Peter Corris: Lugarno

‘There’s always something to hide. They’ll have found those photos and be interested in them and in you and in me. I know they’re interested in me.’

Price drained his drink and got up for more. We’d been there a while and he was on his third while I had a fair bit left of my second. He was buying and I suspected that his were doubles. He came back and plonked the drinks down. Maybe he’d skolled one at the bar because he was suddenly aggressive.

‘How’d you know about what’s in Sammy and Danni’s bedrooms?’

I told him about my visit and Samantha’s injury and Dr Cross. The aggro drained away from him as he listened and he seemed to lose interest in his drink. When I’d finished he ran his hand over his hair and looked desperate.

‘Go and buy some fags,’ I said. ‘It’s not worth the grief.’

‘No! Look, Hardy, I know it’s all a fucking mess but I need to feel I’ve got someone on my side.’

‘What about your lady lawyer?’

‘She’ll do everything she can but…’

‘Did you tell them you were with Junie that morning?’

‘No. I said I was at work.’

‘Great. They’ll blow that open very bloody soon. They’re not as dumb as you think, Marty. They’ve got us both in their sights.’

‘All the more reason to stick together.’

It was a pretty good line to come up with at that point, but it wasn’t what convinced me. As I’d said to Danni, with cuts on my head and glass on the kitchen floor, I was personally involved. I agreed to stay with the case and to follow up on a couple of ideas I had. Price didn’t even ask what they were. He said he’d put a cheque in the mail and then he noticed his almost untouched drink. He picked it up, took a moderate sip and pulled his mobile out of the sports jacket hanging over the back of his chair. He dialled and got an answer and I turned away politely but kept listening while he said a few words I couldn’t quite catch.

He put the phone on the table and took another pull on his drink. ‘Danni,’ he said. ‘She answered. Said she thought you were OK and she’ll stay in touch. Thanks, Cliff.’

First good news of the day.

Price left and I got a hamburger from the snack bar and ate it with a cup of coffee. I decided that I’d pursue the relatively straightforward Ramsay Hewitt matter and let the complex Price case swill around a bit in my brain. I washed my face, rinsed my mouth and combed my hair in the pub toilet and was ready for work. I called Regina Kipps on my mobile and hung up when she answered. Concord it was.

It was almost dark when I arrived at Mrs Kipps’ house but quite a few interior and exterior lights were on. Odd. I bowled up to the front door and stood, bathed in light on the porch, thinking that if someone really wanted to shoot me this’d be the moment. The thought was so strong that I span around and looked at the street, but it was quiet. Still, I was spooked and moved a little to get protection from one of the porch pillars. I rang and heard the footsteps as before and there was Mrs Kipps, wrapped in a red silk Chinese robe looking at me through the metal mesh. She had a glass of clear liquid in her hand in which ice tinkled as she stood, not all that steadily. Gin and tonic maybe, but where was the lemon?

‘Yes?’

‘Mrs Kipps, I called earlier. I want to talk to you about Ramsay Hewitt.’ I showed her my licence folder and tried to look serious.

‘Oh, yes. The sort-of policeman. I suppose you’re really a debt collector or something.’

‘Among other things. May I come in?’

‘I don’t know. I’m on my own.’

The way she said it made it sound like the worst thing in the world. Maybe it is. I tried to seem harmless — a bit difficult looking the way I do. I gestured at the floodlit porch. ‘We could talk out here. It’s about as bright as the Olympic Stadium.’

She giggled, fine for Cathy Freeman, but an unfortunate sound coming from a middle-aged woman. ‘I’m being silly. Of course you can come in, and if you rape and strangle me what would it matter?’

She opened the security door, backed up cautiously on her high heels, and invited me in with a movement that caused the ice in her glass to tinkle again. She walked away with a sway of the hips that was more alcohol-induced than seductive. She shot me a look over her shoulder and tried to toss her long bleached hair aside at the same time and almost lost balance. She steadied herself against the wall.

‘I’m drunk,’ she said.

‘I’ve been that way myself, Mrs Kipps. It isn’t terminal.’

‘Misery is. Call me Regina.’

We got moving again and went through to a sitting room that looked like something out of a pornographic movie — the carpet was snow white, the couch and chairs were covered in fake tiger skin and the cushions were black satin. A bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin sat on the low table along with an ice bucket holding a tall bottle of Schweppes tonic water. She slumped down on the couch and pointed at the empty glass on the table. ‘Help yourself, but I’ve run out of lemon.’

What can you do? I made myself a drink and sat in one of the tiger chairs. I raised the glass to her. ‘Cheers.’

‘Huh,’ she said.

I tapped my glass. ‘You were expecting someone?’

She swigged and had almost nothing left. ‘No.’

‘Ramsay’s got a sister

‘Poor thing.’

‘Yes, well. She’s concerned about him.’

‘Should be,’ she slurred, ‘he’s headed for gaol or worse.’

‘Worse? What’s worse than gaol, Regina?’

Her eyes narrowed the way they can with drunks who know their faculties are impaired but want to get something straight. I know the feeling — it’s like looking back at a building wave and wondering whether you can catch it. But being drunk makes it harder to come at something directly.

‘Who told you about me?’ she asked.

‘A woman I met at Prue Bonham’s place.’

‘Prue Bonham! Her! I could tell you some things about her. She hates me ‘cos I took Ramsay away from working for her. She’s a criminal, that woman. A bloody criminal.’ She waved her glass, noticed it was almost empty and leaned forward to top it up. ‘You’re not drinking.’

I took a solid swig to appease her and to keep her on this promising track. Her robe fell open showing white, slack breasts. I tried to look appreciative and she giggled again.

‘What d’you mean, Regina? About Prue Bonham?’

‘You know,’ she said, ‘I was very disappointed when it was you at the door this morning. That was you, wasn’t it?’

I nodded.

‘Yes. I was expecting something… someone else. But you’re not so bad in a rough sort of way. I’ll bet you didn’t get anywhere with Prue though. She says she’s given sex up but I’ll bet she’s a lesbian. They make me sick. Sick!’

She underlined her heterosexuality with a slug of gin. I kept her company. I don’t know anything about gin except that it comes in bottles and you put tonic water with it, but this stuff had a taste that beat what they serve at the Toxteth to a frazzle. Regina Kipps was in a very confused state — two-thirds drunk, lonely, randy, filled with resentment. The resentment seemed to gain the upper hand because she pulled the robe closed and her thin lips clenched into a tight line before she took another drink.

‘She’s a blackmailer. Ramsay told me. He was afraid of her and those people: They prey on women who… have needs. Women who… you know, want… Women with money. Married ones with rich husbands. They threaten to tell the husbands unless the women pay them money.’ She hiccupped. ‘Wouldn’t work with me. Haven’t got a husband. He died and left me… Haven’t got any children. Haven’t got anyone.’