Peter Corris: Lugarno

Then the door to the long balcony opened and Sammy and her friend stepped out. She went first and he stayed a pace or two behind, watching her walk. Why not? They returned to the Celica and this time she drove. Interesting. For want of any better ideas I followed them. Less than a kilometre away she stopped at a roadside taxi rank and he got out after a quick kiss. She drove off. I knew where she was going but why hadn’t she dropped him at home? It wasn’t far off. I found a parking space and waited until a cab pulled into the rank and picked him up. The taxi headed towards the city and I followed faithfully. My mid-section was aching and I was developing a strong need for a double scotch and a couple of pain-killers.

We ended up in Canterbury, not too far from territory I knew better than some of the places I’d been so far that day. The traffic was light and I had no trouble parking a few spots behind where the cab pulled in. Nice-looking old park on the right, the kind that would have a war memorial, maybe two, and a long shopping centre stretching ahead. He paid off the cab and started walking. Closer to him now, I could see that he was very tall, 190 centimetres plus, towering over most of the people in the street, many of whom were Asian. He looked a little out of place in the smart suit on a hot afternoon and must have been aware of it because he stripped off the tie and stuffed it into his pocket. He walked quickly with a long stride and I had to stretch out to keep up with him and that didn’t do my aching gut any good. With any luck he’d slip into a pub and I could get some medication.

He turned into an arcade and I had to hang back so as not to follow too obtrusively. I felt a rush of something — fear mixed with anger — when a big, bald-headed man stepped around me. But it wasn’t the Kogarah Mauler and I used him as a shield as I followed my man down the narrow, tiled walkway.

The arcade held a lingerie boutique, a chemist’s, a hairdressing salon and around the bulk of the man in front of me I could see the tables and chairs that suggested a coffee shop at the end. My shield disappeared into the chemist’s and I was ten paces behind when the man I was following pushed a buzzer on a glass door and waited. The door swung inwards and in he went. I’ve had a little eye trouble since an injury a few years back and the beam of light that hit the door momentarily blinded me and stopped me reading the name on it. When I’d adjusted to the light the name was clear enough in big gilt letters:

LORD GEORGE INTRODUCTION AND SOCIAL ESCORT AGENCY

I bought a packet of pain-killers in the chemist’s and settled down with a flat white only a few paces from the security door. My stomach was tender and I washed down three of the pills with the coffee. Nothing happened for twenty minutes and that was as long as I could spin out the coffee, so I ordered another one I didn’t want and waited some more. People on their afternoon coffee breaks came and went, mostly with take-outs but a few sit-downs. Another twenty minutes later a man came out. He was nearly as tall and just as blond and well dressed as the man I’d followed but it wasn’t him. As the pain in my middle diminished, my curiosity rose. I went over to the door, flanked by two large windows, and peered in. The man sitting behind a reception desk was a clone of the other two. I copied down the telephone number on the door and left.

I’d been injured more than injuring and had more questions than answers. It was enough for one day. I drove home and took a hot shower. The bathroom could do with a refit and the last time Tess stayed with me she said I should put in a spa bath. I said I doubted the floor would take the weight and I didn’t fancy sitting down below with a spa bath poised above my head. Still, a spa would’ve been handy after encounters like the one I’d had today.

I had nothing to report to Price but I could give Tess some good, if puzzling, news. I rang and got no answer. It was late in the afternoon but she said she was doing a full-time course and knowing Tess that meant full-time plus. The mail consisted of bills for my Bankcard and Mastercard, a postcard from my sister who was holidaying in Vanuatu and a tempting wine club offer. A dozen bottles of Chardonnay at a throw-out price plus three bottles of Merlot for free with every purchase. I’m fond of Merlot and don’t mind Chardonnay either, but I looked at the Mastercard bill again and was strong. The wine club offer went into the bin.

Shortly after six p.m., having decided that I wasn’t interested enough in the genetically modified food issue to listen to ‘Australia Talks Back’, I phoned Tess again.

‘It’s after six,’ she said. ‘Have you got a drink?’

‘Glenfiddich straight.’

‘Bullshit. Johnny Red on the rocks more likely. How’s it going, Cliff?’

I told her what had happened in Strathfield and at the university and how the secretary had seen her brother that morning.

Tess was sharp. ‘How would she know him? There must be scores of law students.’

‘I don’t know. How did he pay his fees?’

‘Right. But still, he’s OK.’

‘Apparently, but he’s not where you thought he was. That is, if I can believe the woman at that address. I don’t know why, but I’m not sure I can believe her. There was something in her manner — and that’s apart from the hostility.’

‘You think she was lying?’

‘Being evasive at the very least. By the way, how did you get that address? Did he write and put it on the back of the envelope or what? Doesn’t sound like Ramsay.’

Again I was letting my dislike of the man show through but Tess didn’t pick up on it. ‘No. I meant to tell you but I scrawled the address down on the pad I keep by the phone for when I rang you and I forgot. I got this note on a sheet of notepaper with that address stamped on the top of it. The phone number had been blanked out. I thought it must be some sort of old guesthouse or something Ramsay and his greenie mates had taken over. But you say it’s an up-market house?’

‘With an up-market owner or resident.’

‘It’s weird. I can’t see him studying law. He’s a bloody greenie anarchist, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Maybe you can do Anarchy IA out there. I’ve got a mate with some Lachlan Uni connections. I’ll look into it and try to find him. Can’t be too hard.’

‘Thanks, Cliff.’

‘I have to tell you. I’ve got another matter on the go.’

‘Good for you. Well, I’ve got an essay due. You’ll ring me when you learn anything new.’

‘I will for sure. Might be a day or two. This other thing’s tricky.’

‘Don’t strain yourself on my account. See you.’

I’d intended to call it a day with the scotch and an omelette and The Perfect Storm, a book I was halfway through and that had confirmed me in my belief that it was unsafe to go to sea in a vessel not big enough to contain a bar and a dance floor. But the day’s questions started to work on me and I found I was reading pages of the book and taking nothing in. So I phoned Viv Garner and arranged to go around and see him in Lilyfield.

Viv has a modest timber house in an elevated street that happens to command a view of the city. His wife, Ros, is a keen gardener and their two kids have embarked on professional lives, so they’re left in leafy splendour in a house worth ten times what they paid for it. Viv, who’d recently got some sort of an appointment at Lachlan University, is a socialist and admits that property is theft. ‘Still, it’s nice to have some,’ he once said to me.

I arrived with a bottle of red and Ros laid out some biscuits and cheese, took a glass for herself, asked how I was and pleaded with me not to take Viv out that night.

‘His asthma,’ she said.