Peter Corris - The Greenwich Apartments

Jesus, now I’ve got unborn life on my hands, I thought. The things a semi-pro is called on to do. ‘Okay, Mr Wise. I hope it turns out the way you want. But I’ll still have to know more about Carmel to do a proper job. Can I take a look at her place?’

‘Sure. Get the address from the front desk outside. I forget the exact flat number. She shared with another girl. I’ll have someone ring and tell her you’re coming.’

‘Right. I need the name of the agent who handles the Greenwich rentals.’

‘Bushell and Kotch, Newtown. I’ll advise them too.’

I stood and we shook hands across his untidy desk. He hadn’t once said he was a busy man although he obviously was. Leo Wise was all right in my book. I really did hope it turned out to be a sort of hit and run.

I drove back across the bridge, picked up the Cahill Expressway and parked in Woolloomooloo. I had some time to kill before the Air Pacific appointment and I spent it walking beside the water and up through the Domain. A big Japanese ship was tied up, taking on cargo. I wondered if Helen and I should go on a cruise. Make love with the motion of the boat, drink cold wine on deck at night, read Somerset Maugham, eat pawpaw in Suva. Then I thought of the Bermuda shorts and the cameras and the flowers around the neck. Running away wasn’t going to help; Helen was getting a place of her own and I was going to have to give a little, think of her first sometimes and myself second. It was going to be painful but worth it. Maybe.

I skipped lunch which meant that I was showing up for my second appointment of the day fuelled by two cups of coffee and fresh air. How does he do it?

The Air Pacific office decor confirmed my feelings about the cruise. They way to see the islands was from a sailing boat with two or three other like-minded people. The giant posters of 747’s landing on coral beaches against backdrops of fire-walking and water-skiing failed to excite me.

Mr Percy was a well-brushed character in horn-rims and a short-sleeved shirt. He didn’t look like a grounded pilot, more like a computer salesman. I opened by showing him my operator’s licence and my serious manner.

He looked at the folder and then at the bank of filing cabinets behind him. His desk was bare apart from a telephone. ‘I’m afraid I can’t discuss our personnel with you, Mr… ‘he glanced down at the licence, ‘Hardy.’

‘She’s not current. I’d say she left Air Pacific two or three years ago.’

‘Well…’

‘If anything comes of this would you prefer the papers to say Air Pacific hostess Tania Bourke, or former air hostess Tania Bourke?’

‘What could come of it? What is it?’

I shrugged. ‘Who knows? You ‘re information-rich.’ I gestured at the filing cabinets. ‘I’m information-poor.’ I put the licence folder away. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

He got up, walked over to the cabinets and laid his hand directly on the right drawer. Out it came, riffle, riffle, and he pulled up a file. Back to the chair and the desk. I sat back in my chair to let him read and feel his power.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘When did she leave Air Pacific?’

He ran his finger down a page. ‘March 1983.’

‘Did she jump or was she pushed?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Tell me whether she resigned or was she sacked?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘Come on, Mr Percy. Let’s play cards. You tell me whether and I won’t ask you why.’

A small smile escaped his tight, thin mouth. ‘I suppose your job is something like mine-weighing people up, judging their capabilities.’

‘Something like that. Some of it’s sitting around doing nothing.’

He didn’t like that which suggested to me that that was what he did some of the time. ‘Yes, well, Miss Bourke joined the airline in 1977 and she left in 1983.’

I wrote 1977 in my notebook just to show willing. ‘She held what position?’

That took him off-guard. ‘Senior cabin… cabin attendant.’

‘She was demoted?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘No. Well, resignation or dismissal?’

‘Dismissal.’

‘Why?’

‘You said you wouldn’t ask that.’

‘I lied to you.’

He closed the file and pushed his chair back from the desk, ‘I think we’ve finished.’

I watched him while he found the place for the file. ‘Just a minute!’ I said.

He held the file poised above the drawer. ‘What?’

‘You can give me her address. That can’t be classified information, surely.’

‘I suppose not.’ He opened the folder and glanced at the top sheet. ‘Flat one…’

‘Greenwich Apartments, at the Cross.’

He closed the folder, rammed it into the drawer and slammed the drawer home. I stood and let the wrinkles find comfortable places in my shirt and pants. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Percy,’ I said. ‘You’ll make it.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Percy of Personnel doesn’t sound so good. Percy of Flight Operations sounds a lot better. You’ll make it.’

‘Good afternoon, Mr… Hardy.’

Carmel Wise’s flat in Randwick was near the Prince of Wales Hospital in one of those streets that took their names from the Crimean War. That was a pretty safe war to take a name from-nobody remembers who won or lost what. I parked outside the block, set back from the road with a nice stand of silver birch trees in front of it, and wondered what I was going to run into next. Another video freak? A landscape gardener? A lesbian builder? The middle class was getting more complicated all the time.

The day had turned cool suddenly. Clouds across the sun and an edge to the breeze. I took my jacket off the back seat and shrugged into it while I waited to cross the street. I thought a contemplative walk in Centennial Park might be in order after this call. Something to sharpen the already sharp appetite and stimulate the powers of observation. I didn’t expect much from this call. In this block of flats I had a name and a number. The next visit would be harder-to the flats flanking the Greenwich Apartments, where I had nothing to go on but the sound of a voice on the telephone.

I ducked across between a truck and a motor cycle and searched for a break in the silver birches. It took the form of a narrow brick path, artistically overgrown and lightly layered with dog shit. Small dog shit-there was nothing crude or obvious around here. I walked up the path, through smoked glass doors and up carpeted steps. No dog shit. Carmel Wise’s name was still on the tenants’ board, under glass, bracketed with that of Judy Syme-Studio Eight, Stage Three. Studio? Stage? Of course.

I ignored the lift and took the stairs. What, pass up a chance to ascend by foot to Stage Three? Not Hardy. As I was bounding up, almost bouncing off the walls, I was aware of someone coming up behind me. A young man, long fair hair, jeans and T-shirt. An artist, no doubt. I got to Stage Three and knocked on the door of Studio Eight. Before I’d regained my breath, I felt his hand on my shoulder. He pulled and I came around with the pressure.

‘What…?’ I said.

He punched me in the stomach, or tried to. There was some space between me and the door and I used it to shove my spine back as I saw the punch coming. That took some of the steam out of it but there was enough left to make it hurt in my slightly winded state. He was big, his biceps bulged in his T-shirt sleeves and there was no fat on him. But he was more used to standing or lying still and lifting things than to moving and hitting. He swung at me with his big right arm and I swayed away from it and hooked him in the ribs. Then he swung his big left arm, reasonable thing to do, but a bit obvious; I blocked it and spun him around so that he hit the door with his back stiff and his head thrown back. He hit hard and sagged. Then the door was pulled open and he pitched back. I stepped aside and watched him fall.