The Undertow Read online

  ‘You’re right there. If you’re right about the rest of it I just can’t understand why Sawtell would stick around. He’d be safer in Thailand or some place.’

  ‘Maybe he went away and came back.’

  As soon as I spoke the same thought struck us simultaneously. ‘Jesus,’ Frank said, ‘didn’t William tell you he was into an immigration racket—passports, documents, all that?’

  I nodded. ‘That’s a big jump, Frank.’

  Frank drained his glass. ‘You started it. Sawtell’s in Indonesia, say, sitting pretty. William Heysen comes in sniffing around looking to make money with an immigration scam. Sawtell’s already screwed his father for some reason or other and now it amuses him to get the son into deep shit. I told you he was devious and vicious.’

  ‘With a sense of humour.’

  ‘Right. Twisted, though, and directed at other people rather than himself. He’s capable of just about anything you can think of. If that kid’s in with him he’s in trouble.’

  ‘He’s not your responsibility. There’ve been so many lies and so much deception.’

  ‘I feel that he is, but it’s more than that. Sawtell’s a danger to Catherine, you, me, William, everybody.’

  ‘I think I can find William,’ I said.

  ‘You didn’t tell me that.’

  I was a bit drunk; I waved my glass. ‘With all this fun we’re having it must’ve slipped my mind.’

  21

  I went for a long walk around Paddington and Darlinghurst. I passed the block of flats where Roma Brown lived and couldn’t help looking up at the window opposite where she saw things that stimulated her. Nothing to see from street level. The ground floor of the building that had housed the Heysen–Bellamy medical practice had become some kind of IT consultancy. Sign of the times.

  The food had blotted up some of the alcohol, and after I drank coffee back at Frank and Hilde’s place I was fit to drive home. Lily was there, picking up things she hadn’t yet collected. I hadn’t seen her for a few days but that was nothing unusual. I’d phoned but got her answering machine three times, which meant that she was hard at work. We fell back into comfortable dealings very easily.

  ‘You’ve been on the piss,’ she said. She touched my lip where the split was knitting into a pale scar. ‘Don’t tell me you did that falling over.’

  ‘That’s an honourable professional wound.’

  ‘One of many.’

  I told her about Peter and Ramona and that they were keen to meet her. I also told her about the confirmation that Frank was William Heysen’s father.

  ‘Interesting. I feel a bit out of it with all these stray kids turning up.’

  ‘No you don’t.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re right. I’d be the mother from hell. Came close a few times but always had the scrape. I have to run, Cliff. Deadline. Give me a ring. Always glad to see Frank and Hilde.’

  ‘Grandpa and Grandma to be.’

  She kissed me and left.

  My contact at the RTA had read too much le Carré and Len Deighton. He liked to think of himself as a mole, selling his organisation’s secrets to an enemy power. In a way he’s right, and he is taking risks, although the worst he’d get is dismissal rather than the Lubianka or the Isle of Wight. Still, that’s the way he likes to play it. My payment goes into his TAB account which, since he charges steeply and I’m sure I’m not his only client, perhaps suggests why he keeps on working.

  I phoned him with William Heysen’s car registration number.

  ‘I’m snowed under,’ he said. ‘Call you back.’

  ‘It’s urgent.’

  ‘It’ll cost you.’

  ‘What first-class service doesn’t?’

  That got me a laugh and a pretty quick return call. William Franz Heysen drove a late model Toyota Land Cruiser—colour black. His address was 2/15 Shetland Street, Bowral.

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Checks with the driver’s licence. I threw that in for free. You want the previous addresses on the licence? Cost you extra.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Roger.’ He named the fee. ‘Over and out.’ Maybe he’d been a Biggles reader.

  I hadn’t seen William as a country dweller but then, maybe Bowral isn’t exactly country these days. All I knew about it was that Graham Kennedy had lived there somewhere before he died, and that Jimmy Barnes once had a place there too. Maybe still did.

  I was about to pick up the phone to tell Frank I had an address for William when it rang.

  ‘Mr Hardy, you’ve been neglecting me.’

  Catherine Heysen was one of those people who didn’t feel the need to identify themselves over the phone, believing that they can project themselves sufficiently by voice alone. With her, it worked.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Heysen. There’s been quite a lot going on.’

  ‘Which I want to hear about. I suppose you’ve seen Frank and know his paternity has been confirmed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you found where William is?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘We really must talk. I’d like you to come here, please. After all, I am paying you.’

  She couldn’t resist slipping that in, but she had a point. There was a fair bit to tell her and, as Frank had said, she was still in danger if our theories were right. William could wait. But I wasn’t going to let her have it all her own way.

  ‘How’s the shoulder?’

  ‘Healing very well, thank you.’

  Almost flirtatious at first, she was now back to being the ice queen. William had said she was a liar and had dropped other hints about her, but there was no good reason to believe that he always told the truth. I’m amused whenever I hear someone say, ‘I like working with people’. People are hell.

  ‘Mr Hardy?’

  ‘I could be there in an hour.’

  She’d got what she wanted. She hung up without another word.

  I always think Lane Cove has a look of mortgages having been paid off. I’m not sure why, it probably isn’t true, but the suburb has a comfortable feel, as if the residents have put their troubles to rest. The house where Catherine Heysen was staying was more comfortable than most—an expansive Federation number that had been given another storey without too much disturbance of its original lines. Hard to do. It was set on a big sloping block so that the house was well above the street level and would have, from the upper floor, a good view over the houses opposite to the National Park. Might even catch a glimpse of the river.

  No need to worry about security. A high cyclone fence overgrown with creeper ran along the side, and both gates in the imposing brick fence had all the alarm systems they needed. I pressed a buzzer by the entrance, aware that I was under video surveillance. After a short pause the heavy iron gate swung open and I went up a tiled path to the house. Wide verandahs all around. Well-tended garden on both sides, well-worn bluestone steps.

  The door opened before I reached it and a largish man in a suit stood waiting for me. He stuck out his hand. Heavy rings on two fingers. Had to be the brother who took after the mum.

  ‘Bruno Beddoes,’ he said. ‘Catherine’s brother.’

  It struck me that this was how William Heysen might look in twenty years time—confident, well-groomed, a bit soft. That’s if he managed to stay out of gaol in one country or another. We shook hands and he told me that Catherine was waiting for me at the back. We went down a wide hallway with rooms off either side to a short passage leading out through French doors to the verandah. More tiles, more creeper, hanging baskets, wind chimes.

  Catherine Heysen was posed on a cane lounge with a cashmere blanket over her knees. She wore a loose black sweater which emphasised her pallor. Wearing less makeup but with her hair carefully arranged, she had an air of fragility quite unlike how she had appeared at our first meeting. She extended her hand to me and I took it briefly. Cool and dry. What else?

  ‘Please sit down, Mr Hardy. Would you like some t
ea or coffee? Perhaps a drink?’

  ‘Nothing, thank you. I can’t stay long. I’ve found that your son is living in Bowral. I’m driving down there this evening to talk to him. He’s apparently involved in something that could land him in trouble. Frank’s very concerned about him.’

  ‘As I’d expect. What sort of trouble?’

  ‘To do with immigration as I told you. The details are unclear.’

  ‘Surely there’s legitimate work in that area?’

  ‘I suppose so, but the indications are . . .’

  ‘And what are they, the indications?’

  ‘Can I tell you the suspicions I have about who may have framed your husband and arranged for you to be shot?’

  ‘You already have—a disgruntled client of Gregory’s to do with his . . . unpleasant sideline. I found it plausible.’

  She couldn’t help patronising me, just couldn’t hold it in. I remembered Lily saying she would have been the mother from hell. This woman looked more like it. I tossed up whether to tell her almost nothing or to hit her right between the eyes. Pique won out.

  ‘There’s a man named Matthew Henry Sawtell. He—’ The almond eyes flashed and her clasped hands flew up to her face. ‘Oh, my God!’

  Better than I thought, but too much better. She stared at me through her fingers.

  ‘I . . . I knew him,’ she said. ‘I thought he was dead.’

  ‘He might be, or he might not. I told you this was just a suspicion.’

  She was genuinely alarmed and, although I doubted the genuineness of her invalid pose, she had been shot and could still be emotionally shaky. I half rose from my seat.

  ‘Are you all right? Can I get you something?’

  ‘Yes, yes please. Can you find someone in the house and ask them to get me a cognac.’

  Make it two, I thought.

  When I arrived the house had seemed empty, apart from Bruno, but now people appeared from everywhere.

  Another man and two women. The women fussed over Catherine and Bruno produced a bottle of cognac and a couple of glasses. He handed me the tray.

  ‘I hope you’re not upsetting her.’

  ‘Trying not to, but I think some chickens are coming home to roost.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘You can ask her when I go.’

  ‘Make that soon.’

  I went back to the verandah and poured two solid drinks. She tossed off half of hers and then took a small sip as she looked at a point somewhere above my head.

  ‘Matthew Sawtell and I were lovers. I . . . left him for Frank.’

  I was tempted to tell her that William had said she had a thing for uniforms, but I kept quiet.

  Speaking slowly, she went on. ‘He was very upset about it. Frank was junior to him and it hurt his pride. Of course he was married. He was in no position to—’

  ‘Did Frank know of your relationship with Sawtell?’

  ‘No, because Matthew was married we kept it very secret.’

  It was a whole new element but it didn’t disturb the theory, rather it strengthened it. If Sawtell had a grudge against Heysen, presumably for making a mess of the plastic job, he’d be pleased to get back at the woman who’d dumped him as well. I didn’t need to spell it out for her. She finished her drink and held out the glass for more. I obliged. This was the closest to loss of control that I’d seen in her and she couldn’t hold back.

  ‘I haven’t been entirely truthful with you, or with Frank. It was true that I thought Frank could be William’s father and that’s how it turned out. And I didn’t think Gregory would behave as the police said he did. But my real reason for contacting Frank was that . . . I needed someone, I wanted him . . .’

  More cognac went down and I had some myself. Good stuff.

  ‘I’ve had an empty life since coming back from Italy. I hate it here and only stayed for William’s sake. If we’d remained in Italy he would have had to do military service and who knows what might have happened to him? And after all that, and trying to be a good mother, everything fell apart. I needed someone. Do you understand?’

  I did, but I didn’t entirely believe her. She was capable of being more than just economical with the truth, she could adjust it to suit her needs and probably believed the adjustment was the reality. Behind that beautiful face was a disturbed psyche. I was sure she’d manipulated William from the cradle on. She had the knack, as shown by the kind of treatment she was getting in this house. I gave her no more than a semi-encouraging nod.

  ‘And Frank didn’t want me, of course. Why would he? He had a wife and a child, people he loved. And he handed the problem on to you. And now I . . .’

  She would always circle back to herself from whatever point she started. She stopped speaking, took another belt of the cognac and then the thought got to her, through the protective shield of her self-concern.

  ‘My God,’ she said, ‘you don’t think William is involved with Matthew Sawtell?’

  She was one of those people who go easy on themselves and blame others. I didn’t spare her. ‘Why not?’ I said.

  ‘He’s a murderer.’

  ‘Yes, and if all this speculation’s right, he’s already killed a man just recently.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man who shot you and bashed me.’

  Her hand trembled as she put the glass down on the tiles. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, ‘you didn’t.’

  Big Bruno tried to block me on my way out but I was moving quickly; I caught him by surprise and pushed him aside.

  ‘Look after her,’ I said. ‘She seems to be upset.’

  22

  Outside it was dark with a chill wind getting up. I sat in the car grateful for its warmth and tried to think about what to do next. There were things to tell Frank but nothing he’d want to hear. I thought about how matters had fallen into place for him—Hilde, Peter, his grandchildren on the way. Leave him in peace, I thought. Against that, if it was really Sawtell we were up against, and he went feral, that peace could be shattered. I couldn’t decide. Army strategy seemed like the best bet—when in doubt, do a recce.

  I keep the necessities for operational survival—toothbrush, razor, soap, towel, a half-bottle of whisky and two plastic containers, one full of water, the other to piss in—in the car. The downside of my arrangement with Lily is the frequent lonely nights, the upside is not having to check in.

  I worked my way south-west, picked up the freeway and followed it down as it skirted towns like Yerrinbool and Mittagong. Time was when you had to go through them and country driving was like driving in the country. Now it’s set the cruise control and get there, not that the Falcon has cruise control. I turned on the radio to catch the news. Just in case Bush had pressed the button and this was all a waste of time.

  As I drove I wondered whether I still had a client. Catherine Heysen had bared her soul. More than anything else she’d been man-hunting. I had to assume she still cared for her son but, given her egocentricity, that was a slender thread and my rudeness to her might have been enough to snap it. Possibly, but probably not. As for Frank, whose money I still hadn’t worked through, he’d be pissed off at this independent action. But I could always mend bridges with him. That led to the thought that my objective here, for both parties, was to get William Heysen clear of the shit.

  It was after 9 pm when I reached Bowral but the town hadn’t closed down. Several pubs were busy and there were restaurants doing fair to good business along the main street. The days when all you’d find in a town like this was a Greek cafe, maybe a Chinese, were long gone. Good thing.

  I was low on petrol and energy and I pulled in at a servo with a fast food outfall, as Andrew Denton had once styled them. I topped up, bought a street map of the town, coffee, and the least toxic-looking sandwich I could see in the display case. I sat in the far corner of the sparsely populated eating area, concealed the action behind the map, and sp
iked the coffee with cut-price scotch. Maybe it was just my hunger, or the alcohol lift or my hyped-up state, but the sandwich tasted surprisingly good and I bought another.

  No problem locating Shetland Street; it ran off the main drag, not far from where I was. A short cul-de-sac. I wouldn’t have expected William to locate himself in the foothills. I ate the second sandwich, drank the coffee and speculated about the town. All the signs were that it was keeping pace with the times: the restaurants and cafes, the craft shops—all with advertised websites—bricked footpaths and judiciously spaced and nicely staked trees. It undoubtedly had computer service companies and broadband. Many of the houses I’d seen on the way in had sprouted pay-TV satellite dishes. A good place to set up William’s probably dodgy operation—good communications, close enough, but not too close rent-wise to Sydney and Canberra. A good place for ‘Mad Matt’ Sawtell to ply whatever trade he was pursuing?

  The payphone in the service station cafe had a phone book and I looked up William. No listing. Without any particular plan in mind, I drove to Shetland Street. William’s flat was in a new and pretty up-market block above a collection of four shops. The street was well lit and I could see that the complex had high security—an electronically controlled gate to get to the parking area and something similar at the foot entrance.

  I got out of the car and crossed the street for a closer inspection. There were four apartments. You had to buzz to get past the gate and there were no names posted. I buzzed all four: two didn’t answer and the two that responded did so with female voices. A girlfriend? Didn’t seem likely. Neither voice sounded young. Presumably our boy was out somewhere. Well, I could wait.

  I took a look at the shops: a Vietnamese bakery, an accountant, a hair and beauty pit stop, and a travel agency—Speciality Travel. A sign in the smoked glass window read: ‘passport photographs, visas arranged, online bookings, video conferencing’. No way to be sure, but it looked as if William could be cutting down the time and distance between home and work.