM, tug Hercules, 1926-32’. What followed was a personal history of the building of the bridge. Captain Guthrie had taken photographs of his tug at work and the various stages of bridge construction. There were also pictures of the quarry at Moruya and the fabrication workshop Paul had spoken about. These were glued into the book and captioned. Letters from the captain’s employer were similarly attached. They replied to complaints about the safety of the barge moorings and the suitability of the tackle used to lift the materials aloft. Faded blue carbon copies of Guthrie’s letters testified to his continued concern. To judge from the replies, he got little satisfaction. There were death notices for some of the workers killed, and a clipping from the Labor Daily, which Guthrie had annotated ‘Lang paper’ for 10 February 1932: ‘James Campbell had been engaged in dismantling the scaffolding near the top of the pylon. A strong gust of wind moved the beam on which he was standing, and he was hurled into space. Horrified watchers in the streets below saw him shoot out from the pylon, turning over and over as he clutched wildly for something to stay his flight… He fell to the ground through the open structure near the footway.’
It wasn’t all gloom and doom. Guthrie had recorded the great moments, such as the closing of the arch and the hanging of the last section of the deck. There were newspaper photographs of the opening ceremony and a couple of the captain’s own creditable efforts. One shot, captioned ‘Self amp; Hercules’ showed a stocky man with a pipe jutting from his jaw standing at a ship’s wheel. Not enough of his face was visible under the cap and beard to mark a resemblance to Paul Guthrie, but the stubborn, almost aggressive stance was unmistakable.
I leafed through the book, fascinated by the material and almost forgetting why I was in possession of it. A photograph of sober-looking men in high collars and dark suits brought me back to the present. Here they were- the builders: Barclay, Glover, Bradfield, Ennis, Samuels, Madden, Booth, Bondil-more than a dozen of them with each man’s function neatly assigned to him. Most of the faces were moustached or bearded. Bradfield, generally considered the father of the bridge, was among the clean-shaven brigade. I checked off the names against the areas of operation. Joseph Samuels was the proprietor and manager of the foundry attached to the fabrication workshop. Reginald Booth was the Director of Public Works.
Captain Guthrie had circled in red a clipping that contained a statement from Lawrence Ennis, a chief of one of the major engineering firms involved in the job. It might not have been the statement Paul Guthrie remembered, but it was pretty close: ‘Every day those men went onto the bridge they went in the same way as a soldier goes into battle, not knowing whether they would come down alive or not.’
I poured my third cup and settled down to accumulate my notes and materials on the Madden case. I had the scrapbook, photocopies, my own notes. By the end of the day I hoped to have some photographs. Maybe I’d found Brian Madden, maybe not. It was a tricky matter, determining where my responsibility began and ended. If I reported everything to the police, and they arranged to raise the canvas-wrapped bodies from the harbour, the story, in all its ghoulish detail would get out. All the names involved would be published and the careers of the bridge builders and their families exposed to scrutiny. Somehow I didn’t think Louise Madden would like that. And there was no guarantee that her father was one of the victims.
So much for the private uncertainties. There was also the public, community consideration. Descendants of the bridge builders weren’t wrapping themselves in canvas, tying something heavy to their legs and throwing themselves into the harbour. Someone was killing them. That someone had fouled up with Colin Glover, the floater. Maybe he was getting careless. If so, now was the best time to try to catch him. And there was nothing surer than that a welter of publicity, and tabloid headlines like ‘Bridge killer dubbed “Davy Jones” by police’ would cause him to stop or become super careful.
I was puzzling over these questions when the telephone rang. I looked at the instrument with dislike; it was unlikely to have any answers. But I picked it up.
“Hardy.”
“Mr Hardy? My name’s Ralph Wren. I believer Frank Parker told you I’d be calling.”
“You’re right, he did. How’s Meredith?”
“Ah… I’m not quite sure.”
Ah, a careerist, I thought, more concerned to get on than about his colleague. Frank’s losing the ability to pick them. I decided there and then how I was going to proceed. “I spoke to him yesterday, Mr Wren,” I said. “He seemed to be doing pretty well.”
“Good, good,” Wren said. “About this case…”
“Have you got Meredith’s paperwork?”
“He… ah, doesn’t go in for a lot of paperwork. I was hoping you could help me out there.”
I was confirmed in my decision. “I don’t know… constable, is it?”
“Detective sergeant.”
“Detective Sergeant Wren, right. I don’t think I can help you. What did Frank Parker tell you?”
Wren’s tone became waspish. “He said you’d be co-operative.”
“I am, I want to be. What do you want to know?”
“Mr Hardy, this isn’t helpful. Meredith was pursuing a line of enquiry that crossed with something you were doing. That’s all I know.”
“Well, I haven’t done anything more, sergeant. I’m pretty much in the dark until I can have a proper talk to Meredith. I think that’s a good way off, don’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell you what. You keep an eye on Meredith and we’ll have a three-way meeting when he’s fit. I think that’s a good idea, don’t you?”
“Possibly, I…”
“Let’s leave it there. I’ll call Frank and tell him we’ve spoken. Probably have to leave a message for him; he wasn’t exactly chatty when I saw him. You can get in touch with me again when you think Meredith’s up to it. Give him my regards on your next visit, okay?”
I hung up gently and let my hand hover over the phone. If he didn’t call straight back it probably meant I’d bluffed him sufficiently to gain the time I needed. If he did call I had the option of not answering. The phone didn’t ring. I shuffled through the documents again, made out a list of names and laid the lot out like cards on a table. But my hand came out the same way-my only lead was the Veterans of the Bridge and the address in Pump Street. I collected together the few things I thought I’d need-burglary tools, miniature tape recorder, keycard. I said aloud, “When you can’t carry a gun, carry cash.” I sniggered and then realised what I was doing. I’d been living alone too long.
