Peter Corris - The Undertow

'That depends.'

'On what?'

'On whether I decide you're worth helping.'

'Good point.' He pulled his car keys from his pocket and put them on the desk while he adjusted the sit of his pants. 'Don't try to follow me, please. That'd be very annoying.'

He strolled out and I let him go having the last word. If I'd responded he would've just come back with something smart anyway. I checked his DOB in my notes. He was twenty-four. Too old to be called precocious, too young to be called wise except in the American sense-a wiseguy. He might have considered that he'd made himself and downplayed nature and nurture, but he was his mother's son to a tee. The same conceit, arrogance and composure, the same quick grasp of what was going on and how to turn it to advantage.

He wasn't quite as smart as he thought, though. His car keys had a tag with the registration number on it. I'd memorised it and now I wrote it down. I scribbled notes on the encounter, catching some of his expressions-verbal and physical. It was easy to see the schoolboy athlete in him, and easy to believe that he could learn a language at the drop of a hat. For all that, there was something missing in him, some lack. He was cold, but it was more than that. I couldn't put my finger on it and registered the feeling on the page with a large question mark. One thing was for sure, though-I knew I'd be seeing him again.

Somehow, someone had been keeping an eye on me. There were ways to find that someone, strategies. I could walk or drive to certain places; there were people I could contact to watch me being watched and take action. Unless the watcher was super-professional and very experienced these strategies would work and I was prepared to use them when the time came. For the moment I wanted whoever it was to know that I hadn't abandoned the Heysen enquiry. I rang the hospital and arranged to see Catherine Heysen. It was typical of her not to call me after William had been in touch. The employer doesn't run after the employee.

It was no great distance from the office to the hospital and I decided to walk it. Rain was threatening, but I had a hooded slicker and I've never minded walking in the rain in the right protective gear. Besides, the slicker gave me somewhere to put my. 38 Smith amp; Wesson automatic. 'Judas goat' wasn't quite the right expression. The Judas goat is tethered and helpless, and I wasn't going to be either.

I'm getting to like King Street. It's almost never empty and for a city man like me that's a plus. Too much space and too much emptiness give me the creeps unless it's the ocean, and that's never really quiet or empty. I once counted the eateries between the railway station and Bob Gould's mad secondhand book emporium. I forget the number but it was a lot. I was too early as usual and my back was hurting, so I stopped for an early afternoon drink and some painkillers at the pub on the corner of Missenden Road.

I wasn't overconfident about being tracked. I had the pistol after all. I felt exposed. That pub's one where you can turn in quickly and see what passes by and that's exactly what I did. No big guys with baseball bats, no dinged red Commodores. Apart from being cautious, who ever heard of a private eye turning up for an interview without alcohol on his breath?

Catherine Heysen was just back from physiotherapy. She wore a different nightgown and jacket but was her usual immaculate self. She was sitting in a chair by the bed with a number of magazines around her. The hand she extended was almost welcoming.

'So you found him. Well done, Mr Hardy. Please sit down. Would you care for some fruit?'

'No, thanks. He more or less found me, but he was responding to the enquiries I made so I'll take the credit.'

'I'm sure you deserve it. Well, where is he living and what is he doing? Is it very bad?'

I filled her in on my interviews with the professor and with her son. I told her what he was doing, or attempting to do, and that I didn't know where he was living. I didn't tell her that I could probably find him when I needed to. It never hurts to keep something up your sleeve. I also told her that he'd seen her in hospital.

She shook her head. 'No. I don't believe it, even of him.'

'He said he was in some sort of disguise. He satisfied himself that you were recovering and getting good care, and left without letting you see him.'

The pain in her eyes was about the most expressive reaction I'd seen from her. She dropped her head to conceal it. 'Ah,' she said, 'so he told you all sorts of things about our… relationship.'

'Mrs Heysen, I've had a version of that from you, one from him, and another from Professor Lowenstein. They don't match, but that's not my concern.'

All the noblesse oblige was suddenly back. 'And what is?'

'Whether you want me to find out why the murder of Bellamy and the conviction of your husband has led to the threat to you… and to me. To be fair, I have to tell you that your son said that finding out about Dr Heysen's conviction had nothing to do with his life choices. But he is interested.'

'You told him about Frank?'

'Not by name. We fenced, exchanging information, and I had to tell him about your belief that he isn't your husband's son. He said he couldn't care less about that.'

'Did you believe him?'

I shrugged. 'Hard to tell. He's very bright and… supple.'

'The DNA test result should be through any day now. It'll go to both Frank and me. What's your guess, Mr Hardy?'

'Wouldn't care to make one. I'd say in the important ways, he's like you.'

She smiled at that and, although it produced lines on her face, it emphasised that she would retain a kind of beauty all her life. 'I'm not sure you mean that as a compliment. I don't want to look over my shoulder for the rest of my days. Yes, Mr Hardy, I want you to pursue it. Find out who shot me and attacked you and why. Will you need more money?'

'Not yet. Maybe later.'

'As I said, I have enough. When I sell the house, more than enough. Did you tell him about that? Of course you did, he would have drawn it out. What did he say?'

'He was indifferent.'

'Yes, he would be. He spent as little time there as he could. How dangerous is this business he's in?'

'Very, I'd say, but he was confident he could deal with it in every way. I'd say he's too confident to be fully in touch with reality.'

'Quite the psychologist, aren't you?' she said, sounding just like her son-and with her head tilted and her hair drawn back, she almost looked like him despite the gender and physiological differences. 'You don't like him and you don't like me, but you can't afford to choose who you work for, can you?'

'I can, up to a point. In any case-'

'In any case you're involved in this more in Frank's interest than mine.'

I shifted uneasily in the hard chair and decided to stand. I'd had enough of the hospital smell and of her. 'No, Mrs Heysen, Prof Lowenstein said I was drawn to intrigue and violence like a moth to a flame. Your case has got the lot.'

The beautifying smile spread around her face again.

'You're quite supple yourself, Mr Hardy. I wonder how many lies William told you about me.'

'I wonder, too.'

That actually drew a laugh. She took a moment to collect her thoughts and tidying the magazines seemed to help her. I noticed her wince as she stretched her right arm further than she'd intended. I've had shoulder injuries; they're a bastard to endure, and slow to come right.

When the magazines were lined up to her satisfaction, she leaned back in the chair and let out a long sigh. 'I'll be out of here in a few days. As I told you, I'll be safe in the bosom of my family.'

I nodded. Said nothing, not wanting to push it. Catherine Heysen was not to be pushed.

'Yes,' she said, 'I have every confidence in you. Find out, if you can, what the hell is going on.'