Burn, and Other Stories Read online

  I started to reassess her. So far, the only grounds she’d given for casting doubt on the standard account of the Macquaries’ deaths was that they had had her. Now it was a selling point.

  She leaned forward across the desk. She was wearing a white silk shirt buttoned to the neck. Nothing so crude as cleavage, but the way she moved made me want to close my eyes and count to ten. Her voice was soft and came from deep in her throat. ‘It’d be a much bigger story,’ she said, ‘if I could prove who really killed them.’

  I put my pen down and leaned back in my chair, stomach in, chin up. ‘I suppose it would.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here. Peter says it’ll make a great chapter. Oops …’ She dug into her leather shoulder bag and pulled out a notebook that had a gold pen clipped to it. ‘I’m supposed to be taking notes. How tall are you?’

  ‘Six foot and half an inch. Who’s—?’

  ‘What’s that in centimetres?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was that tall before centimetres got here. Who’s Peter?’

  ‘Peter Drewe. He’s helping me with the book. Are you married?’

  ‘No.’ I wrote the name on my pad and added ‘ghost writer’. ‘Any relation?’

  ‘He’s Valerie’s son. We’re lovers … sort of.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  The green eyes were dry now and piercing. ‘I can read upside down. Ghost writer is unkind. You don’t like me.’

  ‘I don’t see how I can help you, Miss Ozal.’

  She put her gold pen and suede-bound notebook away. ‘Peter has some leads. We want you to check them out. We’ll pay your standard fees.’

  It all sounded odd, but I was intrigued by the cast of characters and the few routine jobs I had on hand would allow me to spend some time on it. I told her the damage, she signed the contract and I agreed to telephone Peter Drewe. She smiled and we shook hands. I tried not to watch the way she put on her coat, shouldered her bag, flicked back her hair. I tried.

  Peter Drewe lived in a flat on the corner of Crown and Burton Streets, Darlinghurst. The building was called ‘Royal Court’, which was a bit too much monarchism in one address for my taste. Nice place though, good security door, wide staircase, vaguely art deco trappings. Drewe was a dark, thin, nervous type who licked his lips a lot. His one-bedroom flat was neat and admirably organised for writing and fucking. His word processor sat on a desk with fold-out attachments to carry books and papers. His writing chair was an engineering miracle. I caught a glimpse of the bedroom—mirrors, satin sheets, uh huh.

  ‘Maddy’s aunt won’t talk to me,’ Drewe said, after we’d kicked it around for a while. ‘She doesn’t approve of me. But I’m sure she knows a lot more than she’s ever told Maddy.’

  ‘Did she talk to your mother?’

  ‘No. She wasn’t in the picture then. Maddy was in hospital with some childhood illness when her parents died. The aunt claimed her about a week later. Valerie wrote her piece within forty-eight hours of the finding of the bodies. That was her way in those days, apparently. She called it “tasting the cum”.’

  ‘Miss Ozal said you had some leads. Is that it—talk to the aunt?’

  ‘No. You could see the cop who worked on the case. One Ron Fisher. He got booted off the force later and won’t talk to reporters.’

  He gave me the names, addresses and numbers. ‘Have you got a theory, Mr Drewe?’

  He shook his head and licked his thin lips. ‘Not really. Valerie said Ernest had a mistress in Adelaide and that Josephine killed him on that account. The silver rose was a gift for the mistress or from her, I forget which. My only theory is that she was completely wrong about those things.’

  ‘Why d’you say that?’

  ‘Why not? She was wrong about everything else in her fucking life.’

  I stood in the street outside my office building. Ron Fisher lived in Gymea. My car was parked close by, about the same distance away as the telephone. You’re not that keen, I thought. I went upstairs, hauled out the cask of red, drew off a glass and let my fingers do the driving.

  ‘Fisher.’ A harsh Rothmans and Toohey’s Old voice.

  ‘My name’s Hardy, Mr Fisher. I’m a PEA. Frank Parker’ll give you the word on me if you want it.’

  ‘I’ve heard of you. What is it?’

  ‘I wanted to talk about a case of yours. Old one—the body on the Opera House steps and the floater.’

  ‘Talk, then.’

  ‘The inquests said heart failure and drowning.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What do you say?’

  ‘Mate, I had so many problems back then I was relieved when I came up with sweet fuck-all. They were both nuts—drunks and coke freaks. My guess is his ticker gave out on him when he was high and she thought she could walk on the water.’

  ‘What happened to the train ticket and the rose?’

  ‘The what? Oh, shit, who knows? They went to whoever got the effects. There’d be a record at the station, maybe. I was a D at The Rocks.’

  I could hear the regret in his voice along with the bitterness. I thanked him and hung up. One thing leads to another—there’s nothing wrong with visiting police stations, some of the best people do it. I drove to the station. The sergeant behind the desk looked old enough to have been in the force in Ron Fisher’s time and I took the risk of mentioning his name. Coppers are clannish and whatever it was that had led to Fisher’s expulsion hadn’t tarnished his name among his fellows. The sergeant clicked his tongue, muttered ‘Poor bugger’ and obligingly sent a constable to fetch a record book dating back to the time in question.

  When it arrived the book was both dusty and damp but it yielded the information: the personal effects of Ernest and Josephine Macquarie had eventually been handed over to the drowned woman’s sister, Mrs Isabel Ozal. At that time her address had been in Kingsford, now it was in Dover Heights. I thanked the sergeant and handed the book back.

  ‘How’s old Ron?’ he said.

  ‘Sounded bitter.’

  ‘Poor bugger.’

  As an ex-surfer and still keen swimmer, I always see Dover Heights as a frustrating place for everyone except suicides and those maniacs who jump off cliffs with ropes tied to their feet. There’s no other quick way to reach the water. I parked under some plane trees and gave the Ozal house the once-over. Nice place—end of the street, elevated double-fronted brick bungalow, 180-degree views to New Zealand and a piece of the cliff almost in the backyard.

  I’d telephoned, intending to spin some yarn or other, but there had been no answer. The house looked occupied; there was a brown Celica in the driveway and the Venetian blinds to the front rooms were open. Time again for Hardy to play it by ear, hoping not to get thrown out on it.

  I stepped over the low gate and walked up a cement path to the front porch. The door was open and music was pouring out from the house. Italian opera, a warbling soprano and a fruity tenor. No point in knocking, nothing could be heard over the din. I walked down the wide passage past a polished table carrying a crystal vase full of dead flowers. The dry petals were scattered across the thick beige carpet. There were two sets of rooms off the passage which made a turn to the right into a big sitting room filled with late afternoon light. Its huge windows looked straight out to sea.

  A trick of the light saved me. As I faced the window I caught a glimpse of a reflection, a blur of movement above the level of my head. I jumped sideways, spinning around as the axe blade whooshed down, missing me and hitting a low glass-topped coffee table. The glass shattered, shards flew and the axe skittered away to smash into a big earthenware pot. The pot disintegrated. I struggled to get my balance amid the flying glass and bits of pottery. The man rushed at me, his fists knotted and flailing. He was small but wiry and imbued with hysterical strength. He landed a wild swing to the ribs which hurt. I ducked away from the next swing and gave him a short right to the ear. He bellowed and came at me with his hands stretching for a strangler’s grip. I grabbed his thumbs, exe
rted pressure and he was out of action. He sank to his knees. He was in his socks and his feet had been cut by the glass. Blood flowed across the dusty surface of the polished boards.

  All the fight had left him. I eased him onto a couch. He sat there, staring at the darkening ocean view. I found the bathroom, wet a towel and came back to find he hadn’t moved a muscle. I peeled off his socks and got to work on his feet. The cuts weren’t deep but blood still seeped from them. I wrapped the towel around them and looked around for some anti-shock medication. There was a drinks tray in the corner of the room—I poured out two big brandies and put his in his hand. He drank it in a gulp and held out the glass for more. I obliged. The drink put some colour into his drained, haggard face. He was about sixty, olive-complexioned, with sparse iron grey hair. He wore a silk shirt that smelled of alcohol and sweat and vomit; his well-cut slacks were creased and stained. The socks hadn’t been too clean, either.

  ‘Are you Kemal Ozal?’ I said.

  He nodded and sipped his drink. ‘Yes. She has left me. I was crazy. I thought you were the man. I am sorry.’

  ‘Your wife has left you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  He sat stiffly, not seeming to find it odd to be answering questions from a total stranger whom he’d tried to kill. ‘They came, Madeline and the son of that terrible woman. They talked. After they went, Isabel told me that she was leaving me. She said she was in love with another man. I could say nothing, think nothing. I loved her. I did not care that she became so fat. I loved her fat. She left and I began to drink. I am a Muslim. I am not used to drinking. I was sick. I took many sleeping pills but they did not work. I thought you were the man. I am sorry.’

  ‘Is there someone who can look after you, Mr Ozal?’

  The tension and rigidity seemed to flow out of him. His eyes fluttered closed, opened and shut down again. ‘I am all right,’ he slurred. ‘Just tired.’ He knocked back the rest of his brandy without opening his eyes again and slipped sideways on the couch. He snored softly. I stuffed a cushion under his head and lifted his feet, still wrapped in the towel, up level with his head. The bleeding had stopped and his pulse was strong. There may be nothing in the law books to support it, but I reckoned I’d earned the right to search the house.

  Houses can tell you a lot about the people who occupy them, but only when the people actually live there and do their own cleaning. The Ozal house was very little lived in and was evidently cleaned professionally. I found nothing of interest until I got to Mrs Ozal’s bedroom. It looked as if it had been searched by a mad gorilla. Clothes and shoes and spare bed-linen were scattered everywhere; a few books lay open on the floor; the contents of a writing desk had been riffled and distributed across the bed which had been moved from its usual position. Conclusion: someone had been searching for something in great haste, not the best way to do it.

  I took my time, examined the furniture and fittings carefully, and, down behind the dressing table, trapped just above the skirting board, I found a small, hinged case not much bigger than a powder compact. It was elaborately carved with gold inlay and possibly made of ivory. I snapped it open. It was lined with velvet and designed to hold a small object in the shape of a rose. I turned my attention to the debris on the bed and found four pieces of crisp, faded paper—a train ticket with booked sleeper, Adelaide to Sydney, torn savagely across twice. A collection of newspaper clippings of articles by Valerie Drewe had been ripped to shreds. Several other newspaper cuttings had been crumpled. I smoothed them and discovered that they recorded radio programs for Wednesday, twenty years back. The 8.00 p.m. ‘Radio Theatre’ timeslot was underlined. There were also some torn photographs—old ones showing a slim, pretty woman and later pictures of the same person twenty years older and fifty kilos heavier. Kemal Ozal was sleeping peacefully when I left the house. I’d put a carafe of water with a glass and a strip of Panadol tablets on the floor beside the couch. Also a packet of Band-aids.

  When I got home I made a toasted sandwich, poured a glass of cask white and sat down with a ballpoint and paper to try to figure out what I had. The one glass became two and then three and four before I reached any conclusions. Four-glass conclusions don’t always mean very much, but I called a few people I knew in the journalism business and picked their brains about Peter Drewe. As a four-glass conclusion, this one was shaping up pretty well.

  After making two phone calls, one to Madeline Ozal’s agent and another to Peter Drewe, I spent the morning in the Mitchell Library and then walked to Darlinghurst. I buzzed Peter Drewe’s flat and he answered immediately. He met me at his door and suggested that we go up on the roof. It was a mild day, two o’clock in the afternoon, and he had a six-pack of Coopers in his hands. I agreed. We sat on upturned terracotta garden pots and looked out over the city skyline. Drewe ripped the tops off two bottles and handed one to me.

  ‘Cheers.’ He drank and wiped his mouth. I realised that it wasn’t his first drink of the day by a long shot.

  I sipped the beer. ‘It was your idea, the biography of Maddy, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Her agent. You made the approach. You’ve got a reputation as a political journalist. This is a bit out of your usual territory, wouldn’t you say?’

  He shrugged loosely. ‘Saw the chance to make a buck.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Your mother died three months ago. A week later you made contact with Madeline Ozal. Your colleagues report on a personality change—from being a hot-shot political reporter, rooting everything in sight, you became detached, almost ascetic.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ He lifted his bottle. ‘Is this being ascetic?’

  ‘You’re under pressure, son. Why don’t you screw Maddy?’

  ‘Who says I don’t?’

  ‘She implied it.’

  ‘Okay. So what?’

  I produced the ivory case and opened it. ‘I found it in Maddy’s aunt’s room. She’s missing, but she tore the place apart looking for this.’

  He drained his stubby and opened another. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You and Maddy went to see Isabel Ozal. Whatever you said to her caused her to leave her husband. She said she was in love with another man.’

  He smiled. ‘She must have weighed close to a hundred kilos.’

  ‘Yes. I think she was lying. About now, not about then. I think she had an affair with Ernest Macquarie, her brother-in-law.’

  ‘Proof?’

  ‘I have some, of a kind.’

  ‘Tell me. That’s what you were hired for.’

  I shook my head. ‘First, you tell me what you found when your mother died.’ He was opening and closing the catch of the ivory case. The clicking seemed to have a mesmeric effect on him. ‘One of these,’ he said. ‘Identical to this. Except that the rose was inside. That was typical of Valerie. Isabel might lose her rose, but not Val.’

  ‘So, you discovered a connection between Macquarie and your mother. Who’s your father, Peter?’

  His smile was bleak. ‘She told me she didn’t know. She told me that when I was too young to understand. Later, when I was old enough to understand and saw the way she lived, I believed her.’

  ‘Kemal Ozal knew your mother. He called her “that terrible woman”. Isabel had made a collection of her articles which she destroyed when she left. What did you say to her?’

  He drained his second stubby and reached for a third. His hands were shaking and he had trouble pulling the tab. I took the bottle, opened it, and handed it to him. ‘Nothing, really,’ he said. ‘When Maddy was out of the room I told her that I knew everything. I mentioned the silver rose. I was bluffing. She didn’t react at all. That’s when …’

  ‘That’s when you decided that you might need to apply a little extra pressure. Me.’

  He nodded and took a long pull on the bottle.

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ I said. ‘You’ve spent three months taping Maddy’s reminiscences of the dopey films she’
s worked on and the idiot actors she’s fucked because you wanted to find out—’

  ‘Whether we had the same father and who killed him. Right.’

  ‘But you didn’t learn anything.’

  ‘Not much. Her mother was a very good-looking woman, like Isabel must have been. That seems to have been their stock in trade. I’ve got a theory that they were both part-time whores, but no proof. Ernest Macquarie was a failure. He called himself a playwright but he never had a play produced. I checked with the Theatre Guild. He wrote advertising copy when he wasn’t drinking, probably when he was, too.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be so hard on him,’ I said. ‘I think he was your dad.’

  He glared at me drunkenly and pushed back the lank, dark hair that had fallen into his face. ‘I was afraid of it,’ he muttered.

  ‘Because you’re in love with Maddy?’

  ‘Right. Fuck it. What’s your evidence?’

  ‘It’s not evidence. You don’t even have to listen.’

  ‘I have to know.’

  I told him then about the collection of radio play scripts I’d seen in the Mitchell Library. They’d been published by a small, now defunct press under the name ‘E. Mack,’ but the library had identified Macquarie as the author. The Silver Roses was about a man who had a wife and two mistresses, one of them his wife’s sister. The wife knew nothing. The mistresses knew about the wife but not about each other. Separately, each threatened to kill him if he slept with anyone other than her and his wife. The Lothario in the play liked games. He gave each of the women a silver rose and the play revolved around the danger to him when one of these roses got lost or found, I forget which, compromisingly for him.

  Drewe listened in silence. When I finished he said, ‘It sounds stupid.’

  I stood up. ‘I’m no critic, but I thought it was one of the dumbest things I’ve ever read.’