Peter Corris: Lugarno

It was getting close to eight when the garage door rolled up and a white Subaru backed out into the street. I was in a good position to see that the sole occupant was Ms Carroll. Back when I was briefly a university student I tried as hard as I could to keep Fridays clear for surfing and drinking and other activities not related to my studies. I had to hope that Ramsay was doing the same. I waited until the Subaru had left the street and then waited some more in case of last-minute rememberings before getting out of the car and crossing the street. No fancy security here. You opened the gate and walked up the path to the steps that led to an entrance at the side of the house. Classy. I kept on going; the garage roller door was still up and I took a look inside. Nice car the Mercedes, my accountant has one.

I went to the door and rang the bell. Bare feet slapped on a wooden floor and the door opened. ‘Gidday, Ramsay.’

If I hadn’t been expecting him I wouldn’t have been sure the man I was facing was him. He was wearing white silk pyjamas; his hair was fashionably cut and he was clean-shaven. But he had the same aggressive, chip-on-the-shoulder manner and a slight whine in his voice.

‘What the hell are you doing here, Hardy?’

‘Tess was worried about not hearing from you.’

‘Well, you can tell her I’m all right.’

The screen door was a slider and I slid it. Ramsay stepped back half a pace and made to close the door but I braced myself and held it open. ‘You’ll have to do a bit better than that. We need to talk.’

‘I’ve got nothing to say to a thug like you, and if my slut of a sister…’

I gave the door a hard shove and he reeled back. He was young, tall and well-built but there never seemed to be any real strength in him. He retreated down the passage and I followed him.

‘You’re trespassing.’

I laughed and kept after him. We went through to an old-fashioned kitchen, not unlike mine. I backed him up against a bench.

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Tess cares about you. I can’t see why because you’re a miserable bit of work in my book. But I have to talk to you about the Lord George Agency and what you told Regina Kripps.’

From being physically frightened he now seemed to be positively intimidated on a deeper level. The stammer I’d heard from him before when he was stressed broke in painfully. ‘W… what…?’

I backed up a bit in sympathy as he appeared to struggle for breath, for words, for his manhood, but I kept on. ‘You know what I’m talking about, Ramsay — blackmail, drugs, escorts, sex, rich husbands. It’s all connected with a case I’m…’

He gave a roar of terror and rage that froze me for a second. He grabbed a heavy wooden cutting board from the bench and launched it towards me. I tried to turn away and duck, but the solid chunk of wood caught me somewhere near the temple and I felt as though I’d stepped off a long drop into a dark, bottomless pit.

I don’t know how long I was unconscious or how long I stood at the sink, bathing the wound on my head and waiting for the dizziness to clear, but it was long enough for Ramsay to get dressed, go through his stuff and presumably take what he wanted and clear off in his Mercedes. Some of his clothes, a few books and magazines were strewn around in the room he’d occupied but he hadn’t been there as a lodger. The single bed in the room hadn’t been slept in but the double bed in the big bedroom had. A blue silk nightdress was folded on the pillow and Ramsay’s pyjamas were on the floor.

Simply looking about like this brought back the dizziness and I did some more head bathing in the kitchen. I found a packet of Panadol in a cupboard and took three with a glass of water. The headache that had started to throb cooled down and I gave myself a quick check for concussion: I knew who I was, what day it was, where I was and what had happened. I just didn’t like any of it.

My mere mentioning of the Lord George Agency had spooked Ramsay so badly it meant he was aware of the threat they were to him. Did he think I’d talked to them in my search for him and that made him fear they’d be after him? It was possible. I could’ve reassured him on that score if he’d given me a chance. Now he was running scared — of them, of me, of himself. It was a mess. Tess would not be pleased. A needy boy — who’d described him that way? My brain creaked but came up with the answer: Prue Bonham. What would a needy boy do? He wouldn’t go to the university and Gwen Carroll because he knew I’d found out about her. He wouldn’t run to poor Regina who couldn’t offer him anything. Tess had always been his lifeline but I’d queered that pitch for him. I thought of Prue Bonham, the strong woman who had been interested in him and not his body. If I was right she was involved in the deaths of Jason Jorgensen and Samantha Price through her connection with Lord George, but Ramsay wasn’t to know that. My guess was that in his desperation he’d go to her to try to put things right.

I seemed to be bouncing from one woman to another and not one of them having any interest in me or me in them, although I’d had some regretful moments about Tanya. With a ringing head and a dry mouth I went out to my car and contemplated what to do next. I didn’t have enough to appeal to the police for help and they were probably keen to see me for their own reasons anyway. It looked as if I had to hope my guess was right and that Ramsay was in Strathfield. Prue Bonham had increasingly become an unknown quantity. In the end I’d thought she was OK, but that was before I’d heard about blackmail and I’d never liked that. She’d struck me as strong, but was she ruthless? Maybe it was because I was bruised and battered that I got the. 38 in its light shoulder holster out of the glove compartment and put it under the driver’s seat.

The run to Strathfield was slow because of roadworks and heavy Friday traffic heading God knows where for God knows what reason. I felt light-headed and woozy and had to fight to keep my concentration. A danger sign was that I started to find it amusing that I’d lost blood on one side of my head from glass cuts and on the other side from a cutting board. A big four-wheel drive cut in, forcing me to swerve and control a skid. The adrenaline jolted me out of the mad mood and I found myself able to focus again on what I was doing and why.

As I was making a right turn into Henry Street, a car coming the other way, turning left but held up by a pedestrian, momentarily took my attention. It was past before I realised that the registration number had clicked. The car was the gunmetal Saab I’d guessed belonged to Lewis from Lord George and his heavy mate, Stivens. As soon as this hit me I realised that the car behind it was Ramsay’s Mercedes but the driver wasn’t Ramsay.

I made the turn and shocked two other drivers by throwing the Falcon into a U-turn that took me over the gutter, dug a groove in a manicured nature strip and put me in the right direction not more than fifty metres behind the two cars. I checked the time and tried to work out what could have happened. Poor old needy Ramsay must have done as I suspected — run to Prue Bonham, and she’d called in the heavy mob. Well, I knew where she stood now — she was all business.

Following cars is hard enough to do at the best of times. Following two is harder because there’s always the possibility that they’re going to diverge and leave you with a decision as to which one to tail. It’s tough, but with a sore head and a raging thirst it becomes even tougher. After a while I was praying they’d stop and give me a chance to get a drink and some more pain-killers but I knew it wasn’t likely. Also, I was out on a limb; I didn’t know for sure that Ramsay was in one of the cars but it seemed likely. I convinced myself of that and, Pollyanna-like, gave thanks for the overcast day. With the headache, a strong Sydney glare would’ve been too much to take.