Peter Corris - The Dying Trade

“It sounds like a bloody dangerous game to me,” I said.

“It turned out to be. Mark roasted me a couple of times when I let a name slip in company, when I’d had a bit to drink. I watched myself after that. Mark would say that he had things on everyone, there was no one who had anything on him that he didn’t have something on in turn. When he was low he even told me that he had something on his children, he never said what, and something on me. I didn’t understand and I didn’t want to. I used to try to pass it off as a joke. That was hard because Mark didn’t have much of a sense of humour, like Susan. He had a dramatic sense, our bedroom spy games showed that, but that’s about it. Jokes for him were visible, practical things. You know what I mean?”

I nodded. “Yes. I’d say Bryn’s a bit that way too. Speaking of the practical-minded, did Gutteridge keep records of his deals?”

“I’m not certain but I think so. I’ll get to that.”

She drank down the tonic and lemon peel in a few gulps and refused another. I accepted the wine list, a little early perhaps, but busy people often eat early lunch I’m told. Ailsa sent the waiter for cigarettes and tore them open untidily as soon as they arrived. When she had one lit she went on.

“I used to see Ian Brave occasionally, have a drink with him. I didn’t need him as I had before, but he was a confidant of sorts and I still didn’t have any friends to speak of. I had problems with Mark’s children and occasional bouts of depression. I went to the theatre with Brave twice. The second time he doped me.” She sucked in her cigarette and blew the smoke out in a thin, vicious jet. “He took me back to his place — not the clinic, a house he has on the beach. He put needles into me, he questioned me for hours and hours. You can guess what about.”

“Yeah. Where was your husband then?”

“Away on business, interstate. He often was. When I came out of it, some time early the next morning, Brave told me what I’d told him. That is, he gave me some snippets, about big names. He thanked me and told me to forget what happened. He said he’d leave me alone.”

“I don’t follow.”

She stubbed the cigarette like it was her last and she was giving it up for life. Except that she lit another straight away.

“Oh shit. He had some pictures. Are you with me?”

“Photographs?”

“Right. He used them to keep me quiet and he used the information I’d given him to blackmail Mark to glory.”

“Did your husband suspect that you were the source of Brave’s information?”

She fiddled with the cigarette and lined up a napkin, an ashtray and her lighter on the table. “I’m not sure,” she said, “I suppose so. He became morose and withdrawn. I couldn’treach him, no one could. My feeling is that Brave had him so cold he didn’t care anymore.”

“His whole approach to things had been turned round on him?”

“Something like that.”

“Did he still see Brave? Socially I mean?”

“No, not to my knowledge. But they hadn’t met regularly anyway.”

I was interested but there were lots of loose ends. I played with the menu while I considered them. The story had a ring of truth but it was a bit too close to the first episode of husband and betrayal for comfort. Her innocence looked to be stretched a bit thin. I tried to keep the scepticism out of my voice as I asked the question. “How do you know all this happened? You said you weren’t aware of what Brave had done in the case of your first husband. Why are you so sure about all this now?”

The question was important. If she slid about on it the whole thing could be a pack of lies. Dancers can be actresses. Only another good serve of her directness would incline me to believe her. She was direct.

“Brave told me himself,” she said, “I went to him one day when Mark was black-minded and told him that I thought he was driving Mark crazy. I threatened to go to the police and accuse him of drugging and molesting me. I said I’d finish him professionally and in every other way.”

“What did he say?” It wasn’t hard to guess.

“He laughed at me. He said there were good reasons why I wouldn’t do what I’d said. He threatened to name me as an accomplice in the blackmailing of James. He said he had so much on Mark that he could play with him, just as he pleased and that he could ruin him and put me on the streets. He didn’t want to. Mark was making him rich and he was happy with things as they were. If I left him alone, he’d leave me alone. He said he’d ease up on Mark, but I guess he couldn’t. He’s a greedy bastard.”

“How’s that?”

“He pushed Mark past the limit, he must have done. Mark was dead about ten days after I had this talk with Brave.”

“Are you sure he killed himself?”

“No, I’m not. But he was in a tortured state in the last few days and a gun was found near his body. The coroner’s verdict was suicide but I’m sure such things can be arranged.”

She stopped when the waiter arrived to take the order. I called for half a dozen oysters naturelle and some grilled whiting. She said she’d have the same and took about half a glass of hock when that arrived. Waiters were hovering about and she smoked and made some small talk until we had privacy again. The golden brown fish fillets and potato chips hid among the salad like Dyaks in the jungle. We pushed them about and sipped the wine. I tried to fill her glass but she glared at me. I munched a few decent mouthfuls of fish and got on with it.

“You think the police didn’t pursue the matter satisfactorily?”

She mashed up some fish and salad and pushed the mess aside. She hadn’t eaten a single potato chip and I had to keep myself from reaching over and spearing them. I drained my glass instead and filled it from the bottle which was still healthy. She lit a cigarette and more smoke drifted into my face than seemed necessary.

“What are you so cautious about, Hardy?” she asked. “Your licence?”

I shrugged and took in a bit more wine. “You were talking about your husband’s death,” I said. She nodded and did her cigarette flicking act again. The ash sprayed into the plates and I pushed mine aside.

“Look, this gets back to your question about Mark’s records, if you’re still interested. Mark died at his desk, in his study. The police found a secret safe in the study, one I didn’t know about. It had been opened. It was empty. Maybe Mark kept the records there.”

I nodded. “That sounds like a lead for the police, didn’t they take it up?”

“No, they didn’t take anything up. They rushed on to the inquest and let it go at that. I don’t have to spell out what I think?”

“No, you think Brave has the records, maybe killed your husband to get them. Maybe not. In any case he was on the scene pretty quick I assume?”

She nodded, “Very quickly.”

“You think he used the records to bring the shutters down on the case?”

She spread her hands quizzically and drew a deep breath. The coffee arrived and she dropped as many grains of sugar into it as you could balance on the head of a nail. I took a gulp of wine and popped the question.

“Your husband’s been dead for four years and you’ve suspected Brave’s hand in it all along. Why are you frightened enough to want to do something? To hire me? Brave hasn’t threatened you directly has he?”

“Not yet,” she said, “But it’s only a matter of time. I’ve done something with the money Mark left me — invested it, got a couple of companies going. I told you this?”

I couldn’t remember, I looked non-committal. She went on: “I’m a worthy target for Brave now. He’s a leech. But it’s more than that.” She leaned forward. She had fine broad shoulders and her movements were athletic without being masculine. Her lips were a sculptured counterpoint to the vertical lines of her face. “I think Brave killed Giles. I think he’s insane and obsessed with the Gutteridges. I think he’s behind the threats to Susan and after Bryn now.”