Peter Corris - The Greenwich Apartments

Back to the papers. The Herald reporter had overused her poetic licence. Further reading showed that Carmel Wise had not stepped directly into anything. She must have walked across the courtyard, 30 feet or so, before the bullets were fired. The damage to the sign suggested the direction from which the shots had come-from the left as you faced the Greenwich Apartments. The girl had been hit several times in the back and once in the head; I assumed the shooter was at ground level because any marked angle to the line of fire would have pinpointed a window. I was already starting to think of it as a professional job.

The News printed a photograph of the girl. She had a strong, high-cheekboned face with big eyes and a curious set of teeth, slightly gapped all around. The effect was pleasing. Her hair was dark and drawn back, giving her an intelligent, slightly surprised expression. She looked older than 21 and like someone who would be worth talking to.

The News ’ coverage was less lurid. Carmel Wise was dead when she was discovered in the courtyard by Mr Craig Wilenski, a resident of the block of flats opposite the Greenwich. This happened at 9.30 p.m. and there was no evidence for the Herald’s nomination of 9 p.m. as the time of the shooting. Mr Wilenski was returning home at the time; he phoned from his own flat and was not a witness to anything. Neither was anybody else; no-one heard the shots, no-one heard anything suspicious.

But the man from the News must have filed what he had as quickly as he could and then pressed on because the Sunday edition carried the first of the ‘Video Girl’ stories. ‘Police confirmed that the flat which Ms Wise had occupied contained hundreds of videotapes,’ the story ran. ‘The victim was carrying a bag in which there were more videotapes.’ Then came the kicker: ‘Videotapes were found in the pockets of the coat Ms Wise was wearing and in her Honda Civic sedan, parked several blocks from the courtyard in which she met her death.’ She was ‘the Video Girl’ from that moment on.

The tabloids were in full swing by mid-week. The newshounds had learned that Carmel Wise had worked for all five Sydney television stations (‘Video Girl Channel-hopped’), that she had appeared on quiz programmes as a movie expert (‘Video Girl Knew 5000 Movie Plots’) and that she had written, directed and produced a film for $10,000 which had made a bundle (‘Big Bucks for Video Girl’s Mini Budget Movie’). Personal details were very sparse-daughter of wealthy Sydney business man Leo Wise, educated at a Jewish private school, attended the National Film amp; Television School briefly. She had just completed work on a TV documentary on the ten richest people in Sydney, the producer of which, Tim Edwards, described her as ‘a major talent with a great flair, perhaps too much flair for this project.”

By Thursday Carmel Wise was inside-page news at best. The police were calling for help from the public but the public wasn’t helping. No-one had seen anything. The scribblers had looked up all the TV stars and ‘personalities’ who might have had any contact with Carmel Wise but had drawn blanks. A TV doctor who had known her slightly said that she was ‘a very private person’. This got a small notice. Two nurses were killed on the North Shore and the ‘Video Girl’ slipped from sight. I saw nothing of the pornographic implications that Leo Wise had complained of, but they could have been exploited in other papers.

I made some more coffee and thought about it. Unlike most cases where there are only winks and nods to go on and the cops and journalists have muddied the waters, I had solid leads. I had Tania Bourke and Mr Greenwich and if the woman who’d called the flat the other night hadn’t been a witness to the shooting I was a Frenchman. (I think we should stop knocking Dutchmen, they’re not nuking Pacific islands and blowing up boats on our doorstep.)

I had almost too many leads. The question was whether to start with Tania Bourke and the man, or the witness, or get the official view on the case first. Let your fingers do the walking, I thought. I dialled the number for Frank Parker who had recently been elevated to Detective Inspector. While the phone was ringing I recalled that Frank had taken Hilde and their baby daughter away to Europe. Frank’s first leave in years. His assistant, Barry Mercer, answered.

‘Homicide.’

‘You make it sound highly desirable, Mercer.’

‘Who’s this?’

‘Hardy.’

‘Frank’s away.’

‘I know, they’ve gone to show their baby London and Munich, their roots. I wonder what the baby’ll make of it?’

‘Well?’ Mercer has no sense of humour, no babies either so far as I know. He’s a thin, dark, intense young man who tries to think and feel the way Parker does. He has at least one problem there-Parker likes me and Mercer doesn’t.

‘I need some information on the Carmel Wise shooting.’

‘Why?’

‘The father’s not happy.’

‘Why?’

‘Jesus, don’t you ever say anything else?’

‘Why isn’t the father happy?’

I didn’t want to tell Mercer about the mystery of flat one, not yet. ‘The porno angle,’ I improvised. He doesn’t like it. Thinks you’re on the wrong track.’

‘That’s solid,’ Mercer said. ‘Rock solid.’

I was surprised. ‘I didn’t read about it. There was nothing in the papers I saw.’

‘There was a bit in the Globe. One of those snoopy bastards got onto it before we could stop him.’

‘Stop him? Why?’

‘I haven’t got time to discuss it with you, Hardy. I’m up to my ears in work. We got another nurse this morning.’

‘That’s bad. Who’s handling Wise?’

‘Bill Drew, he’s here. You want a word?’

‘Yeah, thanks, put him on.’

‘Before you go, how’d you know Frank and Hilde were… you know, showing the kid the cities?’

‘Postcard. Didn’t you get one?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll put in a good word for you.’

‘Fuck you. Here’s Drew.’

I didn’t know Drew so it was just as well he had a formal manner.

‘Detective Constable Drew.”

‘This is Cliff Hardy, Mr Drew. I assume Mercer’s okayed it for you to fill me in a bit on the Wise matter.’

‘I’ll do what I can.’ Cool, very cool.

‘Professional job, would you say?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Mercer says you like the porno angle.’

‘Looks like it. The movies in the shops are fairy-floss-the real stuff circulates in the dark. Big money. We think the girl was involved, probably at the production end. She must have offended someone.’

‘Why’re you keeping this line of inquiry quiet?’

‘Why d’you think?’ he said impatiently. ‘Look, we’ve got people out there, informers, people who hear things. But we’ll get bugger all if those sleazos know we’re interested.’

‘Yeah. Well, her father says there were no dirty movies in the flat. I took a peep myself last night. All looked straight to me.’

There was a pause and the office noises became muffled. Drew must have put his hand across the mouthpiece. ‘Just checking with Mercer,’ he said. ‘The stuff in the flat and the car were all right, but you should see what was in her bag.’

‘Bad?’

‘How long ago was it she was killed? A week and a half?’

‘About that.’

‘I saw some of this stuff that night. I haven’t been able to fuck since. My wife’s complaining. I’m thinking of applying for compensation.’

I showered, shaved and dressed. I don’t know why but I didn’t believe it. Perhaps it was the comments about Carmel Wise’s flair as a filmmaker: I never knew a porno movie to have flair and as for artistic cutting, forget it. The ones I’d seen were mainly interesting from athletic and arithmetic points of view. I kept expecting someone to run on with a tape-measure but no-one ever did.