‘How’s old Ron?’ he said.
‘Sounded bitter.’
‘Poor bugger.’
As an ex-surfer and still keen swimmer, I always see Dover Heights as a frustrating place for everyone except suicides and those maniacs who jump off cliffs with ropes tied to their feet. There’s no other quick way to reach the water. I parked under some plane trees and gave the Ozal house the once-over. Nice place-end of the street, elevated double-fronted brick bungalow, 180-degree views to New Zealand and a piece of the cliff almost in the backyard.
I’d telephoned, intending to spin some yarn or other, but there had been no answer. The house looked occupied; there was a brown Celica in the driveway and the Venetian blinds to the front rooms were open. Time again for Hardy to play it by ear, hoping not to get thrown out on it.
I stepped over the low gate and walked up a cement path to the front porch. The door was open and music was pouring out from the house. Italian opera, a warbling soprano and a fruity tenor.
No point in knocking, nothing could be heard over the din. I walked down the wide passage past a polished table carrying a crystal vase full of dead flowers. The dry petals were scattered across the thick beige carpet. There were two sets of rooms off the passage which made a turn to the right into a big sitting room filled with late afternoon light. Its huge windows looked straight out to sea.
A trick of the light saved me. As I faced the window I caught a glimpse of a reflection, a blur of movement above the level of my head. I jumped sideways, spinning around as the axe blade whooshed down, missing me and hitting a low glass-topped coffee table. The glass shattered, shards flew and the axe skittered away to smash into a big earthenware pot. The pot disintegrated. I struggled to get my balance amid the flying glass and bits of pottery. The man rushed at me, his fists knotted and flailing. He was small but wiry and imbued with hysterical strength. He landed a wild swing to the ribs which hurt. I ducked away from the next swing and gave him a short right to the ear. He bellowed and came at me with his hands stretching for a strangler’s grip. I grabbed his thumbs, exerted pressure and he was out of action. He sank to his knees. He was in his socks and his feet had been cut by the glass. Blood flowed across the dusty surface of the polished boards.
All the fight had left him. I eased him onto a couch. He sat there, staring at the darkening ocean view. I found the bathroom, wet a towel and came back to find he hadn’t moved a muscle. I peeled off his socks and got to work on his feet. The cuts weren’t deep but blood still seeped from them. I wrapped the towel around them and looked around for some anti-shock medication. There was a drinks tray in the corner of the room- I poured out two big brandies and put his in his hand. He drank it in a gulp and held out the glass for more. I obliged. The drink put some colour into his drained, haggard face. He was about sixty, olive-complexioned, with sparse iron grey hair. He wore a silk shirt that smelled of alcohol and sweat and vomit; his well-cut slacks were creased and stained. The socks hadn’t been too clean, either.
‘Are you Kemal Ozal?’ I said.
He nodded and sipped his drink. ‘Yes. She has left me. I was crazy. I thought you were the man. I am sorry.’
‘Your wife has left you?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?’
He sat stiffly, not seeming to find it odd to be answering questions from a total stranger whom he’d tried to kill. ‘They came, Madeline and the son of that terrible woman. They talked. After they went, Isabel told me that she was leaving me. She said she was in love with another man. I could say nothing, think nothing. I loved her. I did not care that she became so fat. I loved her fat. She left and I began to drink. I am a Muslim. I am not used to drinking. I was sick. I took many sleeping pills but they did not work. I thought you were the man. I am sorry.’
‘Is there someone who can look after you, Mr Ozal?’
The tension and rigidity seemed to flow out of him. His eyes fluttered closed, opened and shut down again. ‘I am all right,’ he slurred. ‘Just tired.’ He knocked back the rest of his brandy without opening his eyes again and slipped sideways on the couch. He snored softly. I stuffed a cushion under his head and lifted his feet, still wrapped in the towel, up level with his head. The bleeding had stopped and his pulse was strong. There may be nothing in the law books to support it, but I reckoned I’d earned the right to search the house.
Houses can tell you a lot about the people who occupy them, but only when the people actually live there and do their own cleaning. The Ozal house was very little lived in and was evidently cleaned professionally. I found nothing of interest until I got to Mrs Ozal’s bedroom. It looked as if it had been searched by a mad gorilla. Clothes and shoes and spare bed-linen were scattered everywhere; a few books lay open on the floor; the contents of a writing desk had been riffled and distributed across the bed which had been moved from its usual position. Conclusion: someone had been searching for something in great haste, not the best way to do it.
I took my time, examined the furniture and fittings carefully, and, down behind the dressing table, trapped just above the skirting board, I found a small, hinged case not much bigger than a powder compact. It was elaborately carved with gold inlay and possibly made of ivory. I snapped it open. It was lined with velvet and designed to hold a small object in the shape of a rose. I turned my attention to the debris on the bed and found four pieces of crisp, faded paper-a train ticket with booked sleeper, Adelaide to Sydney, torn savagely across twice. A collection of newspaper clippings of articles by Valerie Drewe had been ripped to shreds. Several other newspaper cuttings had been crumpled. I smoothed them and discovered that they recorded radio programs for Wednesday, twenty years back. The 8.00 p.m. ‘Radio Theatre’ timeslot was underlined. There were also some torn photographs-old ones showing a slim, pretty woman and later pictures of the same person twenty years older and fifty kilos heavier. Kemal Ozal was sleeping peacefully when I left the house. I’d put a carafe of water with a glass and a strip of Panadol tablets on the floor beside the couch. Also a packet of Band-aids.
When I got home I made a toasted sandwich, poured a glass of cask white and sat down with a ballpoint and paper to try to figure out what I had. The one glass became two and then three and four before I reached any conclusions. Four-glass conclusions don’t always mean very much, but I called a few people I knew in the journalism business and picked their brains about Peter Drewe. As a four-glass conclusion, this one was shaping up pretty well.
After making two phone calls, one to Madeline Ozal’s agent and another to Peter Drewe, I spent the morning in the Mitchell Library and then walked to Darlinghurst. I buzzed Peter Drewe’s flat and he answered immediately. He met me at his door and suggested that we go up on the roof. It was a mild day, two o’clock in the afternoon, and he had a six-pack of Coopers in his hands. I agreed. We sat on upturned terracotta garden pots and looked out over the city skyline. Drewe ripped the tops off two bottles and handed one to me.
‘Cheers.’ He drank and wiped his mouth. I realised that it wasn’t his first drink of the day by a long shot.
I sipped the beer. ‘It was your idea, the biography of Maddy, wasn’t it?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Her agent. You made the approach. You’ve got a reputation as a political journalist. This is a bit out of your usual territory, wouldn’t you say?’
He shrugged loosely. ‘Saw the chance to make a buck.’
‘I don’t think so. Your mother died three months ago. A week later you made contact with Madeline Ozal. Your colleagues report on a personality change — from being a hot-shot political reporter, rooting everything in sight, you became detached, almost ascetic.’
‘Bullshit.’ He lifted his bottle. ‘Is this being ascetic?’