Peter Corris - Forget Me If You Can

‘So, you’ve been out to see Rose and now you’ve come to see me. All about poor Lee. That’s strange. I haven’t thought about Lee in ages. Mind you, at one time I used to think about him a lot.’

‘It must have been a shock, to hear of his death in that way.’

‘Not really’. She sucked on her cigarette and then on her drink, taking in smoke and gin as if they were tea and toast. ‘He did two tours in Vietnam and he always said that if Charlie didn’t get him some jealous husband would. Drink up.’

She was almost through hers and staring at the blueish pitcher. She had a long start on me and I had almost twice her body weight, I reckoned I could stay the pace. When we’d replenished and she’d got another cigarette going she asked me about her mother and seemed satisfied with the account I gave.

‘We never got along, and I never got along with Peter. Only with Lee. Lovely Lee.’ She laughed and smoked jerkily. ‘Never got along with my husband either. He’s a film producer and I’m an actress. Was an actress. Bad combination. He gave me this house in the divorce settlement, the bastard. Bought it for me, and my fuckwit of a lawyer let him get away with it. What’s the name of that movie? Planes, Trains and Automobiles — that’s this place.’

The words were tumbling out, alternately slurred and too precise as the liquor got to her. She topped up her glass and raised it to her mouth. It was lipstick smeared around the whole rim and she didn’t quite make the contact, a few drops spilled down her chin. I looked away and she caught the reaction.

‘I know, I know. I’m a sloppy drunk. Can’t help it. Nothing else to live for. What d’you want?’ She gazed at me blearily through her cigarette smoke, forcing her eyes to focus, imprinting more wrinkles. Suddenly she appeared to get everything together and to have a moment of clarity. I’d seen it before in hopeless drunks- a flash of sobriety before the shutters come down. ‘You’re not a journalist. Haven’t taken a single note, not one! What do you want?’

I judged that I only had her attention for a short time and that it was worth the risk. I took out the photograph of David Trumble and put it down in front of her. ‘Do you know who that is?’

She barely glanced at the picture. ‘Course I do. It’s Lee.’

‘It’s Sean Trumble’s son, David. Trumble hired me to investigate his suspicion that Lee North was the boy’s real father.’

She threw back her head and let out a shriek of laughter. The sound was cut short as she gasped for breath. Alarmed, I got out of my chair but she made a fierce gesture for me to stay away. She gulped in air somehow and followed it with a couple of lungsful of smoke and more gin. When she spoke her voice was wheezy and thin.

‘Of course he fucking was. Of course! Lee fucked everything. He fucked me when I was fourteen and let me tell you those were the best fucks I ever had. Best ever! Best!’

‘But his mate’s wife… ‘

‘He fucked her the night of the wedding. Sean passed out and Lee did the job.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The silly bitch told me. Told me when she heard she had cancer. Wanted to know whether she should tell Sean. Idiot. Oh, Lee. Oh, lovely, lovely Lee

She was weeping now, the tears falling into her glass and down the front of her dress. She dropped her cigarette and I bent down and retrieved it from the dusty floor. I picked up the photograph and put it in my pocket.

‘Is there anything I can do for you, Maria?’

‘Yes,’ she sobbed. ‘You can piss off.’

Families are hell. Who said that? I drove back to Glebe, feeling none of the satisfaction that usually comes with having got the answers to the questions. I opened a can of beer and sat down to consider my next move. There was no proof of either discovery-that Eric Trumble had fathered Lee North and that Lee North had fathered David Trumble-but I had no doubt that both things were true. But could I communicate that certainty to my client? And should I? I’m no social worker, but you’d have to have the sensitivity of a sewer pipe not to be concerned about how the revelation could affect the prospects of young David,

One can became two and I switched to cask white without getting any inspiration. I fed myself and the cat out of cans and settled down to scribble some notes on the meeting with Maria North-Barr. Of the three people I’d met so far in the case, only Rose North had any serenity and it was partly due to senile dementia. An unhappy business. I flicked on the television and turned it off almost straight away. I picked up Theroux’s Happy Isles of Oceania but put it down after a few pages. I had all the spleen and depression I needed.

The sound of the doorbell was welcome. I took another swig of wine and wandered down the passage to open the door. Sean Trumble stood there, pale and tense, his hands thrust in the deep pockets of an anorak. The night had become cold without me noticing.

‘Well, what’ve you found out?’

I told the first lie to come into my head. ‘I haven’t started on it yet.’

His right hand came out, holding a heavy pistol. ‘I know you’re lying, Hardy. Get back in there and keep your hands in sight or I’ll put a bullet in you.’

You don’t argue with a Vietnam veteran and an ex-mercenary. I backed down the corridor towards the stairs. He stepped inside and flicked the door closed with his foot.

‘Anyone else here?’

‘Yeah. Three cops. We’re playing a little poker.’

‘I’m not in the mood for jokes. Turn around and keep moving.’

‘I prefer to keep an eye on you and I’m telling you I haven’t…’

He raised the pistol an inch. His hand was steady.

‘You’re lucky I don’t make you fucking crawl. You saw Rose North and Maria today. Had a good long talk with the both of them.’

‘How could you know that?’

‘Think I’m stupid? Think I’d trust someone in your stinking business?’

‘You didn’t follow me. I’d have spotted you.’

‘ I didn’t, but the other guy I hired did. I guess he knows the tricks of the trade as well as you, maybe better.’

It wasn’t as much of a blow to my pride as if Trumble himself had tailed me, but it was bad enough. I turned around and went back to the living room and my glass of wine. Trumble watched me but there was indecision written all over him. He couldn’t be sure there wasn’t anyone else in the house and if he shot me he might not learn what he was burning to know. I emptied my glass.

‘Want a drink, Sean?’

‘Fuck you, I… ‘

I tossed the glass from one hand to the other. An old trick but he was so agitated he fell for it. His eyes followed the glass for an instant, long enough for me to take a long step and chop down on his forearm with a clenched fist. If you hit the right spot in the right way, the nerves jump and the hand opens. He dropped the pistol and I shirt-fronted him, throwing him back against the stairwell. He hit awkwardly and the breath whooshed out of him. I picked up the pistol and ejected the magazine before tossing it to him. He tried for it, but he dropped the catch.

‘I’ll get you a drink anyway. You’re going to need it.’

I put three fingers of Scotch on top of a couple of ice cubes and drew off another glass of wine for myself. When I got back he was slumped in a chair, rubbing his forearm. He accepted the glass and took a gulp.

‘There was no need for that. I wouldn’t have shot you.’

‘Matter of professional pride.’

He’d closed off my options, so I told him what the two women had told me-straight, word for word as close as I could remember it, no punches pulled, no embellishments. He sipped his whisky as he listened. I finished about the same time he emptied the glass. He swilled the ice cubes, clockwise, then anti-clockwise. My nerves were screaming but he seemed to relax.