I felt her pulse and found it was quite strong. With the bleeding stopped some colour was returning to her face and she struggled to sit up. I eased her down.
‘I’ll be all right. Please, call the doctor and get me a cigarette.’
Strong voice now, in control and searching for normality. Good signs. I pulled a pillow from the bottom of the bench and propped her up. I went into the house and negotiated a trail of blood down a long, polished wood passageway, past an alcove where the phone and fax machine sat, to the kitchen where I filled a glass with water. I brought it back to her and she took a sip while I held it.
‘Cigarette.’
‘Where are they?’
She hesitated but the need was too great. ‘In the bathroom. Have you called the doctor?’
‘Next thing.’
I went back to the phone in the alcove off the main passage. A teledex was open with Dr Cross’s name showing. Both the teledex and the phone were covered in blood and there was more in heavy drips on the floor before the trail leading to the door. My hands were bloodstained already so what the hell. I picked up the phone and punched in the mobile numbers.
‘Cross.’
‘I’m calling for Mrs Price in Lugarno, doctor. There’s been an accident and she’s cut her arm severely. She asked me to call you. She needs attention.’
‘And you are…?’
‘Never mind. Are you coming or not?’
He didn’t like it. A lot of doctors become unused to being spoken to as if they’re just other members of the human race and at a guess he was one of them, but he confined himself to being abrupt. ‘Ten minutes,’ he said and cut the connection.
I found the blood trail to the bathroom and took in the scene without any trouble. The uncapped syringe was there, along with two squares of silver foil and a small silver dish about the size of a fifty cent piece and a centimetre deep. There were a pair of brass tongs, a cigarette lighter and a packet of cigarettes. So far, just a fancy shooting spot. But there was also a long champagne flute lying on the tiled floor with shards of glass all around it. The room was awash with blood.
I picked up the cigarettes and lighter and went back to the porch. She was sitting propped up and had drunk some more of the water. Her eyes were open and she grabbed at the cigarettes. ‘You took long enough.’
I helped her get one to her mouth and she wasn’t going to object to the damp blood from handling the slick packet. I lit it for her and she dragged in the smoke.
‘How’d it happen?’
‘What?’
I realised then that Samantha Price was as tough as they come. The vacant look I’d seen in the passport photo was misleading, something she did for the camera, any camera. She was very beautiful and any photographer would have had a field day with her bone structure and the balance of her features — wide mouth, big eyes, straight nose. But up close, with at least some of her defences down, she showed character and intelligence as well. Those big blue eyes had seen a lot and recorded it all, and that luscious mouth was poised for cynicism. The realisation took me back a bit and I was suddenly aware of her naked breasts and my reaction.
‘I’ll get you something to wear.’
Her high, lilting laugh followed me into the house. I stepped carefully, trying to keep clear of the blood although I’d already trodden in a fair bit of it, and went into the kitchen for a glass of water for myself. I washed my hands at the marble, twin-bowl sink and dried them on a linen tea towel. I had blood on my shirt, trousers and shoes — Price was up for a hefty dry cleaning bill.
I went off in search of clothes. The house had three operational bedrooms as well as a dining room, sitting room and a study cum den. Sammy’s room was the one with the pale blue decor, queen size bed, ensuite and French windows out to the pool. More polished boards and a couple of deep pile rugs. I stayed on the boards and took a linen shirt from a hanger in her closet, wet a hand towel in her bathroom and went back to the porch. She’d smoked one cigarette, left the butt burning a mark into the white tile border of the porch and was working on another.
‘Sniff my panties?’
I retrieved the butt, snuffed it out and tossed it into a flower bed. Then I helped her shrug into the shirt and handed her the wet towel. ‘You’re working too hard at it, Mrs Price. I know you’re tough.’
‘You can go now, whoever you are. And thanks. I’m sure Marty’ll see you right, just like all the others.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting the doctor.’
9
He buzzed from the gate and, guessing he wasn’t on foot, I pressed the panel that said ‘Main gate’ and let him in. He swung his green BMW inside and came bouncing up the path carrying a brown bag. He was small and dark, Lebanese maybe, or perhaps from the subcontinent. Late thirties — around there — bald head, clipped moustache, summer-weight light fawn suit with matching accessories. He barely acknowledged me and went straight to Sammy who had slumped down a bit and wasn’t looking as good as she had a few minutes before. The cigarettes and lighter were nowhere to be seen.
‘I cut myself, doctor,’ she said faintly. ‘An accident.’
‘Of course.’ Cross had a mid-everywhere sort of accent and deft hands. He raised the wounded arm to a level position and balanced it on his upraised knee. He had the hard knot I’d tied in the blouse undone in an instant and clicked his tongue as he inspected the gash.
‘Very lucky,’ he said. ‘Missing a vein by a fraction.’
‘I lost some blood.’
‘Yes. But not too much I think.’ He glanced up at me. ‘Did you make the tourniquet?’
I nodded.
‘Too tight. A danger in itself. If you would get some more damp cloths I’ll sterilise and stitch the wound. No problem.’
Fuck you, Jack, I thought, but I went for the damp cloths. When I got back the doctor had laid out on a baize cloth an ampoule, a syringe, some alcohol swabs, a fine needle and some sutures. I’d brought a footstool from Sammy’s bathroom, which I put the wet hand towels down on and stood over him as he crouched beside the padded bench. Sammy’s eyes were closed and her long lashes seemed to almost reach to her cheekbones.
‘Listen, Dr Cross,’ I said. ‘This woman’s already injected herself with… Shit, can’t you see the puncture?’
Cross took a towel, wiped away some blood and turned his pebble-hard brown eyes up to me. ‘I’m aware of Mrs Price’s dependency. Please go away.’
I didn’t need asking twice. I planned to have a good look around the house while the opportunity presented. I took off my shoes so as not to tramp blood around unnecessarily and worked my way through the rooms. There was nothing of interest in the sitting or dining rooms or in the study, besides the evidence of money. All the fittings and furniture and equipment — TVs, VCKs, hi-fi, computer — were state-of-the-art. The paintings were originals and one was a Brett Whiteley, a small one.
I went quickly through Sammy’s closets and drawers. She had enough clothes to outfit the chorus line of a Hollywood musical and an Imelda Marcos-like interest in shoes. Her personal papers were few and easily contained in a shallow drawer — I flipped them over with the long blade on my Swiss Army knife without much interest until a photograph of a young blond man came to light. He wore a suit and a slightly embarrassed expression. Jason Jorgensen. It was a polaroid photograph taken indoors without quite enough light. The subject was clearly enough defined while the background was muzzy, but my guess was it had been taken in a motel room.
I barely looked at Martin Price’s bedroom because there was almost nothing to see — routine male stuff. There were a couple of books on marketing and management on a table beside the bed and a copy of Paul Kelly’s The End of Certainty, something I’d bought myself and hadn’t got around to reading. Judging by the turned-down page corners, Price was two-thirds through it. A drawer contained a pack of black condoms, some lubricant and a vibrator, all with a thin film of dust. He apparently kept his personal papers in the study and I’d already found all the drawers in the big, solid desk firmly locked.