I lost it a bit then. I grabbed her shoulder and turned her towards me. I poked at my ear a little too hard and felt the blood start to trickle. ‘See this? I got shot at last night at my house. And it has to be because of you and Jason and Sammy and your father and the whole fucking mess I’ve got involved in. This is personal for me now.’
The violence of my action and the blood had some effect on her. The hard shell fell away and she was a kid again and looking all the younger for smoking a cigaret te. She stared at me and her lower lip trembled.
‘You got shot?’
‘No, not really. The bullet missed. Glass cut me. But if you know anything about what’s been happening you should tell me now. Let me help.’
She recovered fast. ‘Yeah, so Dad can get me out of the country and fucking Interpol can come after me.’
‘I agree with you. That’s not a good idea. But there’s someone very dangerous out there. Do you know who pushes drugs in a big way in your part of the world?’
She shook her head.
‘Or why anyone’d want to kill Jason and Samantha?’
‘No. Except me.’
I reached in front of her to the glove box and got a tissue to blot up the blood. She took a last drag and dropped the cigarette out the window.
‘Well, we can rule you out for Samantha. I was watching you all morning.’
She nodded. ‘Will the cops search the house?’
‘I suspect so. Why?’
“They’ll find my stash.’
‘Of?’
‘Just dope. Look, I reckon Samantha’s been using drugs for years. All those models do to stay thin. She probably just got hold of a bad batch. Just dumb luck.’
‘What about Jason?’
She shrugged, took another cigarette and tried to light it but the lighter wouldn’t work. She shrugged. ‘I don’t know about Jase any more. I didn’t like some of the things he was getting into. Then, once he started fucking her I didn’t give a shit about him.’
Is that why you keep his picture there? I thought.
She fiddled with the cigarette and then crushed it in her hand. ‘Is that it, then?’
‘You should go home. See your father and talk to the police.’
‘Fuck you and him and them.’ She jerked open the door and ran for the house, moving like a sprinter. I couldn’t have caught her even if I’d had a reason to.
17
I considered going over to Hurstville and making a complete statement to the police and getting shot of the whole thing. Something held me back. Professional pride? I don’t think so. Possibly it was something about Danni, who seemed different from the image I’d had from talking to Price and Samantha about her. When I’d said she needed help I meant it, but what kind of help I wasn’t sure. Something. But it was probably mostly to do with someone having shot at me. Couldn’t have that. I had to know who and why and had to do something about it. Anyway, the police’d catch up with me sooner or later. Stankowski and Hammond didn’t look lazy or like quitters.
I’d watched my back very closely on the drive to Hunters Hill and I watched it again as I made my way to Concord to call on Ramsay Hewitt’s sugar momma. I hadn’t had the go-ahead from Tess but I was pretty sure she’d give it eventually. Her attachment to Ramsay was too strong for her to leave things dangling. I was curious myself, and a bit of driving around would give me time to think more about the Price matter while hanging myself out as a target, although an alert one. But I was increasingly coming to think of last night’s shot as a warning. Anyone seriously trying to kill me would have had plenty of easier opportunities than at night through a window. In a way it raised a more interesting set of questions: warn me off what, and why?
Concord was flat and leafy — as I remembered it from when I first met Tess there and we went through a few hoops together. I pulled up outside the address I’d got out of the phonebook — a California-style bungalow on a quarter acre block with a deep front garden. Shrubs, grass and a huge ghost gum with thick branches that would brain you if they fell and you happened to be underneath. I didn’t expect to see Ramsay’s flash Merc parked in the driveway and I didn’t. The wind was still blowing hard and a couple of plastic bags and soft drink cans bowled down the street. Otherwise it was quiet and still with only the occasional car cruising by. I hadn’t been followed from Hunters Hill. I watched the postman arrive on his motor scooter. Nothing for the place I was watching.
The private detective business, whether you’re looking for people or serving subpoenas or bodyguarding, is basically a matter of making house calls. Some turn out to be profitable and pleasant, others not. But it becomes a habit and having found a place where someone I was looking for was alleged to be I was incapable of just driving off. A few questions to Regina Kipps would surely be in order.
Most of the houses on the street had no fences and no front gates and Mrs Kipps’ house was one of these — a testimony to the safety and security of suburban Australia until very recently. I examined myself in the rear-vision mirror and picked away the pieces of tissue that had clung to the cuts. The bleeding didn’t start again and there was no blood on my shirt. I went up the cement drive that led to a garage and branched off on another similar path leading to the front porch. The paths were painted green with raised edges picked out in red but the paint had faded badly, and if Ramsay was living here he certainly wasn’t spending any time weeding the garden beds or pruning the shrubs.
I rang the bell and got out my credentials, quite unsure of what I was going to say. In any case, it’s not always a good idea to map it out beforehand because you might have to adjust to the unexpected. After a short wait I heard footsteps approaching and the door opened, leaving a good strong security screen door between me and the woman inside. It’s odd looking at someone through metal mesh. It’s almost as if they’re wrapped in armour and the mesh stops you seeing certain bits. The woman was medium height and, while not fat, she was certainly well-covered. She was in her fifties at a guess with a pale, slightly puffy face. She wore her fair hair in a style too young for her, although, in a silk blouse with the top buttons undone showing a deep cleavage and a bit of black lace, and a short skirt, she was doing her best.
‘Mrs Kipps?’
I’ve met a lot of different receptions on doorsteps, from passionate embraces to kicks in the teeth, but this was a new one. Every muscle in her face registered disappointment. She glanced at the small gold watch she wore before answering.
‘Yes, I’m Regina Kipps. You’re not… I’m sorry. Who are you?’
I showed her the folder. ‘I’m making enquiries into the whereabouts of Ramsay Hewitt.’
Small cracks seemed to appear around her mouth, leading me to think that the make-up was laid on pretty thickly. Her eyes crinkled and the same thing happened there. She drew in a deep breath. ‘You’re a policeman?’
‘No, not exactly.’
‘Worse luck.’ She looked at the watch again. ‘I’m sorry. I’m expecting a visitor. I can’t…’
‘Is he here, Mrs Kipps?’
‘No, thank God.’
‘When can we talk?’ I got out my notebook. ‘Can I have your number? I’ll call you.’
She went up on her toes in her high heels to look over my shoulder. ‘I want him in gaol.’
‘That could happen,’ I said. ‘Your number?’
She reeled it off and I scribbled it down. ‘I’ll call later today.’
‘I don’t know where he is.’
‘That doesn’t matter. I want to hear what you have to say. Thank you.’
She was looking anxious and I didn’t want to press my luck. I scooted down the path and drove away briskly but U-turned further up the street and parked on the other side about fifty metres away from the house. Within a few minutes a taxi pulled up and a man got out. He was dressed in a suit and was a tailor’s dream — tall, broad-shouldered but slim everywhere else, with a glowing head of fair hair. He walked up Regina Kipps’ concrete path in a stride that was almost, but not quite, a swagger. Hot to trot.