He buzzed from the gate and, guessing he wasn’t on foot, I pressed the panel that said ‘Main gate’ and let him in. He swung his green BMW inside and came bouncing up the path carrying a brown bag. He was small and dark, Lebanese maybe, or perhaps from the subcontinent. Late thirties — around there — bald head, clipped moustache, summer-weight light fawn suit with matching accessories. He barely acknowledged me and went straight to Sammy who had slumped down a bit and wasn’t looking as good as she had a few minutes before. The cigarettes and lighter were nowhere to be seen.
‘I cut myself, doctor,’ she said faintly. ‘An accident.’
‘Of course.’ Cross had a mid-everywhere sort of accent and deft hands. He raised the wounded arm to a level position and balanced it on his upraised knee. He had the hard knot I’d tied in the blouse undone in an instant and clicked his tongue as he inspected the gash.
‘Very lucky,’ he said. ‘Missing a vein by a fraction.’
‘I lost some blood.’
‘Yes. But not too much I think.’ He glanced up at me. ‘Did you make the tourniquet?’
I nodded.
‘Too tight. A danger in itself. If you would get some more damp cloths I’ll sterilise and stitch the wound. No problem.’
Fuck you, Jack, I thought, but I went for the damp cloths. When I got back the doctor had laid out on a baize cloth an ampoule, a syringe, some alcohol swabs, a fine needle and some sutures. I’d brought a footstool from Sammy’s bathroom, which I put the wet hand towels down on and stood over him as he crouched beside the padded bench. Sammy’s eyes were closed and her long lashes seemed to almost reach to her cheekbones.
‘Listen, Dr Cross,’ I said. ‘This woman’s already injected herself with… Shit, can’t you see the puncture?’
Cross took a towel, wiped away some blood and turned his pebble-hard brown eyes up to me. ‘I’m aware of Mrs Price’s dependency. Please go away.’
I didn’t need asking twice. I planned to have a good look around the house while the opportunity presented. I took off my shoes so as not to tramp blood around unnecessarily and worked my way through the rooms. There was nothing of interest in the sitting or dining rooms or in the study, besides the evidence of money. All the fittings and furniture and equipment — TVs, VCKs, hi-fi, computer — were state-of-the-art. The paintings were originals and one was a Brett Whiteley, a small one.
I went quickly through Sammy’s closets and drawers. She had enough clothes to outfit the chorus line of a Hollywood musical and an Imelda Marcos-like interest in shoes. Her personal papers were few and easily contained in a shallow drawer — I flipped them over with the long blade on my Swiss Army knife without much interest until a photograph of a young blond man came to light. He wore a suit and a slightly embarrassed expression. Jason Jorgensen. It was a polaroid photograph taken indoors without quite enough light. The subject was clearly enough defined while the background was muzzy, but my guess was it had been taken in a motel room.
I barely looked at Martin Price’s bedroom because there was almost nothing to see — routine male stuff. There were a couple of books on marketing and management on a table beside the bed and a copy of Paul Kelly’s The End of Certainty, something I’d bought myself and hadn’t got around to reading. Judging by the turned-down page corners, Price was two-thirds through it. A drawer contained a pack of black condoms, some lubricant and a vibrator, all with a thin film of dust. He apparently kept his personal papers in the study and I’d already found all the drawers in the big, solid desk firmly locked.
On to Danni’s chamber. Unlike the other rooms, it was a mess, and a mess teenage style. I remember seeing an episode of Bill Cosby’s TV show where he opened the door to his son’s room and said, ‘This is where clothes come to die.’ It was like that. Clothes scattered everywhere; video cassettes and compact discs likewise; wall posters pulling away from the Blu-Tack, and pizza and hamburger boxes competing for space with wine bottles and beer cans. The bed was a tumbled ruin with a blizzard of used tissues covering it. The room was large, say twenty-five square metres, but the chaos made it seem small.
Light flooded in from where a Holland blind had come adrift from one of its moorings. The other blind was drawn down tight, as if the intention had been to keep the room as dim as possible. You hear untidy people say they know where everything is; I’m no housekeeper but I don’t believe it. There was no way Danni would be able to tell that someone had sorted through her detritus. I set about looking through the cluttered closets and impossible-to-close drawers without a thought for secrecy.
Danni evidently carried everything of importance on her person because the drawers and shelves and discarded handbags and purses contained nothing of interest. I found a scrap of silver foil but no sexy silver dish, no spoon, no lighter, no syringe or syringe cap. The only thing of interest I found was another photograph of Jason Jorgensen. He was standing in what looked like a wine bar. He appeared happy and relaxed with a glass in his hand and was wearing casual clothes — sports shirt, shorts, sneakers. The photograph had a quick snap look about it and had been tucked under the satin pillow on the sleeper’s side of Danni’s unmade bed.
Cross had made a good job of repairing Sammy’s arm and he was helping her back into the house when I stepped into view.
‘What the hell are you still doing here?’ Sammy almost shouted.
‘Calm yourself,’ the doctor said.
‘I don’t want that man snooping through my house.’
‘I’m the man who saved you from bleeding to death,’ I said. ‘Remember?’
‘Hardly that,’ Cross said. ‘A clean wound. Glass is a sterile medium, more or less. I think you’d better leave.’
I followed them into the sitting room. ‘What about the mess?’
Sammy allowed the doctor to ease her down into a chair. ‘Do you think I could have a brandy, please?’
‘Of course.’ Cross left the room briskly, obviously knowing where they kept the liquor.
‘What’s Marty going to say about all this blood?’ I asked.
‘I’ll have it cleaned up before he gets home. He gets home very late these nights, now that he’s got that… But I suppose you’ll tell him all about it.’
I liked that choice of words — I’ll have it cleaned up. Sammy hadn’t cleaned anything herself in a long while. It occurred to me that the best way to handle Sammy at the moment was as the man of mystery. I’d lifted the cigarettes and lighter from where she’d tucked them under the padded cover on the porch bench and I dropped them into her lap. ‘I don’t know that I will.’
Cross came back with an inch or so of amber liquid in a small brandy balloon. Nice touch. He’d taken a while and I edged closer to get a sniff of his breath. ‘Here you are, Mrs Price,’ he said. ‘A few sips over the next few minutes, I would suggest.’
I had to admire Sammy. She’d secreted the smokes and lighter again as smoothly as Houdini with his all- purpose handcuff keys. She accepted the glass and gave Cross one of her full candle-power smiles and eye massages. I caught its effect even standing off at an angle. ‘Thank you, doctor. Thank you for everything.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be all right,’ I said.
He ignored me. He had smoothness to spare and he couldn’t quite help himself. He took a card from the breast pocket of his immaculate suit coat and placed it on the velvet-covered arm of Sandy’s chair. ‘If you need me, Mrs Price, at any time, you know where I can be reached.’
I’d expected him to have a last throw at professional authority but he thought better of it. He was as clean as when he walked in but suddenly unsure of his ground, despite the jolt of spirit I’d picked up on his breath. I was bigger and uglier, poorer, blood-smeared and obviously there on other business. He adjusted the card a nervous millimetre and walked out of the room. I heard the bleep as he touched the panel to open the gate and the soft purr of his engine starting. Dr Cross knew his way around in this little part of Lugarno.
‘So,’ Sammy said. She fished up the cigarettes and lit one. She drained the brandy, took a deep drag and knocked some ash into the glass.
‘Think you’ll be all right?’
‘I know I’ll be all right!’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure, Mrs Price. Think Danni’ll be all right?’
‘Is this about Danni?’
