I drove slowly around Hamilton thinking that the earthquake had claimed more victims than people realised. Mrs Atkinson was another one. Her kind is always produced by natural or man-made disasters. Ask around after any revolution and you’ll find wives whose husbands have seized the chance to slip away. The town was battered all right, almost every big building showed signs of damage. There must have been a lot of closing down sales and dust-damaged goods going cheap. Big, solid trees grew along the roads and in the parks; I thought of their roots going down and wrapping around house-sized boulders under the ground, gripping the bedrock. It made the 180-year-old city seem very impermanent.
Long and painful experience has taught me that the first thing to do when arriving in a town and preparing to annoy the citizens is to check in first with the cops. Newcastle is a nicely laid out place, a sort of ribbon running along a narrow spit of land with water-the Pacific Ocean and the Hunter River-on both sides. The Police Headquarters was on the corner of Church and Watt Streets, and my Gregory’s showed me how handy everything was for the authorities-the court house, a hospital and the morgue were all nearby. I parked legally, beginning as I meant to go on, and walked a couple of blocks to the police station. Nice wide streets, solid buildings; it must have filled the convicts with pride to have hacked all this out of the swamp and scrub.
No-one at Police HQ was overly impressed by my credentials, but they didn’t kick me down the steps. After some sitting, thumb twiddling and yawning in a waiting room that was about one step above a lockup for comfort, I was shown into the presence of Detective Inspector Edward Withers. That’s what it said on the nameplate on his desk. He didn’t look up from his paperwork, just pointed to a chair and said, ‘Ticket’.
I put the licence on the desk just out of his reach and sat down. He continued to flick through papers and make notes. I sat. To look at the licence he’d have to stop paper shuffling. Balding head hunched over, wide shoulders, shirt sleeves, loosened tie, wedding ring glinting as he methodically shifted a stack of papers and files from his left to his right. To talk to him would be like talking to a hay bailer. War of nerves.
Eventually he had transferred every sheet and folder from one side to the other. Had to do something with those big, meaty hands. He reached for the licence, glanced at it and dropped it as if it was something that needed wiping.
‘What’re you doing here, Hardy?’
The voice, coming out of a face that looked as if it had been kicked more often than kissed, was what you’d expect, a deep, don’t-bullshit-me rumble. I considered lying, running some line about insurance or worker’s compensation, but something about his manner deterred me. He was a cop of the old school-thirty years on the force, no more corrupt than anyone else and less than some, good at scaring the shit out of ninety per cent of the crims he dealt with and probably a good family man. Tell the truth and he might co-operate, lie and be caught out and you’d lose some teeth. ‘I’m working for Horrie Jacobs, Inspector,’ I said. ‘Know him?’
He nodded.
‘He thinks a mate of his wasn’t killed in the earthquake the way everyone else thinks.’
He picked up a pen and pulled a notepad closer. ‘Who would that be?’
‘A man named Oscar Bach.’
He dropped the pen, but I couldn’t tell whether he was surprised or just uninterested. ‘Inquest. Bit of a bloody church came down on him.’
‘That’s not what Mr Jacobs thinks.’
Withers sighed. He was bored already and I could imagine him lifting the phone and calling for another batch of papers. ‘D’you know how many problems we’ve had to deal with this year? Dodgy insurance claims, damaged vehicles, looters, squatters…’
‘Missing husbands,’ I said.
He raised his thin, fair eyebrows. His beaten-up, ugly face didn’t get any prettier but a bit more intelligence showed.
‘I met a woman in Hamilton who’s got a bee in her bonnet.’
‘Rhonda Atkinson,’ he said. ‘Have you been bothering people already? Before checking in with us?’
First slip, Cliff, I thought. Watch it. ‘No. We just had a chat. She did most of the talking.’
‘That’d be right. Well, what does Mr Jacobs want you to do for him?’
I gave him the gist of Horrie’s case, keeping it spare. I also said I’d talked to Ralph Jacobs. The name registered with him. I played it as crooked as I thought I could get away with, suggesting that I was sceptical about Horrie’s story and doing the family a favour if I found nothing to support it. He listened and even made a few notes. When I’d finished, he said, ‘Who can I ring in Sydney to get a reference on you? I’d prefer someone who’s not in the Bay.’
Cop humour, better than no humour at all. I smiled politely. I gave him Frank Parker’s name and number and stared out the window while he made the call. We were on the north side of the building and I could see out across commercial rooftops to the railway station and the harbour. It looked as if a lot of work had been done on the waterfront-I could see fresh paint and gleaming metal. The water was a deep blue and, in contrast to similar views in Sydney, the ships were cargo vessels, not a yacht in sight.
Withers put the phone down and looked at me as if I might just possibly be house-trained. ‘Parker gives you a good name. He tells me you sometimes need a word, to stop you from getting yourself into trouble.’
‘That’s fair enough,’ I said.
‘We don’t like extra trouble around here. We’ve got all we need.’
I was still gazing at the fine view. ‘Looks pretty quiet to me, but you never know what you’re going to find when you turn over a rock, or a brick.’
‘Parker also said you liked to come the needle. I don’t care for that too much.’
I looked away from the window towards the man at the desk. It was like turning off Jana Wendt and looking at the wall. ‘Look, Inspector, I don’t want trouble. If you can help me to get a look at the autopsy report on Bach, talk to the paramedics, tell me what the word on him was, fine. If not, I’ll just quietly go through channels and knock on doors.’
He looked at my licence again, jotted a few things on his notepad and pushed the vinyl folder across the desk towards me. ‘Far as I know, there was nothing about Bach to interest us. I’d be surprised if there was any sort of file on him. Migrant, I seem to remember. Ran a little business. Cleanskin. Autopsy? I dunno. Did he have any family?’
‘Not that I’ve heard of.’
‘Sad, that. Family life’s the only thing worth having, You got a family, Hardy?’
‘No. Frank Parker’s boy, Peter, is my godson. That’s as close as I get.’
He frowned. ‘I see. Well, the autopsy must’ve been done somewhere. It was all pretty chaotic there at the time. I’m sure you can track it down. I can help with one thing though. I can put you in touch with the police officer who found Bach. How’d that be?’
‘That’d be a big help. Who’s that?’
Withers smiled, showing big, uneven, yellow teeth. ‘Senior Sergeant Glenys Withers. My daughter.’
6
I suppose I’d been expecting a broad-beamed stalwart, all epaulettes and nightstick with a high-riding hip pistol. Glenys Withers was a slender woman with short brown hair and a lean, sensitive face. She was sitting behind a desk where her father said she’d be-in the personnel section, but she wasn’t nearly as interested in paper shuffling as he was. She looked up as soon as I was within speaking distance. A sure sign that the person behind the desk welcomes distraction.
‘Yes?’ Nice voice, quiet, good-humoured, not much good for crowd-control, but it’s amazing what a bullhorn can do. I was too old a hand to judge a cop by its cover.