Peter Corris - Man In The Shadows

‘No. I will tell you. She is Riki Marquand, from Brazil.’

‘And that doctor you wouldn’t go to.’

‘He does things for Richard. I thank you for helping me. I would like to know why you do it, but I am tired now.’

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘Have some sleep. More talk later.’

Helen took her into the spare room and I made some sandwiches and got out the flagon. I put one glass down quickly and poured two more as Helen came in.

‘Saw you,’ she said.

‘I’ve earned it, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Mm.’ She drank and took a bite of tomato and cheese. ‘Your client’s hubby’s in the shit, isn’t he?’

‘Could be.’

‘What do you mean? A Cabinet minister in some sleazy girl immigration racket? This has to go to the police or the Crime Authority or something.’

‘Client comes first.’

‘Explain.’ She took a long pull on her wine and nibbled at a crust.

‘I wasn’t hired to blow the whistle on Winslow. I just have to report to his wife on what he’s doing.’

‘That’s passing the buck to her. She won’t do anything.’

I shrugged. ‘If I go around reporting to the authorities on everything I find out about people no one will hire me. I’ll be out of business.’

‘This is different.’

‘Yeah, it is. But the principle remains the same.’

‘Principle!’

We argued it back and forth for a while, drinking wine and getting nowhere. We got heated and exasperated. At about five o’clock Helen looked out the window; there was a fitful glow in the pale sky about where the sun would be, if it ever came back.

‘I’m going to a movie,’ she said. ‘ Romancing the Stone, want to come?’

‘No thanks. D’you want the car?’

‘No thanks. See you.’

She went and I wandered around the house for a while. I put the wine away and had some coffee; then I got the wine out again and had some more. I looked in on Lela-she was deeply asleep with both damaged arms lying free and looking comfortable. At seven o’clock I walked along Glebe Point Road, stretching my legs for the first time in days and thinking about food and principles. The footpath was drying out in patches and the air smelled and tasted clean. I had some food in one of the coffee shops, bought gin and Gitanes as a peace offering for Helen and came back with the same principles I’d started out with.

For some reason the gate to my place opens outwards so I always close it when I leave. As I turned into the street I could see the gate hanging over the footpath. I ran. The door to the house was open and banging against the splintered jamb. I raced up the stairs to the spare room. The bed was almost undisturbed but Lela Somosi was gone. I stood in the room blaming myself and building up a head of anger. When I got downstairs Helen had just walked in. I nodded to her, grabbed the phone and dialled Barbara Winslow’s number. I was still carrying the shopping and Helen came across and took it gently from me.

‘Mrs Winslow?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is Cliff Hardy.’

‘Who?’

‘Cliff Hardy. I have to talk to you.’

‘You must have the wrong number.’ She hung up. I looked stupidly at the receiver, shook my head and pressed the redial button. The phone rang and rang until the connection was broken by the automatic cut-off.

I stumbled out to the kitchen and watched Helen pour gin over ice. I took the glass and drank half of it in a gulp.

‘Don’t say it,’ I snarled.

‘I wasn’t going to.’

‘No, you wouldn’t. I’m sorry, love. I’ve been so dumb. Bastards!’

‘Have you got her cheque?’

‘Cash.’

‘What do you think happened?’

‘Somebody’s worked fast-put me in Woollahra and connected me to Winslow’s wife. God knows how. Ian must’ve got a scare and promised her he wouldn’t do it again.’

‘What about Lela?… What are you doing?’

I was getting my Smith amp; Wesson and the holster from the locked drawer under the hi-fi. ‘I’m going out there to get that da Silva guy. I’ll bend him until he gives me the girl.’

‘Go to the police.’

‘I’ve got nothing to tell them-no witness, no evidence.’

‘You’re being dumb again.’

‘Probably.’

I drove like a madman to Woollahra, at speeds that would’ve killed me and others just hours before on the wet roads. But the roads were dry now and the night sky was clear and starry. I held the gun in one hand and wrapped the other in an old sweater. I planned to go through the window and break anything else I had to on the way to da Silva. But Helen had been right. The house was dark and quiet. I let my pulse slow, put the gun back in the car and took out some picklocks instead.

Inside all that remained was a strong smell of perfume. There was no furniture, no books, no newspapers, no people. The cover-up had started and I knew how it would go on from there. The neighbours would know nothing; the estate agent would have dealt with intermediaries; the property would be owned by a company which was owned by another company and so on.

I drove to the clinic and parked outside. Now that the rain had stopped and my windows weren’t misted I could see through the plate glass doors.

There was a statue inside-Michelangelo’s ‘David’. There was also white carpet and Scandinavian furniture-I wondered how David felt about that. Lela had said that the doctor here did things for da Silva. As I understood it, these places had a fluid casual staff. Did she mean the Boss Doctor or Doctor Smith who worked on Wednesday nights? Nothing here either.

‘Nothing,’ I said to Helen.

‘I found this in a pocket of her dress.’ She held out a scrap of paper which was still damp from the rain. On it was written ‘Luis 818 2456’.

‘A friend?’ Helen said.

‘That’s what she needed.’ I dialled the number.

‘Yes? ^’

I covered the receiver. ‘How d’you pronounce it?’ Helen shrugged.

‘Lewis?’ I said.

‘Yes. Who is this?’

‘I’m a friend of Lela Somosi; I’d like to talk to you.’

‘Is Lela there?’ The voice was young, quick and excited.

‘No. Can we meet?’

‘You are not the police?’

‘No.’

‘Immigration?’

‘No. I took Lela away from the house in Woollahra today.’

‘Where is she?’

I drew a deep breath. ‘I don’t know.’

‘They have taken her back?’

‘I think so, yes.’

There was a sob in the voice. ‘Then she is dead.’ The sound of weeping, deep and racking, came over the line. I held on to the phone, feeling useless and guilty, until he composed himself. I told him what had happened. He wept again. He told me that he had met Lela at the house where he had gone in the company of his boss. He named him, a union leader I had read about. Luis had tried to persuade Lela to get away from da Silva. She was afraid and had resisted. He’d written out his name and number for her.

‘How do you know she’s dead, Luis?’

‘I know. I can show you.’

He named a place. I met him there. The rain had started again and it kept up, slashing through the dark night sky, while a quiet little Latin American showed me how murder and disposal were done, Sydney style, 1984.

The next day the harassment began. A cop stopped me and went over the Falcon with a microscope. He found the unlicensed gun and declared the car unroadworthy. I got a three month suspension of my investigator’s licence for the gun. I got unpleasant phone calls and the clicks and rattles that punctuated calls I made from my home and office phones practically drowned out conversation. Winslow was showing me what he could do. I hated it, but I got the message.

Halfway through the suspension I was sitting in my office writing out cheques of doubtful authenticity when Barbara Winslow walked in. I looked at her and so far forgot my manners that I didn’t even ask her to sit down. She looked ghastly, pale and thin; her fashionable suit hung on her like an op-shop rag.