Then I felt a little stir-crazy and went out for a drink and the paper. It was a cool, early November day, and the city seemed oddly quiet. There was nothing of interest in the paper, and I had to get out of the pub fast after one drink-it was the sort of afternoon you could easily spend in a pub, hanging around until the afternoon became evening and the evening night, and all you’d get out of it would be a headache. It wasn’t so far to the Redline depot in Surry Hills and I decided to walk it and tell myself I was working.
‘You missed him,’ Bernie, my satisfied ex-client, said. ‘Name’s Wesley.’ He waved at the phone on his desk. ‘Be home now. Call him if you like.’
I sighed and called the number he gave me. Wesley had a deep, tuneful voice and sounded very tired. He remembered the fare.
‘Where did you drop her?’ I asked.
‘Lindfield, I think. Yeah, Lindfield.’
‘At a house, block of flats, what?’
Wesley’s deep yawn came down the line. ‘In the street, brother, just across from the railway station.’
I swore, apologised to Wesley and got his address in case I needed to talk to him about his impressions of the woman. Another question now and I was sure I’d hear him start to snore.
‘No go, Cliff?’
I put down the phone. ‘Tougher than I thought it’d be.’
Bernie clucked sympathetically and went back to his work.
That’s the way it goes; one minute you think you can solve the whole thing between lunch and afternoon tea, and the next it’s all questions and no answers. I went back to the office and looked at the three illuminated zeroes on the answering machine. No calls. I sat down and wrote up my notes on the Hammond case so far, the way the Commercial Agents and Private Enquiry Agents Act of 1963 requires you to do. I also completed the notes on a couple of other cases which had either been resolved or had petered out. Full of virtue, I drove home to an evening of TV news, spaghetti, red wine and Len Deighton. I worried on Len’s behalf about the effects on his fiction of the Berlin Wall coming down. But not too much. Len could probably have more fun without a wall.
The calls came in the next morning, two of them with a little urging. At Conferences International, the outfit that set up the computer links and interpreters, I hit the bull’s-eye. Yes, Ms Hammond was an employee and yes, certainly, the message to call me would be passed on to her. I sat at my desk and thought about cigarettes and mid-morning drinking, two habits I’d reluctantly abandoned, while I waited for the call. As a result, I was edgy when the phone rang.
‘Mr Hardy?’ A crisp, businesslike female voice. A voice used to cutting through the shit and getting things done. ‘This is Valerie Hammond. I’m returning your call.’
‘I’ll be honest with you, Ms Hammond. I’m a private investigator. It’s not a legal matter. I’m working for Mr Robert Adamo. He hired me to locate you.’
‘I see. And you’ve succeeded.’
‘He needs to talk to you, very badly.’
The voice started off flat, dull almost, and rose in pitch and intensity, losing control. ‘No. Positively not. Tell him I don’t want to see him or talk to him. I don’t want to marry him… or… or have children or have anything to do with him. Do you understand?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘That’s all. Leave me alone!’ The line buzzed and then went dead; she must have fumbled cutting the connection. Very upset. Very intriguing. Very unsatisfactory. How do you tell a client you scored a bull’s-eye but the arrow fell out of the target? You don’t. I hung up and ran down the stairs and along the street to where my car was parked. I drove straight to the Conferences International office in Bent Street and parked almost outside. Totally illegal, but I didn’t expect to be there long. I got out of the car and circled the tall building on foot — smoked glass windows, imposing entrance but no car park. I lounged in the street enjoying luxury again — I’d recognise her and she wouldn’t know me from Harry M. Miller.
She came out fast, taller and blonder than I expected, but still Valerie H. as per the picture in my pocket. Her business clothes were smart and looked medium-expensive. No car. She stepped into a taxi, which had drawn up seconds before. The parking Nazi was just rounding the comer as I got back into my car and pulled away from the no parking zone. I jockeyed the Falcon into the traffic, a couple of cars behind the cab. I had my sunglasses on against the glare and a full tank of petrol; I had to hope that the driver was a sober type who signalled early and stopped for lights.
He was. The drive to Lindfield was almost sedate. I had no trouble keeping the cab in sight and staying unobtrusive myself. It was a little after eleven, with a fine, clear day shaping up. I squinted hard trying to read something from the woman’s demeanour. She sat in the back the way most women passengers do. Nothing in that. She seemed to be sitting very rigidly, but it might have been my imagination. The cab turned off the main road just past the railway station and pulled up outside a small block of red-brick flats. For the area, very low-rent stuff. There was no mistaking her distress now; she rushed from the cab, leaving the door open, and almost fell as she plunged up the steps towards the small entrance.
Shaking his head, the cabbie got out, closed the door and drove away. I parked opposite the flats; the sun was shining directly through the windscreen and my shirt was sticking to my back. It was suddenly very hot and still. The highway was noisy, and I heard a train rattle past. This little patch of Lindfleld seemed to have missed out on the trees and the quiet and the money. I sat in the car and looked at the flats. It didn’t figure. Amy said she must be earning a bundle. Adamo said she had no vices. So why was she living here? Like other people in my racket, I’ve been known to trace someone, phone the client with the address and bank the cheque. Not this time. I had to know more.
It wasn’t nearly as hot out of the car. I flapped my arms to unglue my shirt, and put on my jacket. A sticker over the letterbox told me that Hammond lived in Flat 3- That was one flight up, a narrow door at the top of a narrow set of stairs. Ratty carpet, cheap plastic screw-on numbers, flimsy handrail, no peephole, no buzzer. I knocked and held my licence folder at the ready. The door opened more quickly than I expected. A big man stood there. He was moon-faced, with thinning fair hair. He wore a white T-shirt and jeans that sagged under his bulging belly. He was well over 180 centimetres tall and must have weighed over ninety kilos, much of it fat.
‘My name’s Hardy,’ I said. ‘I’d like to see Ms Hammond.’
Valerie Hammond shrieked ‘No,’ from behind the fat man and he reacted by brushing the folder away, putting a big, meaty hand on my chest and pushing.
Fat can be a problem if it comes at you fast. This guy was serious, but he wasn’t fast. I stepped back, surprised but balanced, and he swung a punch. I’d almost have had time to put my licence back in my pocket before it got anywhere near me. As it was, I moved to one side and let the punch drift away into thin air. That upset and angered him. He lowered his head and bullocked forward, trying to crush me against the brick wall a few feet back. Couldn’t have that; I jolted the side of his head with a short elbow jab and pushed at him with my shoulder as he blundered past. He hit the wall awkwardly with his knee and head, groaned and went down.
I looked through the open door. Valerie Hammond was standing there with a shocked, dazed expression on her face. Her eyes were full of terror, and her hands were fluttering like lost birds. I couldn’t think of a thing to say to her. I took out a card, bent and put it on the frayed carpet just inside the door. Behind me, the fat man was struggling gamely to his feet.