Peter Corris - Open File

When in doubt, work. I drove to Darlinghurst and went to the office. That meant walking through some shadowy spots at a volatile time of night when the crazies were out. I put the. 38 in my pocket. A couple of trannies were walking down Forbes Street on the way to their patch on William Street at the bottom of the stairs. They gave me the invitation and I gave them a polite refusal. They seemed happy and I guess, compared to how things had been for them not so very long ago, they had reason to be. Some things had changed for the better.

The other people on my floor-the astrologer, the numismatist, the antiquarian bookseller-had gone home. In a funny way we all got along fine-marginalised semi-professionals trying to make a living in the face of scepticism, indifference and hostility. At various times we’d been close to getting together for a drink. Could have been fun, but it’d never happened.

The lights were off and as I turned on the stairwell ones they barely cut the gloom. Atmospheric. I let myself into the office. No light blinking on the answering machine but a fax had slid out and dropped to the floor. The tray had broken away some time back and that’s where the sheets finished up when I wasn’t around.

I picked it up and read it. Handwritten capitals: MR HARDY I’M VERY AFRAID OF THE POLICE AND EVERYTHING. PLEASE HELP ME. SARAH HAMPSHIRE.

Watson rang me the next morning to say he’d okay’d it for me to talk to Sarah. I didn’t tell him that I’d faxed her the night before to say that arrangements were being made. The fax number was the same as the one for the Church Point house. The appointment was for midday- Sarah was absenting herself from school on compassionate grounds. From what I knew of her, that wouldn’t cause her too much concern.

I met Watson and a detective named Constable Kate Cafarella at the Mona Vale police station. Constable Cafarella had been spending some time with Sarah. Apparently a kindly neighbour, a Mrs Hartley, had been providing support-meals, laundry and such.

Cafarella was tall, beak-nosed, not unattractive. Formidable, as Pierre Fontaine might have said, but I couldn’t see her as someone frightening to Sarah, who seemed pretty tough in her own way.

Watson supplied the recording device and Cafarella watched as I stripped off my shirt and taped it into place. Watson seemed a little embarrassed.

‘Nothing else to do, Kate?’ he asked.

‘I thought I should bring Mr Hardy up to date on how things stand with Sarah.’

She wasn’t hopping up and down with excitement at my manly figure, but she showed an acceptable level of appreciation.

‘Thank you, Constable,’ I said. I flipped on the switch of the device as I buttoned up my shirt.

‘She came out of the sedation she’d been given at first, clear as bell,’ Cafarella said, ‘and we got nothing out of her. Nothing at all. Refused to answer the mildest of questions. Didn’t kick up a fuss-no tears, no orders to piss off. Just… blankness. No, I’d call it a brick wall.’

Watson seemed as impressed by her account as I was, but he wanted more.

‘Defensive?’

Cafarella shook her head. ‘As I said-no interpretation possible.’

‘Speculate,’ I said.

She shrugged. ‘I’d say either numb and dumb or a pretty tough cookie. Don’t know her well enough to make the call.’

‘That’s where we’re hoping Hardy can help us.’ Watson checked his watch. ‘Time to go.’

‘Hang on,’ I said. I opened my shirt enough to see the button, stopped the recording on the microcassette, rewound it and played the last few exchanges.

I gave them a bright smile. ‘It’s working!’

‘It’s been checked and rechecked, Hardy,’ Watson said. ‘Of course it’s working. You’re a clown.’

I was looking at Cafarella. ‘I thought possibly my alpha rhythms or conductors might have upset the mechanism.’

‘Rewind,’ Watson snapped.

I did, then rebuttoned my shirt and put on my old leather jacket. I wore jeans and the shirt was faded, ex-army.

Watson and Cafarella escorted me out of the room they'd been allotted at the station. The day was cool, the reason for the jacket. They walked me to my car and Cafarella opened the door.

'How do you feel about taping a teenage girl whose mother has just been murdered, Mr Hardy? Without her knowledge?'

'Lousy,' I said.

The deal was that Cafarella would be in the house but not in earshot when I interviewed Sarah. That was okay with me; the last thing I needed was for a nymphette to play games, and I hoped it was all right with Sarah. Cafarella followed me in her car and we went up the crumbling steps with her in front. She went up easily-a runner, netball or gymnast, perhaps. Not quite Sarah’s type.

‘You could break your neck here,’ I said. ‘Or an ankle.’

Cafarella stepped neatly around two collapsed bricks. ‘The path needs work all right, the garden as well. What did Sarah’s mother actually do?

‘I never found out. Don’t you lot know?’

‘Ian Watson might, but on this case I’m just a female adjunct, a soother of other females. If Watson knows, he hasn’t told me.’

‘Did you okay this with the shrink?’

‘Didn’t have to. We found out the man’s a charlatan, not even a doctor.’

We reached the porch and rang the bell several times before Sarah came to the door. She addressed her greeting directly to me, ignoring Cafarella.

‘Sorry, Mr Hardy. I was playing the music a bit loud.’

‘The Clash,’ Cafarella said. ‘I heard it.’

Sarah ignored that too. ‘Come in,’ she said.

We went down the hallway. Sarah stopped in the kitchen. She wore jeans and a sweater, boots with a bit of heel. No makeup, but she’d washed her hair and tied it back neatly. ‘Would you like some coffee or something, Mr Hardy?’

Cafarella stepped forward and, without actually touching her, made Sarah back up. ‘You are a very rude girl,’ she said, ‘and I’m only here because I have to be.’

Sarah’s stance was defiant. I said nothing.

Cafarella stepped away. ‘You and Mr Hardy will sit out in the back room where I can see you from the garden. I won’t be able to hear you and you can talk about whatever you bloody well like.’

She stalked away, through the sunroom and down the steps.

Sarah shrugged. ‘Touchy.’

I knew it was an act on Cafarella’s part, but I played along. ‘They’re frustrated at getting nowhere on your mother’s murder. By the way, they don’t know about your fax or my reply.’

Cafarella rattled the door at the top of the steps. ‘You’ve got one hour, Mr Hardy.’

It was the signal for me to turn on the recording device. I nodded. ‘Look, Sarah, I wouldn’t mind some coffee- instant’ll do.’

She shot Cafarella a baleful glance as she went back down the steps. ‘I hate that bitch. Okay, instant. That’s all I bother with anyway.’

She turned towards the shelves and I reached inside my shirt and flicked the switch.

Sarah spilled some of the powder when she spooned it into the mugs, and water sprayed out when she turned the tap on too hard to fill the jug. She got the water under control and did a fair job of making the coffee but she was clearly very troubled and I didn’t think it was only about losing her mother. We went through to the sunroom and sat. The yard sloped steeply back and Cafarella must have got herself a spot towards the far end of the property where there was a rockery and garden.

‘I was surprised that you wanted to see me,’ I said. ‘We didn’t actually hit it off too well the last time.’ I had to hope she wouldn’t mention faxes and she didn’t, quite.

‘I’m frightened of the police, like I said. They think I killed Mum… Angela, with Ronny’s help.’