I went back behind the desk for some more doodling on my diagram. Question marks dominated now. Had the police forensic team found traces of blood and glass in the Price bathroom? Whose fingerprints had they found apart from those of the family members? Jason Jorgensen’s? Dr Cross’s? The mystery emergency number caller? Mine? They certainly had mine on file from the brushes I’d had with them over the years and could run a computer check. Would that information get to Detective Stankowski?
Another question I had was: would Samantha Price shoot up again carelessly after her experience of yesterday? If she needed the fix wouldn’t she at least go cautiously with the stuff? Give it a trial run? Or maybe it was a suicide. She seemed to have had the reasons — a failed pregnancy and depression, a drug habit, an unfaithful husband, a hostile stepchild, a dead lover. But if it wasn’t suicide or an accident, who would want to kill her? I put the notepad on the desk, unplugged the recharged mobile and was up and about to leave the office when the phone rang. I grabbed it.
‘Cliff? It’s Tess.’
‘Tess? Oh, right.’
‘Shit, you sound as if you don’t recall the name.’
‘I’m sorry, love. It’s this thing I’ve got on. It gets curlier by the minute.’
‘I’m sure you’ll cope. What’ve you found out about Ramsay?’
I sat down and tried to collect my thoughts. Ramsay was a long way from the top of my mental agenda and I had to struggle to recall where I was with him. I could feel Tess’s impatience.
‘Is there someone with you?’
‘No, of course not. It’s seven o’clock and I’m still in the bloody office.’
‘Don’t snap at me. I’ve had a hard day, too. I had to massage a one hundred and twenty kilogram monster. I’m aching all over.’
‘I hope he enjoyed it.’
‘She. Cliff, I’ve got a glass of wine here. You tap your cask of red and we can start again.’
I did as she said and told her all I’d learned about Ramsay and his comings and goings.
‘Do you believe this Bonham woman?’
‘I do, yes.’
‘And where does his so-called “sugar momma” live?’
‘Concord.’
‘God, what address?’
I dug out the phone book and looked the name up. I read out the address.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Tess said, ‘that’s only one street away from where we used to live. What do you know about her, this woman he’s supposed to be with?’
‘Virtually nothing.’
‘What does she look like?’
‘I’m told she’s fat.’
‘Thank God for that. I was thinking he might be finding substitutes for me. The other one, Bonham, doesn’t look like me, does she?’
‘Not a bit.’
‘Okay. It’s’ still a bit weird that he’s back in Concord but not as weird as it might be. I suppose it figures — Ramsay’s never had a normal relationship with a woman. This sort of stuff might be something he can handle. I don’t like the sound of him stealing from old women though. That’s a shitload of trouble waiting to hit.’
I was almost through the cup of red and thinking about another. ‘What d’you want me to do?’
‘I can read you like a book, Cliff Hardy. I know that tone of voice. You want me to say let him alone to go to hell in his own way.’
‘I’ll do whatever you want.’
‘I’ll have to think about it… How tough is the other thing you’ve got on?’
I usually only told Tess the funny bits, if any, or the barest outline of whatever I was doing and I saw no reason to change. I told her the case had taken me to parts of Sydney I didn’t know well and that a male escort agency was involved.
‘I hope I never have to resort to one.’
Awkward. We made some uncomfortable noises and she rang off.
No listed Larson had the number Price had given me so the phone was either unlisted or in another name. I didn’t have access to a reverse telephone directory and it was too late to call my Telstra contact who did. I could get, for a price, an address to equate with the twins’ telephone number. That’d be first cab off the rank in the morning. The Ramsay Hewitt matter was on hold. I was facing at best some pub companionship followed by an empty house, some radio or television and a book and, unless I watched out, self-pity. Be positive, Hardy, I thought. At least you ‘ve got a house.
I skipped the pub. Not in the mood. Instead I bought a bottle of decent white and some takeaway Lebanese in Glebe Point Road and headed for home. It’d been an early start and an eventful day and I was tired. I turned into my street and swore when I saw that the parking spot outside my house was occupied. I drifted on down the street and parked between a BMW and a sleek looking something-or-other — the street has gentrified since I arrived and I wasn’t keeping pace.
I set the crook-lock — which any decent car thief can crack in about ten seconds — and hauled myself and my wet and dry dinner up the footpath. When I got to my front gate the door of the car parked in my spot opened and a tall woman stepped out.
‘Mr Hardy? Inspector Beth Hammond. I’d like a word.’
15
I walked up, juggling food, wine and keys. ‘I’ll be happy to oblige, Ms Hammond,’ I said. ‘But I had an early start and a hard day and I haven’t eaten since this morning. I’m going to eat this food and drink some of this wine and nothing’s going to stop me. You can watch or join in if you want.’
She wore a black pants suit with a white blouse and her dark hair fell to her shoulders. The light in the street isn’t great and I couldn’t tell much about her features. Held herself well. “We’ll see how it goes,’ she said. ‘If I have to arrest you at least you’ll have eaten.’
She looped the strap of her purse over her shoulder, opened the gate and winced a little at the squeak. I went up the path, opened the door and stepped aside.
‘After you,’ she said.
Assertive. I turned on a light and got my first good look at her. She had regular, unremarkable features and wore no make-up that I could see. Her expression was determined and her movements were the same. She followed me down the passage to the kitchen where I turned on more lights and plonked down the food and wine. ‘Have a seat.’
‘Thanks.’ She squatted on one of the stools at the breakfast bench. Me, I need to lean back against a wall for support when I do that but she looked comfortable enough as she was, ramrod straight.
I opened the wine and picked up two glasses from the draining rack.
She shook her head. ‘Not for me.’
I poured a glass full and drank half of it, topped the glass up. I put the felafel and kebabs on a plate with the flat bread and opened the containers of hommos and tabouli. I extended a plastic fork to her. She half smiled and shook her head. Good smile and the hair swung nicely. She was a potentially attractive woman trying not to be.
‘Excuse me. I’m hungry.’ I pulled the stool nearer the wall and sat down and began to eat. She took a gold pen from the breast pocket of her jacket and a notepad from her shoulder purse.
‘You don’t seem surprised to see me.’
‘I was told about you.’
‘By whom?’
Great grammar. ‘I forget. Detective Sergeant Stankowski maybe.’
‘I hope you’re not going to make this difficult, Mr Hardy.’
I chewed and swallowed, drank some wine. ‘No more than it has to be, Inspector.’
She glanced at her notebook although I could tell she didn’t need to. ‘You interviewed a man only hours before he was murdered and your fingerprints have been found in a house where a woman died under suspicious circumstances. That puts you uncomfortably close to two deaths in the space of two days.’
‘I’m certainly not comfortable about it myself.’
‘Your attitude isn’t helping,’ she said. She seemed to think she’d scored a point though. ‘But at least you don’t deny being in Mrs Samantha Price’s house. What is your connection with these people?’