Aftershock Page 3

  ‘I have to come in from French’s Forest.’

  ‘Nice early start for you, Mr Jacobs. See you at nine.’

  I poured a small scotch, flooded it with soda water, told myself that it was infantile to want to put something in my mouth, set fire to it and give myself lung cancer, and sat down with the earthquake clippings. It was almost as if the papers had followed an even-handed policy—the accounts of people crushed, trapped and buried were balanced out with stories of near misses, miraculous escapes and heroism. For Australia, it was a major disaster. The Workers’ Club on the corner of King and Union Streets had folded like a card house; several floors had collapsed down into the car park. Nine dead, dozens injured. Photographs showed Beaumont Street, Hamilton, looking like a war zone. Buildings had fallen as if they had been bombed; three people had died when shop awnings and rubble had fallen on them. Many more had been injured.

  In the case of the Workers’ Club there looked to be a fair degree of human error. The building wasn’t old, not the part that had suffered most damage. There were questions raised about the suitability of some of the construction methods. There were ifs and buts about the Beaumont Street structures, too. Were the tie-rods supporting the awnings properly anchored? Had renovations and tartings-up weakened the fronts of the buildings? But in Hamilton the main problem appeared to be geological. The area was a flood plain and Beaumont Street itself was an old bed of the Hunter River. Its basic composition was sand, and when the quake struck it shook like jelly on a plate.

  The shock had hit buildings sacred and profane—the Workers’ Club, the Newcastle RSL Club, the Kent Hotel, several schools, community centres and churches. Oscar Bach had allegedly died when a section of the wall of the Holy Cross church had fallen on him as he was preparing to treat the church’s foundations with a pest control chemical. There were other casualties away from the centre of destruction, spreading out into the nearby towns and suburbs like aftershocks. A locally renowned musician had died after the evacuation of the hospital where he had undergone an operation; a hospitalised woman whose condition may have been aggravated by the earthquake also died. There were several traffic accidents attributable to the quake. Horrie Jacobs himself could be considered a victim.

  I’d experienced a few earth tremors myself—in the Solomon Islands where I’d been investigating an insurance fraud and on the south coast where I’d been holidaying with Cyn in one of our many failed efforts to keep the marriage together. I remembered swaying lights, falling books, spilled drinks and the startled barking of dogs, but nothing like this. For weeks people all over Sydney were inspecting their houses for cracks. We got a lot of heavy rain early in the year and people complained about leaks caused by the tremor. I didn’t. I knew I had leaks before the quake. On December 28 at 10.27 I’d been swimming in the Leichhardt municipal pool and hadn’t felt a thing. I’d written the earthquake off as one of those disasters that hadn’t touched me. But now it had. It couldn’t have been easy for Horrie Jacobs to consult me with his private problem that no one wanted to hear about. Maybe it wasn’t easy for Helen Broadway to give him my name, to probe at that wound.

  It was all very interesting, something to think about while I put the cat out and had another weak scotch. I took the dregs of the drink up to bed along with Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove, sure to take care of my reading needs for at least a month. I finished the drink and read about Cal and Gus and Jake and the pigs until I was sleepy. I put the book down and turned off the light. I knew what would happen. It was an unfailing pattern. I’d sleep for three hours, get up and piss and drink weak instant coffee and read and sleep some more. There’s a line in a Dire Straits song that says it all—‘You know it’s evil when you’re livin’ alone.’ Right on, Mark.

  4

  Ralph Jacobs resembled his father the way a dog resembles a duck. He was well over six feet tall and fleshy. His barbering and tailoring suggested vanity and he had the good manners of a man who has worked at having good manners. I’d beaten him to the office by about five minutes, giving me the moral edge. I had a feeling I was going to need every advantage I could find. I ushered him into the chair his father had sat in and took up my position behind the desk. My manners aren’t so good—I looked at my watch.

  ‘It’s good of you to see me,’ Ralph said. ‘But I think you’ll find it worthwhile. I won’t beat about the bush, Mr Hardy, my father’s mental state isn’t the best.’

  ‘Whose, Mr Jacobs?’

  ‘I’m glad you can see the amusing side of an old man’s deterioration.’

  ‘I can see the amusing side of someone calling gaga a bloke who struck me as very sharp and well in control of himself. And as a very nice man, too, by the way.’

  ‘He is a nice man and I’m very fond of him. That’s why I don’t want to see him distressed. And I have my mother to think of, as well.’

  ‘He didn’t say anything about his wife being sick.’

  ‘She isn’t.’

  ‘Then I don’t see your problem. Your father came to me with a matter that I’m equipped to handle …’

  ‘For a fee.’

  ‘Of course. What do you do for a living, Mr Jacobs?’

  He looked surprised at the question. ‘I run a chain of sporting goods stores. Also I manage the Chargers.’

  That explained his surprise. I recognised him now. ‘Wrecker’ Jacobs, who’d played Rugby League for Newcastle and regularly put city players in hospital in the the city versus country games. He’d refused all offers to play in the city competition and had only come to Sydney as a businessman and team manager. I hadn’t seen a photograph of the Wrecker since his playing days and he’d gained a good deal of weight and lost some hair. ‘I’ve placed you,’ I said. ‘Chargers aren’t doing so good, are they?’

  Jacobs eyed me now with frank dislike. ‘I did some checking around on you before I came here,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a few mates on the force and in your game, too.’

  ‘You would have.’

  ‘There’s those who say you’re honest and get the job done and some who reckon you’re a smartarse fuck-up.’

  ‘You can’t please everybody,’ I said.

  ‘Right now, I’m leaning to the smartarse point of view. You must be pretty desperate to take this case on. Haven’t you got anything better to do?’

  ‘Such as what?’

  I put a bit of an edge on the question and Jacobs had obviously done enough deals in his life to smell one when it started to cook. He unbuttoned the jacket of his double-breasted grey pinstripe and let a little flesh breathe. ‘I could put some work your way …’

  He stopped when he saw me grinning. He knew he’d been had. It made him angry. His already high colour mounted. ‘You bloody low-life loser. What a dump. What sort of a business could be run from here?’

  ‘I don’t run it from here really’ I said. ‘I run it out on the street and in pubs and other places where people talk to me and tell me things I need to know. Right now, I’d like to know why a prosperous business gentleman like yourself is worried about his father wanting to find out what happened to his friend.’

  Ralph snorted. ‘Friend!’

  ‘That’s what he called him. Do you say something different?’

  ‘It was a matter of time. The man was a crook. He was just waiting to take Dad for everything he had.’

  ‘I understood they were friends from before your father got rich.’

  ‘Did Dad tell you that?’

  ‘I’d have to check my notes, but that’s my impression.’

  ‘That’s bullshit. Bach hardly knew Dad before he won the Lotto. Then he moved in on him—“Let’s go fishing, Horrie,” and “Beer is for birdbrains, Horrie.’’ I tell you he was getting set.’

  There was malice in Jacobs’ voice, but also concern. He was aware that he was revealing more of his feelings than he’d intended and he reined back. ‘All this stuff about him not getting killed in the earthquake is crap. Dad got concussed and he can’t
think straight. Drop it.’

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t do that. I’ve taken his money.’

  ‘And you plan to take a hell of a lot more of it.’

  ‘I think you’d better go, Mr Jacobs, before this gets nasty. You don’t look like much of a wrecker to me now. You should turn out with the team now and then, get a bit of the flab off.’

  He half rose from his chair and his clothes suddenly weren’t fitting him so well. He had the hunched shoulders and corded neck of the front-row brawler. But he was a smart man who’d learned what a bad play physical violence was. He sat back and drew in a deep breath. ‘One of my police mates said you had something called ethics.’

  ‘He must’ve looked it up in his pocket Macquarie.’

  Jacobs cleared his throat. ‘I can see that you plan to go through with this. Go up to Newcastle, see Dad, sniff around.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Okay. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe when you tell him there’s nothing in it he’ll let it lie.’

  I shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  He got up and loomed over the desk, buttoning up the double-breaster. ‘I’ll just say this. I’ve got a lot of friends in Newcastle. Good blokes—cops, miners, football players.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ I said. ‘Must be nice to have some mates to drink with after you’ve dropped in on the old dad and mum. How long’s it been, Wrecker?’

  That went home. He wanted to hit me. He wanted to break something, but he didn’t. He showed his even, capped teeth in a smile that had all the warmth of a packet of frozen peas. ‘Just watch yourself up in Newcastle, smartarse,’ he said.

  I’d driven through and around Newcastle often enough over the past few years in my assaults on, and retreats from, Helen Broadway, but it had been ten years or more since I’d actually set a course for the city intending to do work there. The drive up the freeway is untesting and the rivers and ranges and glimpses of Lake Macquarie are easy on the eye. As drives in Australia go, the one from Sydney to Newcastle is calculated to allow you to arrive in a reasonably good mood. North of Belmont I noted the turn-off to Redhead and Dudley. I had an overnight bag on the front seat sitting on top of a manilla folder with the Jacobs case materials as assembled so far. I also had a camera, a pocket-sized tape recorder and a Smith & Wesson .38. I didn’t need Ralph Jacobs to tell me that Newcastle was a tough town where Sydneysiders can be thought of as invaders from another planet.

  Signs of the earthquake began in Broadmeadow—vacant blocks, braces holding up brick walls, scaffolding and tarpaulin-shrouded buildings—and increased closer to Hamilton. Beaumont Street had been considerably cleaned up, but there were still some shells of buildings, scars where awnings had fallen and braces, scaffolds and tarps. The Kent Hotel had been a victory for the conservationists. The building, which had lost almost its entire front wall, was in the process of renovation. Several empty blocks, scoured down to the sandy earth, indicated where the developers had won.

  I parked opposite a collection of bricks and metal that had once been a chemist shop, to judge from the remnants of the paintwork. It was five minutes to midday. That’s Hardy, compulsively early yet again. The day was mild, with a clear sky and a light wind keeping the temperature down. It might have been my imagination, but I fancied that some of the shoppers glanced up apprehensively at the awnings over the pavement and that more than a few of them kept to the roadway as much as they could. Dust from the reconstruction work going on hung in the air. The earthquake was still very much a presence in Beaumont Street.

  At noon precisely Horrie Jacobs appeared from around the corner to stand outside the Kent Hotel. I was parked about sixty metres away on the other side of the road, giving him a test. He passed it. He took off his sunglasses, shaded his eyes, looked up and down the street and spotted me. Pretty good for nearly seventy in a busy street. I got out of the car, crossed the road and we met outside a boarded-up shopfront. We shook hands. Horrie was wearing a polo shirt with an insignia on the pocket, cotton slacks and canvas shoes. He smelled slightly of aftershave and his face was scraped very close. Professional job.

  ‘It’s a mess, isn’t it?’

  I nodded. ‘The insurance companies couldn’t have been too happy.’

  ‘They’ve been pretty good, most of ’em. My place down the road got a bit of a hammering and the insurance came good. I haven’t heard too many complaints.’

  ‘Could you show me where everything happened?’

  We walked south along the street, away from the concentration of shops. Horrie stopped at a corner and pointed down a curving, tree-lined street. ‘Gollan Street. See the little joint there, the white one?’

  I looked at a narrow-fronted cottage with a minute front garden and an iron roof, the back part of which was weathered and the front, brand, spanking new. The other houses in the street bore similar signs of recent work. I nodded, thinking that Horrie and his son the Wrecker had come a long way from their humble beginnings.

  ‘My place. Can’t bear to sell it, so I rent it to a bloke like I told you. Well, I’d just come away after having a cuppa and a yarn and I came up to here and went along a bit.’

  We moved along the street until we were opposite an imposing brick church occupying a corner block on the other side of the road. A huge tarpaulin draped one side of it and there were piles of bricks and timber stacked on the nature strip of the side street.

  Horrie pointed. ‘Foundations on that side at the back fell in. Took the whole of the … dunno what you call it, the sticking out bit, down with ’em. They found Oscar there, about where you see that cement mixer, but in among the bricks.’

  The machine was inside the low wall that ran around the church. A section of tarpaulin flapped near it. I could see a yellow hard hat sitting on top of the drum.

  ‘But …’ I said.

  ‘But I saw him out on the street looking at the damage a couple of minutes later. Bricks had fallen right out on the road, bounced around and that. But Oscar was there, in his blue overall, still carrying something in his hand.’

  ‘What was he carrying?’

  ‘I couldn’t see. This was all over in a matter of seconds, you understand. The window of that shop there,’ he pointed to a large tinted window, ‘had fallen right out and I could see what had happened further up the street. Sounded like a bomb had gone off. People were screaming and there was a dust cloud starting to go up above the building level.’

  ‘No dust here?’

  ‘Fair bit, but not enough to stop me seeing what I saw. The whole of that part of the church was down and Oscar was standing clear of it. I might’ve waved at him, I don’t know. I know he saw me, but.’

  ‘How did you come to be at this spot?’

  ‘Didn’t I say? I was looking out for Oscar. I wanted him to take a look at the house. Thought it might need a treatment. I knew he was doing the church that morning and thought I might be able to grab him.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ I didn’t know whether that was good news or bad. A psychologist might say that the expectation had been realised in the mind rather than in reality.

  ‘Anyway,’ Horrie continued, ‘I scooted along to my car. It was parked back there.’

  He pointed back towards Gollan Street.

  ‘And I took off hell for leather for home. Do you want to go and take a closer look at the church?’

  ‘Later,’ I said. ‘How far did you get, Mr Jacobs?’

  A bit of the bounce went out of him. ‘Adamstown. I hit another car as I told you. My fault, I suppose. They took my licence away. May has to drive me around now. It’s a bloody nuisance. There’s nothing wrong with me. I can still drive.’

  There was a querulous note in his voice, the first time he had sounded anything but firm and confident. I took another look at the place, peaceful and quiet now but a scene of flying bricks and shattered glass back then. There were six houses placed so as to give a view of the side of the church. I asked Horrie Jacobs whether he had sought confirmat
ion of his account from the residents.

  He shook his head. ‘Never thought of it.’

  ‘Do you think the police would have talked to them?’

  ‘Not them. No chance! Want to try it now?’

  ‘That’s my job. You’re paying me to do it. What’re your plans now?’

  ‘Nothing much.’ He looked at his watch. ‘May’s picking me up in twenty minutes. Do you want to come out to Dudley?’

  ‘No. I’ve got a few things to do here and in Newcastle first. Would it be all right if I came out later this afternoon?’

  ‘For sure. Not a fisherman by any chance, are you?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’ve never caught a fish in my life.’

  ‘Pity. Well, I’ll see you at home later. And thanks, Mr Hardy.’

  ‘Cliff,’ I said.

  He nodded and walked off, a small figure holding himself very straight, but not quite the man I imagined him as being back on December 28.

  I ran my fingers through my hair and did up a button of my shirt. I was wearing drill trousers and my old but smart Italian leather shoes. I didn’t look like Richard Gere, but I wasn’t Charlie Chaplin either. I got out a notebook and pen and my Private Enquiry Agent’s licence and approached the first of the six houses, a wide fronted Federation job with windows that looked directly onto the collapsed side of Holy Cross church. I opened the gate, and walked up the path, keeping an eye and ear out for a dog. No dog. No one home either.

  At the next two houses I drew blanks. The women who spoke to me at the door seemed relieved that I hadn’t come to take money from them but couldn’t offer any help—not at home, or not looking in the direction of the church at the time. The fourth house had the best view of the destruction; light glinted on french windows looking out across a patio and a low fence towards the church.

  I went up the steps to the front of the house but I didn’t have to knock. The door was opened and a woman stood framed against the light. She had a cigarette in the hand she used to open the screen door and a drink in the other hand. Welcoming.