The Reward Page 9

  ‘Please sit down, Mr Hardy. I understand you have certain information about the circumstances surrounding my daughter’s disappearance.’

  I sat in one of the rather severe chairs arranged around a low table in the middle of the room. I was only two metres away from her now and fancied I could see what old Josh had gone for. Almost old, she was striking, when young she must have been stunning.

  ‘That’s right. And certain questions.’ I wanted to cut Cavendish out of the exchange as much as possible and the easiest way to do it was to refer to him as if he wasn’t there. It sometimes works. ‘Has Mr Cavendish briefed you?’

  ‘Partly. I’m hoping you can be more frank with me than you were with him.’

  Cavendish moved away from her chair and sat across from us where he could observe her perfect profile and my battered one. I couldn’t see any reason not to tell her what I was about and I did. Having told it all to Claudia just recently, I could lay it out succinctly. I didn’t mention Barry White’s murder though.

  ‘It’s possible,’ she said.

  Cavendish leaned forward. ‘Gabriella . . .’

  She fended him off with an imperiously raised forefinger. ‘Sean and Estelle both hated Ramona. She gave them reason. She was far more attractive and much more intelligent than they. Her father adored her, of course. She was a difficult child and, I have been led to believe, a dangerous woman. But she was interesting, unlike the other two.’

  It all sounded a bit clinical to be coming from a grieving mother, but then, it was a long time ago. ‘Are you saying it’s possible one or both of them could have worked with the investigating officer to repress a ransom note and so cause Ramona’s death?’

  She shook her head slightly, not enough to disarrange the creamy white hair. ‘No. They certainly wouldn’t have acted together. They dislike each other almost as much as they hated Ramona. Wallace mentioned your question about the police and it set me thinking. Sean and Sergeant Hawkins were similar types—beer and horses men. Sean lacked courage but the policeman may have supported him.’

  ‘Estelle?’

  The corners of her mouth turned down. ‘Far too stupid to do anything beyond check a hem length and advise on a flounce. I have to say that her success in the fashion business just proves what mindless nonsense it all is.’

  ‘What does Sean do now?’

  ‘He’s on the board of four of his father’s companies and owns stock in them and others. He draws massive fees and dividends and does nothing to earn them.’

  Cavendish was shaking his head but she ignored him as I had hoped she would. I said, ‘But you don’t know anything that points directly to Sean being involved?’

  For the first time she began to look tired and I was able to believe that perhaps her health wasn’t good. She clasped and unclasped her long fingers and worked at the thin wedding ring. ‘No, nothing, she said. ‘But Sean bitterly opposed the announcement of a reward. He even argued with his father about it, something he almost never did. Of course, Joshua won. He always won. Always.’

  There were things to explore here, but Cavendish had had all he could take of being cut out. He stood and towered over us both. ‘I think that’s enough, Hardy. You’ve covered the ground you said you wanted to explore. Enough.’

  ‘Wallace tells me that you are a capable man, Mr Hardy. With a reputation for violence and honesty. That’s an unusual combination. Ramona combined unusual elements in her character, too. Perhaps you are the person to unravel the mystery.’

  The sadness was stronger in her now than the beauty and I got up slowly, more in response to that than to Cavendish’s bluster. She held out her hand and I took it. It was cold and I could feel the bones in her fingers. ‘Learn all you can, Mr Hardy. I still want to know what happened to my child.’

  Cavendish escorted me to the door and came through it with me. He waved the servant off and stayed beside me on the longish walk to the front door, which he opened with an easy familiarity.

  ‘Looks like I’d better have a word or two with Sean,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose you’d facilitate that as well?’

  Cavendish shook his head. ‘I think you should drop it altogether.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘For Gabriella’s sake.’

  ‘I think she wants me to pursue it.’

  ‘You’re trading on an old woman’s vulnerability.’

  I wanted to hit him. The words had tripped off his tongue so easily. I couldn’t have come up with such a glib phrase, but I felt sure that it described precisely what he was doing. ‘She’s not so old,’ I said. ‘And I don’t think she’s all that vulnerable.’

  ‘You don’t know her,’ he said. His body language tried to ease me through the open door but I resisted.

  ‘That’s the funny thing,’ I said. ‘I almost feel as if I do.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Look, Hardy. You may have given her something to latch onto for a while. But it’s a fantasm and you know it. If you would agree to let all this fade away quietly I could be of some help to you. Not to put too fine a point upon it, I could perhaps put some remunerative work your way.’

  I looked at him. He was overdressed for the day and sweating slightly, but not only because of the suit. His hair stuck to his skull, his face was redder than it had been, and he looked agitated. I took two quick steps away and left him in exactly that state, feeling that the interview had really been quite productive. I took a quick look back at the house before I opened the front gate. Cavendish still stood in the open doorway and he was talking into a mobile phone.

  I drove down the cul-de-sac, intending to make a turn and come back. I was committed to this before I noticed the two cars that had cruised up behind me, forming a solid block across the road. They were four-wheel drives with bullbars, the right vehicles for the job and they jammed me against the gutter at the bottom of the street. Two men got out of the blue Land Cruiser and a third from the red Pajero with silver mudflaps. They weren’t there to discuss insurance or bring me to Jesus. The guy from the Pajero carried an aluminium baseball bat and the others just had their chests and shoulders and that looked like enough. I reached under the seat as I got out and grabbed the length of lead pipe I’d acquired when the tribunal that had returned my PEA licence added the proviso that I was not to carry a firearm. I’d wound red insulating tape around the pipe to give it a grip and a serious look, but right then I’d have preferred my Smith & Wesson .38.

  They knew their business. One of them circled around to cut off a dash into the park and the others pressed forward, herding me towards the edge of the reserve where the trees cast deep shadows. If I retreated. I stood my ground for a second or two and then moved up to the nearest of the 4WDs, using it to protect my back.

  ‘Won’t help you, Hardy,’ the bat man said. He was medium-sized, compact, a dangerous middleweight.

  I glanced up the street. No help from that direction. The trees in the gardens of the big houses blocked any view of this spot.

  I swung the pipe. ‘I can put a dint in that toy of yours though, and in your fucking skull if you get close enough.’

  ‘Tough talk.’

  ‘Let’s try it.’

  His jaws were moving rhythmically as he chewed gum. ‘I don’t think so.’

  He raised the bat and I reacted, tightening my grip on the pipe, but it was only a feint. He flicked the bat from one hand to another. I knew enough about this sort of thing not to watch, to look for something else, but I was too slow. I was aware of a sweeping movement to my left, a throw. I tried to duck but something heavy and hard caught me above the left ear and I went down in a heap. I kept my grip on the pipe though and when a leg came into my field of very blurred vision, I swung at it and felt a satisfying crunch.

  ‘You cunt!’

  A boot crashed into my elbow and the pipe was gone. The bat landed close to where the thrown object had and I felt sick in the head and stomach a
nd legs. I could feel blood dripping down the side of my face.

  ‘Easy,’ a voice said.

  I was face-down and going under and couldn’t turn to look, but the kick to the ribs didn’t seem to be in response to the command. Neither did the next kick on the other side or the next thump to the head. I had a sudden, irrational fear for my expensive dental work, but I needn’t have worried. The next pain I felt was in my scalp. A hand was gripping my hair and lifting my head up. I smelt Juicy Fruit.

  ‘A taste, Hardy. Just a taste. Give it up!’

  I scarcely felt the next blow that blotted out all light and sound and feeling.

  13

  Sweat running into the corners of my eyes and stinging woke me up. I blinked and the stinging got worse, then receded. I was sitting in the passenger seat of my car outside my house. It was 8.33 on the car clock and dark. My head throbbed and I was soaked with sweat the way my diabetic mother sometimes got when she took too much insulin or didn’t eat. I could remember her dress being wringing wet as we helped her out of a chair and my father took her into the bathroom. She smelt of gin or sherry or both and she’d murmur about how sorry she was. I was sorry myself, but I was sober. The sweating was a reaction to what I was pretty sure was concussion.

  My throat felt as dry and rough as a sheet of bark and I wanted water badly enough to make me consider moving. I turned my head slightly and the pain shifted around a bit but didn’t get worse. I put my hands on the dashboard and my ribs on both sides screamed but no bones grated. I became aware that the steering lock was on and that my car keys were in my lap. I moved my feet and felt something on the floor. Slowly I reached down for it and the keys fell. I picked them up and scrabbled for whatever it was I’d felt. My fingers touched the taped grip of the pipe and I lifted it. That was easy to do in the confined space because it had been bent into a rough circle. Nice touch.

  Getting out of the car wasn’t too hard. Standing up was harder but do-able. The first step felt like it does when you’ve been in bed for days with the flu—not quite real, the ground spongy underfoot. I pushed off from the car and let the door swing closed. The sound it made bounced around inside my skull like a stone in a hubcap. I rested at the gate for a bit, then used the low brick fence to grope my way up the path to the front door. Drunk again, anyone watching might have said, but that would have been very unfair. I couldn’t remember the last time booze had made me feel this bad. I made it inside, turning on lights and shutting my eyes against them, and back to the kitchen where I drank three big glasses of water, one after another.

  I could feel dried blood in my hair and on my neck and I went into the bathroom to inspect the damage. The face I saw in the mirror was pale except where blood had dried in a smear all down the left side. My left ear had felt odd the whole time and now I could see why. A gauze pad had been taped to it. I lifted the edges of the tape and tried to move the pad but it was glued on with blood which started to ooze out. Better left alone. I washed the blood from my face and used a soapy cloth to scrub it gently from my hair, being very gentle with the tender area above the ear. The effort made me dizzy and I sat down on the edge of the bath. I ran the water, stripped off my sweaty clothes and eased myself in. I had bruises up the ribs and a swelling on one elbow.

  As the warm water soothed me I reflected on the experience. I’ve had a few bashings in my time but this was the strangest. What kind of a strongarm man says ‘Easy’ when he’s hardly started and does running repairs after the damage? And drives you home? Considering the baseball bat and the blow I’d landed with the pipe, I’d clearly got off very lightly. The badly bruised ribs made getting out of the bath difficult. I resolved one thing—I was going to carry the .38 from now on. Fuck the tribunal.

  After a bad night I creaked my way around to Ian Sangster’s surgery and got him before he opened shop. Ian is an old friend and one of those doctors who smokes and drinks, eats old-fashioned Aussie tucker, stays up late and doesn’t exercise. He’s showing the wear and tear now, but his view is that anything is better than Alzheimer’s and that his lifestyle is the sure preventative. When I arrived he was butting out probably his fifth cigarette and sipping his fourth cup of strong coffee.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘It’s the St John’s Ambulance practice dummy.’

  ‘Hah, hah. Take a look at me will you, Ian? And tell me I’m going to live.’

  He lit another cigarette. ‘We’re none of us going to live, Cliff. I thought I’d taught you that. What happened?’

  I shrugged and immediately wished I hadn’t. Most things hurt. ‘Baseball bat, boot, things like that.’

  He smelt bad but his touch was soft and soothing. He helped me off with my shirt and from somewhere produced a spirit-soaked cloth and sponged away the dressing on the ear. ‘That needs a stitch or two,’ he said, ‘but baseball bat and boot . . . I’d say he wasn’t trying.’

  ‘They, Ian, they!’

  ‘Oh, of course. Six was it, seven?’

  I winced as he swabbed the wound and started stitching. ‘Three’s usually enough. Was this time. I might have busted an ankle with a bit of lead pipe.’

  ‘Hold still! Does doing that make you feel any better?’

  ‘My oath it does.’

  ‘They that live by the sword . . . That’s a bad knock above the ear, but luckily you’ve got a skull like a rock. It should go into a museum. I’ll see to it if you like.’

  ‘Fuck you. I can see and hear all right. D’you reckon I had a concussion?’

  He disposed of his surgical gear and picked up the cigarette. After a deep drag he examined my eyes. ‘In your case, hard to tell. Your brain’s banged against the cranial vault so often they might’ve fused. Mild, I’d say, at worst. Take a deep breath.’

  I sucked in wind and gasped at the sudden shaft of pain. ‘Mmm, cracked probably,’ he said. ‘Be a good idea to bind them up since I don’t suppose you’re planning to spend the next week taking it easy?’

  ‘I have to work for a living. I can’t just send in Medicare forms and lie back perving on nurses.’

  He ran about twenty metres of bandage around my trunk and taped it into place. ‘There you go, Cliff. A few pain-killers which I’ll prescribe and you’re ready to commit more violence on your fellow citizens. Tell you one thing, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You’ll have a bit of trouble fucking in the missionary position.’

  When I got home there was a message from Max Savage’s offsider to ring a.s.a.p.

  ‘Penny Draper.’

  ‘Ms Draper, this is Cliff Hardy.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Mr Hardy. I’ll put Max on.’

  ‘Cliff, Max. No point in all that polite stuff, I’d just have to give the phone to Penny. I’ve found Andrea Neville. I think we should go and have a chat with her.’

  ‘This is Penny. Respond, please.’

  ‘Yes. Where? When?’

  ‘You’re a natural, you’ve picked up the style real quick,’ Max said. ‘She’s running an art gallery in Paddington, would you believe. Trumper Place, number six. Southern Cross Gallery. See you there in half an hour.’

  I’ve lived in Sydney all my life and I’m still coming across places, quite close in to the city, that I’ve never been to. I climbed tentatively into the car, established that I’d be able to drive with a bit of discomfort, and consulted the Gregory’s.

  Trumper Place was tucked in between the flats of Edgecliff and the terraces of Paddington. Trumper Park was an eye-opener: the tiny oval was like something out of the last century with an immaculate white picket fence all around and grassy surrounds for the spreading of rugs and the eating of cucumber sandwiches. It didn’t look as though it’d be hard to hit a six from the pitch in the centre but distances from the perimeter can be deceptive. One incongruous note was that the ground was set up for the playing of Australian football. Two or three joggers circled the oval. I felt as if I was looking simultaneously at the past, the present and the future.
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  There were two galleries, one a big, elaborate affair in a newish building and the one we were interested in, very much its poor cousin—a terrace house, painted in grey and white, but not recently. Automatically, I scouted around to see if there was a back entrance. There wasn’t, all traffic went through the front. I stood outside and watched Max’s taxi draw up.

  ‘What happened?’ Max said when he was still a couple of metres away.

  I was sure he couldn’t see the stitches in my ear and there were no other visible signs of the bashing. I stared at him. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘You’ve had an accident. You’re holding yourself stiffly, protecting ribs I’d say.’ He got closer and saw the ear. ‘That looks nasty.’

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it later. How do we play this? Have you got any kind of police authority?’

  ‘You must be joking. No, we’re both in pretty much the same boat. This place is run by Andrea Craig, née Neville, and Eve Crown. Lesbians by all accounts.’

  I looked at the drooping bamboo plants in two big pots sitting on cracked concrete slabs in the front of the house. The two-storeyed terrace was narrow and built in the skimpy fashion that takes a lot of the charm away from the style—minimum wrought iron, plain paving, uncovered porch. ‘Doesn’t look too prosperous,’ I said.

  Max snorted. ‘It’s a front.’

  ‘For what?’

  Max wandered up the street towards the oval and I followed. ‘That Penny’s a remarkable young woman,’ he said. ‘She’s been putting fizzgig stuff on a data base for a couple of years. You wouldn’t believe what she’s come up with.’

  ‘The computer’s putting me out of business, Max. I don’t want to hear about its wondrous mysteries. Just fill me in on the fucking art gallery.’

  ‘Right.’ Max pulled out a notebook and began flipping over the pages. ‘No significant exhibitions or sales in the last eight years. What does that suggest to you?’

  ‘Lousy art, lousy promotion or cash flow from somewhere else.’