In the morning I had my results. Three thoughts had taken form: one, I could locate Mountain’s psychiatrist, Dr Holmes, and pump him; two, I could ask around about the men who’d attacked me in the car park and try to find out who they worked for; three, I needed to find a spa and sauna in Sydney-beating two men in unarmed combat had made me a convert.
Dr John Holmes’ rooms in Woollahra were in a road that seemed to be shooting for the ‘most leafy stretch in Sydney’ award. It was all high brick fences with overhanging trees; trees along the footpath, trees on a central strip dividing the wide road, trees waving up around the tops of the lofty houses. It cost big money to get a lot of leaves to rake in this neighbourhood, and Holmes had to be coining it-his brick fence was one of the highest and his trees were among the leafiest.
I parked outside Holmes’ place under a plane tree and reflected on how very differently people go about their business. I was here two days after I’d had the idea to come. Me, you can just ring up, and like as not you can come over and see me or I’ll come to you. Or, if you happen to be in St Peter’s Lane, you can walk through the tattoo parlour, romp up the stairs and knock on the door. Not so with Dr Holmes. I’d been given fifteen minutes. There were no free evenings, no lunches, no half-hour before the busy day began. It sounded obsessive to me. I imagined a pale, pudgy creature, eyes luminously intelligent with legs ready to drop off from disuse.
I pushed open the iron gate in the high fence and walked up the leaf-strewn path to the front door. The house was a wide, towering affair, built of sandstone blocks one size down from those used in the pyramids at Giza. It had gracious lines-bay windows, and a wide, bull-nosed verandah over an ornately tiled surface that swept away around both sides of the house.
The doorbell was answered by a tall, slim woman wearing a white silk shirt and jodhpurs. She had a mane of blonde hair and high, expensive-looking cheekbones. Her blue eyes were elaborately made up with long dark lashes that fluttered like car yard bunting.
‘Mr…?’ she said.
‘Hardy.’
‘Oh good-I think he’s ready to see you. I’m going riding.’
‘Not yachting?’
‘A joke. I don’t like jokes. D’you think I look right?’
She backed off; I stepped after her into an entrance hall big enough to canter horses in. She rotated slowly in front of a three metre square mirror.
‘Umm,’ she said. She seemed to have forgotten who I was, in the ecstasy of self-admiration.
‘Hardy. To see Dr Holmes.’
Oh, yes. You go up the stairs and it’s the first door on I he right or left. I can never remember which but you’ll be all right because there aren’t any doors on the side it’s not on. ‘kay?’
‘’kay,’ I said.’
I went up a few stairs and turned back to look at her. She was standing by the door peering out through the peep hole.
The stairs were covered in deep blue carpet and the banister rail was polished, old and grooved and a pleasure to lay your hand on. Like all the best staircases it had two flights with a flat central section at the turn-on these it was about the size of a boxing ring. The door was on the right if you were going up but on the left if you were going down-perhaps that was what had confused the lady in the jodhpurs. I knocked on the door and went inside when a deep, pulsating voice told me to.
The man standing behind the big desk was forty plus, six feet tall with bushy dark hair and a fairways and nineteenth hole complexion. His bulky, still spreading body, displayed in a blue and white striped shirt and grey trousers, owed more to the nineteenth hole than the fairways. He reached across the desk and we shook somewhere in the middle of the vast polished expanse. Strong grip.
‘Sit down, Mr Hardy, I can’t give you long.’
I thought he stressed give the way a man who charges a fortune by the hour might, but I could have been wrong. ‘This won’t take long. Doctor.’ I’d noticed the leather couch as soon as I entered the room but I was careful to avoid even touching it. I sat in a matching leather chair. The chair seemed to have been made exactly for the comfort of my often-stressed back. It immediately relaxed me which made me immediately wary.
He picked up a pencil. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Hardy?’
His voice was one of the best I’ve heard, rich and rewarding. If this voice gave you the news that you were dying of cancer it wouldn’t feel so bad.
‘I gather you haven’t come to see me in my professional capacity.’
‘No, more in mine, although I guess that’s semi-professional.’
He smiled showing the strong white teeth I’d have expected. ‘You’re defensive.’ He looked down at a note pad and touched it with his pencil. ‘A private enquiry agent. Interesting activity?’
‘Occasionally. Your professional path has crossed with my defensive semi-professional one-you have a patient named William Mountain.’
He nodded; on his scale of fees that was probably a ten dollar nod. It forced me to go on.
‘I need some information about him.’
A shake of the head-another ten bucks.
‘Or at least your opinion.’
‘I can’t discuss my patients with you, Mr Hardy. How could I? This is the most confidential branch of the medical profession as you must be aware.’
‘I doubt that it’s more confidential than mine though. Maybe it is. Let’s see. Maybe we can trade confidences.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘I leaned forward from the too-comfortable chair across the table. The table had a beautiful surface and some padding around its edges, like the good doctor. ‘A few days ago William Mountain beat a man to death using, among other things, a bottle. This is known to me and a very few other people. It is not known to the police. Can you get more confidential than that?’
His big, fleshy lips pursed and he ran a broad, capable-looking hand through his bushy hair. ‘Are you sure of that?’
‘Are you surprised?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well, that tells me something. You think he’s a dangerous man?’
‘You can’t outfox me, Mr Hardy. I’m not going to confirm your guesses.’
‘Look, I’m not here to play word games. I’m trying to find this man. He’s in bad trouble and he needs help. His girlfriend wants to help him. I’m more concerned about other things, but I’ve seen some of the harm he’s done and I don’t only mean physical harm.’
That got a lifted eyebrow. No charge.
I think it’s better that he doesn’t do any more harm. There are two paths ahead of him-one leads to court and the other to the crematorium. Believe me. Either way you’re going to be called to talk to the authorities. If he gets a bullet in the head, it could be your fault for not talking to me now.’
‘You’re persuasive, Mr Hardy.’
I’m trying to be. I’m also telling you the truth.’
‘I believe you might be. Who would kill Mountain?’
‘Criminals, obviously.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s involved in something big and dirty. He’s being foolish. He’s threatening people who don’t know about turning cheeks.’
‘It doesn’t surprise me.’ He leaned back in his chair and then came abruptly forward. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘They’re your lungs.’
He got a long thin cigar out of a drawer, unwrapped it and lit. it with a gold lighter. The smoke went down into his barrel chest and came out in a thin hard stream that floated up towards the extravagant ceiling rose. With the cigar in his hand and framed against a big window that ran from knee height almost to the ceiling, he looked like a wrestler on his day off.
‘William Mountain is a very disturbed man. It’s hard to give a name to his central problem. You could call it an identity crisis but it would take a very broad definition of the word “identity” for that to cover it.’