Wet Graves Read online

  PETER CORRIS is known as the ‘godfather’ of Australian crime fiction through his Cliff Hardy detective stories. He has written in many other areas, including a co-authored autobiography of the late Professor Fred Hollows, a history of boxing in Australia, spy novels, historical novels and a collection of short stories about golf (see www.petercorris.net). In 2009, Peter Corris was awarded the Ned Kelly Award for Best Fiction by the Crime Writers Association of Australia. He is married to writer Jean Bedford and has lived in Sydney for most of his life. They have three daughters and six grandsons.

  The Cliff Hardy collection

  The Dying Trade (1980)

  White Meat (1981)

  The Marvellous Boy (1982)

  The Empty Beach (1983)

  Heroin Annie (1984)

  Make Me Rich (1985)

  The Big Drop (1985)

  Deal Me Out (1986)

  The Greenwich Apartments (1986)

  The January Zone (1987)

  Man in the Shadows (1988)

  O’Fear (1990)

  Wet Graves (1991)

  Aftershock (1991)

  Beware of the Dog (1992)

  Burn, and Other Stories (1993)

  Matrimonial Causes (1993)

  Casino (1994)

  The Washington Club (1997)

  Forget Me If You Can (1997)

  The Reward (1997)

  The Black Prince (1998)

  The Other Side of Sorrow (1999)

  Lugarno (2001)

  Salt and Blood (2002)

  Master’s Mates (2003)

  The Coast Road (2004)

  Taking Care of Business (2004)

  Saving Billie (2005)

  The Undertow (2006)

  Appeal Denied (2007)

  The Big Score (2007)

  Open File (2008)

  Deep Water (2009)

  Torn Apart (2010)

  Follow the Money (2011)

  Comeback (2012)

  The Dunbar Case (2013)

  Silent Kill (2014)

  PETER

  CORRIS

  WET GRAVES

  This edition published by Allen & Unwin in 2014

  First published by Bantam Books, a division of Transworld Publishers, in 1991

  Copyright © Peter Corris 1991

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 76011 013 0 (pbk)

  ISBN 978 1 74343 795 7 (ebook)

  For

  Rodney Booth, Sue Cummings and the flathead.

  For specialist information on body disposal, recovery and pathology, my thanks to John Carmody, Paul Rosswood and Lyndsay Brown.

  1

  I’d brought the letters from my house in Glebe to my Darlinghurst office to give myself something official-feeling to do there. The Bankcard account and the electricity bill had gone up on the notice board to wait until I had the money and the inclination to pay them, but the two other envelopes looked more interesting. They were long and made of heavy duty paper, the kind you slit open rather than rip apart with your fingers. Both carried Sydney GPO box numbers to which they should be sent if wrongly delivered, but they had got their man—Mr Clifford A. Hardy. I took a Swiss army knife out of a drawer in the desk and slitted.

  The first letter was from the office of the Sheriff of New South Wales informing me that my number had come up. I was a citizen, a ratepayer, a voter and eligible for jury duty. Unless I was disqualified for some reason, I was obliged to fill out the attached form and hold myself ready to serve as a good man and true. I’d met the requirement for going on twenty-five years and had never been invited before. I felt rather pleased about it—responsible, mature, a serious person with a stake in the community.

  The other letter was from a Detective Sergeant Lawrence Griffin of the commercial licensing division of the New South Wales police, requiring me to present myself in one week’s time before the Glebe local court sitting as a court of petty sessions, to show why my private enquiry agent’s licence should not be cancelled and why I “should not be disqualified either permanently or temporarily from holding a licence”. I’d been a private detective for a shorter time than I’d been a solid citizen, but long enough. I thought I was in good standing. I’d had my licence threatened by the odd cop before, but that was usually heat-of-the-moment stuff—when they were angry because of something I’d done or said. More often said. But never anything as heavy as this. How could a man fit to serve on a jury not be fit to hold a PEA licence? It was bureaucracy run mad.

  “This is unfair,” I said to the old army surplus filing cabinet in the corner of the room. “There’s no justice.”

  The filing cabinet didn’t say anything but, as I addressed it, I remembered that I had a copy of the Commercial Agents and Private Enquiry Agents Act of 1963 somewhere inside it. So perhaps it was talking to me. Sometimes I think I’m becoming more of a mystic as I get older. I put this to my friend Harry Tickener in the bar of the Journalists’ Club recently and he said it was just age and loneliness. “Get a girlfriend,” Harry said, “get a tenant.”

  “I’ve had both,” I said. “They …”

  “Don’t last. I know. Have another drink. I’d sooner see you drunk than mystical.”

  Certainly, I’d ended up more drunk than mystical that night and good few other nights lately. “Time to open new files,” I said to the cabinet, “new windows on the world.” I remembered that there was a bottle of red wine in the cabinet as well as the Commercial Agents and Private Enquiry Agents Act of 1963, the instrument that ruled my life. I got up to commune with both. The office was gloomy but it was bright outside—an open window would be a good idea, too. I was halfway across the room when a firm knock came on the door. I turned, took two steps and opened the door. “Come in,” I said.

  The woman who stood in the doorway was close to six feet tall and strongly built. She wore a tailored blue overall with a red sweater underneath it and shoes with low heels. Her face would have been described in some quarters as “weather-beaten”. In fact she had good features, thick dark hair with some grey in it, and if her brown skin had a few more lines and grooves in it than Vogue recommends, bad luck for Vogue.

  “You couldn’t have made it from the desk to the door in that time,” she said. “Not possible.”

  “No. You’re right. I was heading for the filing cabinet when you knocked.”

  “Do it, then,” she said. “I believe in finishing what you start.”

  “Mm.” I agreed with her, of course. Tried to do just that, but momentarily I’d forgotten what I wanted from the cabinet. Couldn’t let that show. I waved at the client’s chair, shuffled forward and reached for the handle of the top drawer. “Please take a seat.”

  She strode across the frayed carpet as if she was used to rough ground and lowered herself into the chair. Memory returned when I saw the yellowed edges of the foo
lscap folders in the drawer and I rummaged through looking for my copy of the Act of the parliament of New South Wales. I found it in the second drawer, a bit dog-eared from being pushed aside rather than from assiduous reading. I pulled it out and slammed the drawer shut. She didn’t react. Good nerves or very preoccupied, I thought. I flipped the slim document onto the desk, sat down and tidied the papers in front of me.

  “How can I help you?” I said.

  She leaned forward and placed the card on which my name and the words “Private Enquiries” were written on the desk. There was a hole in the card where the drawing pin that held it to the door had been. “This was on the floor,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Careless, but you don’t go in for waste. I like that.”

  I felt I was holding ground, just. “Good.” I pulled a notepad towards me and clicked a biro. “I’m supposed to keep notes on everything I do. Even if we don’t do any business. I usually start by asking for a name.”

  She smiled and the lines around her eyes spread. “I suppose if you can’t even get a name there’s not much likelihood of doing business. I’m Louise Madden. I want you to find my father, Brian Madden. He went missing two months ago. You can write that down.”

  I did. “My fees are a hundred and eighty dollars a day plus expenses,” I said.

  She nodded. “You seem rather … formal. I didn’t expect that. I’ve had enough of formality. I was hoping for some energy.”

  “I can usually guarantee that.” I straightened the two letters and held them up. “I’ve been hit with a bit of formality myself lately. It must’ve rubbed off. I think I can promise you professionalism and independence.” I felt stuffy and middle-aged as I spoke. I’d given up smoking years ago and the bottle of wine was still in the cabinet, so there were no careless, youthful gestures to be made. I underlined her name on my notepad.

  “I landscaped a garden for Roberta Landy-Drake,” Louise Madden said. “A former client of yours. She recommended you.”

  That was good news. Mrs Landy-Drake expected a good job and paid handsomely for it. She held the view, unusual for a rich person, that the labourer was worthy of his hire. “That’s a good recommendation for us both,” I said.

  “Yes, she’s fun, isn’t she?”

  This women was full of surprises. People don’t usually talk about fun in the same breath as their dead dad. Still, attitudes to dead dads differ. I nodded and wrote “Landy-Drake” on my pad. Then I gave Ms Madden my level, professional stare, the look that’s supposed to get them talking.

  “My father was last seen in May. He was walking across the harbour bridge.”

  “Why?”

  “He liked to walk. He walked everywhere. It was recreation and exercise for him. No one seems to have understood that.”

  “By no one, you mean …”

  “The police. The missing persons branch, or whatever it is. They haven’t been helpful. They don’t seem interested. They don’t say so, but I have the feeling they think he jumped, committed suicide, not that they use the word.”

  “They try to avoid calling deaths suicides. They say it’s to spare the feelings of the family.”

  “I’m his only family. It didn’t spare my feelings. Is there another reason for avoiding the word?”

  “Doesn’t look good in the state statistics. Bad for business, bad for tourism.”

  “Christ. The hypocrisy,” she said.

  The real feelings were starting to seep out now under the layer of toughness. She wasn’t about to pull out tissues and weep but the emotions were working inside her.

  At this point in an interview, there’s two ways to go—operate on the emotions, get yourself a case and most likely a lot of confusion and trouble, or try to steady things down and see if there’s really a job of work to be done. I’ve gone both ways in my time, but I’m a little too old now for confusion, so I went the other way. “I’ve had a lot of dealings with the police over missing person reports. Their procedures can be puzzling to lay people, Ms Madden,” I said. “Efficiency can look like indifference. If there’s anything I can clarify for you, I’ll …”

  “Don’t patronise me, Mr Hardy. I don’t need anything clarified, thank you very much. My father did not commit suicide. Will you help me find out where he is or what’s happened to him?”

  “Have you got anything to support your opinion that he didn’t kill himself?”

  She nodded vigorously. “I knew the man. He was a happy, easy-going man, in good health, with no problems of any kind. He wasn’t bored. He loved life.”

  “Maybe the police mentioned misadventure? Misadventure strictly means accident.”

  “Some accident. Have you walked across the bridge lately?”

  I hadn’t, but from driving across it more times than I cared to remember, given the toll, I had an impression of a high fence beside the footway. I found myself drawing a rough sketch of the coathanger, complete with crosshatching and the water underneath.

  Louise Madden drew a deep breath. “I don’t expect miracles. Roberta said you have friends in the police force. Can you talk to them, find out what they did and see if there’s any more to be done? They must have been left with questions.”

  “I don’t want to sound reluctant to work for you, Ms Madden, but I like to have everything understood upfront. Private enquiries can be expensive and inconclusive. They’ve passed a freedom of information act in this state against all my expectations. You could apply for all documents and material considered by the police. That might be all I get, anyway.”

  “No! It’d take months or years. This thing is eating me up. I’m trying not to let it obsess me, trying to keep a sane perspective on things.”

  “I’d say you were doing fine.”

  “Thank you. But I want something done—now!”

  “Okay. I’ll get the details from you—names, dates and so on, and I’ll need a retainer of a thousand dollars. Any unexpended part of that’s refundable.”

  “Good.” She got a cheque book from a pocket in her overall and I started asking questions and writing down answers. Louise Madden was thirty-five, single, no children, self-employed. She had a degree in agricultural science from the Hawkesbury College and she lived at Leura in the Blue Mountains. Her landscape gardening business employed three people beside herself and was prospering. Her father, Brian Madden, fifty-six, schoolteacher, of Flat 3, 27 Loch Street, Milson’s Point, had been reported missing early on the morning of 5 May. A man answering his description had been seen walking towards the bridge footway from the north shortly after dawn. I got the names of the police officers Ms Madden had spoken to in person and on the telephone. She’d kept notes of the conversations and was prepared to let me see them.

  “Have you got a key to his flat?”

  “No. There was no need. Dad always leaves a key under a flowerpot at the back.”

  “Trusting,” I said.

  She passed her cheque across the desk. “He’s a lovely man, Mr Hardy. He’s gentle and kind. My mother died when I was twelve. Lots of fathers couldn’t have coped, but my Dad did. I never felt that I lacked for anything, not really.”

  “No money worries?” I said.

  “My mother had had a long and expensive illness and I think Dad was still paying off hospitals and doctors for years after she died. He loved the school he was at and wouldn’t go for promotions that’d take him away. So there wasn’t much money, but it never seemed to matter. I went to James Ruse High and on from there. It must have been tough for him at times, but he never complained.”

  “You say his health was good?”

  She tucked the chequebook away, clicked off her pen and gave me her level look. “You mean, what about his sex life? You’d probably also like to know about mine. Mm?”

  “Natural curiosity, nothing more.”

  She grinned. “Dad played golf at Chatswood. I understand there was a woman there he spent some time with. I don’t know her name but I could find ou
t. We saw each other most weeks, Dad and me, but we didn’t live in each other’s pockets.”

  “The name could be useful.”

  “You’re being diplomatic, I see. I’m bisexual and I’m between partners at the moment. I believe in being upfront too, Mr Hardy, and I want you to understand that I owe my Dad more than he’s got from the bloody police so far.”

  “I understand. I’ll do everything I can. Have you got a recent photograph of your father?”

  “Not very recent. The one I had I gave to the police, and they haven’t returned it yet.”

  “I should be able to get hold of it.”

  She stood up and straightened her overall. “I must say I’m a bit disappointed.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Roberta said you were … charming and quite funny.”

  I was standing too by this time and I waved my hand at the papers on the desk. “I’ve got a few problems that’re cutting down on the charm and the laughs. Tell you what, though, I could show you something that’d give you a laugh.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My garden. The only way to landscape it’d be with a jackhammer.”

  So at least I sent her off smiling.

  I took a fresh manila folder, wrote “Madden” on the outside, tore off the three sheets of notepad and put them inside. Begin as you mean to go on—neat and tidy. Then I leafed through the forty-five printed pages of the Act. As I read, the lines from the Paul Simon song came into my head—“There must be fifty ways to leave your lover”. There were nearly that number of ways to lose your licence, temporarily or permanently: to commit an indictable offence was a pretty good way, also to be cited adversely in evidence given in court; to employ as a sub-agent an unqualified person could get you in trouble and “unduly harassing any person” was pretty bad. A bit further down in section 17, subsection 1, I found it: “Every licensed private enquiry agent shall paint or affix and keep painted or affixed on his place of business in a conspicuous position a notice showing in legible characters his name and description as a licensed private enquiry agent.”

  The damning evidence was right there on the desk in front of me—the card with the hole through it. I didn’t even have the pin. I was in total breach of 17(1). But how could they know? The card had been on my door when I came in an hour before, hadn’t it? Well, had it? I couldn’t be sure.