Peter Corris - The Reward

Fuck you. I can see and hear all right. Dyou reckon I had a concussion?

He disposed of his surgical gear and picked up the cigarette. After a deep drag he examined my eyes. In your case, hard to tell. Your brains banged against the cranial vault so often they mightve fused. Mild, Id say, at worst. Take a deep breath.

I sucked in wind and gasped at the sudden shaft of pain. Mmm, cracked probably, he said. Be a good idea to bind them up since I dont suppose youre planning to spend the next week taking it easy?

I have to work for a living. I cant just send in Medicare forms and lie back perving on nurses.

He ran about twenty metres of bandage around my trunk and taped it into place. There you go, Cliff. A few pain-killers which Ill prescribe and youre ready to commit more violence on your fellow citizens. Tell you one thing, though.

Whats that?

Youll have a bit of trouble fucking in the missionary position.

When I got home there was a message from Max Savages offsider to ring a.s.a.p.

Penny Draper.

Ms Draper, this is Cliff Hardy.

Oh, yes, Mr Hardy. Ill put Max on.

Cliff, Max. No point in all that polite stuff, Id just have to give the phone to Penny. Ive found Andrea Neville. I think we should go and have a chat with her.

This is Penny. Respond, please.

Yes. Where? When?

Youre a natural, youve picked up the style real quick, Max said. Shes running an art gallery in Paddington, would you believe. Trumper Place, number six. Southern Cross Gallery. See you there in half an hour.

Ive lived in Sydney all my life and Im still coming across places, quite close in to the city, that Ive never been to. I climbed tentatively into the car, established that Id be able to drive with a bit of discomfort, and consulted the Gregorys.

Trumper Place was tucked in between the flats of Edgecliff and the terraces of Paddington. Trumper Park was an eye-opener: the tiny oval was like something out of the last century with an immaculate white picket fence all around and grassy surrounds for the spreading of rugs and the eating of cucumber sandwiches. It didnt look as though itd be hard to hit a six from the pitch in the centre but distances from the perimeter can be deceptive. One incongruous note was that the ground was set up for the playing of Australian football. Two or three joggers circled the oval. I felt as if I was looking simultaneously at the past, the present and the future.

There were two galleries, one a big, elaborate affair in a newish building and the one we were interested in, very much its poor cousina terrace house, painted in grey and white, but not recently. Automatically, I scouted around to see if there was a back entrance. There wasnt, all traffic went through the front. I stood outside and watched Maxs taxi draw up.

What happened? Max said when he was still a couple of metres away.

I was sure he couldnt see the stitches in my ear and there were no other visible signs of the bashing. I stared at him. What dyou mean?

Youve had an accident. Youre holding yourself stiffly, protecting ribs Id say. He got closer and saw the ear. That looks nasty.

Ill tell you all about it later. How do we play this? Have you got any kind of police authority?

You must be joking. No, were both in pretty much the same boat. This place is run by Andrea Craig, nee Neville, and Eve Crown. Lesbians by all accounts.

I looked at the drooping bamboo plants in two big pots sitting on cracked concrete slabs in the front of the house. The two-storeyed terrace was narrow and built in the skimpy fashion that takes a lot of the charm away from the style minimum wrought iron, plain paving, uncovered porch. Doesnt look too prosperous, I said.

Max snorted. Its a front.

For what?

Max wandered up the street towards the oval and I followed. That Pennys a remarkable young woman, he said. Shes been putting fizzgig stuff on a data base for a couple of years. You wouldnt believe what shes come up with.

The computers putting me out of business, Max. I dont want to hear about its wondrous mysteries. Just fill me in on the fucking art gallery.

Right. Max pulled out a notebook and began flipping over the pages. No significant exhibitions or sales in the last eight years. What does that suggest to you?

Lousy art, lousy promotion or cash flow from somewhere else.

Exactly. In this case, from what we can gather, they peddle a high-class line of pornography. You can get your portrait painted in any style you like, wearing whatever clothes you like or none at all and keeping company with whoever you fancy likewise.

Sounds harmless enough.

I understand some of the portraits are real life studies and that some of the subjects clients choose are very young and some of the posing sessions are… realistic

Oh, shit. Why hasnt anything been done about it?

Max shrugged. No complaints laid, all very discreet. But I dont think we have to be too gentle with the ladies. He took a newspaper clipping from his pocket and studied it. Were here to see an exhibition of the photography of Robyn McKenzie. I understand shes very good. Are you interested in photography?

No.

Neither am I.

We went back to the terrace and Max pressed the buzzer. Is it ringing? he asked.

I got closer to the door. No. Nothing.

Strange. Places supposed to be open now.

He gave the door a tentative push and it swung in. We walked immediately into a big airy space. The wall that usually forms the passage in a terrace had been taken out and the front room was open right back to the stairs. It was filled with light from the front and side windows; the board floor was polished and framed photographs hung around the walls. Through the archway was a second room in the same condition. We walked through to a couple of small rooms at the back which were evidently offices. The photographs were black-and-white studies of buildings, none of them familiar to me.

Max stood at the foot of the stairs and raised his voice. Hello! Anybody about!

I heard noises upstairs, feet shuffling, a nose being blown, a clink of glass and the snap of a cigarette lighter. A figure appeared on the upstairs landing where there wasnt much light. A plume of smoke drifted down to us.

What the hell do you want?

Max turned to me and I mouthed the words to him, adding A woman.

We want to see Andrea Craig, Max said.

A harsh, cigarette-tortured laugh sounded and she came slowly down the stairs. She was tall and thin with long, thick hair sprinkled with grey. She wore a silk dressing gown only loosely fastened so that most of her breasts were showing. Her pale face was lined and haggard, her eyes red-rimmed from weeping.

You and me both, she said. Shes gone. Shes fucking left me.

Weve been together for eight years. Then she gets one phone call and shes off. No explanation, nothing. She said shed send for me but I know all about that. She mustve been seeing someone else for ages and it finally all came good. Lying bitch.

Eve Crown needed to talk and Max and I were as good as anyone else, maybe better than most. I told her I was a private detective and that Max was with the police. A glint came into her eyes and she took us upstairs to the flat she and Andrea Craig had shared and she showed us the clothes and other items strewn around in a super-hasty packing. Some of the clothes were torn and a couple of pictures had the glass in them broken. One was a photograph of a blonde woman with a narrow face, small mouth and enormous eyes. Then we sat around a table in the kitchen that had been remodelled in the fifties and hadnt changed sincelaminex and lino, cupboards with plastic ventilation insets.

We fought a bit, but shes stronger than me and she knows about those things. She was a policewoman once.