Peter Corris: The Undertow

'Where is he now?'

'I have no idea.'

I had to think that over. The job seemed to be double-barrelled. What was the point of exonerating Gregory Heysen, in the unlikely event that that could be done, if the kid to give the good news to was missing?

'Have you tried to locate him?'

'How would I do that?'

'By hiring someone like me. Can't you see that this is two strands of the same story?'

'I hadn't thought of it that way… until now.'

'You have to consider every angle. What if William reconsidered? He's bright, you say. What if he's trying to find out more about Dr Heysen's conviction?'

'I suppose it's possible.'

'Which means he could be in danger.'

'Why?'

'You haven't thought this through, Mrs Heysen. If your husband was innocent, then someone framed him. Do you have any idea who that could be?'

I'd thought her story was thin in some way, and it was odd she hadn't tried to find the missing kid. Did she have some other agenda? But now she seemed genuinely alarmed.

'No.'

'Let's say you're right and your husband was framed or railroaded by whoever ordered the killing, or by the police, or both. If anyone starts poking around and finds things out, and the person or persons who arranged the frame-up learns of it…'

'I simply had not considered that.'

Her reaction didn't entirely convince me, but at least she could imagine a scenario playing out in which she or her son or both could be at risk. She was silent for a few minutes and revealed her agitation by playing with the chains around her neck. I was tempted to go easy on her at this point but I held back, watching her and saying nothing.

'Are you going to help me… us?'

'I'll try, but you have to understand I'm more interested in helping Frank. You've thrown him into a spin.'

'I'm sorry,' she said, but I wasn't sure she was.

I told Catherine Heysen I'd keep her informed. She was happy to see me go. As she ushered me out I wondered how she spent her time. I didn't see any books where books might have been. Getting herself tricked out must have taken time but not all day. I had a sense that her life was as empty as her house.

I had to hope my manner didn't cause her to bother Frank, but I suspected they had an arrangement. I had a number of people to see and this early in the piece there was no particular priority: the order of approach was dictated by geography and availability. Gregory Heysen's solicitor, Michael Simmonds, had an office in Canterbury while Rex Wain, one of the cops, since retired, who'd worked with Frank, was in Marrickville. A toss-up.

I called Simmonds on my mobile. He was in court. I got an appointment for mid-afternoon. Rex Wain I'd run into a few times in the course of business. I had a vague, unfavourable recollection of him as one of the bully boys of whom there were so many back then. Frank hadn't kept in touch but had asked around and got his number. I got the voice message. I left my name and mobile number and asked him to call. The other names on my list-the other ex-cops and cops still serving; the sister of Rafael Padrone, the man who'd fingered Heysen; the pathologist who'd testified about Bellamy's wounds; and several professional associates of the two doctors-were scattered about to all points of the compass.

In days gone by I would've killed the time until my appointment with the solicitor in a pub, but now I don't eat breakfast or lunch and keep my drinking till the evening- mostly, unless it's impolite to refuse. I decided to put in a little more work on Catherine Heysen herself and drove to Kingsgrove where Henry Hamil has his studio.

'Hercules' Henry, as he was known in his wrestling days, is a fashion photographer. I did some work for him a few years back, when a disgruntled model had hired a bunch of kids to steal Henry's equipment. The kids double-crossed the model and I got the equipment back cheaply. Henry and I had stayed in touch over the occasional drink and attendance at boxing nights.

Henry was as far from Catherine Heysen's stereotype of the effeminate photographer as it was possible to be. He was pushing sixty, twice married with two sets of kids, and kept himself fit by running. He'd had several successful exhibitions of his non-fashion photos, but he knew everybody in that world. No need to call him; he worked out of his studio and people came to him.

I climbed the steps to his studio, which had once been a cheese factory. Henry claimed he could sometimes still pick the smell of a ripe gorgonzola, but I'd never detected it. When I arrived he'd just finished a shoot and was disassembling the backdrop scenery with the help of Samantha, one of his daughters.

'Hey, Cliff,' he bellowed, 'come and lend a hand.'

I held and moved and stacked things for a few minutes until the job was done. Henry was massive in a white T-shirt and jeans. His hair was still thick and Aryan blond, but greying at the temples. Samantha was small and wiry, taking after her mother, but I wasn't sure which one.

'Off you go, love,' Henry said. 'The cheque's in the mail.'

'Dad.'

He took some notes from his wallet and handed them over. She kissed him on the cheek, waved to me and slid away.

'Probably spend it on unlistenable-to CDs,' Henry said. 'D'you like rap?'

I shuddered.

'Should listen to the words. It's worse than you think. What's up, Cliff? Coffee?'

'I've just had a couple of cups of the best coffee I've ever tasted, Henry. Wouldn't want to lose the buzz. You go ahead.'

'Fuck it, I've been working since six am. What about a cold one?'

We settled in a couple of canvas-backed director's chairs with a can each. Henry reached for the ceiling and rotated his trunk slowly, easing his close to muscle-bound frame. He took a long pull on his can.

'Are you going to invite me to Anthony Mundine's next outing to which you have free tickets, you and many others?'

'No.'

'What a disappointment. So?'

'I'm wondering if you know anything about a model working here in the early nineties. Very beautiful. Italian-looking. Catherine Heysen, or maybe Beddoes.'

'Doesn't ring a bell.'

'Hang on, she told me she worked under another name in Europe. Castilone, something like that.'

Henry snapped his fingers. 'Now you're talking-CC we called her, Catherine Castilione. Now that was one beautiful woman. Wonderful bones. Are you working for her?'

'Not exactly. Did you photograph her?'

'Only a couple of times. I heard she came into some money and retired.'

'Would you still have the shot or shots?'

'Of course. I've got nearly everything I've done on disc. Young Sam, who you just saw helping, did it for me. Want to see?'

We went over to his computer and he began clicking keys. The images were minutely catalogued and within a few minutes he had those in question up on the screen. One set showed a tall, slender woman in a simple black dress with a string of pearls around her neck. The advertisement was for the pearls but it was hard to take your eyes off the woman's face and body. She looked like the young Sophia Loren and, while there was nothing provocative about her pose, she exuded sex appeal. In another series, she was modelling a severely cut trouser suit. Same effect.

'Not bad, eh? See the bone structure? Lighting a face like that's a sheer pleasure. How's she look now?'

'Just as good, in an older way.'

'Doesn't surprise me. She'll look good till the day she dies, and after that.'

'D'you remember much about her? I mean, what she said about herself, what you talked about on the shoot?'

Henry shook his head. 'I could hardly get a word out of her. All I remember is that she was an unhappy person. Doesn't really matter in this game. Don't want them to look too happy.'