The Undertow (13 page)

‘You'll cope.'

‘I dunno. I'm a linear thinker. Two lines of thought tend to confuse me.'

‘Bullshit. I have to go out, Cliff. By the way, I had word today that my house's nearly finished. Be out of your hair soon.'

She kissed me as she went. That was Lily. That was Lily and me.

I phoned the hospital and asked when Mrs Heysen could receive visitors.

‘Family?'

‘Friend.'

‘She's under heavy sedation.'

‘Have family members been in?'

‘Who is speaking, please?'

That meant the cops had asked the hospital to monitor calls. Fair enough. I hung up. I went back to my notebook and the page with the boxes and arrows and squiggles and tried to come up with an explanation of why anyone would want to kill Catherine Heysen. There were two possibilities as I saw it: one, that William Heysen was involved in some deep, big money shit, and that our enquiring about him had prompted someone to put an end to that enquiring at the likely source. The second was that my scouting around about the Heysen and Bellamy matter had opened an old, tender wound, and someone thought killing Catherine Heysen might cauterise it. I tended to favour the second scenario and wasn't happy about it. ‘Mad Matt' Sawtell was a possibility, and Frank and I were both possible additional targets.

‘Watch your back, Frank,' I said when I phoned him.

He'd thought it through the same way. ‘Watch your own,' he said.

‘This woman's brought you a fair amount of grief already. You don't need any more.'

‘I feel embarrassed about this, Cliff. But there's some hold-up with Peter's marriage and the visas and that. Hilde's dead keen for us to go over there and meet the girl and see Peter.'

‘You should.'

‘It feels like running away.'

‘Bullshit. It focuses things. I can arrange protection for Catherine, and if I attract any flak I reckon I can handle it. Someone who shoots at a woman at close range, misses, and gets scared away by a Volvo doesn't worry me too much.'

‘What about Lily?'

‘How d'you mean?'

‘With a partner you're vulnerable. You know that.'

‘Lily's house is nearly ready. She'll be gone in a day or so.'

‘How do you feel about that?'

‘In view of this, good. Do a Peter Allen, mate.' Tunelessly, I chanted, ‘Go to Rio, de Janeiro.'

‘Christ, that's enough to make me do it.'

I kept phoning the hospital. Complications had set in and Catherine Heysen needed a second operation. She recovered quickly after that. Her shooting had attracted no more media attention and, almost a week after it, when Lily had moved back to Greenwich and Frank and Hilde had flown to South America, I went to the hospital to see her.

15

S
he had a private room with a view back towards the university colleges. Not bad. The room was full of more flowers than she could smell and more fruit than she could eat, indicating that members of her family had been frequent visitors. She was sitting propped up when I arrived. Her hair was arranged and her makeup was perfect. She wore a pink bed jacket over a silk nightdress and looked about as good as anyone who'd been shot could look.

She extended her left hand. ‘Mr Hardy.'

‘How are you feeling, Mrs Heysen?'

‘Not bad, thank you. The people here are excellent and I have my own doctor keeping an eye on things of course.

Please sit down.'

‘I know the police will have asked you, but did you see the man who shot you?'

‘No, not at all. I don't even know that it was a man.'

‘Why d'you say that?'

She shrugged and a grimace of pain crossed her face. ‘I must not do that. I don't know—there are terrible people around these days of both sexes.'

‘It sounds as if you had some . . . intuition about it.'

‘Perhaps. But if I did at the time, it has dissipated now after the operation and the drugs.'

‘Can you write? I mean, it's your right shoulder, isn't it?'

‘Yes. I wonder. I haven't tried. Why?'

I took one of my cards from my wallet. ‘I'd like to talk to the neighbour who helped you. Apparently he wants to stay anonymous. I thought if you okayed it he might talk to me.'

‘Mr Lowenstein at number twelve. Yes, I think he might.'

‘Do you know him well?'

‘I don't know anyone well, Mr Hardy. I obviously didn't know my own husband well. Or my son. If you have a pen I'll write something for Mr Lowenstein, if I can manage.'

I gave her a ballpoint and she found she had full mobility from the elbow down. She wrote on the back of the card and signed it. I thanked her.

‘What's this all about, Mr Hardy?'

‘As I told you at our last meeting, perhaps you were right all along and someone framed your husband. Frank and I probing into it might have upset that person, who might think you ordered the investigation.'

‘Which I did, in a way. But . . .'

‘There's no statute of limitation on murder, or on conspiracy to murder, I think. Not much point in finding your son if you're not around to say hello to him.'

‘You think this person might try again?'

‘It's difficult to say. Do you know what calibre the bullet was?'

‘No, but it didn't do a great amount of damage apparently.'

‘What was the range?'

She almost shrugged again, but stopped in time. ‘Oh, not far, ten metres?'

‘Small calibre at that range sounds like a professional. If you persist . . .'

‘But I'm not persisting, as you put it. You're looking for William and that's all.'

‘This hypothetical person probably doesn't know that.'

She was a perceptive woman. ‘There's something you're not telling me.'

‘You're right. The news doesn't get any better, Mrs Heysen. Frank and I have put out feelers and there's a possibility that William is involved in something criminal and . . . big. So this attempt on your life could be a warning to him.'

‘Oh God, this is horrible.'

‘I'm concerned for your safety, and William's.'

‘Is Frank?'

It wasn't the time to tell her that Frank was on the way to sorting out the personal problems which had been a part of his response to her initially. But his concern for the son was ongoing, so I said yes.

‘When I'm released from here I'm going to stay at my parents' place until I'm fully recovered. I have uncles and nephews. I'll be safe. Then I'm going to sell the Earlwood place and get a flat with state of the art security.'

‘That's good,' I said. ‘You have my numbers. Please let me know where you are and I'll keep you in touch with our search for your son.'

The session had tired her and she nodded wearily. I went away thinking that she'd originally said she'd hang on to the Earlwood place as a sort of homing device for William. Did selling it mean she had full confidence in my ability to find him? I didn't think so.

I'd parked semi-legally in a Newtown back street, which was as close as I could get to the hospital. It was a Thursday and busy, with pensions being paid and shops staying open late. I contemplated leaving the car where it was and walking to the office but decided against it. A conscientious parking inspector would certainly book it and I didn't need the expense and the hassle.

The afternoon was cloudy and cool, with the sun low in the sky. The street was shaded by plane trees and three-storey terraces. I hurried to keep warm. I squinted ahead twenty metres to see if there was an infringement notice on the windscreen. There wasn't. I felt for my keys and then I was hurled forward by a blow to the back of my neck. I hit the bonnet of the car and my knees buckled but I fought for balance and twisted around in time to see the baseball bat coming towards me. It seemed as big as a balloon and I knew I was too winded and off balance to avoid it. I just managed to tilt my head away, and the bat caught me a glancing blow above the ear. A shaft of pain shot through me and I went down with my head ringing and my eyes shut tight.

I wasn't unconscious, but I was close to it. I sensed rather than saw a shape loom over me and I felt the bat press down hard at the top of my spine as if the attacker was setting up for the fatal whack.

‘Hey, hey you!'

The voice seemed to come from miles away but I could hear heavy running feet. The pressure lifted and I sucked in air. The next thing I heard was the roar of an over-revved engine and the squeal of burning rubber. The smell washed back over me and I vomited into the gutter.

The ringing in my ears dropped to an intermittent hum and stopped. I was bleeding above the ear and my hair was damp and matted. I'd split my lip on the gutter and blood and vomit had dripped down my chin and onto my shirt. I spluttered to get the bits of leaf and dirt and sick out of my mouth. My neck ached and my upper back throbbed as I moved. My thick hair had taken some of the force out of the knock to the head. I felt in my mouth with my tongue. No loose teeth. Could have been worse.

I almost flinched as another shape appeared above me.

‘You all right, mate?'

He was a giant, 195 centimetres plus, dressed in running gear. Shoulders like railway sleepers, thighs like tree trunks.

‘Shit, he could've killed you.' He pulled a mobile phone, looking like a matchbox in his huge paw, from his shorts. ‘Want me to call the cops?'

‘No. It's a . . . private matter. I'll settle it. But thanks, you scared him off. Did you see what happened?'

‘Yeah, sort of. I was jogging along here and I saw you coming, 'bout fifty metres off. You see there?'

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘That's a narrow little lane runs between these two terraces. I keep an eye open because kids come out on bikes and skateboards and that. I reckon he must've been in there because all of a sudden he's up and bashing you. You're lucky he didn't kill you.'

The head wound had stopped bleeding. I sucked blood from my lip and spat into the gutter, careful to miss him. ‘I dunno. Maybe not, but thanks again.'

‘Jeez.' He retreated a step. ‘What kind of game are you in?'

I reached into my jacket, got my wallet and showed him the PEA licence. It impresses people sometimes. It did him.

‘Can you describe the man?' I asked.

‘Not really. It was all so quick, like. Fair-sized bloke. Fattish. That's all I can say. I can tell you about his car though.'

‘That could help.'

‘Red Commodore with a bloody great ding in the back. He was parked just down there. Ran to it when I yelled, got in and went like hell. Nearly lost control on the corner there. You can still smell the rubber.'

‘Yeah, the smell made me chuck. Well—' ‘Now I come to think of it, he was in a grey suit. That struck me as funny, but I didn't remember first off. I'm sorry I didn't get the number.'

‘I'd be worried about you if you had. What game d'you play, as if I need to ask?'

‘The game they play in heaven, mate.'

I reached out and up and we shook hands. ‘Thanks for the help. Take care of yourself.'

He jogged on the spot a few times and gave a short laugh. ‘I reckon it's you who should be doing that, mate.'

I drove home with difficulty. My neck was stiff and I was still sucking blood from my lip. I was glad Lily wasn't there to see me in that state. Not that it would have worried her too much. Her father had been a professional boxer and her brother still was—a good one. She'd seen plenty of split skin and blood.

I hauled myself inside, shucked off the blood- and vomit-stained clothes and stood under the shower for fifteen minutes. I parted the hair around the head gash and decided it didn't need stitching. A caustic stick stopped the lip bleeding and the hot spray had eased the aches in my back. Nothing eased the anger and humiliation. My attacker must have been trailing me and I hadn't noticed. And I hadn't registered the narrow lane right by the car. Getting careless, even though I'd had it in mind that I could be a target.

As therapy, I tried a solid scotch and ice, which seemed to work well enough to give it a second try. The head began to throb again and I took some Panadeine Forte. It kept hurting and I took some more and another drink. The combination closed me down. I went up the stairs with a buzz that was more pleasurable than painful. I fell into bed thinking that I'd like to meet up again with the guy with the baseball bat. Preferably, with him minus the bat, and me with one of my own.

I don't know why it is, and I've never asked anyone else if it's true of them—I suspect it might be—that the lyrics of Bob Dylan songs often run through my head. That day I'd been doing the bit about St Augustine being as alive as you or me, and it triggered a dream in my drugged state. I dreamed my ex-wife Cyn, who'd died of cancer a few years back, and a girlfriend of more recent time, Glen Withers, who was shot dead, were both still alive. I was torn between them, guilty as hell as I lied to first one and then the other. It was one of those impossible to resolve situations that, in the dream, just gets worse and worse.

I woke up sweating although I only had a light cover on the bed. As the dream faded I was aware of feeling sad that both women were dead and relieved that I didn't have to deal with the dream problem. I got up, had a piss, drank some water, considered more pills but decided against them. There was a chance they'd plunge me into another Dylan dream and with Dylan you could go to some pretty dark places, like the tombstone blues. I've stood by enough tombstones to provoke nightmares.

Stasiland
was by the bed but it wasn't likely to improve my mood. I turned on the radio and listened to ‘Australia Talks Back' on low volume until the voices lulled me to sleep. Speculation about the likely retirement date of John Howard wasn't going to keep me awake for long.