‘The police say it wasn’t a murder, or if it was they don’t give a shit.’
‘That’s interesting.’
Elliott was in his late twenties or early thirties, a slim, elegant figure in designer clothes with what I took to be an expensive haircut. Ditto the wristwatch. He told me that he was gay, HIV positive but asymptomatic for more than ten years.
‘One of the lucky ones,’ he said.
I nodded. Having an office in Darlinghurst, not far from Kings Cross, I’d seen a good many of the unlucky ones.
‘My partner of nine years was named Simon Townsley. A lovely man. We… we were married in all but name, you know?’
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘Simon was a bit older than me and he contracted HIV earlier and didn’t have the test for quite a while. So he was positive and untreated for longer than he should have been.’ He spread his hands in a theatrical gesture. ‘So, AIDS of course. But he was very strong and fit…’
‘I didn’t think that mattered.’
‘They’re starting to find out that it does. Anyway, he responded very well to the drugs, the cocktail. He’d had a few infections early on but once he was on the treatment, that stopped and he put on the weight he’d lost and it looked like he was going to make it, or at least get another ten good years. He was forty-six and ten years seemed like a lifetime after what was happening all around us. We considered ourselves lucky.’
‘But,’ I said.
‘But he went away on a tour for ten weeks and when he came back he wasn’t the same. The drugs didn’t seem to be working. He got sick again, one thing after another, but he still insisted on working. Then
… there was an outdoor gig and it rained and it was freezing and he got pneumonia. He died. There was no inquest or autopsy or anything. They called it “an AIDS related illness” and that was that.’
‘Are you sure it wasn’t?’
He hammered his fist on the desk-nothing theatrical about him now. ‘I know it wasn’t. Something happened on that tour.’
‘What sort of tour?’
‘Simon was in a band, a gay band-the Stonewallers. You never heard of them?’
‘No. I left off at Dire Straits.’
‘They were big a few years ago. Their CDs sold well and they were getting good fees for gigs. They went into a bit of a slump when Simon first got sick. He is-was-the lead guitarist. The heart of the band. But they were on the way back. A new record deal was in the works. He knew I loved him and he had everything to live for, but he just seemed to give up.’
‘What did the doctors say?’
Elliott shrugged. ‘That the cocktail sometimes doesn’t work, or only works for a while.’
It didn’t sound promising. I knew virtually nothing about AIDS apart from what I read in the papers and saw on television. I’d heard of AZT but didn’t know what the letters stood for. I knew it worked for some and not for others, depending on a variety of factors. On the other hand, Elliott was an impressive type and it looked as if anger was fuelling him rather than hysteria. In my book, anger’s a valid emotion.
‘I’m not sure about this, Mr Elliott,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you could tell me a bit more about yourself
‘Well, I own some property around the city. My family was well off. I trained as a lawyer but I don’t practise. I run a small record company-Chippendale Classics. I don’t imagine you’ve heard of it.’
‘I know less about classical music than I do about contemporary stuff. Isn’t that a little unusual, a classics buff teaming up with a rocker?’
He smiled. ‘Yes, but it worked for us.’
It was impossible not to like him and to admire the way he conducted himself. Still, I played it cautious.
‘What did you have in mind for me to do?’
‘There are three other members of the band, plus the manager and a roadie. They were on the tour. They, or one of them, must know something about what happened to Simon.’
‘Have you asked them?’
‘Of course. They say they don’t know anything. But I’m not exactly forceful and I don’t have the resources to investigate them. I thought that if you looked at them thoroughly, you might come up with something and could use it to get the truth.’
‘And if I find nothing?’
‘You’ll do it then?’
I said I would and got out a contract form and started in on it. I waited for an answer to my question but it never came. He gave me the names of the Stonewallers and the manager and roadie and the addresses and phone numbers he had for them. We agreed on a retainer. I took down his details and he wrote me a cheque. Before he left he took a CD from his jacket pocket and handed it across.
‘They’re not unlike Dire Straits in certain moods.’
That night I played the CD which was entitled ‘Glad to be Gay’. The lineup was Carl Reiss on drums, Seb Jones, rhythm guitar, Craig Pappas, bass guitar and Simon Townsley, lead guitar and vocals. The tracks were a mixture of gay anthems and middle of the road rock. They had something and Elliott was right, there was a touch of Mark Knopfler in Townsley s lyrical guitar and breathy singing. I liked it.
Elliott had told me that the group’s manager was Manny Roche and the roadie for the tour had been Don Berry. I put through a call to Steve Cook, a rock journalist I sometimes drank with at the Toxteth Hotel and, more rarely, played squash with in Leichhardt. He used to be junior squash champion of South Australia and, although cigarettes have taken a toll of his wind, he could still beat me just by taking a few steps backwards, forwards and sideways.
‘Steve, I need to tap your encyclopedic knowledge of the rock scene.’
‘Shoot.’
‘The Stonewallers.’
‘Aha.’
‘Why aren’t I getting your usual bored cynicism?’
‘They’ve got a new singer and a new record deal. They’re hot. Make that warming up. Do you know something I should know?’
‘No. What can you tell me about them?’
He gave me a potted history of the band, which lasted through three of his cigarettes. According to Steve they’d been remarkable for their compatibility as a group. There’d been no bust-ups or financial or creative ructions. Simon Townsley’s death had come as a surprise because, as Elliott had said, he appeared to be winning his battle with AIDS.
‘They had a song called “T-count” all about it. Pretty good stuff. Then he was gone. What’s your interest?’
‘I can’t tell you now. If there’s anything in it for you I’ll let you know. What about the manager, this Manny Roche?’
‘No worse than the run of them.’
‘Hardly a ringing endorsement.’
‘Rock managers aren’t among the more attractive forms of life on the planet, mate. I’d rate them below private eyes and journalists. Most people would.’
‘Have you heard of a roadie named Don Berry?’
‘Do roadies have names? I didn’t know that.’
‘Who’s this new singer?’
‘Dyke called Jo-Jo Moon. She’s been around. Great singer who never found her niche.’
‘Is this it?’
‘That’s the word. They’re putting down an album and preparing to go on the road. All very hush-hush, which means everyone’s talking about it.’
He said he’d fax me what he had on the band and we agreed to meet for a drink soon.
