The Other Side of Sorrow (15 page)

Hewitt did remember. He didn't like the memory and he didn't like what he was seeing now. His craggy, but somehow spoiled-looking face, arranged itself in something close to a scowl. ‘What's he doing here?'

‘He's looking for Damien and Megan. I've been trying to help him.'

Hewitt shrugged out of his bomber jacket and threw it at a chair. It only half-caught but that was apparently enough for him. He looked at Tess, then at me. His expression was hard to judge. ‘I don't think you should have anything to do with him. Jesus, Tessie …'

‘Don't call me that! I've told you not to call me that!'

I had the feeling that I was witnessing something more than a brother and sister spat. These people were well into adulthood but their behaviour was childish with some sort of edge.

I'd left my holstered pistol over a chair not far from where Hewitt's jacket hung. My jacket was covering it and I thought I could remove gun and jacket without exposing it. I moved towards the chair. ‘Perhaps I'd better go, Tess.'

She moved abruptly into my path. ‘No! You're being stupid, Ramsay. You're tired out after what you've been through. Calm down and have a drink.'

‘That's your solution for everything,' he said sulkily. But he let Tess pour him some wine and set it down in front of him.

‘Cliff?'

‘The coffee's done,' I said. ‘I'd like some of that.' I looked at Hewitt. ‘With a splash of Scotch if you've got any.'

Hewitt was watching us closely and I suppose he could tell the way things were. A halfway intelligent person usually can. I decided to make it easier for him to react by moving close to Tess while she poured the coffee, opening the cupboard at her direction and adding whisky to both our cups.

We sat at the table. ‘Snap out of it, Ramsay. Tell us about the night in the lockup.'

Us, she said. Hewitt drank some wine and looked resentful but resigned. I guessed that his wish to talk about himself overrode his other feelings. ‘It was interesting,' he said. ‘Being deprived of your liberty. Powerful stuff.'

‘You should try it long term,' I said.

He looked at me with something that might have been respect if it hadn't been filtered through dislike. ‘You've been inside?'

‘On remand for a few months in the Bay years back, and I did a short stint at Berrima not so long ago.'

‘Yeah? What for?'

I shrugged and drank some of the laced coffee. ‘Oh, destroying evidence and generally pissing off the police.'

‘All very interesting,' Tess said. ‘What about the TV interview?'

The spoiled look came back again. ‘You didn't see it?'

I'd forgotten all about it, but Tess came to the rescue.

‘I taped it. I was waiting for you to come and watch it and tell me how it went and how much they edited.'

Me, this time, not us. I was beginning to get an idea of how Ramsay felt about his sister, the question for me was: were the feelings reciprocated? I'd been in this particular neck of the woods before.

‘Well, let's see it,' Hewitt said. ‘And I'll tell you.'

He was happy now and, without actually including me, wasn't positively leaving me out. Afterall, he was going to be the star of the show. Nothing competes with television, especially not reality.

Tess glanced at me. I kept my expression just on the right side of neutral.
I did
want to see the tape. We trooped into the living room and Tess hit the buttons. They left their drinks behind; I topped myself up from the bottle. Seating arrangements were straightforward. Ramsay on the two-seater couch; me on a chair; Tess between us.

The program presenter, a glossy blonde in a severely tailored suit with a very short skirt, crossed her legs and sailed in: ‘Tonight, in the studio we have Ramsay Hewitt, the leader …'

‘Excuse me. Everyone involved in the Tadpole Creek protest is a leader, or there's no leader. Have it whichever way you like.'

She didn't miss a beat. ‘I see. Ramsay Hewitt of the Homebush protest …'

‘Tadpole Creek environmental protest.'

‘Right. Ramsay is here to explain the tragic event of the other night and …'

Ramsay got out of his chair and advanced on the camera. ‘I'm not here to do any such thing. I'm here to tell the viewers about what's being done at Homebush Bay. How they're being conned into thinking that these are going to be green Olympics whereas in fact they're going to be dirty brown …'

The camera panned quickly back to the presenter. To be fair to her, she was coping well with her obstreperous guest. ‘Red, wouldn't you say, Ramsay? Blood red? That man was beaten to death.'

A floor attendant shepherded Ramsay back to his seat. He combed his long hair back with his fingers. He was good-looking or would have been but for a nervous, twitchy manner that seemed to affect his facial expressions and bodily movements. He bore some resemblance to his sister and would've looked more like her still if he survived another ten years and managed to resolve some of his all too apparent inner conflicts. ‘I'm very sorry about the guard,' he said slowly. ‘It shouldn't have happened.'

‘But it did. What can you tell us about …' the presenter's eyes flickered to a cue card, ‘… Damien Talbot?'

‘Every organisation has rotten apples.'

The presenter leaned forward. ‘Would you like to expand on that, Ramsay?'

‘Yes.' He broke off and reached for a glass of water. ‘I mean the police, the church, the media, they all have unworthy people in them, don't they? I'd much rather talk about what the protest is designed to do.'

The presenter felt herself to be on top now and she showed signs of knowing that she'd presided over a pretty good short grab and that it was time to close off. ‘I'm sure you would, but what I want to know is why would one of your people behave so violently?'

‘I don't consider him to be a member of the group.'

‘So there's division within the protest. That's not going to help your cause, is it?'

Ramsay didn't answer.

‘What can you tell us about the young woman with him—Megan French?'

‘Nothing. I scarcely knew her.'

‘I see what you mean about the protest having no leader. Maybe it should have had one. I'm Tracey-Jane Marshall and this is
Newsbeat.'

A commercial followed and then the tape stopped. It was a lame performance from Ramsay who was clearly out of his depth. He didn't seem to realise it and looked at Tess for her approval. When he didn't get it he wet his lips and fidgeted in his seat. ‘That bloody bitch set me up. Her questions weren't fair.'

No questions would ever be fair for Ramsay, he was one of those people who found something or someone else to blame at every turn.

Tess said, ‘Well, it'll be forgotten tomorrow. What we have to do is …'

Ramsay jumped from his seat and stood over her. ‘You seem to have forgotten bloody everything. Everything except screwing with this fascist thug …'

He was working himself up to do something, anything, to relieve his frustration, even if it meant hitting Tess. I moved quickly and grabbed his flailing arm.

‘Take it easy, Ramsay. Get a grip on yourself or you'll do something you're sorry for.'

For all his size he wasn't strong and it was child's play to get him off balance. He sensed that he had no leverage to resist me and it made him even wilder and less effective. He stumbled and almost fell into Tess's lap. I hauled him upright and he sprayed spittle as he shook himself free.

‘You slut! Screw your brains out. See if I care. I don't need you. Go to hell.' He stormed back to the kitchen and swore as he hit something solid. Then the back door crashed open against the wall and I heard his boots on the cement path at the side of the house. Tess was huddled in the chair with her face in her hands. I was torn. I still wanted to talk to Ramsay but Tess's distress was strong and visible. I knelt by the chair and stroked her head. I heard an engine start, run roughly and then a squeal of tyres as he drove away. Tess heard it all as well and felt it more—her body shook at the sounds. When she looked up there was a pain in her eyes and expression that was hard to watch.

‘I'm sorry about all that,' she said.

‘He's got troubles.'

‘You know, don't you?'

‘What?'

‘The … the nature of his troubles.'

I knew all right, from the way he looked at her and behaved, but I said, ‘I'm not sure that it's my business.'

She sucked in a deep breath. ‘Perhaps you're right. Look, Cliff, I'm whacked. I'm going to take half a pill and go to sleep. I'd be glad if you'd just stick around until I'm off. Would you mind?'

It was a subtle request. I topped up my coffee and added another drop of Scotch while she got ready for bed.

‘Lock the door, would you, Cliff. Key goes in the flower pot.'

Dark red silk pyjamas, a scrubbed face, a slightly toothpaste-flavoured kiss and she was gone. After a while, I went into the bedroom and looked at her. She'd turned over and drawn her legs up and seemed comfortable. I had an impulse to strip off and crawl in beside her but I knew that wasn't what she wanted. Just as well I didn't because when I was putting my jacket on the mobile rang.

I answered, keeping my voice down.

‘Cliff, this is Geoff. Mum's in hospital. It looks pretty bad. I'll get back to you when I can.'

I didn't know what hospital Cyn would be in and with family gathering round it wouldn't be appropriate for me to be there anyway. I was tired and somewhat dispirited. Ramsay Hewitt's abrupt departure had closed off an avenue of enquiry. I doubted whether Geoff had picked up anything useful at the protest site. It was possible and that it had been put out of his mind by his mother's crisis, but it seemed unlikely. If I'd had the manpower I might've staked out Dr Macleod's compound to see if Talbot turned up there, but I didn't, and there was no real reason to think he would.

I checked on Tess again, followed her instructions about the key and left the house. There was nothing for me to do but go home. I felt sober, very sober, but I might have been over the limit. I thought back over what I'd eaten and drunk in the past few hours and decided it was line ball. I drove sedately and caught a late night news bulletin on the way. The police were still hunting what the media were now calling ‘the Tadpole Creek Killer'. I was working at the centre of one of the city's major news items but felt that I was on the sidelines with no chance of getting into the game.

I turned into my street and cursed when I saw that my usual parking space outside the house was occupied by another car. Inner city dwellers tend to establish conventions and protocols about these things and it was rare for one of the other residents to pinch my spot. The occasional visitor or Glebe diner-out offends, but they were usually gone by this time. I parked further down the street and walked back with the gun in its holster under my jacket.

As I approached the house a woman came out of my neighbour's place and walked smartly towards the red hatchback parked in what I considered my spot. I stopped and watched her and she stopped and looked at me. I guessed I must've looked threatening at that time of night with the experience of the last few hours showing on my face and a suspicious package under my arm

‘It's okay,' I said. ‘I live next door to Clive. My name's Hardy. We're mates.'

Relief was apparent in every muscle in her body. ‘Oh, the private detective. Clive's told me about you. Oh God, I've taken your space.'

‘Don't worry,' I said. ‘I won't shoot you.'

She laughed. ‘I should hope not. Sorry again. There was a van pulling out from here when I arrived. I didn't know it was your spot.'

‘Only by convention,' I said. ‘First come, first served really.'

‘Well, I'll be off. Goodnight, Mr Hardy.'

‘Goodnight.' I stood, debating whether to move my car as she pulled neatly away and drove off. Clive is a taxi driver and we both keep irregular hours and live alone. The woman who'd left was thirtyish, about Clive's age, and attractive.
Good luck to you,
I thought.
And good luck to me, too.
I'd decided to leave the car where it was when I saw Clive standing at his gate and beckoning to me.

I wasn't in the mood for conversation, but I was always ready to give Clive the time of day or more usually, night.

‘Gidday, Clive.'

‘Cliff. Look, it's probably nothing, but there was a strange-looking van parked outside your place briefly when Sally arrived. I didn't think anything of it at first. You've had that other young bloke staying. Thought it must've been to do with something you're working on. But he gave me a funny look and drove off like a hoon.'

‘What d'you mean, strange looking?'

‘All colours of the rainbow—pyschedelic. What's wrong?'

My brain snapped on the connections:
van
—
psychedelic design
—
Damien Talbot.
He'd been here!

The tiredness had dropped away as I felt a reaction rise inside me I hadn't experienced for a long time—that of the hunter becoming the hunted. ‘Tall bloke? Long hair?'

‘That's him. Anything wrong?'

‘No, mate. Probably not. How long was he here?'

‘In and out I'd say. Well, I've gotta clean up and start my shift. 'Night, Cliff.'

My security is reasonably good. The front door is a solid job, deadlocked. The house is free-standing on one side but the bougainvillea grows so thickly in the front that you'd lose a hell of a lot of skin trying to get through. At the back is a drop of a couple of metres to the lane and there are a couple of blocks of flats opposite with windows looking out. Hard to break into. All clear there. I inspected the front porch as best I could in the dim light but there didn't appear to be anything of concern—no suspicious parcels, no bodies.