Peter Corris - The Greenwich Apartments

‘Michael! What are you doing?’ A woman with wet hair and wearing a white bathrobe stood in the doorway.

‘He’s looking for his contacts,’ I said. Michael started to struggle up and I put my foot on his back and pushed down hard.

‘Don’t do that!’ She shook her head and a spray of water covered me.

‘Tell him not to assault people who knock on your door then.’

‘Knock? It sounded like a horse hitting it.’

I lifted my foot and let Michael stand. He was red in the face and puffing. He flicked his fair hair back and brushed dirt off his T-shirt. Nothing looks sillier than a muscle man trying to think.

‘I thought… I thought he was one of them,’ he said.

‘One of who?’

‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’ She took a step back and alarm showed in her face. Good face, as dark and intelligent as Michael’s was fair and stupid. I took out my stamped and signed ID and showed it to her.

‘Didn’t Mr Wise’s office phone to say I was coming?’

‘Oh God, of course. Michael, you are an idiot!’

‘Don’t understand,’ he muttered.

‘He’s here about Carmel.’

‘So were they,’ Michael said.

‘Now I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Can we go in and have a talk?’

‘Yes. Come on. I’m sorry.’

‘Me too?’ Michael said.

‘Definitely,’ I said. ‘Hope I didn’t hurt you.’

He looked glum and pushed past me following the woman. Studio Eight was a big room with a polished wood floor, white walls and huge windows. The trees of Centennial Park looked close enough to touch. There were posters on the walls, paintings and carvings. The cooking and eating went on at one end and there were two doors, evidently to bedrooms in the wall opposite the fireplace. Cushions and beanbags over by the windows, a big stereo, no television.

The woman pulled the sash of her robe tighter and held out her hand. ‘Judy Syme.’ She nodded at the man who’d thrown himself down on one of the big cushions. ‘This is Michael Press.’

‘Cliff Hardy.’

Press looked like a big, lazy dog lying on the cushion. ‘Who is this guy, Jude?’

‘You tell him. I’ll put some clothes on. I was having a shower when you two started to batter my door down.’

I walked over to the window and looked out over the park. I could see a bit of the racecourse too, but I preferred the park which is free-the racecourse costs you money. ‘Carmel’s father hired me to investigate her death. He thinks the police are on the wrong track.’

‘What track are they on?’ Press rubbed his ribs where I’d hooked him. ‘You a boxer ever?’

‘Amateur only. They think she was a porno queen. A peddler of smut.’

Press laughed. The laugher started and he couldn‘t stop it even though it apparently hurt his ribs. He rolled on the cushion and slapped the floor. Judy Syme came out wearing a tracksuit and sneakers.

‘What now?’ she said. ‘Stop it, Michael, you fool.’

Press gasped and stifled the mirth. ‘He says the cops think Carmel was dealing in dirty movies.’

‘Huh.’ She took a packet of cigarettes from a slit pocket in the front of the suit and lit up. She was slim and nervous looking, too impatient to look pretty. ‘That’s nonsense. Nobody who knew Carmel could possibly think that. She regarded porn movies as…,’ she waved the cigarette, ‘… nothing.”

‘Did you tell the police that?’

‘They wouldn’t listen. They hardly asked.’

‘D’you remember the name of the policeman you talked to?’

‘No.’

‘Drew?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did he do here?’

‘Nothing much-looked in her room. There’s nothing to see-some clothes and books. You can have a look too if you like.’

I nodded. ‘Okay, in a minute. Tell me why Michael here got so heavy and who you mean by “they”?’

She dropped the cigarette into a dish on the ledge over the fireplace. It hissed and a curl of smoke floated up. ‘Would you like a drink?’

‘I would,’ Press said.

‘Michael drinks light beer. I drink wine. Which would you prefer?’

‘Wine, thanks.’

‘Eight per cent,’ Press said.

‘What?’

‘Alcohol. That’s too much.’ He slapped his hard, flat stomach. ‘It’ll put the weight on.’

‘I worry it off,’ I said. Judy Syme came back with a can of Swan Light lager and two glasses of white wine. She lowered herself onto a cushion without spilling a drop. I crouched awkwardly, got my bum on the floor and let my legs move forward.

‘You’re stiff,’ Press said. He popped his can and I accepted my glass. First nourishment since breakfast.

‘Cheers,’ I said. ‘I may be stiff but I haven’t got bruised ribs.’

‘Stop it,’ Judy Syme said. ‘I wish Michael had been around in the time before Carmel got shot.’

‘Why? What happened?’

She took a sip. ‘Some men came here. Twice. Looking for Carmel.’

‘What did they do?’

‘Barged in, pushed me around. Trashed her room.

‘What did they say?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Twice you said. When was this?’

‘The first time was a week or so before…before she got killed. The second time was the night before.’

‘Did you tell Drew this?’

She lit another cigarette. ‘Yes. He took down the descriptions, but he didn’t seem very interested.’

I got my notebook from my jacket pocket. ‘Give me the descriptions.’

‘One of them looked like you,’ Press said.

‘I thought you weren’t here.’

‘Judy told me about them. One was a thin, tall guy with a broken nose, hard-looking, like you.’

‘Thanks. Anything else?’

They looked at each other the way people do when trying to recall a conversation. Who sat where, who said what? ‘I don’t think so,’ Judy Syme said. ‘Oh, of course, he was a New Zealander.’

‘Who?’

‘The one that looked like you.’

I wrote ‘NZ’ beside ‘looks like self. ‘What about the other one?’

‘Fatter,’ Judy said. ‘And fairer, less hair except he had a moustache. They wore suits. They looked like police but they weren’t.’

‘How do you know?”

‘I’m a nurse, I’ve met a lot of police. I know.’

‘I see. Well, what did Carmel say about this? Where was she?’

‘She was working the day they came the first time. I told her that night and she took off. Packed a few things and took off. She didn’t come back. The same two came back later, like I say.’ She took a big drink of her wine and dragged on the cigarette. ‘And the next day I read in the paper that she was dead.’

‘Did these heavies ask you where she was?’

‘Yeah. I wouldn’t tell them.’

‘Did they threaten you?’

She nodded. ‘They hit me, but I wouldn’t tell them. Fuck them, I thought.’

Press drained his can and looked admiringly at her. I took a drink and privately toasted her courage myself, ‘Did Drew ask you where she’d gone?’

‘He might have. I forget. I didn’t tell him anyway. I got the feeling that he didn’t care. What you say about the pornography explains it. What a laugh!’

‘Will you tell me? I don’t think she was involved in pornography either.’

‘Sure I’ll tell you. She was with Jan De Vries. He’s a lecturer at the Film amp; Television School. They were working on something together.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. Something that took all her time and energy. Something very important to her. We shared here for nearly two years. I was around when she was finishing Bermagui, but I never…’

‘Sorry. Finishing what?’

‘Bermagui, her first movie. You haven’t seen it?’

‘No.’

‘It’s brilliant.’