Why the short notice? Why not put an ad in a paper? Why not go through Shelley’s solicitor? But in this business you can’t be too choosy, especially in the holiday season when things are slow. I had a mortgage to meet, car repair bills, credit card instalments and I also liked to eat and drink once in a while. Outside the day was almost as perfect as it had looked from the penthouse. The air was clear after a wet, windy couple of days and the promise of a long, golden year’s end and year’s beginning was showing on the sea and the sand and in people’s faces.
The addresses helped me to make my decision. Shelley Quinn had worked the previous summer as a water skiing instructor at a health club at Narrabeen and her most recent address was Whale Beach. Not hard places to take at that time of year. Swimming costume country, suntan territory. But first I needed to make sure that Henry Quinn wasn’t CIA or the Mafia.
I drove back to Glebe and opened all the windows in my house to catch a breeze that had a faint salty tang to it as well as some chemical and industrial smells. There was no need to steam open the letter. It was a plain envelope and the name was typewritten, easily duplicated. Inside was a white card with gold lettering on it. It invited Shelley Quinn to ‘drinks to celebrate Christmas’ at noon. The place was the penthouse and the scrawled initials were HQ. I sipped a glass of white wine and looked out into my backyard which, ever since Hilde planted the herbs and put in the ivy and the pots, could be called a courtyard. The cardboard boxes with the empties and the yellowed metre-high stack of newspapers were my own touch.
I held the card up to the light. What did you expect? I thought. A death threat? He wants to have a drink with his ex-wives, wouldn’t you like to have a drink with yours, with Cyn? How about Ailsa and Kay Fletcher and a couple of others? I knew I’d hate it, but then I wasn’t like Quinn who seemed to be one of those people who only believed in his own existence. To the Quinns of the world, life without Quinn is unthinkable.
I put my drink beside the telephone and made some calls about my employer to people whose business it is to know people in business. Quinn checked out as only slightly grubby: he’d made money in a variety of ways-interstate trucking in the early, rough days, swimming pool manufacturing, land development. One of my informants, a banker with a conscience, said that Quinn might have some problems with the US Treasury.
‘He moves money around a bit. Dodgy from the US point of view. But his Australian resident alien status protects him.’
‘How did he come by that?’
‘Our file says by marriage to one Dawn Leonie Simkin.’
‘Since divorced.’
‘That doesn’t revoke it. He’s been pretty quick on his feet in this country. If they passed some retrospective tax laws he’d be in trouble, but otherwise he’s okay here.’
Which left me not liking Mr Quinn any more but not liking his money any less. It was late in the day by the time I’d finished phoning. I spent the night at home writing cheques, reading and watching a tape of the day’s tennis on television. As an addicted sports fan will, I checked on the light heavyweight division in the 1956 Olympics. The gold was won by James M. Floyd which didn’t mean much. It was different the next time round-Cassius M. Clay won in Rome in 1960.
The next day was a Sydney summer special-there was a light breeze and a freshness in the air at 7am but you could feel the heat building. I was at the health club at Narrabeen soon after 9am. The big expanse of water which everyone calls a lake is really a lagoon; its shores feature most of the possible natural features from thick timber to sparse, rocky beaches. The Peninsula Health Club spread over several hectares of paddocks, tennis courts, swimming pools and aluminium and glass buildings that housed a gymnasium, squash courts, spas, saunas and a kitchen which seemed to be totally given over to the production of carrot juice.
I got a lot of this information from a pamphlet I was given to read while I waited for my credentials to be checked at the security gate. Things have changed in the affluent parts of Sydney in recent times. There’s more paranoia, less relaxation. To get to talk to anyone at this place I had to present my operator’s licence, give a police reference, details of my bonding and the name of my lawyer. I was getting used to this insecurity, slowly.
Mr James Lewis was the security manager and he eventually consented to talk to me. He was a big, fit-looking man in his fifties who met me on the gravel path inside the gate. The path led to the water which was blue and inviting. Mr Lewis said he didn’t have an office.
‘Offices are the enemy of fitness, Hardy,’ he said. ‘We’ve got everything we need to know here on a computer. I can use it but I don’t need to sit at a desk. I walk around. If you want to talk to me you have to walk.’
‘Fair enough. Looks like a great place.’ I was glad I was wearing only light shoes, jeans and a cotton shirt. The air was clear and warm; insects buzzed in the grass and some water birds took off from the surface of the lake and wheeled away over the trees.
‘It is. Now, what’s your business?’
‘I have a client who wants to spend some time here. She has certain… health problems. She wants first class treatment and total security.’
‘She’ll get it here.’ He picked up a stone and sent it skipping over the water.
I gave him one of my sceptical smiles. ‘That’s what you say. She wants to hear me say it. She likes to water ski.’
Lewis was a man of few words. He made a motion with his head in the direction of a jetty where five sleek speedboats were bobbing in the water. ‘Top facilities.’
I could cut down on syllables too. ‘Instructors?’
‘The best.’
‘Mind if I talk to one? Lady… my client has some queries.’
We strolled over to where two young women in bathing suits were checking the water ski equipment. They were like peas in a pod-blonde, deeply tanned and with long, whippy muscles.
‘Louise and ah…?’ Lewis said.
Blonde Two pushed up her sunglasses. ‘Jenny. Hi.’
‘Hello.’
‘Come to ski?’
I shook my head. Lewis had stood still for some seconds and he didn’t seem to like it. He bounced on his heels and walked off towards the boats.
‘I’m a private detective,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for Shelley Quinn.’
‘Shit,’ Blonde One said. ‘I thought you might be looking for fun. Shelley’s not here anymore. She quit right at the end of the season.’
‘Why, d’you know?’
‘Sure. She was pregnant.’
If I hadn’t been wearing sunglasses she’d have seen me blinking in surprise. She couldn’t miss the dropped jaw. ‘She was divorced.’
‘You really aren’t any fun!’ Blonde Two pulled down her sunglasses in agreement. They started checking a pile of life jackets.
‘Is she still at Whale Beach?’
Blonde One sighed. ‘Last I saw her was at Manly.’
Lewis was coming back from the boats. ‘Where at Manly?’ I hissed.
‘Tim’s Gym, aerobics. C’mon Jen, obstructions check.’
Lewis nodded as the women ran past him. ‘Satisfied?’
‘What’s an obstructions check?’
‘Oh, they make sure there’s no logs or debris in the water. Your client’ll be safe here, Mr Hardy.’
‘I’ll tell him… her.’
That earned me a suspicious look from Lewis and a polite version of the bum’s rush.
I drove up the Peninsula and checked the Whale Beach address just to be thorough. The house was on a cliff overlooking the sea. Great view, but it had been occupied for seven months by a body-surfing accountant who worked from home. The previous occupiers’ names were Quinn and Buck. A few letters for them had arrived and the accountant had no forwarding address. I drove to Manly wondering who Buck might be.