12
The map had been torn from a copy of 200 Kilometres Around Sydney and the crosses were at Mittagong, Wentworth Falls, Richmond and Taree. I fingered the paper, trying to decide whether it was from a new edition of the guide book or an old. New, probably. The big question was whether the crosses represented actual victims, intended victims or something else? I eyed the scotch bottle, wanting another drink but knowing that, with nothing in my stomach, it’d set me on my ear. The answer wasn’t in the bottle anyway. I put the stuff away, then locked the box and put it in the boot of the Falcon which I also locked. I put the distributor cap in my pocket and walked out of the motel courtyard towards a service station advertising just what I needed-’EATS’.
Over a greasy hamburger with chips and something pale green and pink they called a salad, I tried to work my way through the moral and professional thicket. If Bach/Schmidt, call him Bach, had still been alive, my duty would have been obvious-go straight to the cops because people are in danger. But Bach was dead and what I had was no more than evidence leading to the possible solution of possible crimes. Pretty thin. But there was more. If young women had been attacked or killed in those places, their families had a right to the information. I knew from experience that it’s the silence, the never-knowing that eats the lives out of the parents and friends of missing kids. But if there had been no such crimes then the information I had was, strictly speaking, something that had been purchased by Horrie Jacobs. And it was the last thing he’d want to hear about his late friend.
I sat in the little cafe along with a couple of truckies who were complaining about the new speed restrictions and the drug testing. They agreed that the fun was going out of the work. One said he was thinking of selling his rig and buying a taxi. The other said he was thinking of going into the pleasure cruise business. Men on the move. They appeared to enjoy their food and the bitching, and they were in good spirits when they went back out to their trucks. I wondered if they were going to race each other to Sydney. I didn’t taste the meal but I ate it for stomach lining and comfort. I had another problem with the contents of Bach’s box. Did they give any clues as to who had killed him, if that’s what had happened? Plenty to chew on.
There was a liquor store at the other end of the block and I bought a six-pack of light beer and a bottle of white wine, thinking that it was going to be a night that would need lubrication rather than the wipe-out the scotch would provide. As I walked back to the motel I found myself thinking about two women-Helen Broadway and Glenys Withers. There were good reasons for contacting both, quite apart from the fact that I was alone in a country town on a Wednesday night in spring.
I made instant coffee in the motel room and wrote some notes on the day’s work while I drank it. That still left me with three hours before I could go to bed and expect to sleep. I could’ve read fifty pages of Lonesome Dove in that time. I could turn on the TV and probably get to sleep a little sooner, or abuse alcohol with the same result. I cleaned my teeth, poured a glass of wine and called the number I had in my book for Broadway, Helen. My heart was hammering in my chest as I punched the last button.
‘Hello. This is Michael Broadway. Can’t come to the phone just now. Please leave a message after the tone. If you want Helen Broadway, her number is Kempsey 56 0594. Thank you.’
More dialling. More heart hammering. More wine.
‘Helen Broadway’
‘Helen, it’s Cliff.’
‘Cliff. Jesus. Wait till I get a cigarette.’
I waited. Smoking more than her avowed two a day, eh? Living apart from Michael. Strain in her voice. And pleasure? Need?
‘Cliff. Where are you?’
‘Near Newcastle. I’m working for Horrie Jacobs. You gave me a referral.’
‘Oh, yes. That nice man. Good. That’s good. God, it’s amazing. I was just thinking about you.’
I didn’t know what to say to that. Her tone was hard to judge over the phone. Not exactly cool, not exactly warm either. ‘How’ve you been, Helen?’
‘Lousy. Michael and I have split, finally. I suppose you gathered that from the answering machine? That’s all I’ve spoken to for weeks- that bloody answering machine. Oh, well, it had to happen.’
‘How’s Very?’
‘Not bad. She’s old enough to cope. I’ve got a house in town. She floats between us.’
I remembered Verity, Very for short, as a lively kid. Bright, interested in a lot of things and happy with herself. Well equipped. I heard Helen expel a breath and I could see her with her Gaulois and the quizzical, amused expression on her face. Kempsey was, how far? I could probably get there if I sobered up and drove for a few hours. But we’d done all that, the midnight driving, the passionate arrivals and bitter departures. ‘So,’ I said, ‘what brought this on? Did you
… find someone else?’
Her laugh was throaty the way I remembered it, but harsh from smoking. ‘Me? No. Michael did. A lady vigneron. She’s installed out there now and I suppose they’re lapping up a good red. Actually, she’s a nice woman and I’m happy for him. She’ll give him peace and be interested in what he does. Not like me. It’s just a bit hard, being on your own after all those years. Doing things solo. Including sex.’
That was Helen, direct and earthy. I could feel myself getting aroused-300 kilometres away and holding onto a telephone. What a world. I said something inane about marriage and asked her about her job at the radio station.
‘Really good,’ she said. ‘I’ve got this morning program-guests, talk-back, raves. I love it.’
‘I’ll listen tomorrow.’
‘You won’t. You’ll mean to, but you’ll forget or be off chasing something or somebody. I wanted to do more work on Mr Jacobs’ story but all this with Michael and Michelle blew up. Her name’s Michelle, would you believe it? Jesus. Anyway, Mr Jacobs and all that… it just all got away from me.’
‘I’m working on it. I wondered if you’d found out anything more.’
‘No. Is that why you rang?’
‘Yes. No, not really. I… I wanted to hear your voice…’
‘My voice! Radio and twenty fags a day is ruining it. You sound a bit pissed. Are you?’
‘Not really’
‘I know you. You’ve got a slight buzz on but it wouldn’t stop you doing anything-go for a walk, read a book, go to bed. Shit, Cliff, I can’t handle this. I’m hanging up.’
‘Helen…’
‘Don’t say a thing. Not a fucking thing. I’ll give you a call in Sydney or something, sometime. I don’t know. ‘Bye, Cliff.’
The cap had stayed on the scotch and the cork had gone in and out of the wine bottle only a few more times. I used the TV and good ol’ Larry McMurtry to see me through the night. In the morning I ate the healthy parts of the motel breakfast and did my stuff in the newly cleaned pool. I felt fine. The cuts were healed, more or less, and my head no longer ached. After a shower and shampoo and shave, I checked myself out. Hair-dark, grey-grizzled; face- battered but holding together, two chipped teeth; some thin lines of fat around the midsection, degenerated muscle; love handles, minimal. Could be worse. During my evening’s light drinking and reading, I’d convinced myself that the separation of personal and professional life was alienating. At 10 a.m. I phoned Senior Sergeant Glenys Withers.
‘Personnel. Sergeant Withers.’
‘This is Cliff Hardy.’
‘You’re up and about early,’ Ironical.
‘That’s me. I’ve found out some things about Oscar Bach that I think the police should know about.’
‘Why are you talking to me, then? You want Chief Inspector…’
‘No. Not yet at least. There’s a snag or two.’
‘There would be. Have you been getting yourself into trouble again? What is it this time? Broken leg?’
‘Nothing like that. Were you serious when you said you wanted to move out of personnel, do some real police work?’
