Peter Corris - The Coast Road

Not something I talked about much but this seemed like an appropriate time. ‘A daughter. I didn’t raise her but we got together later. She’s in America and doing okay, last I heard.’

‘You are lucky. There is more information for you.’

I shook out a page of typescript. Kristina’s date of birth was given, her height and weight-175 centimetres, 56 kilos-much taller but skinny like Mum-and a short list of names and places.

‘Those are some of her friends and some of the places she went to. I’m not sure if they are all still…’ she waved her hands expressively. ‘Around.’

I nodded. ‘What about school?’

‘Ah, another reason for no police. She stopped going to school last year. The truant service can’t be very good because no one has contacted me. I must tell you that she never stayed at any school very long-always absent, pretending…I love my daughter, Mr Hardy, and I believe she could become a successful person. She is musically talented and can dance like a thing on fire. But she is lost at the moment and I don’t want for her to be lost always. Will you help me? I can pay you. I earn good money.’

‘I’ll be honest with you, Ms Karatsky. A resourceful young person with experienced friends can be impossible to trace-even with a fairly warm trail. In cases like this, what I do is try very hard to learn something useful very quickly. If I do, there’s some hope and I ask for a retainer and a contract is signed. If not, I think it’s unfair to take any money beyond the initial expenses. I’m sorry if it sounds severe, but…’

She rose smoothly from her chair and moved towards me and I felt impelled to stand. She gripped my upper arms, raised herself on tiptoe and kissed me on both cheeks. I felt her firm breasts press against me somewhere above my belt. She smelt slightly of brandy. There are some people you meet and forget instantly and others who make such an impact you know they’ll stay with you. It’s a matter of looks, voice, smell and more. It had been a long time since I’d met a woman who stamped herself on me in that way and Marisha Karatsky was just such a one.

‘Not severe,’ she said. ‘Not at all. Thank you. Thank you very much.’

Two clients, two cases-well, maybe two half cases, because I didn’t really expect too much to come from either of them. Still, income is income and there were interesting aspects to both matters. When I checked the email the following morning, I found that Elizabeth Farmer had come through with a mass of information as well as names and addresses. Insurance documents relating to the house, a recent pest inspection, electricity bills showing very low consumption, her father’s note rejecting a bottled gas offer and newspaper clippings on her father’s career as a real estate agent and minor property developer. Frederick Farmer had obviously been a pretty shrewd customer who, without setting the world on fire, had built a prosperous business and sold out at the right time.

The only false note was the wedding coverage in the Sun-Herald of seven years back. Elizabeth must have got her good looks from her mother, because Fred was no oil painting. At sixty-five he was balding, slightly stooped from what had been a good height, and his nose and jowls betrayed the habitual heavy drinker. For all that, he looked vigorous and happy, if slightly embarrassed by the frilly shirt and tux. Happy with good reason. Matilda Sharpe-Tarleton was a stately blonde, elegant in a sheath dress with discreet jewellery and accessories. Low key in a way, but nothing could tone down the effect of her cheekbones, swan-neck and lissom figure. She was a beautiful woman, perhaps just past her prime but not letting go one millimetre. Diet, aerobics, massage, anti-oxidants.

‘Viagra,’ I said to myself as I looked at the photograph again.

Dr Farmer had provided the names and phone numbers of her father’s doctor and lawyer, the insurance assessor of her claim for the fire at what had become her property, and the Wollongong detective who’d headed the enquiry until Farmer’s death had been pronounced accidental by the Coroner. I checked the dates and found that the whole thing had been wrapped up pretty quickly. Couldn’t ask for a better briefing, and it all indicated how serious she was and therefore how seriously I should take the case. Had to take precedence over Ms Karatsky with the gypsy eyes and, as I made that decision, I felt regret. Not that I like looking for teenage runaways particularly, I just liked the gypsy eyes.

I’d decide later how to play it-give them a day at a time, or move between the two cases as circumstances dictated. It’d be partly a matter of geography probably. I reread the material Elizabeth had forwarded until I was thoroughly familiar with it. It’s a good rule to start at the top. I picked up the phone and called the Matilda S-T Farmer real estate agency in Newtown. I gave the person who answered a fictitious name and said I was interested in renting office space in Newtown and possibly buying some property.

‘I’m sure one of our people can help you, Mr Lees. I-’

‘No,’ I said, trying to sound as abrupt and objectionable as possible. ‘I prefer to deal with principals. I’d like to speak to Ms Farmer.’

The temperature dropped but I got the result I wanted. ‘Please give me your number, sir, and I’ll have Mrs Farmer ring you when she’s free.’

She rang ten minutes later. Throaty voice, careful vowels, cool tone. I got an appointment for eleven thirty, two hours away. Time for me to iron a shirt, brush my suit, get a haircut.

Newtown has changed dramatically since I first moved to the inner west. Then it was rough, grubby, neglected, now it’s gentrified, clean, well-tended-a lot of it anyway. King Street has restaurants offering the cuisine of most of the nations of the world, coffee bars with internet facilities, health food stores and natural therapists, all with advertised websites. I was a little early and I wandered, looking for signs of the bad old days, but I found few. The Hub theatre looked in need of work and was up for lease; a few moneylenders suggested something other than universal affluence. But the bookshops and recycled clothing stores talked the language of now. Posters for the Enmore Theatre announced rock groups I’d never heard of. Not surprising. The Stones played there a while back, but the posters must have been souvenired.

Matilda Farmer’s place of business was a surprise. It was in a huge terrace a stone’s throw from the main drag. No shopfront window advertising properties, no metre-high signs. A discreet notice attached to a wrought iron fence out front and a brass plaque beside the front door and that was it. If you knew the address you could find it, if you didn’t, you’d struggle. A novel approach. I began to suspect Tilly of having brains, or good advice, or both.

I went up the sandstone steps and through the open door. A buzzer sounded. The ground floor had been gutted to the back wall, leaving a large space for a modern-looking office with a number of desks, computers, faxes, photocopiers-the works. Five people working the computers and phones. Three others with real live clients at their desks. The stairs to the upper levels were wide with a handsomely polished handrail. The lighting was subdued and the ceiling roses were intact, ditto a couple of marble fireplaces. I got the idea: if you were looking to buy and restore but keep the Victorian charm, this was the place to shop.

A sleek young woman sitting at the front desk rose smoothly and gave me a sceptical smile. My suit might’ve been brushed but it wasn’t Italian.

‘Can I help you?’

I handed her a card that said I was Gerard Lees, Security Consultant. It gave my address as the defunct office in Darlinghurst. A check would confirm my story of needing office space. ‘Mr Lees to see Mrs Farmer. I have an appointment.’