Strathfield again on a day that promised to be changeable. Cloud was building up in the west and the wind had a fluctuating feel to it. I had on a blue, button-down shirt, dark trousers and my Italian shoes with a shine. This time I looked the street over more carefully and revised my first impression. There was money invested here but also possibly a lack of cash flow. Some roofs and windows needed attention — I should know, mine are the same. Not all the front gardens were well-tended and some of the driveways featured oil spots and stains, indicating that the resident cars weren’t in the very best of condition.
I started about ten houses away from the target house, on the other side. In my respectable outfit, freshly shaved and with my hair tamed and carrying the photograph and my licence folder opened, I reckoned I passed muster as a responsible Private Enquiry Agent on a missing person case.
Some doors didn’t open, others did a fraction and all my spiel got was a shaken head. When I was ten houses past I gave up on the other side and crossed the street. I got similar no-shows and head shakes at three doors and then something else. This was one of the less affluent-looking numbers. The guttering sagged a bit and sun and wind had done a job on the woodwork. No security bars. Still, efforts were being made to keep up. The grass had been cut fairly recently but the garden beds needed weeding. This was one of the few without a garage and the Toyota parked out front wasn’t a recent model. The man who answered the door was elderly and a bit stooped but with bright blue eyes. I gave him the story.
‘Let me see.’ He let the door swing open and stepped out into the light on the porch. He lifted the glasses suspended on a cord around his neck and examined the photograph.
He dropped the glasses as if reluctant to admit to the vision problem a second longer than he had to. ‘Yep, I’ve seen him.’
‘Mr…?’
‘Bolitho, Tom Bolitho.’ I gave him my card. We shook hands and were away. He pointed to the table and chairs set out on the porch and we sat down.
‘You say his sister wants to locate him. Maybe he doesn’t want to be located. Maybe she’s his wicked stepsister who wants to do him out of his inheritance?’
I grinned. ‘Come on.’
‘Yeah, I read too much rubbish. When you get to my age you look for excitement wherever you can.’
‘There’s not too much in this I’m afraid, Mr Bolitho. He…’
‘Tom. Fancy a drink?’
Occupational hazard. ‘Why not? What’re you having?’
‘At this hour, light beer.’
‘That’ll do me. Thanks.’
He went into the house and came back with two Hahn Lights. Good choice. We twisted, said ‘Cheers’ and drank.
‘No,’ I said, ‘it’s just that he was a bit of a handful but seems to have settled down. He’s been out of touch with his sister for a couple of months and she’s the anxious type, you know.’
Those blue eyes in the wrinkled surrounds were shrewd. ‘But what brings you here, specifically?’
I was ready for that. ‘He rang his sister a while back and said he was living in Strathfield. He mentioned the street and the number. She remembered the street, or thought she did. This is Henry Street, right? She thought it was either Henry or Edward. I’ve tried Edward with no luck. She didn’t remember the number. So I’m trying Henry Street.’
‘Kings of England.’
‘That’s right.’
He took a good swig of his Hahn. ‘Sorry lot on the whole. Didn’t they stick a red hot poker up the arse of an Edward?’
‘I’m shaky on my royal history.’
‘I think they did. Probably deserved it. As for that Henry the V8 — that’s what I call him, Henry the V8, because he had eight wives.’
I smiled and took a drink to conceal the pain. Bad joke anyway, and I was pretty sure on the basis of the TV series that it was six.
‘I’ve forgotten what we were talking about.’
I put the photograph on the table beside my bottle and tapped it. ‘Him.’
‘Oh, yes. Well, if you say he’s not in trouble. I wouldn’t want to dob the boy in.’
I shook my head. ‘No trouble.’
‘I’ve seen him a few times. He comes and goes. Stays in that big, flash place a few doors away. The one with the high side fence and everything just so.’
‘I think I’ve seen it.’ As soon as I said that I wondered if he’d set a trap for me. If he’d spotted me the day before he’d know I was lying. But he didn’t react.
‘Spent a lot of money there she did.’
‘She?’
He drank some more beer and warmed up to the work of gossip. ‘Husband died a few years back. About the time my wife went. No, a few years after. I had my eye on her for a while but then she really went to town — new clothes and hairdo, facelifts, all that. She’s ten years or more older than she looks.’
‘I see. What’s her name, Tom?’
He shrugged. ‘Don’t know.’
I nodded and had a drink, momentarily saddened. The old bloke had looked for a replacement wife and she’d suddenly put up a generation gap to add to the financial gap between them. He’d probably never even spoken to her.
‘And this young bloke comes and goes. He stays overnight d’you mean?’
‘For sure. Drives that Merc right in,’ he winked.
‘Not the only thing he drives in, I reckon.’
I fished out my notebook and scribbled. ‘Old Mercedes, eh? I don’t suppose you got the number?’
‘Old, nothing. Bloody new or near enough. Silver-grey. No, I had no reason to get the number. All I can tell you is that it’s got a sticker on the windscreen — sort of parking permit like for doctors and nurses and that at hospitals.’
Tom would know more about hospitals than universities but his information sounded spot on. I asked him when he’d last seen the man and his Merc but he was vague. ‘Couldn’t say. Last week, week before, last month? Find it hard to keep track of time nowadays. It was before the last party anyway.’
‘Party?’
‘Didn’t I say? She throws these big parties every Wednesday. Be on tonight, I reckon. Lots of people, lots of cars. Quiet though, no trouble. I have to say that.’
I finished the beer and thanked him for it and the information. He went to stand up but decided against it and sank back in the chair. ‘Are you going to pay her a visit?’
The lonely, long past it, voyeur in him was showing. ‘Maybe. I’m not sure.’
‘He’s not the only one you know.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘There’s a few of them like him — young blokes with flash cars. Six footers with fair hair.’
8
The mobile rang as soon as I got back to my car and switched it on. Price.
‘I’ve been ringing for an hour.’
I was in no mood to be stood over. ‘We need to talk.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’
I stuck to my plan. ‘I’ll tell you when I see you. Where and when?’
‘Jesus, can’t you…?’
