Peter Corris - Aftershock

‘Of course.’

‘Where were you when it happened?’

‘In my showroom. We felt it quite strongly. Some of the stock was displaced.’

‘Any witnesses?’

‘Certainly. About twenty or so of my staff. Are you telling me Werner Schmidt was killed in the earthquake? That can’t be. I read the names in the newspaper…”

‘People change their names, Mr Coleman. Schmidt was going under another name and he died on the day of the quake. Whether it killed him or not is another question.’

‘Remarkable.’

I expected him to say something like God moves in strange ways, but he didn’t. He was an actor and poseur from way back. Now he sat with his chin resting in his plump, white hand. He wore a couple of gold rings, one with a large black stone in it. He was playing the thoughtful being, the philosopher. Could this softie, this born-again moneymaker, have ordered a hit? He was too armoured in righteousness and self-approval to judge. I took another sip of the lousy coffee and said, ‘How’s your daughter these days, Mr Coleman?’

It was a brutal, full-frontal thing to say, but I had to do something to shake that smug composure. His chin slid away from his hand as if he’d been left-hooked by Dempsey. His big, meaty shoulders convulsed; wrinkles bunched around his eyes, and from plump and rosy he changed to pale and flabby in a matter of seconds. The composure shook but did not break. I watched, feeling guilty but fascinated as he put the whole thing back together again. He drew in a gasping breath, touched one of his rings, smoothed his hair and let the hand drift down to tug at an earlobe. The smile came then, slowly but with close to full candlepower and the lines and wrinkles on his face were smoothed out. ‘She is in very good hands, Mr Hardy. She is not unhappy. How many people can say the same? Can you?’

Good question. I stared at him as he completed the transformation back from stricken parent to grateful believer. I decided he was genuine, in his own terms. He wouldn’t kill anyone, he didn’t need to. God and good accounting would provide. I muttered something about needing to be sure and he nodded sagely.

‘I remember what the vengeful impulses felt like,’ he said. ‘I wanted to kill Werner Schmidt and I would have, if I’d been given the chance. Thank the lord it didn’t come to that.’

‘I’ve seen the press photos,’ I said. He smiled again, more genuinely still. ‘I almost went to gaol. I’ve had something to do with prisoners since and I wish I had had that experience. It would have helped my empathy, perhaps.’

This was getting too rich. ‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a touch of gaol and all it gives you is constipation, indigestion and boredom.’

‘I suppose it depends how you spend the time. You must be wondering, Mr Hardy, why I asked you here when we could virtually have conducted our business on the phone.’

I shrugged. ‘I would have wanted to meet you anyway. But… what’s your point, Mr Coleman?’

‘You say you have a client for this enquiry of yours?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Can you accept two clients on the one matter?’

‘It’s unorthodox, but it’s been known to happen. Why?’

‘You’ve sized me up and you don’t like me. I can accept that. I’ve also sized you up and, while I have many reservations about you, I don’t think you are a mindless thug like many members of your profession.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Mr Hardy, there’s someone I think you should meet.’

Richard was waiting outside a side entrance to the house, putting the finishing touches to the polish on a white Mercedes. I wondered whether owning a Merc was another sign of faith in the future. Probably. Coleman and I got in the back and I settled into a leather seat that felt as if it had been hand-built, specially for me.

Coleman said, ‘Mr Fanfani’s place, please, Richard.’

‘Sir.’ Richard put the Merc into drive and we slid forward without feeling anything so vulgar as the turning of wheels. Richard used a remote control device to open the gates and we cruised out onto Oppenheimer Street with scarcely a pause.

The car wasn’t quite a limousine-there was no bar, TV or stereo-but it was opulent enough. Coleman gazed out of the window at the houses where, in all likelihood, some of his carpets were laid. I was still feeling some contrition about the way I’d hit Coleman with the question about Greta. The feeling had made me compliant, up to a point, but now I was getting impatient. ‘This is impressive. I like the feel of a good car. But would you mind telling me where we’re going?’

‘To see a man named Antonio Fanfani. He lives in Loftus, not far away’

‘I didn’t think anyone lived in Loftus.’

‘I sometimes think that people like yourself, who work and live in places like Darlinghurst and Glebe, are a different species from us suburbanites. What do you think?’

‘I think you’ve done some checking up on me.’

‘Yes. And I telephoned Mr Fanfani as soon as I finished talking to you.’

“Who is he? What’s he got to do with this?’

‘I believe in letting people speak for themselves. You had your say and I had mine. We should let Antonio do the same. I will tell you this-he was a member of that organisation I formed.’

‘The fathers of rape victims thing?’

‘Yes. That was very ill-advised. It bred distress rather than comfort.’

We were going north-east, on the Princes Highway, with the National Park to our right. ‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘sounds pretty natural to me. If I had a daughter and she got raped I’d want to do some damage to the rapist.’

Coleman nodded. ‘Of course. That’s a phase of the reaction. But you can’t do that damage without damaging yourself and others who depend on you. You have to find some other way of coping with those feelings.’

‘God?’

‘For me and my wife, yes. Not for Antonio Fanfani, unhappily.’

Nothing more was said on the drive. The Mercedes pulled up outside a big house with a three-car garage, white pillars and lots of white plaster work around the top floor balcony. It looked like the sort of house put up by people who’ve spent most of their time living in two rooms. The concrete drive was wider than it needed to be, the lawn smoother, the front gate higher. There was a fountain in the centre of the front lawn with a small religious shrine built into it.

‘Mr Fanfani’s a building contractor,’ Coleman said. ‘That’s how we became acquainted. He was a very good customer of mine, still is.’

We got out of the car. Coleman gave Richard a few errands to perform and the Mercedes purred away. We went through the open gates. There was a small car and a boat in the garage, plenty of room left for a Merc. ‘I thought builders were feeling the pinch,’ I said.

We walked on a series of concrete circles set in a meandering pattern in the smooth lawn towards the tiled, colonnaded porch. ‘It’s a matter of strategy,’ Coleman said. ‘If your business is dependent on the vulnerable part of the system you’ll feel the pinch, as you put it. If not, not.’

‘How’re you fixed?’

He smiled as he pushed the bell. ‘Most of my business is with the government and its agencies. Also with banks and insurance companies and big contractors who deal similarly.’

Chimes sounded inside the house and a stout, middle-aged woman answered the door. She beamed when she saw Coleman and the two exchanged a quick hug.

‘Rory, so good to see you.’ Her English was heavily Italian-accented.

‘Hello, Anna. God bless you. How are you?’

‘Not bad. Is this the man?’

Coleman stood aside. I felt I should bow, but I contented myself with getting through the door onto the white shagpile carpet and doing a little head-bobbing. ‘Mrs Fanfani.’