The Undertow (15 page)

‘Oh, yeah? The William Heysen who drives a black 4WD and doesn't visit his mother in hospital when she's been shot?'

‘Do you want to talk, or just make smartarse remarks?'

‘You talk, I'll listen.'

‘I understand you've been looking for me.'

‘Right, on behalf of your mother.'

‘Yes, but before she was shot.'

‘True.'

‘Why?'

‘It's a long story. It goes back to Dr Gregory Heysen.'

‘My father, the murder conspirator.'

‘I have to tell you there's some doubt about that.'

‘What? That he wasn't guilty?'

‘Possibly. I think we should meet. There are . . . things to discuss.'

‘Such as?'

I had to think about that. The whole matter of his paternity was hanging fire and could go either way. But I had him on the hook and didn't want to lose him. I couldn't think of a better bait.

‘The identity of your father.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘We need to talk. Where are you, William?'

‘Patronise me, and you'll never hear from me again.'

Nasty. Maybe he was the doctor's son.

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Is your enquiry in any way to do with the police?'

That was a curly one if only he knew it. But I played a straight bat. ‘No.'

‘All right. We'll talk.'

‘Where are you?'

A few seconds elapsed and then the door swung in and a tallish young man stood there, lowering a mobile phone from his ear. ‘Right here.'

I couldn't stop myself. ‘Who's the smartarse now?' I said.

‘Melodramatic, I'll agree.'

He came in and dropped down into the client chair. He was very much as his mother had described him—not quite as tall, slim, dark-haired with an olive tint to his skin, handsome and aware of it. Too aware. He was clean-shaven; his hair was long but neat. He wore loose pants, a T-shirt and a denim jacket, all pricey, all clean. If he was on drugs they hadn't taken any toll on him yet. He sat straight in the chair and looked at me with a confident manner, bordering on cockiness.

‘What's this about my paternity?'

‘Let's back up a bit,' I said. ‘How did you find out about me?'

He didn't want to concede anything but apparently decided to yield a fraction. ‘I found your card in the house. I also heard an answering machine message from you that dated back a bit. Plus, a person I know told me you'd contacted her asking questions. Satisfied?'

‘That fits. Why haven't you visited your mother? Why drop out of sight?'

He shook his head. ‘That's all I'm saying until I hear more from you.'

I wasn't used to fencing with someone so much younger, but there was something steely about him that made it necessary. ‘I should really get your mother's permission to tell you this, but when you went off the rails after you found out about your father, she—' His poise slipped for the first time. ‘What? She said that?'

‘Yes.'

The composure returned almost immediately, shades of his mother. ‘Incredible. Go on.'

This was getting tricky. I didn't want to tell him about Frank and the paternity test and all the rest of it. Not yet, anyway. I swivelled around creakily in my chair that needed oiling and probably more than that. I stared out the window for a moment in the hope of unsettling him. It worked.

‘Well?' He was a bit off balance now.

‘Look, William, you're the one sneaking around, hiding, making furtive visits, worried about whether I'm tied in with the police. You're obviously in some kind of trouble. I suggest you change your attitude.'

He didn't like it, but he didn't get up and leave. ‘I'll tell you this,' he said quietly. ‘That woman's a monster. She's so manipulative she doesn't know what she's doing half the time. I didn't go off the rails, as you put it, because I discovered my father was a criminal. I simply experimented with a different lifestyle for a while. I'd played the role of the achieving son for so long I was sick and tired of it. I knew she was living through me, having somehow stalled in her own life. Then I saw a . . . an opportunity and pursued it.'

‘Which has put you in danger.'

‘Maybe, but I believe I can handle it. There, I've put some cards on the table. Your turn. I'm interested in this paternity business, but it's almost certainly one of her fantasies. If that's the basis of your investigation, you're on a hiding to nothing.'

‘It's a bit more than that. There's a strong possibility Dr Heysen was framed and that the person who did it wants no enquiry. I think that's why your mother was shot and why I was attacked.'

‘The mouth,' he said. ‘And the stiff neck.'

He was smart and observant. ‘Exactly. I'm sure you're relieved to learn that your mother being shot wasn't to do with you and your activities.'

‘You're on the wrong tack there, Mr Hardy. I never for a minute thought that was a possibility. You've met her. How many enemies do you think she's been capable of making?'

‘Whether that's true or not, she's your mother and you don't seem very concerned about her.'

‘Oh, I know she's all right.'

‘How?'

‘I went in there, into the hospital. I'd changed my appearance somewhat. I got close enough to see that she's not in danger and is getting the best of care.'

‘No thanks to you.'

‘She doesn't need help from me. She's never needed help from anyone. Either that, or she needs so much help she's beyond helping.'

‘I think you've worked on that line.'

He let that pass, which probably meant I was right. ‘We seem to have reached a stalemate. Are you going to enlighten me about this paternity business or not?'

‘You're curious?'

‘Who wouldn't be? Most people have a changeling complex at some time or other.'

I had to think what to say. He'd come to me so I suppose I could say I'd found him. Job completed, at least the unstated job of locating him. But he was likely to vanish again and there was nothing to prove I'd seen him. But there was still the original question and its probable aftermath— the attacks on Catherine Heysen and myself. Would she want to employ me on that? Or was I still on it on Frank's behalf? Confusing.

‘I think your mother should tell you about it,' I said.

‘No chance. I don't care if I never see her again.'

‘She's planning to sell the house.'

He shrugged. ‘It's hers to sell.'

‘You have an interest.'

‘Not interested.'

‘Meaning you've got all the money you're ever going to need?'

‘I wouldn't say that, but . . .'

I was at the end of my patience with him. ‘You're full of shit, William. You've got an opportunity, you say. Okay, you're going to make big bucks. But you haven't made them yet and you've got a few problems. Just possibly, I could help you there, get you out from under.'

I could almost see the brain wheels turning. I still didn't like him, but there was no denying his smarts. No nervous gestures from him though; he was still in control as he weighed the odds. ‘Out from under,' he said. ‘Strange expression. I don't have any problems. What makes you think I do?'

‘I've been told you're smuggling drugs in from Indonesia.'

He threw back his head and the laugh that came from him was genuine and full-hearted, perhaps with a touch of relief in it. ‘Me? Smuggling drugs? That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Every link in that chain is compromised. More money changes hands for information and corruption than ever gets made by anyone involved. It's a high risk business, too high.'

‘Sounds as though you've considered it.'

‘Oh yes.'

‘I've got that from two sources.'

‘Well, I might've given some people that impression. Look, if I tell you what I'm on about, or give you an idea of it, will you tell me what I want to know?'

‘I guess. If you'll contact your mother, confirm that you've spoken to me and that you're alive and well.'

‘Protecting your arse. All right. I don't like it but all right.'

‘Unship your mobile and do it now.'

He didn't like that, but he'd painted himself into a corner. He rang the hospital and asked to be put through to the ward. ‘Mother?' he said.

I came around the desk and heard Catherine Heysen's distinctive voice, perhaps less confident than it had been previously. ‘William, is that you?'

‘Yes, Mother. I'm talking to your private detective with the split lip and the aching back—Mr Hardy, in his Newtown office. Here he is.'

He was full of tricks. I took the phone, said a few words and then busied myself making coffee. The conversation obviously didn't go well for either of them, but it met my stipulation. He closed off the call as the coffee maker began its geriatric process.

‘Satisfied?' he said.

‘Yeah. So what's your game?'

He put the tiny phone back in his jacket pocket and I wondered if he'd used it to take a photograph or record the conversation or do any of the hundred and one things they're capable of doing these days. From his smug self-satisfied look it seemed possible, but he was still the one who had had to ante up first.

‘I suppose you could say I'm into immigration facilitation.'

18

‘P
eople-smuggling,' I said.

He shook his head. ‘That reeks of leaky boats and sleazy types fleecing ignorant peasants. I deal at the top end of the market.'

Add conceit to the list of his unpleasant characteristics.

‘Which means?'

‘Mr Hardy, I speak Arabic, Indonesian, Urdu, Tamil and a few other languages. When I apply myself, I can pick up a working knowledge of a language in a matter of weeks. As a consequence, I have contacts in many places— consulates, embassies. Anyone who arrives in this country under my auspices arrives in comfort with convincing documentation.' He laughed and did a very fair imitation of the bleating voice of John Howard. ‘I will decide who comes to this country.'

‘For a price.'

‘Naturally, but with full value for money.'

‘I wouldn't say I was totally out of sympathy with that, but it's still an illegal activity and the penalties are heavy.'

‘There won't be any penalties. Now, suppose you enlighten me about my paternity.' His good-looking face was suddenly less attractive wearing a sneer. ‘I'll tell you one thing—it wasn't a virgin birth. She . . . never mind.'

Referring to my notebook, I told him the story without the names. He listened closely and I had the feeling that he was committing every detail to memory. The coffee machine went quiet and I took two polystyrene cups from the desk drawer and held one up.

‘No,' he said. ‘So he was crooked anyway, whether or not he set up his partner's death.'

I'd expected him to comment on his mother's doubt about his paternity and I said so. I poured the coffee and sipped it. Bitter as usual—perhaps more bitter than usual.

He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Couldn't care less. Almost certainly a fantasy of hers to draw this bloke into her web. She's done similar things before. Anyway, the nature or nurture debate doesn't interest me much. If the nature includes a criminal doctor or a policeman it doesn't matter. The nurture was lousy. All pretence on both our parts. I consider that I made myself what I am.'

‘That's very arrogant.'

‘Depends on your standpoint. I'm more interested in this idea that an aggrieved client from the past could want to shut you both down. That's intriguing. How do you plan to handle it?'

‘Not sure why I should tell you, but I will. First, make sure she's safe. I was told to drop it, but I'm going to persist in the hope that it draws the person out.'

‘A Judas goat?'

Somehow you don't expect the young, brought up on television and video games, to know about such things, but William Heysen was a surprise package.

‘Something like that.'

‘Might work, or you might get yourself killed.'

‘So might you unless you get out of the business you're in and take yourself off somewhere.'

He stood and stretched. ‘When do the results of the paternity test come through? I noticed there was some stuff missing from my room.'

‘I don't know. But the man I spoke of is willing to help you whatever the result.'

He flashed a smile. ‘Oh, Jesus, he's in love with her, is he?'

‘No.'

‘Probably is. Wouldn't be the first. She always had a thing for uniforms. Well, that's very big of him and he might come in useful some day. I suppose I can get in touch with him through you?'

‘That depends.'

‘On what?'

‘On whether I decide you're worth helping.'

‘Good point.' He pulled his car keys from his pocket and put them on the desk while he adjusted the sit of his pants. ‘Don't try to follow me, please. That'd be very annoying.'

He strolled out and I let him go having the last word. If I'd responded he would've just come back with something smart anyway. I checked his DOB in my notes. He was twenty-four. Too old to be called precocious, too young to be called wise except in the American sense—a wiseguy. He might have considered that he'd made himself and downplayed nature and nurture, but he was his mother's son to a tee. The same conceit, arrogance and composure, the same quick grasp of what was going on and how to turn it to advantage.

He wasn't quite as smart as he thought, though. His car keys had a tag with the registration number on it. I'd memorised it and now I wrote it down. I scribbled notes on the encounter, catching some of his expressions—verbal and physical. It was easy to see the schoolboy athlete in him, and easy to believe that he could learn a language at the drop of a hat. For all that, there was something missing in him, some lack. He was cold, but it was more than that. I couldn't put my finger on it and registered the feeling on the page with a large question mark. One thing was for sure, though—I knew I'd be seeing him again.