The Undertow (12 page)

‘Nice town, Sawtell, up near Coffs. I surfed there when I was young. You knew him?'

Frank nodded. ‘I knew him. He was called “Mad” because he was the reverse. Unemotional—cold, calculating, ruthless bastard.'

‘With those friends in high places.'

‘Right. He had money, too. The gaol break must have cost him a bit. Yeah, he could've gone for plastic surgery.' Frank touched the side of his face. ‘He had a knife scar here. Very distinctive. And he could've set Heysen up for a fall to get him out of circulation and warn him to keep his mouth shut.'

I thought that over and didn't like it. ‘I can't see it, Frank. Why wouldn't Heysen use what he knew about Sawtell as a bargaining chip to get out of the charge against him?'

Frank shrugged. ‘I don't know, but the thing just has a whiff of Sawtell about it. Devious was his middle name, if it wasn't vicious. Trouble was, he had charm and a sense of humour and people liked him. Especially women.'

‘What about the scar?'

‘Distinctive, but didn't disfigure him. Badge of honour. Didn't put the women off. Let's have a look at these others. James Ashley Whitmont, that'd be Jimmy White if my memory serves. Rapist, skipped bail and vanished. Had money but no brains. Not his sort of thing. Alexander Cart-wright. I remember him vaguely. Whistleblower, I think. He went into the witness protection program. Hard work to find him. Anyway, he was old, probably dead now.'

‘How old was Sawtell?'

‘Forties.'

‘So very likely still alive.'

‘Yeah, he was a fitness freak. Didn't smoke, exercised. He'd been a good athlete—in the pentathlon at the Rome Olympics, just missed a bronze. But he could be anywhere, not likely to be hanging around Sydney.'

‘What would he be doing then?'

‘Anybody's guess. Something perfectly legitimate somewhere or highly illegal and profitable somewhere else. Or both.'

‘That resourceful?'

‘Easily, but it hardly matters, Cliff. He's long gone. Probably not in Australia. One of the reasons to change your appearance in a case like his would be to get a passport.'

‘I don't agree. Rex Wain was shit scared, as if what he knew could still hurt him. If all this speculation about him's on the money, it could mean Sawtell's still around.'

Frank shrugged, surprising me.

‘What does that mean, mate?'

‘You could give that to Catherine as a strong suspicion. Might satisfy her.' Frank leaned back in his chair and stretched. ‘I have to admit my thinking was all screwed up when Catherine contacted me. Hilde was worried sick about Peter and I didn't know what her mood was going to be from one day to the next. I'm not proud of it, but when Catherine approached me it seemed like . . . something to do, some kind of escape.'

‘But not now?'

‘No, not now.'

‘I hate loose ends, Frank.'

‘So do I, but now they don't seem to matter too much—some of them.'

‘Meaning?'

‘Let me get you another drink. Who's driving?'

‘We tossed. Lily lost. She's on a limit of three.'

He went away and came back with a solid scotch with a fair bit of ice. Same for him. Frank had turned his chair around from his desk and I was sitting in the rocker where their cat Bluey, which always hid when guests arrived, usually sat while Frank was working. Frank had small photos of Hilde and Peter on his desk. Space for more.

I sipped the drink. ‘Frank? It'd still be a feather in your cap, finding Sawtell.'

‘I don't wear the cap anymore and don't need feathers. Come to that, it'd do you more good. I imagine the reward that was up for him's still available. But I want to turn our attention to William Heysen. Let's forget about the old farts. See if something can be salvaged from all this for the young people.'

part two

14

A
couple of days later I went to see Catherine Heysen and told her the results of my investigation.

‘It's just possible an aggrieved client for illicit plastic surgery arranged to frame your husband, but the only credible candidate is either dead, overseas or totally hidden.'

She was her usual super-composed self. ‘I see.'

‘Even if that was true, your husband doesn't emerge as an innocent victim and your son's not likely to change his evaluation of him or himself on that account.'

‘What if he learned that his father was actually a senior and highly respected policeman?'

‘That's another matter. Have you decided whether to go ahead with the DNA test?'

‘No.'

‘May I ask why not?'

‘I don't choose to tell you.'

There was no coffee this time and an even cooler atmosphere. I got up out of my chair. ‘Your privilege. That's all I have to say.'

The composure shattered then like a fragile glass ornament dashed to the floor. She buried her face in her hands and sobs racked her body. I stood there, feeling useless. She wasn't the kind of woman you patted on the shoulder and said, ‘There, there,' to. When she lifted her head, the carefully arranged hair was a mess and the perfect makeup was smeared and clown-like. Years of keeping up a façade had taken a toll and when the façade collapsed, it collapsed completely. She looked every day of her age, and tired.

Through her sobs she said something in Italian. Then she collected herself and I assume she translated: ‘I want my son, I need him.'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘I can see that you do.'

‘I've been a vain and foolish woman, Mr Hardy. I've done nothing useful with the advantages I've had. If I could just save my boy from the awful life he is in, that would be something.'

‘Is he Frank Parker's son?'

She moved her hands around her head to smooth her hair and dry her tears. ‘I don't know. Does it matter?'

‘It doesn't matter to Frank, as you know. Might matter a bit to me.'

She said again: ‘I don't know. Will you try to find him for me?'

It wasn't the time to tell her the little I'd teased out about William Heysen so far, but I liked her more at that moment than previously. Her distress was genuine and I'm a sucker for it. But not a soft touch. It'd be a paying job and I could count on Frank's help. I told her I'd try to find him, no matter whose son he was. I said I'd mail her a contract form.

I got the usual stuff together and opened a file with a recent photograph, the names of friends, contacts at SBS—his last place of work—car registration, details of credit cards he used and as close a physical description as his mother could provide. It didn't go much beyond ‘tall, slim and handsome with dark hair'. She guessed his height at about six feet and his weight at eleven stone, call it 180 plus centimetres and 70 plus kilos. According to her, he had all his own teeth and no scars. He didn't wear glasses and he'd scarcely ever been ill in his life. He was clean-shaven and short-haired when she last saw him, which didn't mean he was now. She knew of no girlfriends in recent times. I didn't ask about boyfriends.

I spent a couple of days tracking down the friends and former flatmates and workmates. Some I found and some I didn't, but none had seen William Heysen for months. When I questioned them about his character, they all agreed that he was very bright and very unusual. A girl who'd had a brief affair with him said, ‘I never knew whether he cared about me or not and in the end it didn't matter because he just stopped seeing me. No explanation, no reason. It was as if I'd never existed. Weird.'

I pressed her, asking about William's personal habits— drink and drugs and the like. She shook her head.

‘Didn't drink much, but I remember this one time when I'd taken an eccy and he really sounded off on me. Told me how dangerous they were and how contaminated. He bloody lectured me about how they made them in Indonesia and how everybody got ripped off along the way. Sounded like he knew a bit about it.' That was worrying. I've never had much to do with the drug community, and the few users I knew—a doctor who'd injected heroin for thirty years without ill effect, an ex-boxer who dealt with the boredom of retirement through the judicious use of cocaine, and a musician who took just about everything for a period, stopped cold turkey for a while to allow himself to recover, and then plunged back in—were of no help. The musician's ecstasy supplier was a biker who only dealt in local stuff because the higher quality imported product was too expensive.

I thumbed through my address book and found the number for Jon Van Hart who, last I heard, worked as a consultant for the drug squad. During my period of suspension, for something to do, I went to as many improving lectures and seminars around town as I could. Van Hart had given a lecture on the manufacture of speed and ecstasy and we'd exchanged a few words and our cards afterwards.

‘I remember you,' he said when I got through to his mobile. ‘How's it going?'

‘Well, I'm back on the job. Looking for a bit of info on ecstasy. I know bugger-all about it or about drugs in general, apart from alcohol, caffeine, aspirin, paracetamol, codeine, pseudo-ephedrine . . .'

He laughed. ‘I'll help if I can.'

Stretching my information to the limit, I said, ‘I'm hearing noises about someone I'm interested in importing the stuff from South-East Asia.'

‘Indonesia?'

‘Yes.'

‘It's happening all right. There's been some interceptions and the police make a big noise about it, but I know and they know that the ratio of found to undetected is up around one to ten, maybe more.'

‘How does it work?'

‘I take it you don't want the chemical details?'

‘No, the organisational.'

He told me that the stuff came in branded as legitimate pharmaceuticals with all the appropriate documentation, except that it was forged. The traffic relied on a certain level of official corruption at both ends and constant liaison between suppliers, shippers and distributors.

‘Lots of comings and goings on entirely legal tourist visas. Tell me about the guy you're interested in.'

‘He's young, very bright, studied chemistry, speaks Indonesian and a few other languages.'

‘Perfect.'

‘Where would I find him?'

‘You wouldn't,' Van Hart said.

‘Where would I look?'

‘In transit.'

I was out of my depth and phoned Frank with the news. He got busy tapping his sources—serving and ex-cops, federal policemen and people in Customs. We met for a drink in a pub in Darlinghurst near the police HQ to compare notes.

I'd tried to give the balance of Frank's money back to him but he'd refused to take it. Catherine Heysen had signed and returned the contract and given me a solid retainer so I was on a good earner, which only made it worse that I'd come up empty.

‘Me, too,' Frank said. ‘Absolutely bugger-all. Some people agree there's a supply coming in from South-East Asia pretty much the way Jon Van Hart laid it out for you. But Customs are in denial, and the intelligence types who used to take an interest are so devoted to finding nonexistent terrorists that they've got no time for anything else.'

‘D'you reckon the asking around will have got through to William? Ripple effect, sort of?'

‘Hard to say. Possibly.'

‘I can't think of any way to flush him out,' I said. ‘Can't see myself posing as an ecstasy buyer with a preference for the Indonesian variety. Couldn't stand the dance party music, for one thing. Anything happening about the DNA test?'

‘I've provided the sample. Takes a while.'

‘She says she doesn't know who the father is.'

Frank raised his drink as a toast to nothing in particular. ‘That makes quite a few of us.'

The news came through a day after and I picked it up on the radio at 6 pm:

A woman was shot in Earlwood this afternoon as she got out of her car to check the malfunction of the electronic gate to her driveway. Mrs Catherine Heysen was wounded in the shoulder by a shot fired by a person sitting in a parked car. Mrs Heysen's neighbour, who has asked not to be named, was drawing up near the attacker's car in his Volvo sedan and witnessed the shooting. He sounded his horn and rammed the car, which drove off at high speed. An ambulance was called and Mrs Heysen was taken to the Royal Prince Alfred Hospital where she has been reported to be in a satisfactory condition following an operation to remove the bullet.

The police are investigating. They say Mrs Heysen made a short statement before undergoing surgery. She said she could not think why anyone would want to kill her, and that her neighbour had saved her life. She said she thanked him from the bottom of her heart and that she would compensate him for damage to his vehicle.

‘That's typical of her,' I said to Lily, who'd heard the broadcast. ‘Do and say the right thing however you might be feeling.'

‘Gutsy, I'd say.'

‘Yeah, but secretive. This must have something to do with the investigation of Heysen and Padrone or the search for William Heysen.'

‘Or both.'

‘Or both. Do you reckon the media'll dig up the stuff about Heysen and Bellamy?'

Lily considered. ‘Possibly, but a lot of the reporters around now think of everything pre-9/11 as ancient history.

If she'd been killed maybe, but wounded isn't sexy.'

‘A photo of her'd take care of that.'

‘Really?'

I nodded. ‘But she did her modelling under a different name so they might not twig. It could bring young Billy to the surface though, if he cares about her.'

‘Come on, she's his mother.'

‘I told you, he's a cold fish and she hasn't seen hide nor hair of him in six months.'

‘No one's that cold.'

‘I hope you're right. If it's got something to do with the old Heysen and Bellamy matter, I'm back on the same trail, or two trails.'