Peter Corris - The Coast Road

By the time I’d finished eating it was after one. I rang Elizabeth Farmer who told me she could see me between classes a little after three o’clock. Not enough time to reconnect with Marisha. Nothing to do but linger over a couple of long blacks and think. Trouble was, I was trying to think of two matters at the same time and as far as I know that can’t be done. So I just drank the coffee.

Dr Farmer had suggested we meet at the coffee shop just across the Broadway footbridge. Said she needed fresh air at that time of the day. The air wasn’t all that fresh, with the traffic flowing past twenty metres or so below, but the breeze was in the right direction at least. I was there first and saw her walking along beside one of the ivy-covered walls. In long blue coat, scarf and boots she looked the part and it occurred to me that Germaine Greer would’ve walked along the same road, probably dressed in much the same way. Forty years ago. This coffee place wouldn’t have existed, nor the footbridge, but not much else had changed.

We went through the she-sits-you-stand routine, and I asked her what she’d have.

‘Long black,’ she said. ‘I’ll be paying, won’t I? You being on expenses.’

‘I don’t always keep the receipts. Might let you off this one.’

The coffee came in plastic cups but tasted okay. She took a drink and leaned back. ‘Had to get out of that room. It’s a bit claustrophobic.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a touch of asbestos around as well.’

She grinned. ‘Thanks. So, Mr Hardy, how do things stand? But first, what happened to your head?’

‘What?’

‘Your hair’s all matted at the back. I notice these things. I look for bald patches, comb-overs…’

I shuddered. ‘Comb-overs. Yeah, I bumped against a wall. Nothing to do with this.’

‘But to do with something. You’ve got a look in your eye. You’re uppish, despite the injury.’

‘I thought you were a doctor of philosophy, not-’

‘You’re right. You’re right.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘Down to tintacks. Shit, what good would tintacks be? Sorry, I’m…Never mind, I haven’t got long, let’s get on with it.’

I filled her in, telling her the things I hadn’t told the police. There’d been no need for her to complete the sentence she’d interrupted. Elizabeth was wired, high on something chemical. There was a brightness to her eyes and a sheen to her smooth skin and her hand, as she raised and lowered the coffee cup, wasn’t entirely steady. Her body was betraying her. Maybe you needed something chemical to survive in the university scene these days. She unwound the scarf and let it hang down. She’d already undone her coat, and now she sat there in a quite cool breeze with nothing between it and her except a silk shirt. But her brain was working and she reacted sharply when I got to the bit about MacPherson being killed.

‘Jesus, is there a connection?’

‘Don’t know. Possibly not. I’d have to find out more about him and what happened.’

‘How would you do that?’

‘I’ve got ways.’

She accepted that but still shook her head. ‘I can’t see it. I can’t see some developer killing two people to get hold of that land. It’s all subject to slip, it’s honeycombed with mine workings.’

‘So Sue Holland said. There’s an entrance on her property.’

She blinked at the name. ‘Mine too. But as well as that, there’s a height limit to any buildings. Where’s the profit?’

‘Why did Matilda offer to buy it?’

‘Just to screw me’s my guess. Pick it up cheap. Although come to think of it, the offer was on the high side. It’s a great spot, as you must’ve seen.’

I nodded. ‘Pretty good. Bit cold under the scarp in winter I bet.’

‘Barbecues, wood fire inside. Lovely.’

‘Could the land have any other value?’

She laughed. ‘I suppose you could grow a lot of dope there, but it’d be a bit obvious. The spotter planes go over all the time and with the yuppies moving in there’d be dobbers galore. In case you’re thinking otherwise, I don’t consider myself a yuppie blow-in. I’ve been going down there for more than twenty years.’

‘You’ll rebuild then?’

‘You bet. Something as close to the original as I can.’

She looked at her watch. ‘I have to get back. You’re not going to stop are you? There must be something behind this.’

‘Sue Holland said zoning could be changed. It’s happened before.’

She shook her head. ‘Not down there. No way. Something else.’

‘I’ll stay with it. I’ll run checks on Matilda, find out what I can about MacPherson, see if there’s some big money around taking an interest. But…no promises.’

‘Fair enough.’ She stood, formidably tall in her boots, and I immediately thought of Marisha Karatsky, who wouldn’t have come up to her shoulder. We shook hands and she wound her scarf back, buttoned her coat. ‘And mind your head.’

I’d outsmarted myself. The two cases I thought wouldn’t amount to much and could be run parallel had turned out to be more involved, both requiring time and attention. And there was the extra factor of the emotional involvement with Marisha. That probably tipped the balance, but I decided that the hunt for Kristina had priority anyway. The question of who wanted the Farmer land, why and what they were prepared to do to get it wasn’t going to go away and was unlikely to change shape quickly. Or so I reasoned.

I dug out the material Marisha had provided and looked at the list of Kristina’s alleged friends. In my experience, young women with a secret admirer feel the need to confide in someone. I rang Marisha, told her the police business had resolved itself for now, and asked her which of the names she’d given me was most likely to be Kristina’s confidante.

‘Cliff, it’s hard to tell. How would I know?’

‘The most mature one. The most… experienced, say.’

‘I see.’ She paused. I could imagine her in her silk smock standing by the phone, her hand up to her tangled hair.

91

My juices flowed and I realised I wanted to find Kristina, not out of professionalism, but to impress her mother. Not a good reason.

‘I think Lucy Kline,’ Marisha said. ‘I gave you her address. She left school or was expelled, I’m not sure. She has a flat with other young people.’

‘I’ve got it. One more thing. That stuff you were asked to translate by Parnevik. What was it about? Might help me to trace him. I should have asked you before, but we got sidetracked.’

Her throaty laugh was like a caress. ‘Skiing. I could follow just enough to know it was about skiing. When am I going to see you, Cliff?’

‘Very soon,’ I said. ‘Probably tonight. I’ll try to find Lucy Kline and talk to her and see what comes of that.’

‘Good. My daughter is in danger and I have made love to the man who has put her there and the man who is trying to save her. Life is strange, isn’t it?’

‘It is,’ I said.

Lucy Kline’s address was in Petersham but I was more interested in Karen Bach. Kristina tucking her name and address away in her hidey-hole had to mean something. Karen Bach’s address was in Five Dock, in a street running down to the canal that threads through the area. As I drove I tried to figure out why a place would be called Five Dock when it had no docks at all. I didn’t come up with an answer, but with all that’s happened to Sydney Harbour since 1788, anything is possible.

The flat was in a nondescript block not far from the canal and the stretch of park running alongside it. Cream brick, no balconies, aluminium windows, cement paths- a l960s suburban dream. Connections of my father, who were better heeled than him, took this route. They bought an old house, knocked it down, built the four flats, lived in one, rented the others. They either died of boredom or got tired of paying to fix the leaking roofs and dodgy plumbing and sold out.