who seemed different from the image I’d had from talking to Price and Samantha about her. When I’d said she needed help I meant it, but what kind of help I wasn’t sure. Something. But it was probably mostly to do with someone having shot at me. Couldn’t have that. I had to know who and why and had to do something about it. Anyway, the police’d catch up with me sooner or later. Stankowski and Hammond didn’t look lazy or like quitters.
I’d watched my back very closely on the drive to Hunters Hill and I watched it again as I made my way to Concord to call on Ramsay Hewitt’s sugar momma. I hadn’t had the go-ahead from Tess but I was pretty sure she’d give it eventually. Her attachment to Ramsay was too strong for her to leave things dangling. I was curious myself, and a bit of driving around would give me time to think more about the Price matter while hanging myself out as a target, although an alert one. But I was increasingly coming to think of last night’s shot as a warning. Anyone seriously trying to kill me would have had plenty of easier opportunities than at night through a window. In a way it raised a more interesting set of questions: warn me off what, and why?
Concord was flat and leafy — as I remembered it from when I first met Tess there and we went through a few hoops together. I pulled up outside the address I’d got out of the phonebook — a California-style bungalow on a quarter acre block with a deep front garden. Shrubs, grass and a huge ghost gum with thick branches that would brain you if they fell and you happened to be underneath. I didn’t expect to see Ramsay’s flash Merc parked in the driveway and I didn’t. The wind was still blowing hard and a couple of plastic bags and soft drink cans bowled down the street. Otherwise it was quiet and still with only the occasional car cruising by. I hadn’t been followed from Hunters Hill. I watched the postman arrive on his motor scooter. Nothing for the place I was watching.
The private detective business, whether you’re looking for people or serving subpoenas or bodyguarding, is basically a matter of making house calls. Some turn out to be profitable and pleasant, others not. But it becomes a habit and having found a place where someone I was looking for was alleged to be I was incapable of just driving off. A few questions to Regina Kipps would surely be in order.
Most of the houses on the street had no fences and no front gates and Mrs Kipps’ house was one of these — a testimony to the safety and security of suburban Australia until very recently. I examined myself in the rear-vision mirror and picked away the pieces of tissue that had clung to the cuts. The bleeding didn’t start again and there was no blood on my shirt. I went up the cement drive that led to a garage and branched off on another similar path leading to the front porch. The paths were painted green with raised edges picked out in red but the paint had faded badly, and if Ramsay was living here he certainly wasn’t spending any time weeding the garden beds or pruning the shrubs.
I rang the bell and got out my credentials, quite unsure of what I was going to say. In any case, it’s not always a good idea to map it out beforehand because you might have to adjust to the unexpected. After a short wait I heard footsteps approaching and the door opened, leaving a good strong security screen door between me and the woman inside. It’s odd looking at someone through metal mesh. It’s almost as if they’re wrapped in armour and the mesh stops you seeing certain bits. The woman was medium height and, while not fat, she was certainly well-covered. She was in her fifties at a guess with a pale, slightly puffy face. She wore her fair hair in a style too young for her, although, in a silk blouse with the top buttons undone showing a deep cleavage and a bit of black lace, and a short skirt, she was doing her best.
‘Mrs Kipps?’
I’ve met a lot of different receptions on doorsteps, from passionate embraces to kicks in the teeth, but this was a new one. Every muscle in her face registered disappointment. She glanced at the small gold watch she wore before answering.
‘Yes, I’m Regina Kipps. You’re not… I’m sorry. Who are you?’
I showed her the folder. ‘I’m making enquiries into the whereabouts of Ramsay Hewitt.’
Small cracks seemed to appear around her mouth, leading me to think that the make-up was laid on pretty thickly. Her eyes crinkled and the same thing happened there. She drew in a deep breath. ‘You’re a policeman?’
‘No, not exactly.’
‘Worse luck.’ She looked at the watch again. ‘I’m sorry. I’m expecting a visitor. I can’t…’
‘Is he here, Mrs Kipps?’
‘No, thank God.’
‘When can we talk?’ I got out my notebook. ‘Can I have your number? I’ll call you.’
She went up on her toes in her high heels to look over my shoulder. ‘I want him in gaol.’
‘That could happen,’ I said. ‘Your number?’
She reeled it off and I scribbled it down. ‘I’ll call later today.’
‘I don’t know where he is.’
‘That doesn’t matter. I want to hear what you have to say. Thank you.’
She was looking anxious and I didn’t want to press my luck. I scooted down the path and drove away briskly but U-turned further up the street and parked on the other side about fifty metres away from the house. Within a few minutes a taxi pulled up and a man got out. He was dressed in a suit and was a tailor’s dream — tall, broad- shouldered but slim everywhere else, with a glowing head of fair hair. He walked up Regina Kipps’ concrete path in a stride that was almost, but not quite, a swagger. Hot to trot.
Catching up with Ramsay Hewitt was proving to be tricky. If he kept on the move like this I could be at it for weeks. But I thought it’d be worth giving Mrs Kipps a ring later on. She’d said she didn’t know where he was but with Ramsay it was more a matter who he was with, and Mrs Kipps just might have some ideas about that. Her remark about wanting him in gaol might be something I’d have to edit out when I next talked to Tess.
I drove back towards the city at a leisurely pace, turning things over in my mind. I’d decided there was no- one out to kill me just now so I didn’t pay much attention to the traffic around me until I spotted a police car some distance back and weaving through other cars. Being a mostly law-abiding citizen, I eased my way over to let the car get through to wherever it was going.
It drew alongside of me and the uniformed cop in the passenger seat waved me into the kerb. The Falcon is a bit shabby but has no obvious unroadworthy features I was aware of, though who examines their tail-lights on a daily basis? There was nowhere to stop so I cruised along until there was. The police car stayed right behind me and I could see the one who wasn’t driving talking on his two-way. Not a cracked light or a bald tyre then. We were in Queens Street heading for Drummoyne and I pulled over into the car park adjacent to a small reserve. I did a quick mental check: no opened bottles containing alcohol, no concealed weapons, no bodies in the boot.
I sat there while they approached and when I saw they were both young I got nervous. Ninety per cent of police shootings are done by an officer under thirty — something like that. I wound the window down and put both hands on the steering wheel. See, no gun.
One approached and the other hung back with the two-way in his hand, as per regulations.
‘Mr Hardy?’
‘That’s right. What’s up?’
‘Step out of the car, please.’
Things are looking up. The old-style cops would have said, ‘Out!’
‘You open the door,’ I said. ‘If I drop my hand you’d have an excuse to shoot me.’
He nodded and opened the door. Serious guy. I climbed out slowly, partly not to alarm him with any sudden movement, partly because with a still braised stomach and a few years on the clock, that’s how I felt like getting out of the car.
‘Could I see some identification, please?’
‘You think I’ve stolen my own car?’
He was young, nervous and lacked a sense of humour, bad combination. He put one hand on his pistol and held out the other. I gave him my driver’s licence and he examined it closely before handing it back. ‘You’re wanted at Hurstville Police Station, Mr Hardy.’
I shook my head, ‘My lawyer phoned in early this morning.’
He spoke to his mate with the two-way. “The gentleman says his lawyer… made representations.’
The other cop spoke into his radio and then indicated in the negative. ‘Still wanted.’
‘Are you going to take me or can I drive myself?’
‘You can drive.’
