The Undertow (3 page)

I could see a large garden in front and down the side, through an electronically controlled gate, a wide driveway. There was enough grass to keep a Victa busy for an hour or so. The corner block was deep, so there was probably more garden and grass at the back. Quite a few tall trees graced the scene, no doubt harbouring birds and cicadas, but also likely to drop leaves into the guttering. Okay for the doc who could afford to hire help, but what about the widow?

Frank's notes on her were minimal, as if he couldn't bear to think about her too much. She was forty-six now and had been a dental nurse before her marriage to Heysen at age twenty-two. Her father had been a champion cricketer and an executive in a large sporting goods firm. I had no information on her mother or on whether either of her parents was still alive. Given her age it was more than possible. Then again, if they'd died asset-rich, maybe she'd inherited the means to keep this big joint going.

I was respectably turned out in dark slacks, a blazer and a blue business shirt. No tie; I draw the line at ties. I opened the gate and tramped up the steep, central path to a set of steps leading to a wide porch at the front of the house, which had a white stucco finish. The condition of that kind of surface can tell you something, and in this case it told me that the house was well-maintained. No serious flaking. A security screen covered the solid front door. I rang the bell and waited. In a place this size, if she was having her morning tea out the back, it could take a while to get to the front door. Might not even hear the bell.

The door opened and she stood there in the late morning light. Even with my vision impeded by the screen, I could see why Frank was feeling the undertow: Catherine Heysen was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen.

‘Mr Hardy?'

‘Yes.'

She unlocked the security screen. ‘Please come in.'

She stepped aside to let me in and then moved swiftly ahead of me down the passage. The quick glimpse I'd caught of her was a total surprise. She had very dark hair and eyes and an olive complexion. In a black dress with a couple of fine gold chains around her neck, she looked as Mediterranean as the Isle of Capri. She was medium tall and strongly built and her walk was stately.

I followed her past several rooms off the passage to left and right and through a well-appointed kitchen to a conservatory equipped with cane chairs and a low, glass-topped table. Outside the air was cool and getting cooler as a southerly gained strength, but this space had trapped the weakening sunlight and it was warm. Her gesture for me to sit was balletic, but natural.

‘Please sit down, Mr Hardy. I've made some coffee. I'm sure you'd like some after being out in that wind.'

I thanked her and took one of the comfortably padded chairs. The walls were mostly glass and a skylight took up a good part of the roof. There were a couple of pot stands with plants sprouting, and a cabinet with some porcelain pieces displayed. The parquet floor was mostly covered by an expensive-looking rug in muted colours—Greek, Turkish, Moroccan? I wouldn't know. The exposed parts of the floor were dust free.

She came back with the coffee things on a tray. She laid them out expertly but without fuss and sat opposite me. My cup was two-thirds full and the cream and sugar were to hand. I took a sip and it was the kind of coffee you didn't need to do anything to. She added a little cream to her cup and raised it to her full lips. Every move she made was potentially entrancing, and I had to struggle not to watch her for the sheer pleasure of it.

‘I knew Frank would help me,' she said, ‘so it didn't surprise me when you rang. I understand why he wants to stay . . . at arm's length.'

Do you? I wondered. I doubted it, but her attitude was certainly helpful at this point. I nodded and drank some more of the excellent coffee. Like a psychoanalyst, a private detective likes to hear people talk. You can learn a lot about them that way, not necessarily from what they're saying.

‘I hope you're not focusing on the matter of the paternity of my son.'

‘For the moment, I'm taking that as given, with reservations. What I'm most interested in is why you're so convinced that your husband wasn't guilty of arranging Dr Bellamy's death.'

‘Thank God for someone with directness as well as subtlety.'

I wasn't going to let her snow me like that. ‘Of course, there are lots of other questions.'

‘Such as?'

‘You might find some of them offensive. Let's pursue the matter I raised while we're still being polite.'

I drained my cup and she took another sip before pushing the pot towards me. ‘I don't agree. Let's deal with the offensive questions first, and then see whether we can still . . . communicate.'

‘Okay. I'm wondering why and how you keep living here. There must be six or seven bedrooms. One for every night of the week.'

It came out more rudely than I'd intended, but something about her gracious control was getting under my skin. She didn't blink an eye, or twitch or fiddle with her coffee cup.

‘Did Frank have anything to say about this?'

‘No. He said you had some money. He implied not a lot.'

‘That's so. I struggled for twelve years to keep the house because I couldn't believe my husband was guilty and I was sure something would turn up and he'd be released. I wanted the house to be here for him. I'd done some part-time work as a photographic model before I was married and I went back to it full-time, here and overseas.

I hated it, but it paid well. I was able to keep the house and educate William. Also to pay my husband's life insurance premiums. When he died there was a lot of money suddenly.'

‘I see. And why stay after he died?'

She sighed. ‘Laziness, inertia. The thought of moving horrifies me. And the space wasn't as wasted as you seem to think. William had a bedroom and a . . . study. I dabbled in photography and painting. One of the rooms is a studio and one a darkroom. Are you satisfied?'

It sounded convincing, if also a bit rehearsed. But maybe she was one of those people who run over the story of their own lives in their heads and can trot it out pat. For the moment, she'd faced me down and it was my turn to be gracious.

‘I'm sorry. That's interesting and all a credit to you, I'd say.'

‘Thank you.'

‘Could you give me a photograph of William?'

She smiled her Madonna smile. ‘Of course. So you can see if he looks like Frank?'

‘No, so I'll know him when and if I meet him.'

Something about her reaction to what I said—a blink, a small nod, a tightening of her mouth—told me a lot. Despite her earlier remark, she was as concerned about the boy, perhaps his whereabouts, as about clearing her husband's name. Two sides of the same coin, although she wasn't yet prepared to admit it. To be honest, it was my main interest, but I had to step carefully.

‘You seem to be confident of doing that,' she said.

‘Mrs Heysen,' I said, ‘if you're not confident at this stage of an investigation you're in the wrong business.'

She nodded, stood and walked out of the room. I poured myself some more coffee. It was cool but so good it didn't matter. She came back and put a photograph down on the table, keeping another in her hand. ‘This is William,' she said.

A young man with a shapely, sculptured nose, face and jaw was grinning into the camera. He had a mop of dark hair and his grin was slightly lopsided. It took a lot of imagination to see him as a younger version of long-headed Frank Parker. She noticed my reaction and passed me the other photo.

‘And this is my husband just before he went to prison.'

The man in the suit with a serious expression was stocky and moon-faced. I looked up at her as she stood regally above me.

‘I wanted to be married and to have children and Frank . . . didn't,' she said. ‘William and Frank are nothing alike, are they?'

‘No,' I said. ‘Your son looks like you, which is his good fortune.'

‘Thank you.' She resumed her seat and sipped some coffee. ‘Looks like, yes, but I wish I knew how he thought. How he feels. I'd give anything to know that.'

What she said disarmed me. It sounded honest and heartfelt. I tried to see her through Lily's super-cynical eyes. Couldn't quite manage it, but trying helped.

She took the photograph of William back and handled it almost reverently before pushing it towards me again. I got a whiff of something off-centre, almost erotic, as she looked down at the photo with her long, mascaraed lashes almost brushing her high cheekbones.

4

I
wondered why Frank, who must have speculated about it when considering if he'd fathered another son, hadn't asked me to get a photo to check on the possibility of physical resemblance between himself and William Heysen.

With an abrupt gesture Catherine Heysen pushed the photos aside. ‘Tell me this—do you look like your father?'

She had me there. I didn't, not in the least.

My expression told her what she wanted to hear. She made an expressive movement with her hands. There was something compelling, almost magnetic about her and it was easy to see how she'd coined it as a photographic model when younger. She could probably still make a go of it advertising certain products. I wasn't going to lose sight of the main question, but now that this matter had been opened up I thought I might as well pursue it.

‘Your husband was a doctor. Wasn't he surprised when you got pregnant so quickly and had the child so soon?'

‘William was late and large. He had to be induced. The time was . . . credible.'

‘Heysen didn't know about Frank—that they'd . . . overlapped?'

She shook her head slightly; the shoulder-length, glossy dark hair shimmered and she smiled. ‘My mother was Italian. I favour her as you can see. So does my oldest brother. The next brother favoured my father, who was Anglo. He was delighted and my husband—Gregory— spoke of hybrid vigour. William has blue eyes and his hair lightened as he grew older, although his skin is more olive than fair. Just a bit.'

Was there an edge of contempt in that? A sourness in her smile? I thought so. I was learning more about her all the time and the bits of knowledge seemed to contradict each other. Her self-control and confidence were almost complete but the mention of her son had opened a small chink in the armour. She was vain, with reason to be, but I had a feeling that her beauty hadn't made her happy. Ever.

‘Why did you and Frank break up?'

‘I'm sorry, but I don't think that's relevant or any of your business.'

‘You're right. Okay. Let's get right down to it. Why are you so convinced your husband didn't arrange Bellamy's murder? The evidence that he did was pretty compelling.'

‘The word of a dying man who'd been paid to bear false witness isn't compelling to my mind.'

‘He was in financial difficulties and his partner's actions were undermining his practice. I've been told he was homophobic and had come to despise Bellamy.'

‘That's true, but one thing, no, two things were totally neglected in the investigation. Gregory was what's now called a control freak, Mr Hardy. He was completely unable to delegate anything. That's why he worked such insane hours and why what Peter Bellamy was doing made him so angry. He'd worked twice as hard as Bellamy to build the practice, and now it was slipping downhill despite his efforts. If Gregory had intended to kill Bellamy he would have done it himself, not entrusted it to someone else. Talk to anyone who knew him and ask if he ever allowed another person to do something for him that he considered important.'

‘That's interesting but it's hardly conclusive. Killing a person isn't an easy thing to do, Mrs Heysen. It's hard enough to do in war or in self-defence, let alone in cold blood. It's got its own psychology.'

She appeared to think that over briefly, then she said, ‘I'm sure you speak from experience and know what you're talking about. But you're losing sight of Gregory's profession. I know for a fact that he killed a number of people. He was a believer in euthanasia.'

‘Not the same.'

‘Not quite, perhaps. But you spoke of the psychology of killing. Gregory didn't just send terminally ill people to sleep with morphine. He told me that he had killed several severely handicapped children and a man whom he regarded as dangerously insane.'

In a sense she was arguing against herself—if what she said was true then Heysen had the capacity to kill. But her point about him not delegating carried some weight. She saw that I was considering it and followed up.

‘The other thing is this—think of how easy it would have been for Gregory to kill Peter himself if he'd wanted to. The drugs available to him . . .'

‘They must have considered that in the investigation.

What about at the trial?'

She gathered up the photographs, looking at them as if she'd never seen them before. She moved the photograph of her son closer to me across the table. ‘His legal team was incompetent. The prosecution painted Gregory as a coward, unable to do his own dirty work. Of course, Gregory wasn't able to provide support for the idea that he could! This was twenty-three years ago, and you know how things stand with euthanasia even now.'

‘Yes. How did they get the idea that he was a coward?'

Again, her smile had a bitter edge. ‘Mr Hardy, my husband, as Frank must have told you, was a very dislike-able man.'

‘In what way?'

‘He was arrogant and conceited in all his dealings with people outside the practice. He treated people he regarded as his intellectual and social inferiors with contempt. And that was almost everyone. He rubbed everybody up the wrong way—the police, lawyers, the judge, the jurors—and it was his undoing.'

‘He doesn't sound like a man you'd marry.'