The Greenwich Apartments (19 page)

‘How long had de Vries been screwing the video girl?' Mercer said.

‘That's a stupid name for her.'

‘Fits doesn't it? One way or another. How long?'

‘I don't know. A couple of months. Why?'

‘His wife took it bad.'

The fire was still burning when we got there. The upper floors had been scorched more than set ablaze but the ground floor was a blackened, shattered ruin. Tongues of flame still licked at the ivy, ran along a dry branch and then flickered out. The firemen were playing water on the walls and keeping an eye on the adjacent buildings.

We walked up as close to the entrance as we could but the heat kept us back twenty feet or more. Smoke billowed out of flat one—dense, stinking clouds of it and there were popping noises and sharp cracks as if fireworks were going off.

Mercer stepped across to talk to the fireman who seemed to be doing the most shouting and the least work. I went with him.

‘Police,' Mercer said.

‘Yes?'

‘Deliberate?'

The man snorted. He was stocky and red-faced naturally; in the glow from the fire he seemed to be alight himself. ‘One hundred per cent. Professional job.'

‘How's that?'

The fireman took off his hard hat and mopped his face. ‘No-one hurt. People had time to get clear. Looks like there was a sort of preliminary bang and then a couple of blasts. That's how the pros do it.'

‘Any chance of anything intact in there?' I pointed to the ground floor flat.

‘No way.'

I became aware of the people in the courtyard. Singly and in pairs they stood around, some fully dressed and some in nightwear. They watched the fire with fascination. There was a light breeze and the noxious smoke was lifted up between the buildings and blown away. The plane tree nearest the Greenwich Apartments was scorched; its leaves were brown and curling. A fine ash started to fall on the bricks.

‘Mr Hardy!'

Ellen Barton came towards me; she was wearing a red silk dressing gown and enormous white slippers. Her purple hair was in disarray and I could see pink skull in patches where it was thin.

‘Hello, Ellen,' I said.

‘Whatever happened to your eye?'

‘A long story. Did you see what happened here?'

Her head swivelled and her eyes opened. She sized Mercer and Drew up, probably guessed their ranks and years of service. ‘I was asleep. That lovely building. What a shame. What'll happen to it now?'

‘I don't know,' I said. Then I saw Leo Wise coming along the lane. He was walking slowly and
had a hat in his hand as if he'd taken it off out of respect for something or someone.

‘Excuse me.' I nodded to Ellen Barton and went to meet Wise. Drew and Mercer watched me as I guided him to one of the benches in the courtyard. We sat and he looked at the smouldering building.

‘This is to do with Carmel, of course,' he said.

‘Yes.' I ran through it as quickly as I could. Mercer and Drew moved around restlessly. When I'd finished Wise looked away from the fire and stared at me.

‘You're sure he was the one? This Kelly?'

‘He virtually said so, but de Vries was the only witness.'

‘It's good enough for me. Thanks, Hardy.'

‘The building's a mess.'

He shrugged. ‘It's insured. I can probably even claim on the the kid's videos.'

He wept then. I suspected that he hadn't cried much before but he let it all go now in great gulping sobs. I patted his shoulder; Mercer and Drew watched for a while, then they drifted off down the lane.

We sat there a long time. The sky lightened. The people went back into their flats when the firemen gave them the word. Water hissed on the fire and the smoke welled up again and again. A smell of wet ash wafted through the courtyard and hung in the air. Eventually Wise lifted his head and wiped his eyes.

‘Christ,' he said, ‘what a crazy thing for her to do. Will we ever know which one of the bastards was behind it?'

I shook my head. ‘Probably not.'

‘Crazy,' he said. ‘Kids, they break your heart.'

‘Yeah.' I put my hand up to my eye and eased the pressure of the pad. ‘That's what my mother used to say.'

T
HE
deaths of Jan de Vries and Kevin Kelly and the fire-bombing of the Greenwich Apartments got a pretty big coverage in the papers. They made the tie-in with ‘the Video Girl' too—there was no way to stop that. But the pornographic angle didn't get a run.

The day following these events, Marjorie Legge and Monty Porter went on a world tour to study new markets for Australian products. When she was asked at the airport what products were involved Ms Legge turned to her husband and said, ‘Monty?' Monty Porter punched the journalist on the nose.

About the same time, Carlo Gabriani left the country to investigate the distribution of Australian relief money to the victims of recent natural disasters in Italy. It was rumoured that he had some government backing for the trip, but that was only a rumour. I phoned Drew to ask him if he'd seen these interesting items in the press.

‘Rich people fly around the world all the time,' he said. ‘Wouldn't you?'

‘I might. Don't you find the timing interesting?'

‘Not really. It's coming on to winter here. Be lovely in the south of France about now. Probably be okay in Italy too. By the way, how's the eye?'

‘I'm shocked, Drew. You've asked after my well-being.'

‘Not really. I'm wondering how you'll look on the stand identifying people and all, when they point
out you'd had an eye operation a couple of days before.'

‘I saw well enough to hit Kelly.'

‘Close range and you got him one out of four. It won't look good, Hardy.'

In fact the eye was fine. I went to see Stivens at the appointed time and he was impressed by my progress. I was impressed by his Macquarie Street rooms and the size of the bill.

‘Two anaesthetists?' I said.

‘Back up. In case one passes out.'

‘You made a joke.'

‘It's an old joke. I learned it from someone who explained it to me.'

You couldn't catch Mr Stivens out, no matter how hard you tried. He told me to keep using the drops and to discard the pad when I wasn't troubled by glare.

I charged Wise for one of the anaesthetists and for 50 per cent of the costs that weren't covered by Medicare. He paid promptly, which is an unusual thing for a rich man to do. I discarded the pad. I spent a lot of time in shaded bedrooms with Helen, doing it gently, and glare didn't bother me a bit.

Richard Riddell engaged the services of a barrister with no known connections to any of the people Carmel Wise had investigated, to represent Derek William Allen, who was charged as an accessory to the murder of de Vries. Allen died, apparently of a heroin overdose, while on bail and before the case came to trial.

The block of flats at Tamarama didn't have concrete cancer. Helen paid a deposit, the tenants moved out and she was in as a tenant herself, awaiting settlement, in a matter of weeks. I helped her to buy furniture and move her meagre belongings from my house to the flat. The first night we spent there the
place was bare and we ate and sat and slept like Spartans. But gradually, the place took shape. I found I liked travelling over there by train and foot, or driving late at night. Some nights Helen stayed at my place.

We swam at Bondi often, although temperatures were dropping and it was more a matter of getting wet briefly and getting warm quickly than of frolicking in the surf. We walked along the headlands, rambled in the cemetery, drank coffee in Bondi and wine in the pub at Coogee. It was a happy time without friction. Our six months were slipping by very fast.

I'd returned the cassette of
Bermagui
to Judy Syme with some regret, but a few weeks later the film was shown on television accompanied by the inevitable ‘Video Girl' nonsense. Helen and I watched it in her flat. Carmel Wise had created a place where people collided, where some things were resolved and others were not and where the final story was never really told. Sometimes her camera panned out over the sea and up into the clouds as if the real solutions might be there which meant that they were nowhere at all. I stared at the dark water and the starry sky and thought that the partial understanding we'd got of why she'd died—and no answer at all to the question of who had ordered her death—was what she would have expected.

Peter Corris

Cliff Hardy starts out to help a friend but before long he's looking for an enemy - William Mountain, boozer, TV scriptwriter, would-be novelist, who is missing and searching for adventure. Mountain's adventure is Hardy's ‘case' which rapidly becomes a case he would rather not have. The only good thing about Mountain is his girlfriend, Erica Fong, but before long she is in mortal danger. Mountain is the dealer in a deadly game and Hardy's cards are clues which take him from Woolloo-mooloo to Woollahra, and from the Blue Mountains to Melbourne.

Hardy sticks to the trail as he must, but for Erica and for his pride rather than the hundred and twenty five a day and expenses. But the bodies and minds he meets more and more unsound, and the hands Bill Mountain deals become more and more bizarre…

Peter Corris

A client happens to fall from the twentieth storey of a building; a rock star goes missing; an erotic Mongol scroll vanishes; a film star has a problem that has nothing to do with creativity - it's all in a day's work for Cliff Hardy.
Yachts dance on the sparkling waters of the harbour, and the back alleys are busy; the city's high and low classes go about their daily business. But nothing really surprises Hardy; and, for a hundred and twenty-five dollars a day (plus expenses), he'll provide a few surprises of his own….

‘Peter Corris is turning out some of the most entertaining fiction in Australia today….'
The Age

Published by Unwin Paperbacks.

Peter Corris

It began as a routine investigation into a supposed drowning. But Cliff Hardy, private detective, soon found himself literally fighting for his life in the murky, violent underworld of Bondi.

The truth about John Singer, black marketeer and poker machine king, is out there somewhere - amidst the drug addicts and prostitutes and alcoholics. Hardy's job is to stay alive long enough in the world of easy death to get to

the truth.

The truth hurts…

‘…a fine, tightly-controlled story.'
West Australian

Published by Unwin Paperbacks

Peter Corris

Cliff Hardy in action again: trying to keep one step ahead of his client's troubles - and his own.
He has to cope with the brute force exercised in sleazy back streets to the more refined form of violence to be found in the boardrooms of city skyscrapers. Along the way he has to deal with everyone from fashion models and teenage junkies to urban developers and crooked funeral directors.
Some are friendly and helpful, some try to kill him…
Hardy copes, with his guts and his savvy, and all for a hundred and twenty-five dollars a day (plus expenses)…

Published by Unwin Paperbacks.

Peter Corris

The Winning Side is a moving and compassionate account of a man caught between two worlds.
Charlie Thomas, born in a humpy camp to Aboriginal parents in the 1920's, learns to fight early. He fights in the backblocks of Queensland during the Depression, and in the Middle East and Pacific in World War Two.
As a decorated veteran, he fights on in the cities and the country against racial prejudice, authority and his own weaknesses. He has to fight; white Australia tries to keep him on the losing side - in the boxing tents, pubs and gaols. Charlie Thomas fights for education, justice, hope and love - to make his side the winning side.

Published by Unwin Paperbacks.

‘Kate Grenville has transformed an Australian myth into a dazzling fiction of universal appeal. It is a pleasure to be able to praise a true novelist.'
Patrick White

‘A very moving and sometimes funny novel…The surprises and flourishes are in the evocative and poetic writing of the episodes every one of which reveals some detail of human frailness…'
Elizabeth Jolley

This is the exuberant story of Lilian Singer - a splendidly eccentric woman - and the life she made.
Lilian strides through her life reciting Shakespeare for a shilling, using reluctant taxi drivers as her private charioteers falling in love with ‘Lord Kitchener'. Magnificently self-confident, she can say at the end: ‘I am ready for whatever comes next.'
Lilian's is a big story in every sense - the story of a woman who is larger than life because she is her own grandest invention.

Published by Allen & Unwin.

Women's Short Stories

These thirty-two short stories have been selected by Suzanne Falkiner to present a balanced collection of modern writing by
Australian
women. They include a selection of some of Australia's best known names (Jolley, Astley, Zwicky) through to the most promising emerging writers (Gamer, Sperling, Viidikas, Grenville) and some of the more avant garde and experimental of the new voices (Inez Baranay, Jeri Kroll, Finola Moorhead). A proportion, including those of Garner and Zwicky, have never been published before. Most have had previous publication in small magazines, and have been selected by their authors as among those they most wish to perpetuate.

Published by Unwin Paperbacks.