The Undertow (10 page)

‘Why here?' he said.

‘My investigation on your behalf is taking me to Brisbane.'

‘Half your luck.'

I had no option but to tell him what I'd been doing and the way things were looking at that point. He seemed disappointed that I hadn't put in any time on finding William Heysen.

‘That wasn't my brief.'

‘Yeah, sorry. My mind has been running on him a bit.'

I made the point I had to make—that, however it came out, young Heysen wasn't going to see his father as a model citizen and change his ways.

He nodded as if he'd come to the same conclusion himself before I even spoke. I was worried about him. Always spare, he'd lost weight and the lines on his face were more deeply etched. He was jumpy, wired. He finished his beer, got up and brought back two more.

‘It might all take a different turn, mate,' he said.

‘How's that?'

‘Hilde knows something's wrong. She reads me like a book. I think I'm going to have to come clean about it all.'

‘Could be the best thing.'

‘Yeah, except she's in this funny state and there's a complication. We haven't heard from Peter in a while and there're reports of trouble in the part of South America he's in. She's very worried about him and I am, too. Not exactly the best time to spring a problem love child on her.'

‘How serious are the reports? How credible?'

Frank shrugged. ‘I don't know. I'm trying to find out more but the place isn't exactly well-ordered. He's looking into logging near the border of Brazil and Colombia. Hard to know what to believe.'

‘What did you mean about things taking a different turn?'

Frank blinked, as though he was looking into the future and couldn't hold his gaze steady. ‘God knows how Hilde'll react when I spell it out for her. Then there's Catherine. She's likely to want a DNA test to confirm I'm her son's father. She says she's got hair samples. If I
am
the father . . .'

‘What?'

‘I'd have to do something about straightening him out myself.'

I started on the second drink, hardly realising that I'd downed the first. ‘Jesus, Frank, that'd be getting into deep water.'

His smile was humourless. ‘With undertow.'

‘Maybe we should just chuck the whole thing about Heysen. He was bent in one way or another. What's the difference?'

‘No. Something went wrong in that investigation. I'd at least like to see that straightened out, even if everything else goes to hell in a hand cart.'

I wondered about his thinking. Was he still so attracted to Catherine Heysen that he'd consider trading one woman and one son for another woman and another son? Unlikely, but men in chaos think chaotically and do chaotic things.

Frank watched me as I chewed over what he'd said. Out of habit I felt for the boarding pass in my jacket pocket and he misinterpreted the movement. Before I could stop him he'd pulled out a cheque book and was writing.

‘No, Frank.'

He ripped the cheque out, tearing a corner. ‘What the hell. I'm going to see this through whatever it takes. You've paid Wain and Belfrage, right?'

‘Yes, a bit, but—' He shoved the cheque into my shirt pocket. ‘Plane fare, accommodation, car hire, it all costs. I can afford it, Cliff.'

‘What about Hilde and the cheque account?'

He sank his beer and got up. ‘I'm going to tell her the whole story when I get home. Good luck, mate. Take care of yourself.'

Budget flying is okay for short trips but I prefer business class with the majors when a well-heeled client is paying. I wasn't going to load the expense account for Frank, but I found he'd given me a cheque for five thousand, which was over the top. He'd been jumpy, thirsty, distracted, nothing like the Frank I knew. I hoped he wasn't headed for a crisis of some kind. He'd handled plenty of professional crises in his time, but personal ones involving family are a different matter.

The plane battled against headwinds all the way and ran into heavy turbulence over the Gold Coast. The sideways lurches and stomach-dropping free-falls matched my pessimistic mood. I was by the window and had given up on Anna Funder's
Stasiland
, fascinating though it was, because I couldn't keep the book steady enough to read. When I saw lightning flashes not too far away I began to get that this-could-be-it feeling. I've had it before. I wouldn't say your life flashes before your eyes but, in my case, I do tend to conduct a bit of a life review along ‘I did it my way' lines. It stops the instant of touchdown.

As predicted, the air was steamy in Brisbane, as if the whole city was waiting for the storm cell to reach it and break. Despite the heat, everyone was hurrying to go about their business, and I could feel the tension around the carousel as we waited for our bags. Seemed like a hundred mobile phones were glued to a hundred ears. My bag came off early, and I beat some competitors to the Avis desk where I hired a Pulsar.

I drove out of the airport, which they've had the sense to locate at a distance from the city, under a sky the colour of bruised blood plums. I'd booked into the closest motel I could find to Glendale Gardens, in Brunswick Street, New Farm—a good spot near some shops and cheap in the off season. I was on the second level looking down towards the river. I'd unpacked my bag and cracked a Fourex from the mini-bar when the storm hit. Had I wound up the window on the Pulsar? I hoped so, but I certainly wasn't going down to check in this. The hail came first, golfball-sized, pelting the roof and the small balcony but melting immediately on the warm surfaces. The rain followed. It lashed down, driven by a stiff wind that bent the trees, shredding the ones with leaves.

Dry and warm with a drink in hand, a storm is a bit of pleasant drama to watch. Not so much fun if you're out in it as I have been plenty of times. The gutters ran, filled, overflowed and water washed across the roads. The few cars still moving threw up skeins of water, bonnet and roof high. Thunderclaps shook the building, or seemed to, and the lightning flashes flickered and darted across the sky like artillery.

A knock came at the door and I tore myself away from the show to answer it. The very gay young man who'd checked me in was standing damply with his umbrella half open.

‘Oh, Mr Hardy, just checking. Did any water come in through the balcony door?'

‘Not a drop.'

‘Good, good. Luckily, you're on the right side of the building, but just making sure. One of the other rooms is awash.'

‘Pretty dramatic, isn't it?'

‘I suppose so. Your satellite TV reception could be out for a while. Hope you weren't watching the cricket.'

‘Never do.'

‘Really? You look like a sportsman.'

‘Boxing.'

‘Oh, well, glad everything's all right.'

I went back to the window, and as quickly as it had arrived, the storm passed. The clouds rolled back and the sun shone through, producing a rainbow and causing steam to rise from the wet roads. All in all, it was one of the best receptions I'd ever had on arriving anywhere. I drained the can and scored a hit in the wpb. Good start.

When the sky was totally clear I grabbed the umbrella and went for a walk down Brunswick Street, past the shops and on to the park that ran alongside the river. It was a nice park—big, not fussy and with plenty of Moreton Bay figs, the way a Brisbane park should be. There was a wide cycle and walking path around the perimeter that probably ran for close on two kilometres and the walkers and joggers and cyclists and rollerbladers were out already, splashing through the patchy shallow puddles and squelching through the thick layer of leaves blown down by the storm. A woman in running gear pushing a pram was moving along at a fast clip, passing the slowcoaches.

I'd more or less memorised the map and found my way to Glendale Gardens easily enough. The street was upmarket— apartment blocks interspersed with big houses and a couple of high-rent commercial buildings. The Lubitsch place was in one these—a pale blue structure, three storeys, set at the highest point of the street. The front suites on the second and third levels would have a nice view out over the park and the river. Lubitsch was in suites 12 to 14 and it was a fair bet that he'd be up there in front. When you're at a prestige address you want the best position.

I walked back to the motel, stopping to buy a bottle of wine and check out the eateries. Plenty to choose from. I'd been hoping the walk would give me some idea of how to tackle Lubitsch, but nothing came. Except this: he was obviously doing well, had acquired a lot, and while that can be a plus it can also be a minus because what you've got you don't want to lose.

12

I
'd given Frank the phone number of the motel and he rang me when I got back from dinner.

‘Got you,' he said. ‘I've been trying for a while.'

‘What's up?'

‘Have you got any grog to hand? As if I need to ask.'

I had a third of the bottle of white wine left from my meal at a Spanish joint. ‘Yes,' I said.

‘Pour it.'

I did. ‘Hate to say it, Frank, but you sound a bit pissed.'

‘I am, Hilde is as well. We're well into our second bottle of champagne and thinking about a third. Peter's been in touch.'

I had a drink. ‘That's good.'

‘He's in love.'

‘That's better.'

‘Yeah, and his girlfriend's pregnant with twins. Hilde's over the moon. They're coming back soon. Shit, I'm rhyming. I
am
pissed.'

‘That's great news. When did this happen?'

‘Hilde told me when I got back from meeting you.

Then Peter phoned again.'

‘I see. And have you . . .?'

‘Of course I have. Hilde was afraid I was hiding cancer from her or something. She's relieved and she's fine about it. I mean about the boy possibly being mine. She says I should find out for sure.'

Yeah, I thought, and what about your attraction to Catherine Heysen? But I said: ‘What effect does all this have on the investigation?'

‘I haven't thought it through yet, but I want you to go on. If Heysen was railroaded I was partly responsible and I'd like that cleared up. I owe it to the kid whoever's son he is.'

‘And if he's yours you'll want to help him get out of the shitty business he says he's in.'

‘That's right, and the same goes if he isn't. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.'

Frank didn't usually speak in cliches and his voice was slurring. He put Hilde on the line and I made all the right noises. Too many times I'd had to tell a person someone they loved was dead. At those moments the misery fills the air like a mist. This was the opposite and, through the wine and the remains of her German accent, I could hear happiness in every word Hilde spoke.

That left me alone in a motel room with two-thirds of a bottle of wine inside me and garlic on my breath. I stripped and had a warm shower followed by a cold one. I cleaned my teeth till my gums ached, made a cup of instant coffee and settled down with
Stasiland.
I was tempted to ring Lily, but that wasn't the deal.

I presented myself at the Lubitsch clinic dead on time— shaved, shampooed, neatly dressed and with my documents in hand. The giggling receptionist was a youngish blonde with a lively manner. She was good to look at, had a pleasant voice and was adept at putting people at their ease. Handy talent. She gave me a form to fill in and I did it with a mixture of fact and fiction. I gave my profession as security consultant, owned up to a few minor operations, mostly to repair injuries, and ticked the ‘facial' box in the question about ‘areas of concern'. I wrote truthfully that I was a nonsmoker but less truthfully that my drinking was limited to ‘occasional social'.

The receptionist looked the form over and gave me one of her toothpaste advertisement smiles. ‘Dr Lubitsch will see you in a few minutes, Mr Hardy.'

I nodded and sat in a chair that allowed me to look out a window. She went away with the form and came back quickly to resume her place behind the desk where she must have been doing something though it was hard to tell what it might have been. As I'd suspected, the clinic was on the top level and the view was all I thought it would be. I picked up a couple of the magazines from the rack, but the view was more interesting. I got an eyeful of the river and watched one of the big passenger catamarans churn past. A buzzer sounded and the receptionist stood.

‘This way please, Mr Hardy.'

I followed her down a passage. She knocked at a door, pushed it open and ushered me in. The room was large and light, probably one of the largest and lightest in the building. Its occupant was sitting behind a big steel and glass desk, studying my form. He half stood, then sat down heavily in his leather chair and gestured with his head for me to take the other chair.

I'd decided on a direct approach. I ignored his instruction, locked the door behind me and went to his desk. I flicked the off switch on the intercom and disconnected the phone. He rose and I pushed him down hard. Lubitsch may have been a big man twenty-odd years ago when Roma Brown knew him briefly, but he'd shrunk vertically and expanded horizontally. He was twenty kilos overweight and his belly pushed out his spotless clinician's coat. He wore a crisp white shirt under it with a dark tie and dark trousers. He was bald, apart from grey fluff around the sides, but at least he hadn't committed the Belfrage-style comb-over.

‘What the hell d'you think you're doing? You must be mad.' He reached for the switch on the intercom and I rabbit-chopped his wrist.

‘Shut up, sit still and listen and you won't get hurt.'

‘What do you want? There's no money here.'

‘I said listen.'

I told him that I knew he was Karl Lubeck and that he'd worked doing illicit plastic surgery with a Dr Gregory Heysen who'd been jailed for conspiracy to commit murder. Also that he'd taken files from the doctor's office to conceal their activities. And that he'd subsequently profited from the money that had been paid to the murderer of Dr Peter Bellamy before becoming the pimp for a woman named Pixie Padrone.