Matrimonial Causes (3 page)

‘The ambulance will be here soon, Miss Shaw,' she said.

Miss Shaw didn't respond.

I saw a metallic glint in the grass—probably a casing from one of the bullets that had killed Charles Meadowbank. The crowd was milling and rumbling, moving restlessly. The glint vanished as someone trod the object into the lawn. The cicadas suddenly burst into their concentrated racket and then we heard the sirens. There was a collective sigh of relief. I looked at Miss Shaw. Our eyes met for an instant but what hers were seeing I couldn't tell.

The client of a private investigator has no right of confidentiality, and the detective himself has no protection from the ordinary processes of the law. The uniformed men who came to the Rose Bay crime scene treated me about as roughly as I expected. The elderly woman, who gave her name as Mrs James Calvert, tried to tell the cops that I was a sort of a hero who'd tried to intercept the gunman. Trouble was, she was old and confused and more concerned about Miss Shaw
than anything or anybody else so that she made me sound more like an accomplice. I said as little as I could, waiting for the plain-clothes boys to arrive.

The Senior Constable didn't like that, either, and we were close to going it toe-to-toe when the D's from Darlinghurst station turned up.

Detective Sergeant Colin Pascoe was a big-gutted man with a boozer's nose and late-night eyes. He was a long time out of uniform himself, and he knew all the right moves. He'd brought a photographer with him, and, after the scene was captured on film from every necessary angle, he allowed the ambulance men to take Mr Charles Meadowbank, provisionally identified by yours truly, confirmed by an examination of the contents of his fat wallet, away. He introduced himself and took my ID folder; then Pascoe delegated the uniformed men to get names, addresses and brief statements from the audience, whose enthusiasm was rapidly waning as Pascoe's quiet efficiency undercut the drama. He sent his younger, slimmer assistant off to get Mrs Calvert's eyewitness account down pat.

Another car with a blue flashing light pulled up and a uniformed policewoman stepped out. She gave Pascoe a nod and went straight to Miss Shaw, adjusting the knitted shawl, taking the young woman immediately under her wing. They went up the steps and back into the block of flats. I was left standing on the path with Pascoe who was swinging a plastic bag containing my camera.

I pointed to the patch of grass. ‘There's a shell casing trodden in there,' I said.

‘We got it,' Pascoe said. ‘Must have dug it out while you were eyeing off the sheila with the big tits.' He flipped open his notebook ‘Miss … ah, Virginia Shaw of this address.'

I reached for my ID folder which he held, half-extended towards me, in his other hand. ‘If you say so, Sergeant.'

He retracted my property with a smile and a cardsharp's snap. ‘In the car, Hardy. Now!'

Although a private investigator has no clout himself, it helps if his client is a lawyer. That's when the grease can start to oil the wheels. Pascoe sat me down in an interrogation room in the Darlinghurst station. We sat on opposite sides of a rickety table and he looked amused when I pulled out a couple of bedraggled rollies.

‘Planning a bit of sitting and waiting, eh?'

I lit one of the smokes. ‘More like standing.'

‘Even worse. Want to tell me what you were doing there?'

I'd taken the precaution of picking up one of Alistair Menzies' cards in his office. For an answer I simply put a card on the desk.

‘I might have known. And I expect you're good mates with an Assistant Commissioner or two?'

I puffed smoke and considered. ‘I know a D named Grant Evans.'

‘He's Armed Hold-up. This is Homicide. Unless you happened to hear the shooter ask Meadowbank to stand and deliver?'

‘I'd rather not say anything more until I clear it with Mr Menzies.'

Pascoe went away and left me in the empty, cream-painted room with my cigarettes, a gas lighter Cyn had given me, and my thoughts. Pascoe had left my licence folder on the desk and I put it back in my pocket. After that, there wasn't much to do except smoke and think those thoughts. I quickly tired of that. I looked at my watch and was surprised to see that it was less than two hours since Charles Meadowbank had set off for Rose Bay. Long trip. Another hour went by before Pascoe returned with a man whose face I recognised but couldn't place.

‘I'm Vern Morris, Mr Hardy,' he said. ‘From Mr Menzies' chambers.'

I nodded. One of the outer office minions.

‘Mr Menzies has authorised you to make a full statement to the police.'

‘Big of him,' Pascoe said. ‘Thanks, Mr Morris.'

Morris departed and Pascoe plonked a battery-powered cassette tape recorder on the desk He turned it on and propped the little microphone up on its fold-out stand in front of me.

‘All mod cons,' I said.

Pascoe squinted at a needle quivering in a small dial. ‘You're on.'

I told it as briefly and accurately as I could. Pascoe interrupted me to ask whether I had a file on the case in my office. I said I did and he raised an eyebrow. He stopped me again after I'd described the shooting.

‘Description of the assailant. Take your time.'

‘Small, five-six or seven with a light build.'

‘Pity you didn't get to grips with him. Big bloke like you could probably have cleaned him up.'

‘He ran like the wind.'

Pascoe grunted. ‘And he had a gun, of course. Did you see the gun?'

‘No.'

‘Okay. Description, continued.'

I paused. ‘Dark clothes, jeans I think and runners.'

‘Features?'

I shook my head. ‘Stocking mask. You know what that does to a face.'

‘Yeah. One fish looks much the same as another. So, a very professional hit.'

‘I guess so.'

Pascoe added some identification remarks to the tape and then stopped it. He took a packet of filters from his pocket and lit up. He offered me the packet but I refused. I'd smoked too much already and smoking filter cigarettes is like drinking decaffeinated coffee—what's the point?

‘Any thoughts?' Pascoe said.

‘About what?'

‘Come on, Hardy. When I said it was a professional job you sounded doubtful.'

I shrugged. ‘I've never seen one before.'

He butted his cigarette. ‘Okay, we'll type this up and you can go after you sign it.'

That happened. I caught a taxi back to Rose Bay. A television crew was packing up after filming outside ‘Lapstone'. A few people were standing around talking and a lot of lights were burning in the blocks of flats on both sides of the street. It had been the most excitement they'd seen there in years. I kept well away from the action. I was feeling tired and flat. My face was bristly and my
mouth was sour after the smoking and talking. I was hungry and I needed a drink I looked up at the flats and wondered how Mrs Calvert and Miss Shaw were doing. None of my business. I got in the Falcon and felt around for the flask of Johnny Walker I kept in the glove compartment for cuts and abrasions. After a few pulls I felt better, well enough to go home to the loving arms of my wife.

‘You're drunk,' Cyn said.

‘No. Just a little lubricated on an empty stomach after a very tough night.'

The house was a standard end terrace—two rooms and a kitchen on the ground floor, three bedrooms above, lean-to laundry and bathroom. It needed work, but the architect member of the team never seemed to get around to thinking about it. We went through to the living room and I flopped into a saucer chair.

‘You look terrible. What happened?'

I told her. Give Cyn her due, she had a vivid imagination. I could see her visualising the scene.

‘Jesus,' she said. ‘You could have been shot.'

‘He wasn't after me.'

She stood behind my chair and massaged my neck. ‘Have a shave and a shower. I'll make you an omelette.'

A shave and shower at that time of night meant I'd be doing more than eating an omelette before Thursday was done.

In the morning, over herb tea and muesli for her, coffee, toast and Drum for me, Cyn told me about the job she had lined up in Cairns.

‘Townhouses alongside canals,' she said. ‘A real challenge.'

‘Like building Venice. Are the houses actually in the canals or what?'

‘Cliff, don't be a smartarse. It's interesting and it's only six weeks this time.'

‘Go with my blessing,' I said. ‘Maybe you can get us one of the townhouses as part of your fee. They gave my mum a flat in the block they built when they knocked down our semi in Maroubra.'

‘Your semi and ten like it. All undistinguished.'

‘She died two years later.'

‘Cliff, she was sixty-eight and she'd smoked thirty a day for fifty years.'

‘True, but I still blame the architects.'

Our fights could build out of exchanges like this. Cyn was a lower North Shore girl, a doctor's daughter who'd kicked over the traces but still trusted bank managers and private school principals in her heart. But there was no fight in either of us today. The memory of the night's love-making was too strong and the thought of a six-week parting made us both a bit clingy. She was flying north in twenty-four hours. She went to her office to finalise the details and I went to mine, hoping for a little quiet summons-serving or money-minding. I anticipated a call from Alistair Menzies' office requesting a refund—not an auspicious start on my new career path.

The morning passed slowly and when the phone rang I was thinking about money. The Asahi Pentax was a robust camera but I'd thrown it strongly and, although it had ended up on the grass, I wasn't sure that it hadn't landed somewhere harder first. There was likely to be some damage. Tricky case to argue as a legitimate expense, but it was worth a try. However, the voice that came on the line wasn't that of Mrs Collins, the dragon-lady.

‘Mr Hardy, this is Virginia Shaw.'

No flies on Cliff. ‘Would that be Miss Shaw of the Lapstone Apartments, Rose Bay?'

‘That's right.'

‘You had a very nasty experience, Miss Shaw. I'm sorry.'

‘I did and I would like to speak to you about that.'

‘I suppose you know why I was there. I don't quite see …'

‘That doesn't matter. I don't care about that. I saw what you did.'

‘I didn't do anything.'

‘You yelled. You threw something and hit him.
You frightened him and you ran towards him. That was very brave of you.'

‘I was just surprised, Miss Shaw. Just reacting instinctively. I might've jumped behind a tree next.'

Her voice was low and controlled, like that of a dynamic actress playing a reined-in part. Ava Gardner, say. ‘I don't think so.'

‘Well, I'm glad to hear that you're all right,' I said. ‘I hope the police didn't give you too hard a time.'

‘Mr Hardy,' she said. ‘I want to see you. I was told you are a private detective. I want to engage you. I'm very, very afraid.'

Conflict of interest didn't cross my mind. Mrs Meadowbank didn't need a divorce anymore. I drove to Rose Bay and parked pretty close to where I'd been just twelve hours before. Everything looked unnaturally clean in the street. A water wagon and the sweepers had been through not long before and any residue of the night's activity, like cigarette butts and chewing-gum wrappers, had been cleaned away. The steps in front of ‘Lapstone' had been hosed down, too. The patch of grass had been chewed up by big feet in heavy shoes.

I buzzed for Flat 3 the way she'd told me to and spoke my name into the squawk box.

‘Come up one flight and to the back,' said that million-dollar voice.

Virginia Shaw must have been standing with her hand on the doorknob because the door opened the instant I knocked.

‘Come in. Come in.'

The flat was much bigger than I'd expected—a sizeable vestibule leading to a wide hallway which led to a large sitting room. There looked to be at least another three or four rooms. The sitting room had French windows opening out to a balcony overlooking the water towards Point Piper. The floors were polished, the furniture was plain and there were paintings on the walls. Virginia Shaw fitted right in. She was tall and slender. Her white dress was simple and looked as if it had been made for her. She looked so cool I felt slightly sweaty. Maybe I looked it, or maybe it was just that she was the kind of woman who knows what a man wants to do.

‘It's warm in here,' she said. ‘Would you like to take your coat off? And what can I get you to drink?'

I peeled off my jacket and she took it from me. I asked for beer and she told me she only had Flag Ale, which was fine with me. She excused herself and I flapped my arms to free my shirt. Then I admired the view because there were no books on display to snoop at, no ashtray to invite the smoker and to me furniture and paintings are just things to avoid bumping into or knocking off the walls. The water was a deep blue as if no storm drain or ship's bilge had ever been emptied into it. The scene left my own water view—a glimpse of Rozelle Bay if you half-climbed the back fence—for dead.

She came back with a tray holding a bottle of beer and a pewter tankard. There was also a tall glass of pale liquid with lemon slices floating in
it. She put the tray on the coffee table, expertly poured the tankard full and handed it to me.

‘Iced tea for me,' she said. ‘I don't drink, you see.'

‘Or smoke,' I said. ‘Thank you.'

‘We can go out on the balcony if you want to smoke, Mr Hardy. I'm asthmatic. Please sit down.'

We sat down a few feet apart. I decided that she was too thin and too pale. The skin was stretched tight over her high cheekbones in the approved fashion model style, but I suspected that in her case the look owed something to poor health.