Heroin Annie (21 page)

‘Why?'

‘Oh, I heard he and Jacobs were partners.'

‘Could be, the little rat.'

‘Have you heard bad reports on him too?'

‘No, not a word. But you should see him, he's the image of Billy Hughes, image of him. Little rat.'

I thanked her again, and went out to my car thinking that I could probably get more from her if I needed it.

The computer is a terrible thing when it's misused for bank statements and rates notices, but it beats everything for saving the eyes and legs of private detectives. A phone call to Harry Tickener of
The News
won me admittance to the paper's computer room and an introduction to the pimply kid who ran the show. He looked about seventeen, but was probably ten years older. I told him I wanted to ask his friend all about Henry Jacobs.

‘Classifieds or news?' His hands caressed the buttons on the panel in front of him like those of an archer smoothing the feathers of a shaft.

‘Both.'

He did all the things they do—punched buttons, looked at screens, ripped paper and swore until he handed me a bundle of tabloid-sized print-out sheets. I looked at it doubtfully.

‘More than one Jacobs?'

He nodded. ‘Several, and that only goes back seven years.' He took a Mars bar out of a drawer, peeled it and chewed. ‘Lucky it wasn't Smith', he said through chocolate and caramel.

Back home, coffee and pen to hand I poured over the sheets and the coded summaries and they yielded up some of their secrets at last. One of Henry Jacobs' hearses had been involved in an accident five years before; Henry had stood unsuccessfully for the local council around the same time; his wife Gladys had been laid to rest aged fifty-four five years ago and Ellen Mary Jacobs, aged fifty-six, had followed her but two years later. R.I.P. Henry was very busy at his trade; there were hundreds of notices of funerals he'd handled—men, women and children. After depressing myself with this data for a while I found a tiny nugget of significance—a high proportion of the folk who came posthumously into Henry's care had shuffled off at St Mark's Hospital, Harbord.

I pecked away at the typewriter for a bit, applying for copies of the death certificates of Gladys and Ellen and enclosing the correct fee and s.a.e. as directed to Dr C P Hardy, c/-Associate Professor P J White, Department of History, University of Sydney. Peter was accustomed to the subterfuge, it amused him to assist what he called the forces of reaction. Then I phoned Matthews; it was after six o'clock, definitely time for a drink and I wondered what Matthews was doing in his Manly flat. I had the answer when he lifted the phone—a burst of gunfire and a musical crescendo. He excused himself, turned the sound down, and I told him the gist of what I'd learned. I was hoping that he'd tell his mother and that would be the end of Henry. He was too stunned to reply so I fed this idea to him.

‘No, it wouldn't work', he said slowly. ‘She wouldn't believe me. She thinks …'

‘Thinks what?'

‘That my regard for her is … unhealthy. I hated my father, as I told you …'

Oh, Sigmund
, I thought. ‘Well, I'd better press on. How's your mother's health?'

‘First class, she's never been ill to my knowledge. Mr Hardy, do you think she's in danger, real physical danger?'

‘I doubt it. Still keeping well, is she?'

‘Oh, yes, as ever.' His voice changed and a despairing, fastidious note crept in. ‘She's seeing him tonight, they're going to dinner. Mr Hardy, I don't suppose you could, sort of keep an eye on them? I'm really very worried.'

I agreed to do some surveillance and pick the happy couple up at her place at 8 pm I told Matthews to have a few drinks, and not to worry.

‘I don't drink', he said.

On that happy note I rang Harry Tickener, who stays at his desk until they turn the lights and air conditioning off.

‘How'd you go with the computer?' he asked.

‘Great. Would there be a human being around there who could do five minutes work? The person would have to be able to read.'

He sighed. ‘That could be tough. Hold on, Martin's here.' I heard him shout away from the phone: ‘You can read can't you, Martin?' Martin must have replied heatedly because Harry laughed. Then he said: ‘Okay Cliff, Martin's ready, what is it?'

I told him and hung up. He called back fifteen minutes later—it's an efficient, tidy world we die in—Gladys Jacobs and Ellen Mary Jacobs had both been cremated.

I showered, shaved and dressed; dinner, I was thinking, didn't sound like a bad idea. And a man like Mr Matthews with no discernible vices should be able to afford the tab. I drove back into that alien territory and parked a little way up the street from Mrs Matthews' solid residence. It had some nice old native trees in the front of its rather wild garden; the front fence needed paint.

At eight precisely, Jacobs arrived in the Jag. He dropped a burning cigarette in the gutter and didn't bother to step on it with his highly polished shoe. He'd changed from the creeping Jesus outfit into a dark suit; his cuffs and collar gleamed under the street light. He was inside for about five minutes and then he came out to the car with a woman on his arm. She was a surprise; taller than her son and taller than Jacobs, her hair was white but she carried herself well, and her face in profile was handsome. She wore a green dress of some soft material and had a light, lacey thing thrown around her shoulders. Jacobs handed her into the car with an almost professional air and we set off for the city.

The awful truth dawned on me as we crept through the city streets—our destination was the restaurant in the clouds where they charge you for the view, the carpet, the mirrors and the head waiter's aftershave. I couldn't face that. They parked, I parked and after making sure that they were strapped into their eating seats, I went across the road to a serve-yourself place and served myself. The steak and wine were good and Matthews saved some money

It was well after ten when they came out; Mrs Matthews was laughing at Henry's wit, his colour was high but he looked like a virile, mature man who enjoyed life perhaps a little too much. Mrs Matthews was no weeping widow—her handbag swung jauntily, she exuded style. It hit me that I knew nothing about her other than what her son had told me. I had that floundering feeling, like a man slipping down a steep roof with nothing to grab on to. They walked along the street to the Jag, stopping to look in windows, close together, sometimes touching, like two people who'd known each other a long time. I skulked behind, feeling lonely and voyeuristic. We drove back to Manly; Jacobs piloted the big car well, his wining and dining hadn't affected his driving. They went into Mrs Matthews house, lights came on; I sat in my car and wished I still smoked. Lights went off, I drove home.

Next morning I phoned Matthews at his business number. A non-committal female voice told me that I'd contacted the Milton Insurance Company. It sent a shiver through me; I'd worked for a series of insurance companies as an investigator, the companies had got seedier and so had I. Matthews answered his phone with one brusque word.

‘Claims.'

‘Hardy, Mr Matthews. How's business?'

He ignored the pleasantry. ‘I won't be able to talk on this line, Mr Hardy. Did you … ah …?'

‘Yeah, I tagged along. It was interesting. I don't think she's in imminent danger. Tell me, what's her profession?'

‘Oh, didn't I mention that? She's a nurse; well, a matron actually.'

‘Where?'

‘St Mark's, Harbord.'

‘How long has she been there?'

‘Ten, twelve years, I'm not sure. What are you getting at?'

‘Too soon to say. You're sure your mother only met Jacobs recently, after your father death?'

He hesitated. ‘Yes.'

‘You sound uncertain.'

‘Well, I don't live with her as I told you. I imagined that was the case. I mean, funeral director … who knows such people otherwise?'

It was a typical remark; who knows garbage men, sewer workers, lavatory attendants? Somebody does, somebody loves them, hates them. Matthews said something I didn't catch, my mind was running along murky channels with bends sinister and causeways suspicious.

‘Who's your chief investigator, Mr Matthews?' I asked suddenly.

He was surprised. ‘We don't have one, this isn't a big firm, we use the Wallace agency. Really, Mr Hardy, I don't see where this is leading.'

‘Bear with me. I won't hold you now. I'll be in touch.'

I rang off and called Roger Wallace immediately. Roger runs an honest shop and knows how to do a favour for a friend; I almost went to work for him once. After a short wait he came on the line and we exchanged notes on how well we were doing. He sounded tired so
he
probably was doing well at the usual cost. I asked him a few questions about the Milton outfit, and he promised to call me back at my office.

Primo Tomasetti was bent over a sheet of art paper as I came through his tattooing parlour after parking my car out the back. I leaned over his shoulder to see the drawing; there was a heart, a dragon, an anchor, two flags and the word ‘Mother' all inter-woven. The effect was bizarre, like a surrealistic sketch of a Freudian nightmare.

‘What the hell is that?' I said.

Primo turned to look at me innocently. ‘The ultimate tattoo', he said. ‘I'm going for everything, I mean
everything
! How do you like it, Cliff?'

I squinted. ‘You haven't quite got it.'

‘Yeah? What's missing?'

‘Hell's Angels, a swastika, a knife for the snake to curl around; come on, you're not trying.'

He smoothed the paper. ‘You're right, you've inspired me.' He added a swastika. ‘Tell you what, I'll put it on you anywhere you like—free.'

‘Put it on yourself', I said.

His eyes opened wide in genuine shock; Primo would die rather than be tattooed.

I pottered in the office for a while until Roger rang with the good, or bad, news—there was a one hundred thousand dollar life insurance policy on Mrs Matthews, and the beneficiary was Charles Herbert Matthews—my client.

That left me only two places to go. Well, the sun was shining, the breeze was soft and there are worse places. I drove the long and winding road back to Manly and fetched up outside Norma Wetherell's house. I marched up to the door, hammered on it and held my licence card at the ready. She came to the door with flour on her hands and eyed me through the fly wire screen.

‘Back again?'

I held up the licence. ‘I'm afraid I lied to you, Mrs Wetherell; I'm an investigator, not a reporter. I hope you'll answer a few more questions about Mr Jacobs.'

She rubbed her hands on her apron, some flour fell on the floor and she looked down crossly. ‘Why'd you lie?'

‘I didn't want to alarm you.'

‘More alarmed by lying', she grumbled. ‘Well, make it quick.'

No coffee this time. ‘Have you seen Mr Jacobs with a tall woman, white hair, about fifty? Well turned out?'

‘I have, she's there often. Real lady muck.'

‘For how long have you seen her?'

‘Is there any money in it this time?' I produced another ten dollars and she let the catch on the door come open far enough to let the money through.

‘Ta. Well, I'd say I first saw her about three years back.'

‘When the second wife was around?'

She grinned and scratched her head, dusting her wiry dark hair with white flour. ‘When she
wasn't
around.'

Harbord is one of those places that used to nurture tennis stars and swimming champions. I suppose it looks like anywhere else in the rain, but when the sun shines it looks as if God has laid his finger on it. The hospital was in a road stuck high up above the esplanade, the parks and the wide, blue sea. The sea was so blue and the light so strong that just walking along the street felt like being in a movie filmed in Eastmancolour. St Mark's was a smallish, private establishment, built of stone when they knew how to build and painted white by someone who knew how to do it. It looked like a pleasant place to work or be mildly indisposed in; for dying it would be just like anywhere else.

I parked up the street a little and did a slow reconnoitre. The place was enclosed by a brick fence, head high. The front, back and one side abutted streets; on the other side the fence was shared with a house that stood on a deep, narrow lot and a block of flats. The land on which the hospital stood sloped so that it had three storeys in the back and two in front; around two sides ran a balcony which gave the paying patients a good view of the ocean. There was a trellis covered with a vine of some sort on a section of the back wall; otherwise the walls were notable for an abundance of big windows.

I went through the gates and ambled up the drive towards the impressive marble steps in front of the building. For a plan I had the idea to engage an underling in conversation, and maybe hand over a little of what underlings don't have enough of. There were patients and attendants taking the afternoon air on the balcony above me as I walked up the steps; the doors swung open automatically and then I was being watched from the reception desk by a woman in a smart blue uniform. I looked around at the spit and polish as I fronted the desk.

‘Yes, sir?' She was a thirtyish brunette with good teeth. She looked as if she could head up a cabinet meeting or a commando platoon pretty effectively.

‘I … ah, wanted to know if you have a Mrs Hardy here?'

‘I couldn't say, sir.'

‘No, well my mother is going to have an operation, nothing too serious you understand, but she'll need some care while she's recovering, and Mrs Hardy writes such good things about the place she's in. She's an old friend of mum's and …'

The phone on her desk rang; she said ‘Just a minute' to me and ‘Reception' into the mouthpiece. I looked around the lobby which had a spotless parquet floor and a staircase made of the right sort of wood. A set of glass doors swung open and a white-coated man came through talking to a nurse. He was carrying a clipboard and she was listening hard. A woman in a dressing gown was talking on a telephone beside the stairs; a nurse ran in through the front door and bolted up the stairs where she almost collided with Mrs Matthews, who was descending with a stately tread. She checked the nurse and sent her on her way, came down the stairs, looked over or under me, and went out through the glass doors.