Peter Corris - Wet Graves

“You warned me. You’re doing your job. I understand. Give us a hand here.”

I helped her to pull the mattock out of the stump and the moment of friction passed. She gave off a nice smell-of earth and wood and leaves, and I wanted to touch her, to make contact with those good, healing things. She might have sensed this, might have misinterpreted. In any case, she wasn’t going to let it happen. She stepped back. “Do you need any more money, Mr Hardy?”

“No.”

She pointed to my head wounds. “You say they don’t have anything to do with this case. Are you working on a couple of things at once? Not a good idea in my game.” She waved a hand at the sleepers and mounds of earth.

“Nor in mine,” I said. “The other thing’s all cleared up now. I can concentrate on finding out what happened to your father.”

“Good,” Louise Madden said.

I drove around for a while looking for a place to buy a beer and a sandwich. On the way I passed a lot of houses that reminded me of the ones you see in Hollywood on the ‘homes of the rich and famous’ tour. Here, they were the homes of the rich and unknown who preferred to stay that way. I ate the sandwich and drank the beer sitting in the car. From where I’d parked, I had a magnificent view of Middle Harbour. I speculated about why the rich always live in elevated positions and the less rich further down the hill. My scratchy historical knowledge suggested it had been so since mediaeval times. That was an interesting thought. Was the position taken for reasons of safety, the last point to be attacked by an enemy, rather than domination? Were there exceptions in South America? It was the kind of half-baked question Helen and I used to have fun with. The people up here certainly looked safe. Or at least their houses did. There still weren’t many actual people about. I flicked through my notebook again, underlining the names-Madden, Glover, Barclay, Samuels, Booth. Maybe some of them had lived in Castlecrag or similar places. Bellevue Hill was the same sort of location after all. But a lot of those high, mediaeval forts were stormed and taken, if memory served me right. Safety is an illusion.

I still wasn’t fully recovered from my hectic night. I took a couple of aspirin with the swallows of beer for my aching head, and the sun came out again and heated up the car and I dozed off.

I woke up with that panicky feeling of not knowing where I was, or even who. Comprehension came back in a rush as I stared down at the water and the, from this distance, fragile-looking boats: men were dead, men had vanished and I was investigating how and why. Maybe other men were under threat and here I was, sleeping in the afternoon. On the client’s time. It occurred to me that the Glovers, Barclays and others could probably afford the investigation better than Louise Madden. But they probably wouldn’t want to pay me to sleep. The way things were going, billing Ms Madden was going to be tricky. That led to thoughts of Cy Sackville and my court appearance. Maybe I should call him off and save some money. But Cy would be disappointed. Maybe we could sue the state for public mischief?

“And kiss your arse goodbye,” I said aloud. I started the car and drove to Northbridge.

It had been some years since I’d been to Paul and Pat Guthrie’s house, but I found it without difficulty. The big peppercorn tree in front was unmistakable. Guthrie’s block was wide and long with a deep water frontage. Pretty flash, but after the place Louise Madden had been land-scaping it looked modest. There were the usual couple of cars parked in the driveway, and the untidiness of the garden, giving the place a sort of weekender feel, was another thing I remembered and liked. A couple of dogs ran out and barked at me as I approached the house. Paul Guthrie wandered out onto the high deck that ran around three sides of the house to see what the dogs were barking at. When he saw me he raised a hand in a vaguely naval salute and beckoned me forward.

I skirted the barbecue pit and the swimming pool, which had a heavy plastic cover over it. Guthrie came down a set of wooden steps from the deck. He must have been close to seventy but he moved like a man twenty years younger. His handshake was firm without being competitive. When you’ve pulled oars for as long and as hard as he had, you don’t need to show off your strength. Guthrie had been an Olympic sculler, and the strength and springiness needed for that tough event were still in him.

“Cliff,” he said, “it’s great to see you.”

“Same here, Paul.”

“What happened to your head?”

“The usual. How’s life?”

Another man might have taken a quick look around his possessions before answering; not Guthrie. “Pat’s in the pink,” he said. “The boys are fine. Two grandchildren, like I told you, and I can still row a boat. How would it be?”

“You’re a lucky man, Paul.”

“I know. Come inside and have a drink and tell me what you’re up to.”

We went into the house at ground level and down the wide passage to Guthrie’s den, which housed his sporting trophies and family mementos-more of the latter than the former. He saw me settled in an armchair, went out whistling and came back with two cans of light beer.

“Cheers,” he said. “I suppose you got those head wounds on that gambling boat, the Pavarotti?”

“Right. Ray was a big help there.”

“Looks like you should’ve taken him along with you.”

“Maybe. I hope he can help me some more.” I touched the scratches. “But no rough stuff involved.”

Guthrie nodded and waited. He was a discreet, experienced level-headed man, and there seemed no reason not to tell him about the Madden case. It sometimes helps to talk to an objective onlooker anyway. I gave it to him chapter and verse, and he listened in silence, sipping on his beer.

“Interesting,” he said when I’d finished. “And you want to go and have a look in the water under the bridge?”

“Not me. Someone who knows how to handle himself in that situation. I thought Ray might know someone, be able to help with a boat and so on.”

“He will. And he’ll do the dive himself. He’s an expert, and he’s always felt that he owes you a big favour.”

I waved that away, or tried to. “I don’t want him to feel like that. I just want to hire him to do a job. Perhaps you can help me to get it on that sort of footing, Paul?”

“I’ll try. When would you want to do this?”

“Tonight.”

He broke into harsh, deep-chested laughter. “Jesus, Hardy, you’re the limit. I should’ve known. Pat did. I said some-thing about having you stay over for a night and go out on the harbour and she said, ‘He’ll be off chasing someone’.”

I was saved from having to reply by the simultaneous arrival of Ray Guthrie and his mother. There was just enough light outside for me to see the little Honda and the Holden Jackaroo pulling up side by side in the driveway.

Pat Guthrie was a small, dark woman with a trim figure and a worried look which gave way very attractively to merriment. She came across the grass and into the den, kissed her husband and pointed a mock finger-pistol at me. “Hullo, Cliff. You haven’t changed much. A bit thinner, are you? Good to see you.”

“You too, Pat. You look well.”

She nodded in Guthrie’s direction. “We are. Has he shown you the snaps of the grandchildren yet?”

“Pat,” Guthrie protested, “I’m not that doting, am I?”

“Just doting enough. Want another beer? Dinner’ll be a while.”

Guthrie patted his taut waistline and refused. I accepted; Pat smiled and left, and it was Ray Guthrie who brought in the can. I hadn’t seen Ray since he and his girlfriend, Jess Polansky, had left Helen Broadway’s flat in Elizabeth Bay. This was after I’d helped to send Ray’s real father to gaol and shown him that his stepfather was the best friend he had in the world. Ray had broadened a bit, but the bulk looked to be due to hard work more than self-indulgence. He was weatherbeaten but not careworn. He looked happy. He shoved the beer at me, and we shook hands.