Peter Corris - Wet Graves

So much for the private uncertainties. There was also the public, community consideration. Descendants of the bridge builders weren’t wrapping themselves in canvas, tying something heavy to their legs and throwing themselves into the harbour. Someone was killing them. That someone had fouled up with Colin Glover, the floater. Maybe he was getting careless. If so, now was the best time to try to catch him. And there was nothing surer than that a welter of publicity, and tabloid headlines like ‘Bridge killer dubbed “Davy Jones” by police’ would cause him to stop or become super careful.

I was puzzling over these questions when the telephone rang. I looked at the instrument with dislike; it was unlikely to have any answers. But I picked it up.

“Hardy.”

“Mr Hardy? My name’s Ralph Wren. I believer Frank Parker told you I’d be calling.”

“You’re right, he did. How’s Meredith?”

“Ah… I’m not quite sure.”

Ah, a careerist, I thought, more concerned to get on than about his colleague. Frank’s losing the ability to pick them. I decided there and then how I was going to proceed. “I spoke to him yesterday, Mr Wren,” I said. “He seemed to be doing pretty well.”

“Good, good,” Wren said. “About this case…”

“Have you got Meredith’s paperwork?”

“He… ah, doesn’t go in for a lot of paperwork. I was hoping you could help me out there.”

I was confirmed in my decision. “I don’t know… constable, is it?”

“Detective sergeant.”

“Detective Sergeant Wren, right. I don’t think I can help you. What did Frank Parker tell you?”

Wren’s tone became waspish. “He said you’d be co-operative.”

“I am, I want to be. What do you want to know?”

“Mr Hardy, this isn’t helpful. Meredith was pursuing a line of enquiry that crossed with something you were doing. That’s all I know.”

“Well, I haven’t done anything more, sergeant. I’m pretty much in the dark until I can have a proper talk to Meredith. I think that’s a good way off, don’t you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell you what. You keep an eye on Meredith and we’ll have a three-way meeting when he’s fit. I think that’s a good idea, don’t you?”

“Possibly, I…”

“Let’s leave it there. I’ll call Frank and tell him we’ve spoken. Probably have to leave a message for him; he wasn’t exactly chatty when I saw him. You can get in touch with me again when you think Meredith’s up to it. Give him my regards on your next visit, okay?”

I hung up gently and let my hand hover over the phone. If he didn’t call straight back it probably meant I’d bluffed him sufficiently to gain the time I needed. If he did call I had the option of not answering. The phone didn’t ring. I shuffled through the documents again, made out a list of names and laid the lot out like cards on a table. But my hand came out the same way-my only lead was the Veterans of the Bridge and the address in Pump Street. I collected together the few things I thought I’d need-burglary tools, miniature tape recorder, keycard. I said aloud, “When you can’t carry a gun, carry cash.” I sniggered and then realised what I was doing. I’d been living alone too long.

The phone rang as I was heading for the door. I considered not answering it, but phones are about the only things that incline me to believe in the paranormal- often I can feel who’s calling. Sometimes I’m right. This time, I felt it wasn’t Ralph Wren. Right again. It was Cy Sackville.

“Well, Cliff,” Cy said, coming the breezy barrister, “I’ve poked around a bit and they don’t…”

“It’s off, Cy.”

“What do you mean it’s off? This is a serious matter. It’s your livelihood to start with, and it could be your liberty.”

“You’ve been rehearsing,” I said.

“A little. I’m looking forward to it. The precedents are most interesting.”

“No doubt. I’m sorry but I have to disappoint you. The matter got cleared up the other night. There was a conspiracy against me. I was an innocent victim.”

One of Cy’s strengths is his quick recovery. He’d have shrugged and moved something else up on his agenda, even though this little legal by-way had interested him more than some he’d gone down with me. “I’m delighted to hear it,” he said. “In fact, that was the sort of line I was going to pursue.”

“Thanks, Cy, but it’s not going to go any further. One of the conspirators is dead and one of the others is in custody. They’ve got him for conspiracy to murder and malicious wounding, for starters.”

“I see.”

“Sorry to waste your time.”

“No matter. I learned some things about a piece of legislation. It’ll come in useful some time. And of course I’ll bill you for the work.”

“Of course.”

We both knew he wouldn’t. He’d get payment in kind from me by having me do some work for him, or he’d simply forget. Cy is an old-time, wishy-washy socialist, and guilty about the amount of money he makes. So would I be, if I made a quarter as much.

“Are you okay, Cliff? Are you really in the clear or is there something I can do?”

“I’m in the clear on that matter. Listen, Cy, if someone found some bodies and didn’t report them, what would the charges be?”

“Concealing evidence.”

“Obstructing the police?”

“Yes.”

“Committing public nuisance?”

“Possibly.”

“Imperilling enquiry agent licence?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Neither would I. Thanks, Cy.” I shivered as I spoke. The biggish house was cold; draughts came in under the doors and a decayed window frame was rattling upstairs, troubled by a strong, cold, south wind.

Peter Corris

CH13 — Wet Graves

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Know a good solicitor around here?”

“Paul Hart in Balmain. Why? Look, Cliff, d’you mean your will? If you’re in trouble tell me, I can…”

“I’m thinking about selling this bloody house, Cy. That’s all. Thanks. See you.”

If you can’t carry a gun, carry cash. Very neat. Well, I couldn’t carry a gun because the police had taken mine after the fracas in the Kings Cross alley, and I hadn’t been interested enough at the time to ask for it back. I used to have an unlicensed Colt. 45 which I kept for emergencies in a clip under the dashboard of my old Falcon. But the old Falcon let in water and the firing pin on the Colt had rusted solid. What the hell! I thought. No veteran of the bridge is going to be under seventy. Carry cash. I deposited Louise Madden’s cheque, drew out a couple of hundred, and drove to the Rocks.

My reasoning was this: someone connected with the Veterans of the Bridge Society was killing the descendants of the bridge builders. Motive uncertain. Revenge? Retribution? Insanity almost certainly part of the picture. Probably, therefore, the perpetrator was connected with someone who’d been killed while working on the bridge. That gave me the list of names. The list was dauntingly Anglo-Saxon and ordinary-McKeon, Addison, Campbell and the like. There would be thousands of people by those names now living in the city. But it was a starting point. As I drove I recalled a section in Spearritt’s book headed ‘Driven to Death’. According to Spearritt, more than 150 people had suicided by jumping from the bridge. If they were factored in, as the experts on the radio say, the net would be cast even wider. How many people connected with the 150 jumpers would there be? It sounded like a job for Professor Spearritt and his computer. What about people killed in car crashes on the bridge? What about the people whose TV reception was buggered up by all the metal? The more I thought that way, the more I was reminded that there were more than five million rivets in the bridge. It would be hell of a job looking for just one of them.