Peter Corris - The Greenwich Apartments

‘Brilliant,’ Press said.

Judy stood and got rid of her cigarette in the same way as before. ‘This one would have been brilliant too. For sure. Christ, she worked at it. And now she wrapped her arms round her upper body and swayed. Press jumped up and took hold of her. She let him hug her. ‘I miss her. She was terrific. So intense. She never wasted a single minute. Not like the rest of us, drinking and everything. She could work for three days and nights straight. Does that sound like a porno freak to you?’

I shook my head. I was the only one sitting down but her anger was so strong that I felt she should have the stage, have the space to say what she wanted to say. ‘No,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m sure you’re right about that. Her father feels the same way.’

She detached herself from Press and turned to look out the window. ‘As fathers go he seems to be all right. Carmel loved him.’

‘Did she love anyone else?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

I looked at my notebook. ‘Jan De Vries?’

She grinned. ‘Wife and two kids. She fucked him but I don’t think she’d let a wife and two kids screw up her work.’

I pulled my legs up and got slowly to my feet. ‘Thanks.’

‘For the wine?’

I emptied the glass and put it on the ledge beside the dead butt dish. ‘Come on, Judy. You don’t have to be tough. You’ve lost your friend. I’ve lost a few in my time. It hurts.’

‘So what does her father want? Revenge?’

‘Partly, it’s natural.’

‘Right,’ Michael Press said.

I told her about Leo Wise’s wish to understand his daughter’s death. To see it as an accident. I mentioned the possibility of another child.

‘Oh, great!’ she said.

‘You don’t understand. He’s older than you, older than me. My grandmothers had about nine or ten kids each. Maybe five or six of them survived. Your great-grandmothers probably did the same. They expected some wastage. My father was the last in the bunch. Your grandfather might’ve been in the same spot. You mightn’t be here if they hadn’t operated that way back then. It was healthy in a way. Don’t knock it.’

She went very still and looked at me. ‘I never thought of it like that.’

‘Can I have a look at her room, please?’

‘Sure.’ She walked over and opened the door nearest the window. I went into a big room with plenty of light. Better view of the racecourse from here. The room held the usual things-double bed, chest of drawers, built-in wardrobe, bookcase. A big TV set and a VCR were on a trolley at the foot of the bed. A door led to an en suite bathroom. I glanced around but rooms give off an aura like people; I sensed that there was nothing to be learned here.

Judy Syme stood in the doorway smoking again. ‘Go ahead. Look through her undies.’

‘I don’t think so.’ I ran my eye along the bookshelf. Mostly titles to do with films, a few novels, a few left-wing political works. There was a cassette on top of the TV set and I picked it up. ‘Bermagui’ was hand-printed on a label stuck to the plastic case. ‘Can I borrow this? Her film?’

She shrugged. ‘Sure. I’d like it back. She gave it to me. It probably sounds sloppy but I was watching it in here the other day.’

‘I understand. Did she ever keep cassettes here?’

‘Oh, sure. She had them all here at first. But they just got to be too many. They were everywhere so she asked her father if she could use that flat in the Cross.’

‘Did you ever go there?’

‘Once. Creepy joint. This crazy old woman came to borrow sugar. Sugar!’

‘What old woman?’

‘From the flats across the courtyard. Weird old girl with purple hair. Carmel gave her some sugar.’

‘Hmm. Where did she do her work? I mean editing and all that?’

‘Various places. Studios. The equipment isn’t exactly stuff you have around the house. Jan De Vries would know.’

We went back into the other room. Michael Press was flexing his muscles in front of his reflection in a window. He didn’t seem to mind us catching him. I shook Judy Syme’s hand and gave her one of my cards.

‘Thanks for your help. Please call me if you can think of anything that might be useful.’

She held on to my hand a little longer than was necessary, as if I formed some sort of connection with her friend. ‘Okay,’ she said.

I turned just before I opened the door. ‘You don’t have any clues on what those men wanted, do you? Or on why she was killed?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’

It was late afternoon, the tree shadows would be long in the park and I could sit by the lake and look at the ducks. On expenses, not bad. First I called Helen from a public phone.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Where’re you?’

‘Randwick.’

‘Really? That’s where I might end up.’

‘It didn’t go too well, the flat-hunting?’

‘Lousy.’

‘I’m sorry. Look, I’ve got another call to make. I’ll be home around six or so. We’ll go out. Okay?’

‘All right. Maybe.’ She hung up. After that I didn’t feel like the walk in the park anymore. I didn’t feel like tramping up and down stairs questioning people about a murder either, but I had no choice.

I drove in to the Cross but ended up parked close to White City. Some of the courts were in the shade, some were still fully in the sun. Be nice down there, I thought. Forehand, backhand, lob, smash. I could see people on the courts doing just that-small white shapes darting about. Doing something just for fun; should be more of it. But then, there should be more of a lot of things-rain in Africa, B. B. King cassettes and small flats in Glebe Point, evidently.

I put Bermagui in the glove box and locked it. I locked the car too, took an envelope with a selection of the photographs, including the one of Tania Bourke, and walked. Away from the sporting scene, business before leisure, past the temptation of the wine bar and up the lane to the Greenwich Apartments. A jogger swerved around me-a woman this time, with matching head and wrist bands. Nothing had changed in the courtyard; the arrangement of the flanking buildings allowed a fair bit of the late afternoon sun to penetrate. I sat on the empty pedestal and felt the warmth the bricks had retained. There were two apartment blocks to consider, maybe a dozen places with windows that permitted a view of the courtyard and activity in flat one of the Greenwich. I was there at the right time. It was odds on that the person I wanted was the weird old girl with purple hair. Do weird old girls go out to work? Not usually. I tucked my shirt firmly into my pants, pulled my collar straight and buttoned my jacket. Notebook and licence folder in hand, evidence in an envelope, the private detective goes to work. Bullshit. I went to the winebar and bought a packet of Sterling cigarettes and a bottle of Mateus Rose. I was ready for the purple hair.

I drew six blanks in the building on the left. I tried every apartment with the right aspect: two no answers, two were occupied by young women who weren’t interested once they found I wasn’t there on business. The fifth resident was a middle-aged man who would have talked about anything from the price of gold to the Iran-Iraqui war. Loneliness wailed from the bare room behind him as he stood in the doorway. There was an old woman in the sixth flat; she had a raspy voice like the telephone caller, was about the right age and her windows were in the right place, but her hair was bright, buttercup yellow.

I found her on the second try in the other building. She was small and thin and. her face was creased and rumpled like an old passionfruit. She could have been 80 or maybe she was just a 60-year-old who’d been busy. The purple hair was like a kindergarten kid’s wild drawing; she had bright blue stuff around her eyes and her caved-in mouth was like a sunset-yellow teeth and bright red lips.