The Undertow (11 page)

He was already pasty-faced from spending too much time indoors, but he went still paler. Had a shot at bluffing, though.

‘Preposterous,' he said.

I took a camera from my pocket, raised it and took a photo of him there in his chair with the fear in his eyes and his mouth slack.

‘What . . . what's that for?'

I studied the image on the screen and nodded. ‘Pretty good. The media'll want a picture when I tell them what I've just told you and provide proof.'

I looked around the room with its black filing cabinets, bar fridge, teak bookshelf, framed degrees, photographs and paintings. ‘You can kiss goodbye to all this, unless . . .'

He sighed but seemed to recover some poise. ‘How much?'

It seemed too quick and too easy a surrender, and I remembered Belfrage saying that Lubitsch would take reprisals. It wouldn't do to underestimate him, flabby though he was. He'd come a long way and showed resourcefulness. But maybe his best days were behind him.

‘I don't want money, doctor.'

That's when the poise left him completely. He coughed and spluttered and his wan face turned red. He shuddered and fought for breath. His chest heaved and the soft flesh covering it shook like jelly. I know I can look threatening but this was something else. He was having a panic attack. I grabbed him, pulled his tie loose and popped the top button on his shirt getting the collar open. I pushed his head down between his knees.

‘Stay there and breathe.'

I opened the bar fridge, got a bottle of mineral water, filled a glass and brought it to him. He was getting some air in painfully. I lifted his chin and gave him the glass.

‘Sip it.'

He clutched the glass in shaking hands and did as he was told. The flush slowly faded from his fat face and his hands steadied. ‘Who sent you?' he whispered.

‘We can talk about that,' I said. ‘When's your next appointment?'

He looked at his gold watch. ‘In forty minutes.'

‘That's long enough. Tell me if I'm right. You're still doing things you shouldn't and they don't always go right.'

He nodded and took a couple of gulps of the water.

‘Okay, now that's the sort of thing I want to talk to you about. If you come up with the right answers I just might be able to put your mind at rest. No questions, just answers. Why did you take Michael Padrone's file along with the others?'

‘Pixie . . . Patricia asked me to.'

‘Why?'

‘She said there were things in it that would make it worse for him.'

‘How could things be worse? He'd confessed.'

‘She said he'd done other things he'd told the doctor about and that if it came out he'd have a hellish time in prison for what little time he had left. Why are we talking about this?'

‘I said no questions. What happened to the file?'

‘She destroyed it and I destroyed the others.'

‘Did Heysen have the same sort of problem you're facing—dissatisfied clients? Could one of them have framed Heysen? Hired Padrone to kill Bellamy and lie about who hired him?'

‘Easily. I suspected so at the time, which is why I . . .

made myself scarce.'

‘Names.'

‘It's a long time ago.'

‘You don't forget people like that. Especially when you've cut into them. I want a list of names of possible candidates for what you just admitted could have happened. You're almost out of the woods, doctor.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Get your gold pen out of your pocket and write.'

‘I don't understand. This is twenty or more years ago.'

‘You don't have to understand. You just have to write.'

‘They're probably all dead.'

‘That means you remember the names. Write.'

He took out his pen, pulled a pad towards him and scribbled.

I said. ‘Capitals.'

He printed. I took a closer look at the things on the walls—expensive prints of paintings; degrees and diplomas, some American in the name of Lubitsch; photos of the doc when he was less fat with National Party politicians and a gaoled former police commissioner. One showed him standing proprietorially beside a slim blonde woman with a face stretched and frozen like Peggy Lee's. Her hands, holding a glass and her sequinned bag, were claw-like. Had to be Pixie.

‘There.' He clicked the pen, tore off the sheet of paper and pushed it across the desk. I looked at it long enough to see that it was legible. One name jumped out at me but I didn't give him the satisfaction of reacting. I folded it and put it in my pocket.

‘That's it,' I said.

‘I don't understand.'

‘You're repeating yourself. I'm not interested in anything you've done since the eighties. Your present problems are all your own as far as I'm concerned.'

‘Can I believe that?'

‘I couldn't care less. I would've liked to meet Pixie but I guess I'll just have to pass on that. You're going to be ready for your next victim. Might have to slip your tie up to look your best.'

‘The photograph?'

‘Insurance.'

He recovered fast. ‘You bloody hoodlum. You threaten me . . .' His fleshy face took on a malevolent glow. ‘In fact you could use my services.'

‘Do you know what Marlon Brando said when Kenneth Tynan wanted to interview him? He said he'd rather be boiled in urine. That's how I feel about letting a plastic surgeon anywhere near me, especially you. Good morning, Dr Lubeck.'

‘Get out!'

‘I'm going. I'll give you one thing—remember Roma Brown?'

He did. He remembered it all.

‘I didn't find you through her, by the way, but she did say you were good in bed. Doubt she'd think much of you now. Do you want me to give her your respects?'

The look on his face almost made me feel sorry for him. Almost. I suppose we all have regrets about old loves—missed opportunities, betrayals, yearnings, ecstatic moments that live in the memory. Lubitsch had been there, and I had a sense that things with Pixie/Patricia now weren't what he wanted. Good.

13

I
walked back through the park, promising myself a jog there if I had time. I stopped for coffee in a kind of pavilion under the Moreton Bay figs and thought to myself that I'd done pretty well. I took the piece of paper from my shirt pocket and examined it. Three names, two completely unfamiliar to me. Inventions? I didn't think so, the man had been too frightened. The coffee was good and a light breeze was blowing pleasant smells around under the canvas. I had a second cup and took my time over it.

I paid, left a tip, skirted the cycle path and took another route past a shrubbery and garden bed towards the motel. A man stepped from the shadows and blocked my way. A big man, very big. He wore jeans and a leather jacket over a T-shirt and he tucked away a mobile phone as he confronted me.

‘You've got something I want,' he said.

‘What would that be?'

‘A camera and a piece of paper.'

‘Buy your own and look in a bin, you'll find plenty of paper.'

He advanced to within a yard and held out his right hand. ‘Give.'

That was a mistake—an extended arm is vulnerable. I grabbed his wrist with both hands, jerked and twisted. He let out a yell and swung wildly at me with his left fist. He was no southpaw, the punch was slow and awkward. I stepped inside it and hammered my right fist into his ribs hard and twice. He grunted and bent over. He was game though and tried to do something with the arm I'd mistreated but it was all out of whack, possibly dislocated at the elbow, and his effort was feeble. I grabbed his right wrist again and put downward pressure on it. He almost screamed and sank to his knees to ease the strain and the pain.

He was young, fit-looking and strong but inexperienced. By now he was almost helpless and he knew it so he began to swear. I whacked him a backhander across the face and he stopped swearing.

‘You tell Dr Lubitsch, or whoever he hired to hire you, that this sort of stuff is pretty much a full-time job with me.

You weren't up to it.'

‘Fuck you.'

‘Grow up and learn your trade. If you'd held out your left hand you might've connected with your right and things could've gone your way, son. Give me your mobile.'

‘What?'

‘Give me your mobile or I'll break your jaw and scatter your teeth.'

He scrabbled in his jacket pocket for the phone and handed it to me.

‘Right. Now you stay exactly where you are for ten minutes. I'll be able to see you, believe me. If you move, I'll chuck your phone in the river. If you behave it'll be waiting for you up at the exit to the park.'

I left him and walked away. They value their phones above all else for work and play, and I knew he'd do as I said. I didn't even have to look back. I put the phone on the sandstone gatepost and went on my way.

Sending a heavy after me, incompetent though he turned out to be, confirmed that the names Lubitsch had given me concerned him enough not to want to leave any evidence that he'd done so. I figured I'd done all I needed to do in Brisbane and it was time to go. There was just a chance that the doctor had other, better, helpers. Best to pass on the jog around the park. I booked on a mid-afternoon flight back to Sydney, willingly paid for the second night I wasn't going to spend in the motel and drove out to the airport. To judge by the windsocks, the wind was a southerly and should speed the flight home.

I was back in Glebe by late afternoon. Lily wasn't around and by agreement we hadn't got into the domestic habit of leaving notes about where we were and what we were doing. I was having a drink when Catherine Heysen rang.

‘Mr Hardy, I suppose you've heard from Frank.'

‘Yes.'

‘He wants the DNA test.'

‘I know. Are you going to have it done?'

‘I'm not sure. Have you made any progress?'

‘It's hard to say. I have some people to see and then I might have a better idea and be able to give you a report. I don't suppose you've heard from your son.'

‘No, nothing.'

‘Frank intends to help him, whether he's the father or not.'

Her voice softened, lost its arrogant edge. ‘He's a fine man.'

Watch out, Frank, I thought, but I didn't say anything.

‘If you need money, Mr Hardy . . .'

‘Not at the moment and perhaps not at all. I'll be in touch, Mrs Heysen. Goodbye.'

As I put the phone down Lily came in carrying a pile of photocopies. ‘Saw the car. That was quick.'

I kissed her. ‘You know me—immediate results.'

She dumped the copies on a chair and gave me a hug. ‘I've nearly finished this bastard. Hey, Hilde rang and wants us to come over for a bite. She knew you were in Brisbane, but now you're back, d'you want to go over there tonight? I could do with a break.'

‘Sure. And I've got things to talk over with Frank. Did she tell you the news?'

‘Did she what. Couldn't stop talking about it. I'll give her a ring. I must meet that kid of yours sometime.'

‘Yeah. I'd like to see her again myself when she's ever in the one place long enough.'

‘Who's she like, you or her mother?'

I thought of Megan's close physical resemblance to my sister and her restlessness, and my former wife's precise, planned approach to things. ‘Me,' I said.

‘God help her.'

After getting drunk out of relief and happiness the day before, Frank and Hilde had gone on a marathon bike ride and sweated out the toxins. From the way they were looking at each other I guessed they'd also had a good sexual workout or two. They were in fine form.

Hilde knocked up a barramundi dinner with all the trimmings and we got solidly into the dry white. Peter had sent a photo of his girlfriend electronically and they'd printed it out. It showed a vibrant, dark-skinned, raven-haired young woman smiling happily with pearly white teeth.

‘Her name's Ramona,' Hilde said. ‘She's Brazilian with Portuguese, African and Indian ancestry.'

‘With Frank's English and your German background that should make for hybrid vigour. Are they going to live here?'

‘Who knows with Peter?' Frank said. ‘But they're getting married in Rio and coming here to have the babies.'

‘I'll have to learn to cook Brazilian,' Hilde said.

‘What does she do?' Lily asked.

Hilde laughed. ‘Would you believe? She's a journalist.'

Hilde and Lily settled down to watch something on the History channel and Frank and I went to his study.

I handed him Lubitsch's list.

‘Let's see,' Frank said. ‘Jesus Christ!'

The name that had struck me hit him just as hard: Matthew Henry Sawtell, known as ‘Mad Matt'. He'd risen to the rank of detective inspector in the New South Wales police force and was tipped to go even higher when his world collapsed. An undercover sting operation showed him to be guilty of giving the green light to criminals, to sanctioning at least two murders and conspiring with a corrupt politician to fake a kidnapping with an outcome that would advantage them both.

‘Mad Matt,' Frank said, almost whispering. ‘Now he's a definite possibility. He escaped from Goulburn. Severely wounded a guard and killed an inmate. He was very high profile and nailing him was a big feather in the anti-corruption cap. Highly embarrassing for all concerned when he escaped. His file's still very much open although a lot of people would like it to be closed.'

‘Meaning?'

‘What d'you think? He had protection at a pretty high level until they just couldn't shield him anymore.'

‘Did he put them in? I remember him going down but I forget the details.'

‘No, he kept mum, but it doesn't take much to work out that he used those tickets when he needed to get out of gaol and away.'