That’s the way it went with Ernie and me- light jabs and counters. He ushered me through open double doors into the living room-the flat was laid out unconventionally with the living and sleeping quarters at the back and the kitchen and bathroom in the front. The reason was obvious- a wide-angle view of Blackwattle Bay from the balcony. I sat in a deep leather armchair while Ernie went to the kitchen. He came back with a bottle of beer and two glasses.
‘Any chance of a sandwich, Ernie?’
‘Jesus, doesn’t that good-looking wife of yours feed you?’
I accepted the glass and took a pull. ‘Thanks. She’s away up north on a job. I can feed myself but I’ve been hanging around the Tottenham trying to find out your address.’
‘Yeah, well, I don’t advertise it. Hang on.’
Away he lumbered again, coming back this time with a plate carrying a bread roll, a lump of cheese, a tomato and a knife. ‘Go for your life. What happened to your nose?’
I got busy with the knife. ‘A copper clobbered me.’
‘What did I tell you about getting along with the police?’
‘It’s all right,’ I said, chewing. ‘Another cop came to my rescue.’
Ernie shook his head. ‘Cliff, Cliff, I hope you know what you’re doing. I told you to make friends with some cops, not depend on them or trust them. This didn’t happen around here or I’d have heard.’
Ernie is a slow, deliberate talker. I’d eaten most of the roll by the time he’d finished. ‘No, mate. Eastern suburbs. I think I can stay on top of it, but I need to talk to a PEA named Richard Maxwell to help me do that. D’you know him?’
He reached for his glass, drained it and filled us up again. Ernie usually drinks the way he talks, as if there’s no rush. Maxwell’s name seemed to have speeded him up a bit. ‘I know Dick Maxwell. I wish I didn’t.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He’s a pisspot Pommy poofter, that’s why. Don’t have anything to do with him, Cliff. He’d sell his sister and his mother just a split second before he’d sell his brother and his father.’
‘I have to talk to him, Ernie. It’s to do with a divorce case.. ’
‘That’s about all he ever does, the bastard. How he keeps his licence I’ll never know. He must have an in with somebody.’
‘Shit, that’s an angle I haven’t considered.’
‘With Maxwell, there’s bound to be a slew of angles you haven’t figured. Do you want to tell me about it?’
I finished the food and beer before answering, in order to give myself time to think. ‘To be honest, Ernie,’ I said, ‘I think it’d be better for you if I didn’t. My feeling is that this is pretty bloody dangerous. Look, I’ll get in touch if I need any hands-on help. I’m still trying to manage it the way you said.’
‘Remind me.’
‘With brains rather than biffing.’
‘OK. Last I heard he was in a drying-out joint in Heathcote.’
‘Heathcote.’
‘Yeah, bit of a hike to the nearest pub I understand. Fresh air, all that. He must be in a very bad way to go there. Fresh air and lemonade-Maxwell’s not used to them, they might kill him. Never heard of him taking the cure before, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything.’
‘How recent’s this information, Ernie? And how good is it?’
His thick, pepper-and-salt eyebrows lifted. ‘Don’t get cheeky with me, young Hardy. The information’s fresh and I think it’s good because I came upon it by accident.’
I knew what he meant and didn’t press him. You hear lies all the time, you’re more likely to overhear the truth. He gave me the name of the clinic and his own phone number and didn’t ask any more questions about the job, so we had accorded each other a mutual respect. I refused more beer, thanked him for the help and the calories and stood up. I was anxious to get moving. I was also anxious to get outside and have a smoke. Ernie is a passionate anti-smoker and to light up in his home would be like smoking in church. We shook hands at the door.
I had a last question. ‘What does he look like?’
‘Medium-sized, getting fat. Pale. Always wears a hat. He’s got this little gingery toothbrush moustache. No muscle on him. You’re a lot tougher than Maxwell, Cliff,’ he said. ‘But I’m not sure you’re smarter, and smarter usually wins.’
‘Thanks, Ernie. I’ll work on it.’
13
Heathcote was well off my usual beat. I knew you drove down the Princes Highway to get to it and that was about all. I walked home slowly, sucking on a cigarette and speculating about what I might learn from Richard Maxwell. Something about divorce. It didn’t sound too promising. I wondered what I could use for leverage on Maxwell, apart from the obvious thing. I rejected the idea for most of the walk, but had accepted it by the time I reached the house.
Inside, I checked the Gregory’s and found that Heathcote was past Engadine and consisted of two clusters of streets either side of the highway, both bordered by national park. The clinic was in Goburra Road, on the right going from the city and one of the last marked roads before the suburb gave way to crown land and the meandering Heathcote Creek. It was hard to tell from the map and I didn’t know the area, but it was a fair bet that the nearest liquor outlet would be at a distance only a desperate man would walk.
Ernie had said Maxwell was smart. He’d also indicated where he was vulnerable. I found an unopened, flat half-bottle of gin in a cupboard and tossed it from hand to hand. I didn’t like the idea of tempting a drunk, but it was my safety and career on the line and, apart from Cyn and a couple of friendships, there weren’t too many things more important than those. I put the bottle in a soft leather briefcase along with my. 38 and a manilla folder containing some blank sheets of paper. I had one of Alistair Menzies’ cards in my shirt pocket. I debated whether to ring the clinic and decided against it. I had some money, a briefcase and Menzies’ card. If they weren’t enough, I had the gun.
The drive south out of Sydney was not the prettiest-too many used car yards, motor accessory barns and drive-in bottle shops. The landscape had been blasted by the internal combustion engine. By Kogarah Bay other forces, like wind and water, took over, and Tom Ugly’s Bridge was a nice reminder of a quieter time. Mind you, it was dull back then before the European migrants and TV and mass advertising arrived, and perhaps the noise and dirt were the prices we had to pay for more interesting lives. That was Cyn’s opinion anyway, her usual rejoinder when I got nostalgic about the taste of bottled beer, and fish and chips in newspaper and fight night at Rushcutters Bay stadium.
I turned off the highway and drove through the winding streets of Heathcote. The further from the main road they were the narrower and rougher they got. Goburra Road was a wide, unmade track with a few established houses on one side and a few more in the process of being built. The crown land began on the other side, low scrub that deepened into dense bush in the near distance. I drove slowly, avoiding the ruts and with the windows down. There was some dust from the track but the smell of the trees and the bird noises compensated. After the petrol-fume monotony of the highway it was a nice change.
The King A. Hartwell Clinic was a big white stucco building, three or four storeys with two wings. At a guess, as an architect’s husband who lived with books full of pictures of buildings, I’d say the place was put up around the time of the First World War, when Heathcote was really out in the sticks. The clinic, therefore, was a little island of freehold or leasehold on the edge of a very big chunk of crown land. Interesting. The grounds looked to run to about five acres, well watered with plenty of lawns, flower beds and trees. Healthful and restful. I wouldn’t have minded a short stay there myself, judging from outside appearances.
I drove through two imposing gateposts, one of which carried a big brass plaque bearing the name of the clinic, and up a curving gravel drive. I parked where a sign said Visitors. I was the only one. There were a dozen
