‘I’m seeing him this afternoon.’
‘Eager, aren’t you?’
‘I’m sorry. What do you mean?’
‘Never mind. I think you should see the solicitor first, then I’ll talk to you if it seems necessary.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Will you be at home later this afternoon?’
‘Where the hell else would I be?’
She hung up and I put the phone down gently. Grief takes many forms and anger is one of them. I could respect that. Greed is another matter and misanthropy another still. They are harder to deal with. I had time to kill before the appointment in Bondi Junction, and I used it to recall everything I could about Barnes Todd. There wasn’t much: he had been a soldier, then he had sold real estate and had an interest in a trucking firm ‘and other things’. I could hear Todd’s voice, usually slightly blurred by alcohol, but always cheerful, and he never seemed to big-note himself.
Not that he wasn’t aggressive. I could recall a couple of fights and near-fights. On one occasion he flattened a smaller man and apologised immediately. He seemed to have a healthy appetite for life. He’d travelled a bit and said he planned to do more. I tried to remember the names of the women I’d seen him with, and couldn’t. They had been varied-some particularly good-looking and not particularly bright, others vice versa. Todd seemed to find them all amusing. I tried to recall Cyn’s attitude to him but that was confusing. I had an idea she wasn’t too keen on him but it might just have been me she didn’t care for.
3
Paying at the car park led me to think about how my fee for this case might be handled. Would it be money up front, or a version of my usual $175 a day, plus expenses? Or payment only for results? That could be tricky. I wasn’t even sure it would be legal. I drove along Oxford Street and onto the short stretch of freeway that runs beside Centennial Park and out to the eastern suburbs. In just a couple of hours the clouds were back. They hung dark and heavy over the high glittering buildings of Bondi Junction to the right of the freeway, as if they were going to press them down to join the surrounding, unimpressive landscape.
I beat another Falcon, a newer one than mine, into a parking place near the bus depot. The driver shrugged and cruised on: we Falcon men are a laidback lot. I was wearing my jacket again and had tucked my shirt in neatly and finger-combed my hair when I presented myself to Hickie’s secretary. She wasn’t impressed-probably the crumpled pants and the stubble. She pointed at a narrow door to the right of her desk.
‘Mr Hickie will be free in a few minutes, Mr Hardy. If you’d like to take a seat?’
The office was bright and freshly painted, but small. The secretary hardly had space for her chair and desk, and the seat I took couldn’t have been more than six feet from her elbow. She pecked at her typewriter.
‘Busy?’ I said.
She smiled brightly. ‘Oh, yes.’ She was young and pretty with a lot of dark hair pulled back and a neat dress. At a guess it was her first job. It might have been Hickie’s first office too; the copies of Time and the Bulletin didn’t go back beyond the previous June. Ah, that Hardy, always detecting. After ten minutes and about twenty words on the typewriter, the door opened inwards and a man appeared in the narrow space. The typewriter went click, click, click, rapidly.
‘Mr Hardy?’ Hickie gestured for me to stand and enter. It was a constrained gesture because he didn’t have much room to make it in. I stepped past him into a room that might have been larger than the outer one, but not by much. Hickie was a medium-sized man wearing a white shirt, striped tie, and the vest and trousers of a three-piece suit. The coat hung on the back of his chair and was crushed flat at the collar where he had leaned against it. He wasn’t as young as I’d guessed, about thirty. He had plenty of brown hair and was good-looking enough not to have to worry about it. Intelligence and anxiety warred in his features.
I shook his extended hand and he waved me into a chair. If I had turned the chair around and stuck my legs out I could probably have put my feet on the bookcase that held his legal texts. He went behind his desk, sat down and did some more suit coat crushing.
‘Cy Sackville gave me your number,’ I said. ‘And some details. I’d be grateful for a few more.’
‘I imagine you would. It’s a curious bit of business.’
I jerked my thumb over my shoulder at the bookcase. ‘Not much about it in those.’
He smiled. ‘That’s right. Sorry to be so formal about it, but could I see some identification?’
I handed over my enquiry agent licence, which carries an unflattering photo. He scrutinised it closely, looked at me and handed it back.
‘Thanks. Sackville spoke very highly of you. He said you’d had some legal training.’
‘He’s being ironic. He probably means time spent being questioned by the cops. I wouldn’t call what I had training. I did a couple of years of law. Failed Contract, disliked Torts.’
He grimaced. ‘Failed a few myself along the way. Took me longer to get the degree than it should have.’
‘I’d never have got it.’
‘Neither would I, probably, without Barnes Todd.’
‘Ah.’
He unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled them back to show thick, strong forearms that had done some hard work in their time. ‘I haven’t been in practice long, as you can probably see. I’m making ends meet, but it’s going to be harder without Barnes.’
I nodded. I’ve never minded the autobiographical approach to a subject.
‘I worked for him, in the holidays and when I had to go part-time to earn money. Truck driving. He was a great bloke. Gave me a lot of help and encouragement.’
‘And his business.’
‘Yes. After I qualified.’
Hickie seemed anxious to talk, but you can never tell with lawyers. They’re likely to clam up at any moment, especially if you get pushy. ‘I want to ask a lot of questions,’ I said. ‘You’ll have to tell me when to stop.’
‘Sure.’
‘Was Todd doing well financially?’
‘He certainly was. And getting better all the time. He was expanding. Leasing property, developing. He was going into storage in a big way-that’s a coming thing. So I was handling contracts, conveyancing, a few court actions. A few problems came up, but we got along…’
I held up my hand. ‘I wasn’t accusing you of murdering him, Mr Hickie.’
He looked offended. ‘What? Oh, I get it. Well, I didn’t mean to sound defensive. It’s just that I’ve lost the man who put me on my feet personally, you understand? Also a friend and a client and a business associate.’
‘You were involved with him in a business sense?’
‘Just in a small way. But it might’ve grown into something bigger. It still might, if Felicia wants to keep Barnes Enterprises running.’
‘We’ll get to her in a minute. What can you tell me about this bequest to me? This investigate-his-murder thing?’
‘I drew up Barnes’ will. Or re-drew it. There’s nothing remarkable about it. His estate goes to Felicia. There’s a couple of bequests to employees and friends. At the risk of sounding defensive again, I’ll say there’s no bequest to me.’
‘When was this will drawn?’
‘About a year ago. It was one of the first things I did for him. And he’d only got married a few months before that, so the timing was right for everyone.’
The storm that had been gathering broke just then. Rain lashed the window and the light in the room dropped suddenly. Hickie was deep in his story and didn’t seem to notice.
‘I got a letter from him a day before he died. He told me to set aside ten thousand for you to find out who killed him if he died suddenly.’
‘Have you got the letter?’
‘Yes, but I can’t show it to you. Felicia’s considering challenging it. All documents are private until she decides.’
I grinned at him. ‘C’mon, Michael. As one battler to another. Let’s see the copy.’
He opened a drawer in his desk, took out a folder and extracted a photocopied sheet. He passed it to me. I squinted at it in the gloom and he got up to turn on the overhead light. The date was 24 January; the letterhead was Barnes Enterprises with an address in Botany. The handwritten message was simple: