Peter Corris - Man In The Shadows

He shrugged. ‘I was desperate for something… real. Otherwise I’d have to give this away, like I have with writing, acting… everything. So I got the photos. I’m supposed to get another thousand when I hand them over but I haven’t been contacted yet. What d’you think I should do?’

‘What’s the voice on the phone like?’

‘Muffled. Obviously disguised.’

‘Who told you where to break through the fence and when to do it?’

‘He did. My client. Look, this is a few weeks ago. I didn’t do anything for a while. I thought it over even after the money arrived. Then I checked on the place-went out there, talked to a girl who’d been… ‘

‘Annie Parker.’

That startled him. ‘Right. How’d you know? You’re better at this than I thought.’

‘No I’m not. She came to see me this morning. She needed somewhere to duck into for a bit. Why’d you drop her? She took it hard.’

He said he was sorry but he didn’t look it. ‘She was a junkie. She’d been on the street in her time. I was scared of AIDS.’

‘So you pissed off, like from Selwyn Street.’

He crumpled the empty beer can. ‘You don’t know what it’s like! People wasting away around you, dying.’

‘Especially if you’re bi?’

‘Yeah.’ Something about the way he spoke the word told me he was lying. He was a master liar but there was something showing just then. The tough, selfish facade showed a crack.

‘You and Annie could’ve had a test. Checked yourselves out. Why didn’t you try that?’

The crack opened; he rubbed his eyes and pushed back his hair. Suddenly he looked older, less vain.

‘Annie had the test. She was okay. I was too scared to have it. Still am. I pissed off because I was scared that if I showed up positive… well, I could lie and maybe give it to Annie. If I told the truth she’d drop me, wouldn’t she?’

‘Maybe not. Anyway, you might be clear.’

‘I’ve been around, Mr Hardy. Want another beer?’

‘Why not?’

He brought the cans and we sat drinking and not talking. I was thinking: Life had got more complicated since the time when we worried about VD. My two cases of crabs seemed laughable. They were talking about condoms again. If I’d had to invent a brand name for condoms it’d be Fiasco. Try Fiasco condoms, you’ll never…

‘Are you going to talk to this Dr Smith?’ Greenway said suddenly. ‘To get yourself off the hook?’

‘No, not yet at least. You’re not quite the arsehole you pretend to be. You’re in trouble and you’ve paid me for a couple of days. I can stick with it for a bit.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Doing the things you should have done. Finding out a bit more about the hospital. That’s the first thing.’

‘What else should I have done?’

‘Talked to Annie. Where’s your phone?’

It was in the bedroom. I sat on the bed and dialled my number. Greenway stood, long and tense in the shadow by the door. After many rings the phone was picked up.

‘Annie? It’s Hardy.’ I heard a groan and a sigh, sounds of despair.

‘Annie?’

‘What’s wrong?’ Greenway said.

I hushed him with a sharp movement of my hand. ‘Annie!’

‘I can’t,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t…” There was a crash and another groan and then a long, deep silence.

I cut the call off and immediately dialled for an ambulance. I gave them the address and the details. I mentioned the doorkey but told them to kick the door in if they had to. I dropped the receiver and moved towards the passage.

Greenway made as if to block my path but he thought better of it and stepped aside. ‘Wait. I’ll come too.’

I didn’t wait. I charged straight out and headed down the stairs; I could hear Greenway behind me. He caught up by the time I reached the car and I let him in. I lost seconds fumbling for the unfamiliar spare key and I swore about it.

‘What?’ Greenway said.

‘Never mind.’ I started the car and revved it savagely. ‘What were you doing back there?’

He buckled on his seat belt. ‘Putting the phone on record in case he calls.’

That was grace under pressure I supposed, or just cold-bloodedness. I concentrated on driving, took some chances and made good time on the freeway and down through Surry Hills to Central Railway. Greenway sat quietly. He ran his hands through his Iongish hair a few times and betrayed the sort of agitation that he’d suppressed on our first meeting.

‘Have you got the gun?’ I asked him.

‘No. Think we’ll need it?’

I let the ‘we’ pass. ‘No.’

‘How did she sound?’

‘You know her better than me. She sounded more stoned than she could cope with.’

‘God. That.’

I made myself unpopular with other drivers down Broadway and Glebe Point Road. The ambulance was standing outside my house when we arrived. The white coats moved around on the footpath and I could see my neighbours’ faces at their fences and windows. I stopped in the middle of the street and walked to my gate. One of the ambulance guys held the gate closed against me.

‘I live here,’ I said. ‘I called you.’

‘Mr Hardy?’

‘That’s right.’

He wrote something on a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. ‘Is the young woman a relation?’

‘No, a friend. How is she?’

‘I’m afraid she’s dead, sir. The police’re on their way.’

I was aware of Greenway standing behind me. The Bondi colour had drained from his face. I drew him away towards the car. ‘Can you drive?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Okay. Just park the car down the street a bit, put the keys in the glove box and get lost. There’s no need for you to be part of this. I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I can.’ I gripped his arm and propelled him towards the car trying to look like someone giving and receiving support. ‘No fancy ideas either. Just do as I say!’

He nodded, got into the car, started it and edged forward. I went back to the house and no one stopped me from going inside. Annie was lying on the floor in the living room. The telephone, with the receiver off, was buzzing beside her head. She was wearing my towelling dressing gown and nothing else. The dressing gown had fallen open revealing her pubic hair and one small pale breast. Her hair was wet. The right sleeve of the dressing gown was pushed and rolled up almost to the shoulder. There was an indentation and bruise in the soft flesh above the elbow and a puncture mark in the taut skin just below the crook of her arm.

She’d showered and scrubbed her face. With no make-up and the strain gone, with her wet hair drawn back she looked innocent, like one of the young swimming champions of the fifties. I looked at her and tried to figure out how old she was. Twenty something, not twenty-five, not that much.

The cops found the syringe and sachet in the bathroom along with the belt that had been used as a ligature. They put these things in plastic bags and also bagged all the contents of Annie’s pockets. They put her clothes in a bag and they put her in a bag too and took her away. I gave them a statement: when I’d first met Annie and how; why she was in my house; what she’d said. I gave them as much of the truth as I could and they appeared to believe me selectively.

The detective in charge, a heavy, thorough type named Simmonds, asked me if there had been any heroin in the house when I’d left it that morning.

‘No,’ I said.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘I didn’t have any and neither did she. I searched her stuff while she was asleep.’

‘So she went out and scored?’

‘Or someone came by.’

‘Which?’

‘I don’t know.’