Wet Graves (21 page)

The cops who came must have been reading the papers and going to community policing class. They treated me with extreme gentleness, showed consideration to the older neighbours who were alarmed by the arrival of an ambulance and another police car, and listened patiently to an abbreviated version of my story. The second car brought two detectives, who talked briefly to the uniformed men. I sat on the stairs, feeling drained, tired of the stink of the house, light-headed.

One of the detectives showed me his card. “Campbell,” he said.

I rubbed my face and felt the hardness of the scabs that had formed over my scratches. “Fine Scots name, Campbell,” I said. “I'm Irish myself, mostly.”

“Have you been drinking, Mr Hardy?”

I held up my thumb and forefinger, an inch apart. “A tiny sherry.”

“I think you'd better come with us. Do you have a vehicle?”

I handed him the keys. “Blue Falcon across the street. Don't put any dings in it, or I'll sue.”

“Do you have a weapon, Mr Hardy?”

I held my jacket open. ‘Your blokes took it away from me a couple of nights ago. If I go quietly, d'you think you might give it back?”

“Just sit quietly there a minute, sir. We're waiting for the technical people. When they come, we can go.”

I said, “The Campbells a'comin'.”

“What?”

“Nothing, sergeant. Don't take offence.”

Campbell made a grunting sound and turned away from me. He nodded conspiratorially to his partner, and for a moment they and the uniformed policemen all stood in the narrow hallway, like train travellers for whom there were no seats. Two men in white coats walked through the front door. The cops all sprang into action.

“Photos, dusting, bagging, blood samples, all the usual things,” Campbell said.

One of the white coats mock-tugged his forelock “Sir,” he said.

“Don't be funny, Simmo. I'm not in the mood.” Campbell crooked a finger at me. “Mr Hardy.”

I got up and moved towards the door. I took the glove from my pocket and handed it to the white coat. “This is a glove worn by the killer, Simmo,” I said. “You probably should check it for fingerprints.”

I was laughing fit to burst as Campbell and his mate hustled me through the door and into their car.

19

I told parts of the story to Campbell in the car, more to him and another cop in a cold, bare interview room at the Sydney police station in Central Street, and the rest of it to an inspector and Ralph Wren in another more comfortable room in the same building. It smelled of paint; all police stations these days seemed to smell of paint and renovation. We sat on plastic chairs around a conference table with places for another eight participants. Wren had a batch of papers with him; the inspector and I had nothing.

Wren, a small, dark man with a prominent nose and a nervous sniff, took notes. When I'd finished talking he looked up and sniffed. “Concealing evidence,” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“The bodies in the harbour.”

“I'd say I discovered evidence, or revealed it or something. I didn't conceal it. If I'd hauled the stiffs up, you would have done me for unlicensed salvaging.”

The bulky, bald-headed inspector, whose name was Lucas or Loomis (Wren had muttered the introduction) grinned, but Wren's face didn't change. “You're too smart for your own good, Hardy. You're in trouble here.”

“I don't think so, Wren. You're forgetting something.”

“What?”

“I didn't see inside that canvas. Could be dead cats for all I know.”

“Is this the point?” Lucas or Loomis said. “We can sort all that out later. What about this Lithgow? You've seen him twice now, Mr Hardy. At close quarters.” I nodded. I'd told them about my first meeting with Lithgow—on the water under the bridge. The smell on the glove had brought the memory back. Lithgow was the man in the boat made for sailing and rowing who'd hailed us and offered help. It all fitted—the view of the bridge from his window, the calloused hands, his hesitation in saying when he liked a drink. My guess was that what he had almost said was, “After a good sail or a row.”

Wren flicked back through his notes and looked at a computer print-out sheet he'd brought along with him. ‘Your theory is that he killed Mrs Tracey because she might be able to identify him?”

“Right,” I said. “And Stan Livermore for much the same reason.”

Wren gave a sniff and tapped the sheet. ‘You didn't mention any of this when you made a statement at Woolloomooloo a couple of days ago.”

“Come on, Ralph,” the inspector said. He was ten years older than me, close to twenty older than Wren, and he used his rank and the age differential like a heavier champ using his weight against a contender. “Let's stick to the point First thing is to pull up those bodies, if that's what they are.”

“Water police,” Wren said. “Cheeky bastards.”

“And you'll have to take me along to identify the spot,” I said. “Sorry, Mr Wren, Mr Lucas.”

“Loomis. Are you sure you're up to it, Mr Hardy? You seemed a bit unsteady back there a while ago.”

Loomis was smarter than Wren and he knew it He'd just managed to tone down my insolence. “I'll be all right,” I said.

“Good.” Loomis rubbed his hands together. “Think I'll leave you the paperwork, Ralph, and take a turn on the water myself. Get on the blower to the floaties, will you? And Ralph, we don't want any reporters or cameras. Got me?”

Wren left the room and Loomis escorted me to the canteen, where we drank coffee and ate surprisingly good toasted sandwiches. He was a relaxed and pleasant man and I felt myself relaxing in his company. I realised that I'd been wound up tight; Loomis knew it He blew on the surface of his coffee and waved to a colleague across the room.

“How's Meredith?” I said.

“Doing well. I heard you called in on him the other day.”

“He saved my bloody life. You know about the Tobin thing?”

He nodded. I guessed that crooked cops, former and current, weren't his favourite people. “This is a bizarre case. The bridge has been up for nearly sixty years. Why would anyone suddenly take it into his mind to start killing the sons of the builders?”

I shook my head. “Answer that and you've got him.”

“You've got no clues, you say.”

“Too many bloody clues. One way and another you can put together quite a list of the people killed or seriously injured on the job. It'd run to a hundred, maybe more. Someone connected with one of those people is the most likely candidate. It's before the migrants came here and started doing all the hard yakka, remember. They have names like Smith and Jones.”

Loomis drank some coffee gloomily. “People who take phoney names often don't use their imagination. You've got a list like that, have you?”

“Partial only.”

“Any names like Goulburn or Bathurst on it?”

“I don't remember. My notes're in my car.”

“Hang on. More coffee?” I shook my head and the inspector went across to a wall phone. He spoke briefly into it, got more coffee for himself at the counter and returned. ‘Your car's in the basement. I've taken the liberty of asking an officer to bring us your notes.”

“You're buying the food.”

He drank some more coffee and relaxed in his chair. “If this breaks the way we think it will, it's going to be a big story. How much of it do you want, Hardy? What's the extent of your interest?”

“Doesn't extend very far,” I said. “I'd like to be able to handle my client's identification of her father, if it's him down there, before any of the media get hold of it. That's about it. I'd like to feel that Meredith got his share of the credit for the detective work I took my lead from his interest in missing persons cases with a bridge connection. He was on the right track.”

“Fair enough. More than fair. The trouble is, there's not going to be much credit to spread around unless we catch the killer.”

“That's your department. I was hired to find someone. It looks as if I've done it.”

“It does, it does. Ah, here we are.”

A female constable appeared at Loomis' elbow. She ignored me and handed him my notebook and accompanying bits of paper. Loomis lifted his bum off the seat in gentlemanly fashion. “Thank you, constable.”

The policewoman said, “Yes, sir,” turned smartly and left the canteen.

“Can't get used to it,” Loomis mused. “Especially the guns. Well, let's see what we have here.” He spread the papers out, sorting them rapidly and efficiently. His hands alighted on the photocopies. “Lists of names. Christ!” It was the first aroused response I'd seen from him. I leant forward and saw that he was looking at the blotchy, grainy photocopy of the picture of the riveter doing his stuff on a narrow ledge a couple of hundred feet up.

“Scary,” I said.

“Mmm.” Loomis ran his eye down the list I'd copied from the Veterans of the Bridge pamphlet. “See what you mean. Smith and Jones. Nothing …”

“Geographical?”

“Right.” He pushed the papers across to me. I patted them into some sort of order and put them in my pocket. “It's got to be someone who only recently found out that he had a grievance, or only recently acquired the means to do something about it.”

I was impressed. “Death notices early this year. Match ‘em up with the names of the dead and injured.”

“Slow and messy. Have you considered that there could be other people under threat?”

“Of course I have. What about Paul Guthrie?
His
father helped to build the bloody thing.”

Loomis shook his head. “From what you've told us, this nut has singled out the actual construction phase. Still, you could be right. You evidently admire Guthrie, feel some responsibility to him. Does that affect your position?”

I munched on a last crust from my toasted ham and cheese sandwich and swilled down some cold coffee. It was mid-afternoon. Too early for a drink, but I'd have succumbed if one had been available. “How d'you mean, inspector?” I said.

“Are you really trying, Hardy? Do you want to stop this maniac? Aren't you embarrassed about the way he fooled you? Watched you while you looked under the bridge?”

“That's a point,” I said. “He's a bridge freak. Rows on the harbour. You've got the manpower to look into those things. I haven't.”

“Sent you off on a wild goose chase? Diverted you while he cleaned up his room and bashed an old woman to death?”

I stared at him. “What do you want me to do?”

His high forehead wrinkled. The wrinkles ran all the way up to where his hairline used to be and beyond. This was deep thought being demonstrated. I was aware of a growing hostility between us. “How about this dinghy, sailboat or whatever he was in?”

“What about it?”

“Did it have a name, for Christ's sake?”

“I thought of that, inspector.”

“And?”

“I didn't notice.”

“Some detective,” Loomis said.

We boarded the water police launch at the pontoon dock I'd seen during my previous excursion on the water. Loomis exerted his heavy charm on the uniformed sergeant and two constables running the boat, and also spread it around the two frogmen, who jiggled and slapped their hands together as if they could hardly wait to get out of this unnatural environment and into their true habitat. They had lights similar to the one Ray Guthrie had used but stronger-looking, and one of them had a waterproof tool kit at his feet. Loomis took a careful look around before giving the signal to move out towards the bridge.

“I don't see any reporters or camera crews, do you, Hardy?”

It was an olive branch of a sort; we'd hardly spoken since the police station. Loomis had concentrated on making efficient arrangements, and I'd worked on steeling myself for something nasty. “Looks clear to me,” I said. “This shouldn't take long. I'm told it's only fifteen metres deep.”

Loomis smiled. “Is that all? Christ, look at the muck in the water.”

I guided the launch out to what Ray had called ‘the dead set middle'. The water was being chopped up by a light breeze, and it was cold on the deck. Loomis had brought along a heavy police overcoat; I was still in my shirt and jacket; unless we got it over with quickly I was going to be shivering. “Here. And I think what you're looking for is over in that direction.”

The frogmen nodded, pulled down their masks and went over the side. One of the constables handed down the tool kit.

“Rather them than me,” Loomis said.

I nodded. “My mate needed a half-hour shower afterwards. And some brandy. Wouldn't have anything with you, inspector?”

Loomis didn't reply. A ferry passed us, and a few curious passengers watched our boat as it tossed lightly in the wake. One of them flicked a cigarette butt into the water and Loomis glared. “I'd like to make him jump in and fish it out. To answer your question, there's bound to be a drop of something aboard for medicinal reasons. If we need it, We'll get it.”

A couple of sailing boats gave us a wide berth, the way cars keep clear of police cars on the road, and a rubber boat with a powerful outboard skipped past on the north side. There was a constant hum of traffic noise, road and rail, from the bridge. After what seemed like an hour but was probably only half that, one of the frogmen surfaced and signalled. The launch edged towards him and the cops ran a line over the side. The frogman went under again and we waited. The line quivered and the sergeant pressed a button on the electric winch. The line tightened and came in slowly and steadily. The constables moved to the side, with heavy gloves on their hands and hooks and lengths of plastic rope at the ready.

The water broke and a dripping, grey-green package came to the surface. It was about six feet long, sealed at both ends. A length of chain hung from one end, free of the line which the frogmen had wound around it. The policemen lifted the bundle over the side and laid it on the deck. Water and a greeny-black goo flowed from inside it. I expected a smell of some kind but there wasn't any. Loomis stepped back, but not quickly enough to avoid the water splashing over his shoes.