Peter Corris: Man In The Shadows

‘That’s not good enough,’ Grey spluttered. ‘I want… ‘

‘Now, Bruce,’ Smith said, ‘I think we have a reasonable man here. I’m the administrator of the hospital, Mr Hardy. We should be able to straighten things out.’

Grey didn’t like that. ‘I’ve got a half dozen people down there who’re going to need special treatment for days over this, maybe longer. This bloody hooligan… ‘

Even though I wasn’t at my most acute I could tell that Grey was under more pressure than was good for him. He was red in the face and a purple vein was throbbing under the flushed skin near his right eye. ‘Have you called the police?’ I asked.

‘No.’ Grey bit down hard on the word.

I drank some water and handed the glass back to Smith. ‘Perhaps you should.’

‘I don’t think that’s necessary,’ Smith said. ‘Just tell us what you and the other man were doing.’

‘You have to see it from my point of view, Doctor. I’m here in some part of a building I’m not familiar with in the company of three men who could be axe murderers for all I know.’ I pointed to the man at the door. ‘I know he delivers a good hit. You know my name so I assume you’ve taken my wallet. I just don’t feel safe.’

‘This is absurd,’ Grey snorted.

‘So, call the police. What’s stopping you?’ I swung my legs off the bed and put my feet gingerly on the floor. I wondered if I could support my weight. A pratfall wouldn’t have created the right impression just then.

‘What circumstances would make you feel more comfortable, Mr Hardy?’ Smith said.

Any public place, I thought. Preferably where they serve drinks. ‘What about your office? With a view of the gate, a few people around, a telephone on the desk and my wallet in my hand.’ I pointed again. ‘I can do without him and I wouldn’t mind a drink.’

Smith smiled. ‘Happily, my office has a view of the gate and of the water and I’ve got a good single malt. How does that sound?’

We sat in Smith’s pleasant office, admired the view and I rubbed the back of my neck. I examined my wallet and put it in my pocket.

‘Now,’ Smith said, ‘try this.’ He poured the whisky; I sipped it and nodded. Smith took a sip and favoured me with one of his benign smiles. ‘What were you up to?’

That made it sound almost like a schoolboy prank. I could’ve climbed through the window and walked to the front gate. There were no men bigger than me around, no guns. I wondered why I still had a sense of extreme danger.

‘I was hired by a man who had undergone psychosurgery here. He said he had a friend named Guy who was in danger of receiving the same treatment. He was very upset about it. I got the impression he wanted my help in securing Guy’s release.’

‘I see.’ Smith drank some more whisky. He swung around to a table on which there was a fair sized computer with a monitor to match. His back was turned to me as he took something from his pocket. I recognised it as my notebook. The neck punch must have fogged me because I hadn’t realised it was missing. Smith flicked open a page, nodded and closed the book. He tapped keys for a while, consulted the screen and tapped some more. I finished my drink and looked at the view.

Smith swivelled slowly away from the screen until we were face to face; he handed me the notebook and reached for the bottle. I shook my head. ‘Moderation,’ he said. ‘An excellent thing. We have a mystery on our hands, Mr Hardy. This hospital has never had a patient of the name your client gave you, that is, Gareth Greenway, and does not have one with the name of Guy-either as a first or second name.’

I accepted the second drink and began to wonder whether it might not be better to feel slightly drunk rather than very foolish. The shadows from the trees had spread across the surface of the water so that it was uniformly dark. The trees were moving in the light breeze but the water was still. A nice view, but it gave me no ideas.

‘I assume you have an address for your Mr Greenway?’ Smith said. ‘Some… documentation other than your notes?’

‘No. He paid me in cash and we came straight from my office to here. I suppose I thought I’d attend to the formalities later.’

‘That sounds rather unprofessional.’

I let it ride and took another sip of the good, smooth whisky, the stuff that soothes away words like ‘unprofessional’. My mind jumped to the newspaper item I’d read about the course in ‘Private Agency Practice’ that was going to be a prerequisite for people in my business henceforth. I had a feeling I’d just failed Elementary Precautions I.

‘This puts you in a rather difficult position, Mr Hardy. You could be charged with trespass, assault and so on.’

I grunted.

‘But it seems more important to know what Greenway, or whoever he is in reality, was doing. You agree?’

‘I’d certainly like to have a private talk with him.’

‘Precisely. So would I. Would you consider a commission from me to locate him and throw some light on this unfortunate affair?’

I finished the second drink and was sure I didn’t want any more. I could smell ‘deal’ or possibly ‘fix’ and you need a clear head when those things are in the air-whether you intend to accept or not. ‘I’m not sure of the ethics of that,’ I said.

‘Surely in your business ethics have to be flexible.’

‘Like in yours. Do you do psychosurgery here?’

‘Yes. I could introduce you to some people who’re very grateful for the fact.’

‘No thanks.’

‘You are ignorant and prejudiced.’ There was some steel in Smith under the blandness. I stood up and fought the giddiness that swept over me. When I was steady I slapped my pockets. ‘Where’re my car keys?’

‘I’ve no idea. You can leave by the front gate, Mr Hardy, but let me say this to you.’ Smith walked past me; his sure, firm movements seemed to emphasise my own rockiness. He pulled open the door. ‘I’ll put it no firmer than this-you have committed offences that could bring your licence to practise into question. I’m quite well connected in legal and public service circles and I can be a vindictive man.’

‘Maybe you should have that quality cut out of you.’ I went through the door.

‘I will expect to hear something from you about your supposed client within a few days, Mr Hardy. Or you will be hearing things you will not like. I can assure you of that.’

‘Thanks for the drink,’ I said, but I said it to a closed door. I went down a short passage past a receptionist’s booth where a woman in a starched white uniform smiled at me with starched white teeth. I went out the door and down a short path to a gate in the high fence. The double gates, wide enough to admit a truck, were locked and so was the smaller single gate. I looked back at the building and caught a flash of teeth. A buzzer sounded and the gate jumped open.

It took me half an hour to locate my car and quite a few minutes to get a successful hotwire start; on the old Falcon I could do it in seconds. I hadn’t eaten lunch and since then I’d absorbed a good rabbit punch, two large whiskies and some humiliation. I drove home slowly, parked down the street and on the other side in a spot where I could look the house over. If anyone had visited with my keys during my absence they’d been careful. The gate that doesn’t quite close was in the not-quite-closed position as before; the local newspapers looked to be arranged in the same way they had been in the morning when I stepped over them.

Inside I sniffed the air for an unfamiliar smell but it was all too familiar-the rising damp, the cat’s piss on the carpet and the scent of frangipani that drifts in through the louvre windows at the back of the house. I checked the answering machine in case ‘Gareth Greenway’ had phoned with an explanation and apology. No such luck. The phone rang and I snatched it up.