hand.’
‘He seemed genuinely shocked when he learned of her murder.’
Maxwell shrugged and put his cigarette stub under the heel of his pale suede shoe. He glanced at the outline of the bottle in my bag, then looked away. ‘Like me, he probably had some involvement, but hadn’t expected things to take the turn they did.’
‘What exactly was your involvement?’
‘I helped to set up the women to be correspondents in the Redding and Molesworth matters. There was a sort of pool of money, a fighting fund established from these lucrative clients, and I was well paid. I’m using those funds here now. There was a promise of more when the divorces all went through.’
That dried him out and I had to give him another go at the bottle to get the flow started. ‘Don’t get pissed on me,’ I said. ‘It won’t work.’
‘There’s not enough here to do that. I had an enormous lunch out of sheer boredom. My stomach is well lined.’
I rolled a cigarette and listened as he told me of his alarm when he heard, first, that Meadowbank was pulling out of the agreement, and then that he had been shot. ‘That was all a bit too sticky for me, old boy. I decided it was best to get out of town and lie low for a spell. I was very perturbed when you turned up, to put it mildly. But I must say you had a brilliant strategy for winning my trust.’
The liquor was making him more confident now and oily. I hadn’t liked him to begin with and the dislike was growing, but I had a lot more to learn. There must be someone behind all this then,’ I said. ‘Someone holding it all together.’
He lit another cigarette and didn’t speak.
‘That’s what I need to know. That name.’
He shook his head. ‘I simply don’t know. I took instructions by telephone.’
‘Come on.’
‘It’s true. Of course, I sniffed around a little and came up with Andrew Perkins’ name and another member of our noble profession was in on it, too. I’m reluctant to name him and I’m sure he knows no more than I do. He’s a timid soul as well, and might have gone to ground. There’s a good deal of surmise in what I’m telling you, Hardy. I have to admit that.’
I felt rather let down. Maxwell’s sketch of what lay behind the deaths and deceptions Virginia Shaw had involved me in was interesting and convincing, so far as it went. But without a name, something to follow up, it all began to feel as fragile as a used tissue. I let my disappointment show by zipping up the bag. ‘This isn’t enough, Dicky. I’m considering hauling you out of here by the scruff of the neck.’
Maxwell shifted towards me on the seat; his soft hand shot out and fondled the bottle. ‘Don’t do that. Matthews would certainly stop you. He’s armed this time and he’s a very vindictive type. I’ll be honest with you. I can’t swear I’d give you that name if I knew it. There’s a lot of power and money behind this thing. But I don’t know it. Give me another drink.’
‘Why the hell should I? What can I do with what you’ve told me? One of the cops I’m in touch with knows there’s something going on. Maybe he’ll be interested to get a few more clues, but that’s not going to get me off the hook. I could ask the police to come and question you, I suppose.’
He sniffed and his tongue licked at the cracked cold sore. ‘If the impression I leave with is that you’re going to send the police here, I’ll be off within the hour. I assure you. Give me a bloody drink. Can’t you see I’m working myself up to tell you something more?’
He was sweating. Beads of moisture had formed where his hatband met his bald head and were threatening to run down into his eyes. He dabbed at the spot with a moist hand. His breath carried to me across the shorter distance between us- sweet from the gin but going sour, tainted with tobacco and fear. I gave him the bottle. He’d drunk about half of the contents and he disposed of another sizeable slug. I looked around and saw Matthews leaning against a tree. He was stripping a twig and crushing the leaves before dropping them to the ground. I was anxious to get away from the place.
‘OK. You’ve had your drink. Let’s hear it.’
He drew in a deep breath and surrendered the bottle. I let the last couple of inches run out onto the ground and he watched, almost approvingly.
I’d seen it before. Now he’d go on the wagon! Like hell he would.
‘If you keep me altogether out of it, I’ll tell you who shot Charles Meadowbank,’ he said.
15
I was back on the highway before the thought struck me that Richard Maxwell might have outsmarted me the way Ernie had predicted. What did I have? A name and a few vague allegations about some prominent people who were well-protected from the likes of me. Maxwell could be on his way north or south at that very moment. Somehow, I didn’t think so. He was a very frightened man, past his best and losing his grip. God knows what he would have done when he and his liver were younger and filter. But as it was, he’d backed me. I was almost flattered.
Lawrence ‘Chalky’ Teacher. The name was familiar but not too familiar. If Maxwell had simply nominated one of the well-known thugs about town I would have had my suspicions. But Chalky Teacher was a more dubious and shadowy figure. I’d heard of him for years, as an associate of criminals, a probable police informer and a man to be careful of. But, as I approached Rockdale and got the first glimpse of the city high-rise, I realised that I had no idea of what Teacher was like physically-big, small or in between. And I couldn’t connect him with a single event, organisation or individual. I couldn’t recall reading about him in the tabloids or a reference to him on television. It was all word-of-mouth stuff, rumour and innuendo.
I had some thinking to do and the hot inside of a not very comfortable car, with my shirt sticking to my back and my head aching from the roughhouse of yesterday and the tension of today, wasn’t the place to do it. I needed a cool, shady beer garden with Nina Simone playing in the background and the ice tinkling in a double scotch. It was Sunday and the nearest thing to that was thirty miles away, outside the metropolitan area. The Balmain- Rozelle RSL Club wouldn’t do and I didn’t want to go home to the empty house. I found myself turning off the highway and taking the road to Sydenham and then to Petersham.
Going to visit an old girlfriend in the condition I was in was a risky move. I knew it, but, after the distasteful Maxwell, I was in need of congenial human contact. Besides, Joan Dare was a journalist and might know something about Chalky Teacher. If she told me he was six-foot-three in his socks, I’d have a simple choice to make-go along with Loggins’ plan to use me as bait or catch the next flight to Cairns.
Joan’s house overlooks Petersham Park. It’s a double-fronted cottage, free-standing with a deep backyard. Joan is a passionate gardener and she bought the place because of the space. I jack-hammered up hundreds of square feet of concrete for her during our brief affair which took place while Cyn and I were having one of our separations a few years back. I knew Joan had plans for a prize-winning garden; I’d promised to haul the topsoil. Then Cyn came back and it was over between me and Joan.
Someone else had carried the topsoil. When I pulled up outside the house I had trouble recognising it. In two years the concrete wasteland had been turned into a small jungle. Creepers grew all over the front fence and twined around a pergola between the gate and the veranda. The green-painted concrete slabs in the front yard had been replaced by small-leaved ground cover, flower beds and vines growing out of tubs. I could see shrubs and small palm trees growing along the side of the house and something bushier and taller sticking up at the back. The colours were reds and greens and white and, in the late afternoon, the garden was humming with insects. The place reminded you of how quickly the whole 600 square miles of Sydney would revert back to bush if it was allowed to.
I rang the front doorbell but there was no answer. I wasn’t discouraged. Joan didn’t sit about inside on fine days. I went around the side of the house, pushing my way through fronds and leaves and noting the new paint job on the weatherboards, new plumbing, wiring, the works. Joan earned good money as the editor of the ‘City Life’ section of the Sydney News, and her only vices were red wine and her garden. I found her working on a terraced part of the steeply sloping backyard. She was wearing shorts, tennis shoes and something with red and
