Salt and Blood Page 3

  In the morning a courier brought a package containing a photograph, a set of keys and a credit card. The keys were labelled with the address of a flat in Bondi. Christ, I thought, they’re not even going to show him the place. The photograph showed a dark-haired man and a fair-haired woman with a child of, to me, uncertain age. Just toddling perhaps. The man was thin and handsome in a Tony Perkins sort of way. The woman was willowy with an angry look to her. I hoped Glen had a better and later photograph of the daughter because it was impossible to even guess from this one what she might look like seven years later. The slip containing the PIN was enclosed with the card and I wondered how much money they’d put at Rodney’s disposal. Easy enough to find out.

  With the day to kill I paid two visits, one to my doctor in Glebe, Ian Sangster, and one to Frank Parker, an old friend who retired as a Deputy Commissioner of Police. I asked Ian, who’d dealt with quite a few mentally damaged people in his time, some of them well-heeled, if he knew anything about Rutherford House. He didn’t. Said he’d ask.

  Frank and Hilde Parker live in Tamarama, giving me a chance to kill two birds with one stone. On the way to their place I called in at the flat in a street off Curlewis Street, Bondi, a few blocks back from the beach, to see what his loving family had assigned to Rodney. Pretty nice—adequately furnished, two bedrooms, well fitted out kitchen and living room, decent balcony. A big Malibu surfboard took up space in one of the bedrooms and if Rodney wanted to go surfing he didn’t have far to trot. Likewise if he wanted to go drinking. There was an envelope taped to the board and I took a look at it. A receipt from a city surfshop carrying the brand of the board, the name of the shaper and the identification number. No note saying, ‘Love, Mum.’

  Frank was swimming laps in his pool when I arrived. He climbed out, looking glad to stop. He told me that Hilde was off playing tennis. I asked about their son, Cliff, whose anti-godfather I am.

  ‘Backpacking,’ Frank said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Europe.’

  ‘You’d have given him a telecard so he can call home like Peter Reith did for his kid.’

  Frank rubbed his hair dry. ‘He reverses the charges when he bothers to call. Fancy a beer?’

  We had a drink in the shade by the pool and I asked Frank if he knew anything about a case involving Rodney Harkness and assault on a police officer.

  ‘Vaguely. Tell me more.’

  I filled in what I knew and Frank nodded several time as he worked on his can. When I finished he gave me one of the wintry, enigmatic smiles that used to make offenders very uncomfortable. “The name was familiar, especially the St John bit, and a little of what you’re saying comes back to me. I can’t add much to that. What I do remember is about the father, Ralph Harkness, Sir Ralph.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Suicide,’ Frank said. ‘Very suss.’

  4

  Frank said he’d forgotten the details of Sir Ralph St John Harkness’s death but had an impression that it had been well and truly hushed up. He said he’d check with some people who’d know. I gave him the number of the Bondi flat. On the way home I stopped at an ATM and checked on Rodney’s credit rating. They’d deposited $7328 for him. It seemed a strange amount and I concluded that it might have been his money to start with, plus interest. Not much of a nest egg to face life with after seven years’ incarceration. I wondered what other support the family intended to provide. At a guess, not much.

  I phoned Glen when I got home but got her answering machine. I didn’t leave a message but I sent her an email detailing what Frank had told me and about the flat and the bank account. I was keeping to my part of the bargain about sharing information and I hoped she’d keep to hers. In the evening, after Chow Hayes had shot a few more people, I settled down with my notebook and drew my usual diagram. It showed the names of the parties in the case so far arranged around the edges of the page, and dotted lines with arrows joining them up indicating their relationships, together with what snippets of information I had about them. I don’t know that these jottings ever helped me work something out but they help me to remember things and they do provoke questions. In this instance a couple jumped out. Warren and Rodney Harkness were the only children of Sir Ralph and Lady Rachel, but did Warren have any offspring? Living with his mum like that it seemed unlikely, so wouldn’t Rodney’s daughter be the logical heir to the Harkness millions? If not, how come? And if so, why stay out of touch with her for seven years?

  I didn’t know much about wills and inheritance except that they were a frequent cause of family friction. My understanding was that you couldn’t cut a blood relation out of your will without good cause and such an action could be readily challenged in the courts. I wondered if Lucille Hammond had divorced Rodney and made a note to find out. Even if she had, and wanted nothing to do with the Harknesses, wouldn’t she still have an eye to her daughter’s inheritance?

  I had an impulse to send Glen another email about these questions but I suppressed it. She’d most likely have thought of them herself and if she hadn’t she’d probably resent my interference. But it chafed at me and reminded me why I preferred to work alone—two heads might be better than one, but they can’t instantly swap what’s inside them.

  As I mulled things over I thought how little of people’s lives show on the surface. I remember the people in our street in Maroubra and how my mother used to gossip about them while smoking her endless Craven A filters and sipping her Penfolds sweet sherries. Fred Harrison two doors away was sleeping with his wife’s sister with the wife’s knowledge and consent; Dulcie Lamb, the Salvation Army sergeant across the street, was an ex-prostitute; Sammy Porter on the corner, aspiring Eastern Suburbs footballer, wore his fat sister’s clothes to parties, and so on. My father, who preferred to take people at their face value, claimed that she made a lot of it up, but these days I’m inclined to think that she was right on the money.

  Driving north to Bilgola on a Sunday isn’t as much fun as it should be or as it once was. Crazy laws back then. In the seventies we used to drive to Newport and register as bona fide travellers in order to drink. My ex-wife Cyn and I used to make the trip quite often. We’d meet up with friends in the beer garden of the pub. Cyn would get tanked on three gins and tonic and I’d drink far too much full-strength beer, there being no other kind, and drive home with a blood alcohol reading that would earn you a lifetime suspension today. The cops turned a blind eye quite literally, with a good number of them being pissed on duty themselves in those far-off days.

  The problem now is the number of people who live and have business the length of the northern beaches. The road was clogged most of the way and many of the drivers apparently only got behind the wheel at the weekend. Their skills were minimal and their patience short. The day was warm, getting towards hot. The Falcon has no air conditioning and with the window down I was taking a dozen different carcinogens into my lungs with every kilometre. A man might as well smoke. I’d recently had the cassette player fixed by possibly the last man in Sydney who knew how to do it, and I played an old Ry Cooder tape in which he sang about seeing famous people. Maybe I could do the same up on the northern beaches—run a bit further up to Palm Beach, get a glimpse of Rachel Ward or Bob Ellis; preferably Rachel.

  The real Rutherford House resembled the place depicted on the website but not that closely. The photograph had been taken from the most flattering angle in a golden light. Up close it appeared much smaller and rather faded. The grounds could have done with a decent clean-up—some mowing, pruning and weeding—and the gravel on the drive had worn thin in spots, revealing cracked clay beneath. I tried to remember whether the website had boasted views of Pittwater. I thought it did and that it was a lie, except maybe if you were standing on the roof.

  I took this in from outside the front gate while I waited to be let in. The cyclone fence around the place was perhaps three metres high with no razor wire, but I’d have bet on there being some kind of laser beam s
ecurity. That’s where the money was being spent. The entrance was a formidably electronic post and the guy inside the booth took his time looking at my credentials and communicating with what I’d come to think of as the Big House. It was a two-storey stucco affair, painted off-white and getting more that way. It had the look of a 1930s guesthouse that had been added to over the years. One of the additions was bars on some of the upstairs windows. A cyclone fence ran from both sides of the building to the wall. I could see figures moving around in the grounds behind it.

  The guard returned my bits and pieces and the gate swung open. He stopped me as I drove through. ‘Please keep all doors on the vehicle locked at all times and park in the marked spaces.’

  I cruised the hundred or so metres along the thin-surfaced driveway and parked on a patch of cracked bitumen flanked by plane trees. From long habit I reversed into the space. Anyone who has ever done process serving knows to make arrangements for a quick getaway. It wasn’t necessary here, but as I looked Rutherford House over from closer up it still seemed like a good idea. This was somewhere I’d want to get away from as quickly as possible.

  Wide double doors led into a tiled lobby, converted by partitions into a reception area and a waiting room. A rather narrow and darkish corridor ran off into the bowels of the building. A staircase was roped off at the first landing. A receptionist in a uniform resembling a nurse’s, but a bit more stylish, inspected my documents touching them as lightly as possible.

  ‘Mr Harkness is being processed upstairs,’ she said. ‘Dr Whitfield will see you shortly in the waiting room.’

  I took my time getting there. There were certificates and diplomas on the walls testifying to the expertise of the medical staff and the official standing of the institution. The only homey touch was a black-and-white photograph showing the place as it was fifty years back—the date had been written in the bottom left-hand corner in white ink. The building had one less wing and the bush pushed in closer at the back and sides. It looked a lot more friendly then than it did now. No bars, no cyclone fence.

  After I’d sat for ten minutes or more in a less than comfortable chair a small, portly man in a white coat and dark trousers carrying a clipboard entered the waiting room. I shook his hand and, because he introduced himself as ‘Dr Whitfield’ and his white coat was buttoned all the way up I began to develop a dislike for him. His high, piping voice didn’t help.

  ‘Have you had any experience in dealing with people with psychosis, Mr Hardy?’

  ‘I’ve had dealings with junkies, drunks, would-be suicides and actual murderers. Would that help?’

  He looked at me sharply through his horn-rims and it was clear that the dislike was going to be mutual. ‘Not quite what I meant. I take it you have no psychological training?’

  ‘I did Psych I at UNSW a long time ago. It was all statistics so I dropped out.’

  ‘Statistics are very important, very. But perhaps not to the point now. Mr Harkness suffers from a number of mental illnesses—manic depression, mild bi-polar disorder among them—all severely exacerbated by alcoholism.’

  ‘But now he’s cured, right?’

  He ignored the question and signed a document on his clipboard. He detached it along with an envelope. He enclosed the document in the envelope and sealed it. ‘Mr Harkness should present this to his therapist.’

  ‘Who is?’

  Ignoring questions was one of his little tricks. At least it spared me the reedy tones. He got up and clipped his gold pen into the breast pocket of his white coat. He wore a collar and tie under the coat and his black Oxfords were shiny. Maybe it was my old Italian slip-ons, drill slacks, open-neck shirt and unstructured linen jacket he didn’t like, but somehow I feared it was just me. Still, I wasn’t inclined to let him go just yet. I blocked his path to the door.

  ‘Did you treat Harkness yourself?’

  Not all small men are afraid of big men but those that are really are.

  He retreated a half step. ‘Myself and others.’

  ‘Who does he contact here if he needs help? You?’

  Somehow this seemed to give him courage. He let go a tight smile and slid around me. ‘Mr Harkness won’t apply here for help and I can’t say I’m sorry. He’ll be with you shortly.’

  He scuttled away, ignoring the receptionist. I watched him disappear into the darkness and couldn’t help thinking he was like one of the laboratory rats he had undoubtedly performed obscene experiments on. I remained standing at the waiting-room doorway and after a couple of minutes saw a man and a woman coming down the stairs. The woman unhooked the sash blocking the landing, patted the man on the shoulder, and he came down the rest of the way on his own.

  At around 188 centimetres, Rodney Harkness held himself erect with his head well up. He didn’t resemble either his mother or his brother. He was apparently in his late thirties but looked younger, with dark hair and a fresh complexion. With a weakish chin and a slightly crooked nose, he missed being handsome by a fair margin. He was the man I’d seen in the photograph with the woman and child, with a few more years and perhaps a broken nose added on. You wouldn’t cast him as the lead—more the best friend type. His face was set in a determined expression; a mixture of hope and doubt. He was carrying a large overnight bag that, from the easy way he swung it as he reached the bottom of the stairs, was evidently nearly empty or he was a lot stronger than he looked. He stuffed an official-looking envelope in the pocket of his denim jacket and glanced quickly at the receptionist as if she might jump out and block his way.

  I moved forward and tried to keep my voice neutral, non-custodial. ‘Mr Harkness? My name’s Cliff Hardy. I’m …’

  ‘My nursemaid. I know. You can start earning your money by getting me the hell out of here.’

  He stalked out and I followed him, closely watching the way he moved. You can tell a lot about a person from the walk. Harkness moved athletically but with his free hand he tugged at the lapel of his jacket and the collar of his polo shirt. He wore jeans and sneakers and hitched at his belt several times over the short distance to the car. When we were out of the shadow of the building he lifted his head and gazed around, slowly taking in 180 degrees or more. Then he sucked in a deep breath as if savouring every cubic centimetre of free air. Or nearly free. When we got to the car, he dropped the bag, swivelled around and put out his hand.

  ‘Sorry about that. I just couldn’t believe I was actually getting out. Forgive the lousy manners.’

  I shook his hand. ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘Cliff’s the name in case you missed it.’

  ‘Rod.’ He looked at the car and smiled. ‘I used to have one of these, except it had a roof-rack for my surfboard.’

  I opened the door. He slung his bag into the back and settled into the seat. ‘I’d ask you if I could drive except that I suppose my licence’s expired.’

  ‘That can be fixed.’

  ‘Yeah, some things can be fixed and some can’t. I’ve dreamed of this moment, Cliff. Forget what I said before—let’s take it nice and slow.’

  5

  We negotiated the gates and he asked me to stop so he could take a look back at the place.

  ‘I can’t tell you how much I hated it,’ he said. ‘It was like a prison, for all the fancy psychobabble and bullshit.’

  I nodded. ‘I’ve been in prison. I can imagine.’

  ‘Good. Something in common.’ He picked up the case of the Ry Cooder tape and examined it. ‘Yeah, he’s good. D’you like Elvis?’

  I’d got moving again but the question almost caused me to stall. ‘What?’

  ‘Elvis. D’you like him?’

  ‘Sure, everyone on the planet likes Elvis … and the Beatles.’

  ‘Elvis helped keep me sane. I’m full bottle on him. D’you know who did the originals of “That’s All Right,” “Mystery Train” and “Hound Dog”?’

  ‘I suppose I thought “Hound Dog” was original Presley.’

  ‘No. Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup, Junior
Walker and Big Momma Thornton. I’ve read Last Train to Memphis and Careless Love four times. I’ve got ’em in the bag there. I’m going to throw them in the first fucking bin I see.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that. The place they’ve got you is pretty spartan. A couple of books wouldn’t go amiss.’

  That quietened him. The institution was near the end of a road that wound around several large sections of bushland and rainforest somehow preserved from the developers. There was dense bush on both sides and ahead when I slowed to make a turn into the suburban road network. I had the window down and I heard the crack a microsecond before the windscreen exploded, showering us with glass. I ducked, grabbed Rod by the arm and pulled him down as I gunned the engine and swung the wheel to the left. The car jumped the gutter and I heard another shot ricochet off the roof as I slammed on the brake. Two cars at the intersection stopped and another pulled up behind us and everything went quiet.

  I kept us down below the level of the shattered windscreen for a few seconds. I heard steps coming towards from behind and the sound of the cars at the intersection moving off. I lifted my head and let go Harkness’s arm.

  ‘Youse okay? What happened?’

  It was the driver from behind who’d stopped like a good citizen. I opened the door and stepped out. ‘We’re okay. Thanks.’