asked if he knew who had ordered it. He didn’t, he’s busy, he has assistants, things are done over the phone and online. I’m afraid I became upset and told him something-not that much-of what I’ve just told you. He suggested that I see you to find out if an… investigation is feasible.’
I’d been watching him closely and decided that the actor he resembled was William Hurt. He had the same thin hair, pale eyes and winning smile. My suspicious nature made me wonder if, as well as looking like an actor, he was one. But his manner was direct and his story was intriguing. There were questions, though.
‘Faked deaths have happened before,’ I said. ‘There was John Stonehouse and that other one not so long back.’
‘But they got caught. It can’t be easy to bring off.’
‘No, but as I’m sure you know, with all crime more gets away than gets caught. Just suppose she is still alive and I could find her. Wouldn’t that jeopardise your financial position?’
‘No. As I said, there was no life insurance to speak of and the assets weren’t quite what was expected. I had some investments of my own at the time and I worked with that as well as with what I got from Paula’s estate. What I have now I mostly accumulated through my own efforts and I could prove it. Besides, if you did find her I wouldn’t want to… expose her.’
‘Why bother to look, then?’
He released the slow smile again. ‘D’you remember Kerry Packer saying that acquiring Fairfax would amuse him? It’s a bit like that. No, that’s not quite honest. I admire her if that’s what she did, but I do feel… tricked. I’d like to know. I’d like to know how she did it. How she squirreled away a good deal of money. Not that I want it, not that I’m entitled to it.’
‘You’d also like to know why.’
‘Yes.’
‘How about- with whom?’
He shrugged his broad ex-swimmer’s shoulders. ‘If it worked out that way, so be it. But as I say, I don’t bear any serious grudge. If you can find her and have some solid evidence, an address and a photo, say, I’d take it from there.’ He plucked a wallet from his shirt pocket and extracted a couple of hundred-dollar notes as if they were tens.
I wasn’t sure that I quite believed him. People’s motives in coming to private detectives are often devious, but he told a good story and evidently had the money to pay for my time, which I had plenty of. I went through the usual routine-told him my retainer and fee structure, and that no outcome could be guaranteed. He showed a polite interest, signed a contract and paid the retainer. He handed me a full-length photograph of his presumed- to-be-late wife. Tall, slender, as you’d expect for a triathlete, with just a suggestion of weight gain around the face.
‘Now,’ I said, ‘who’s this lawyer who made the discreet enquiries?’
‘Do you have to know that? I told you what-’
I moved the signed contract back towards him a little. ‘I need to know, or this is cancelled by mutual agreement. And you get your money back, minus a small deduction for my time.’
He studied me for most of a minute. ‘Mr Ongarello said you were thorough. I’m beginning to see what he meant. Okay, his name is Simon Amherst. He’s a solicitor and his firm is Amherst and Bruce. They’re in the book. Good afternoon.’
He was getting up from his chair as he spoke- suddenly not charming, not pleased, not giving me time to be polite.
‘You realise that if she is still alive and you just satisfy your curiosity and do nothing more, you’d be conniving at… I don’t know
… some kind of civil, maybe criminal, deception?’
He smiled again. ‘I wouldn’t worry a whole hell of a lot about that, Mr Hardy. Would you?’
My first port of call was Mario’s shop. He greeted me in his Mediterranean way-big laugh, slap on the back, offer of a drink in his office. It was late in the afternoon, so why not? Some grappa’s like paint stripper, but not Mario’s. The stuff went down smoothly. I swear I could see olive trees and the Colosseum when I closed my eyes.
‘Mr Turner,’ I said. ‘The widower, or maybe not.’
‘Ah, yes.’ He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a credit card slip.
‘You told him you didn’t know who bought it.’
‘Different things-what I tell him and what I tell you. I wanted you to talk to him first. I can’t just give out information about customers. D’you think he’s genuine, Cliff?’
‘I’m flattered by your confidence in me. I’m not sure about him, but I’ve taken the matter on.’
‘Fair enough. Anyway, what I said was partly true. I don’t remember who bought the wreath, but this is how they paid.’
I examined the slip. The customer had paid with a MasterCard that had nearly two years of life left before it expired. It was a company card for Victory Motorcraft.
Back in the office, I phoned Bob Lawson, who worked for a credit checking company and did freelance stuff for people like me. He gave me the address.
‘Post office box in Ballina, up north,’ Bob said. ‘You lucky bugger. Off up there, are you, all expenses paid?’
‘Including you. Thanks, Bob.’
The Yellow Pages for the Northern Rivers area told me that Victory Motorcraft was a luxury boat-building operation on the Richmond River. The advertisement was minimalist-a thumbnail photo, phone and fax number, no names. Bob was right-at that time of year with a well-heeled client, a trip to Ballina was definitely required.
I flew there, hired a car and went to look for boatbuilding operations along the river. Winter down south, pretty mild up here. I needed the air conditioning in the car.
It didn’t take long to find the place. A quick look in my battered copy of Exploring Australia had told me that the river used to be home to dozens of boat builders but the business had gone elsewhere. Victory Motorcraft consisted of a large shed on an acre of land hard by the river. There was a slipway, a wharf or jetty with rails running from the wharf to the shed, winches, a small crane and other equipment unfamiliar to me.
I parked above the site where I could get a good view of it through my field glasses. A big, expensive, apparently brand new boat that looked ready to go was tied up at the wharf with people clustered around it. Three men in casual dress, two more in overalls and a woman. I trained my camera on her and adjusted the focus and the zoom. A bit older, a bit leaner and more tanned, but the woman was definitely Paula Turner, nee Ramanascus. I took several photographs of her in profile and then two full-face when she turned away, with a nod at one of the overall-wearers, from the river. Job done-hers and mine. She shook hands with the non-workers who stood looking at the boat and strode back towards the shed. She moved like an athlete, long striding, loose.
I had a boozy, slightly troubled night in Byron just for the hell of it and flew back the next day. I thought about it. From what I remembered of the Great Ocean Road, the ‘accident’ would have been difficult to stage. She must have needed help at that point and perhaps at other points. Resourceful woman. Was it any of my business? I couldn’t decide. I had the photos developed, typed up a report and Turner came by after I phoned him. The retainer had covered everything but he thanked me and gave me a bonus.
When I finished talking Lily looked disappointed. ‘What’s so bad about that? Cliff works fast, does good.’
‘Turner shot them all.’
‘Jesus. Who?’
‘His wife, her lover up in Ballina, and Amherst, the lawyer who helped her set it all up. And himself.’
Bookworm
Craig Minson runs a second-hand book shop in King Street, Newtown. I go in there occasionally to pick up something I’ve noticed in the review sections of the papers. Craig deals with a couple of the writers who flog him
