‘Tell me all about how this crazy twat who shot her dad got your gun, and why you didn’t say a fuckin’ word about it.’
Police minds work in strange ways. It seemed in this instance that they were more upset at my not reporting the loss of the pistol and evading their attempts to catch me, than at a possible double murder. I said something like this to Willis.
‘Don’t kid yourself. It’s early days in that investigation. If we come up with something against you Hardy, you’ll wish you’d taken up bee-keeping.’
Willis wasn’t as jaded as he looked. He began to get worked up and I wondered what lay behind his attitude. He’d been with me for almost two hours-maybe he found it hard to go that long without a drink. Maybe he didn’t have private health insurance the way I had to have, and resented my quiet room and leafy view. And there were young nurses. I wished one would come in now and usher him away. No such luck.
‘I was embarrassed,’ I said. ‘It’s embarrassing to have your gun lifted.’
Willis snorted. ‘Especially by a woman.’
‘By anyone.’
‘And you’re not embarrassed now? You can talk to me about it?’
I lifted my bandaged hands up above the blanket. The action hurt. ‘They tell me I nearly died. It puts things into perspective.’
Willis scowled. ‘Fuckin’ smartarse private eyes,’ he said.
I twigged then. He was expressing the police force’s anger over the publicity given to the case of two PEAs who’d been charged with bribing police officers, conspiracy to murder and conspiring to pervert the course of justice. The case had been in the news when I’d made my trip to the mountains, but that was almost two weeks ago. Glen and I had talked about it in the early stages, but there must have been later developments which we hadn’t discussed.
‘Brewster and Loggins,’ I said. ‘What happened to them?’
Willis nodded. Some of the energy seemed to drain from him. ‘Loggins jumped bail. He’s probably in Spain by now with that fuckin’…’
‘Ray Brewster?’
‘Offed himself. Took a uniformed man with him and left a letter.’
There’s nothing the police dislike more than suicide letters and dying declarations. They have a dramatic impact that is almost impossible to refute. I wondered what Brewster had said. I’d met him once-a big man, ex- cop, which made it worse, slow-witted and violent. He’d resigned from the force when it was obvious that he was on the take. The granting of a PEA licence had been his price for keeping quiet about everyone else who was doing the same. An old story. Old pigeons coming home to an old roost.
‘I’ve got nothing further to volunteer about the Wilberforce matter,’ I said. ‘Beyond this-I have a client whose interests I am pledged to protect.’
‘Get off the soapbox, you…’
There was a knock at the door and Constable Booth entered carrying a sheaf of papers. She gave two sets to me and one to Willis as if she was unaware of the tension in the room. She wasn’t, though. She clicked a ballpoint pen with perfect timing and handed it to me.
‘A signature at the foot of two copies, please, Mr Hardy. Sergeant Willis will witness. There are two passages which are a little obscure. I’ve tagged them. Perhaps you’d be good enough to make corrections and initial the two copies at those points.’
‘Happy to,’ I said.
I flicked through the pages slowly, trying not to let Willis see how much the movement hurt me, making the amendments and initialing, watching him do a slow burn. When we’d finished, Constable Booth executed a smart turn and marched from the room, like me, she seemed to find the situation slightly ridiculous. I put my spare copy of the statement on the bedside cabinet, along with the water carafe, the as-yet-unopened paperbacks and untouched grapes.
Willis heaved himself up from his chair. ‘Be careful,’ he said.
There had never been any question of skin grafts or plastic surgery. The burns, though severe, hadn’t been the problem, nor the smoke inhalation. The thing that had laid me low was the pneumonia that had developed as a result of my severe cold plus the exertion, trauma and exposure. I’d lain half-naked in cold mud for some time before the rescuers had arrived. Antibiotics had knocked out the infection but, after twelve days in the hospital, I exhibited an allergic reaction to one of the drugs and I went down again into a weakened state that had me sleeping around the clock and having disturbing dreams. I emerged from this bout clear-headed and alert, but very weak physically.
Glen took me home to Glebe and stayed with me there. In one of my dreams I saw Sir Phillip Wilberforce stretched out on a morgue slab. I asked Glen for the latest on him.
‘He pulled through,’ she said. ‘But he suffered some kind of stroke. I understand he’s shaky all down one side, poor old bugger. He’s at home though. D’you want to send him a card?’
I was sitting in a deck chair in the back courtyard, soaking up winter sun. ‘I want to see him,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘Remember he’s my client, too. Hired me to find his daughter, Paula.’
‘Isn’t that a conflict of interest? You’re working for the Lamberte woman.’
I shook my head. ‘The regulations are vague on this point. Hardy handles heavy case load.’
Glen grinned. ‘Fucks up all round.’
‘But soldiers on.’
We looked at each other. Glen had taken leave and we’d spent a week together, every night and a lot of the daytime. It was the longest time we’d put in like that apart from holiday breaks. It had worked well-a little gentle sex, taking care not to disturb my dressings and open my wounds; quiet walks, light meals, reading and watching TV together. We were closer than we’d ever been, each anticipating the other’s wishes, responding to allusions, taking the hints. Great, and as artificial as a politician’s smile.
‘You’re not ready,’ she said.
‘I’m not planning to climb any mountains. I just want to move around a little. Talk to a few people.’
‘About what? I thought you didn’t have any leads to follow.’
‘Why did you think that?’
‘I just… never mind.’
This was more like our usual style, slightly combative but mutually respectful, resolving itself in bed or being dissipated by work. We had both recognised that we worked different sides of the street. It made for a certain kind of tension that, I realised clearly then, I liked. I wasn’t sure that Glen liked it as much.
I reached forward to touch her. We were sitting about a metre apart and it felt like a kilometre or two. She didn’t pull away, but the movement stretched the healed skin on my shoulders and made me wince. ‘Look, love,’ I said, ‘I don’t believe those two died by accident.’
‘Your former client is being looked for. If you’ve got any information you should volunteer it.’
‘I haven’t, but maybe if I just sniff around.’
‘Bullshit. And what did you say was your unstated motto: no dough, no show, wasn’t that it?’
‘All right, but the Wilberforce thing is different. She took my gun, for Christ’s sake. I feel like a bloody idiot.’
‘Male pride. Terrific way to run a business.’
‘The old man…’
‘Probably doesn’t remember who you are. Leave it be, Cliff.’
‘And do what? Walk all the way to the library on my own? Read the TV guide? Pick a few winners and plan what to have for dinner?’
‘Look at you. You can hardly move without something hurting.’
‘I want to find Paula Wilberforce. I have to. It’s important.’
‘More important than your health? More important than me?’
‘Shit.’
The cat wandered out of the house, stood on the warm bricks and stretched itself. It mewed and curled up
