‘I know fuck-all, and that least of anything.’
The sobbing slowed, then stopped. ‘I wanted to be with you.’
I grunted and shook my head.
‘Cliff, didn’t it mean anything?’
‘It did, and then it didn’t.’
‘Because of what Karen Bach told you?’
‘I suppose so. I don’t know.’
‘I’ve told you the truth.’
‘Give me the bottle.’
She handed it over and I drained it, hoping to get some kind of a charge. Didn’t happen. ‘Marisha, your daughter, you say, has gone off to another country with a paedophile pimp. And you…’
She turned her face towards me. It was wan under its olive tint, tear-stained and makeup streaked, but there was life and hope in her huge dark eyes. ‘She told me she didn’t hate me. She said she loved me. She said she’d write and phone and that she’d see me again soon. My daughter.’
If she had gone on about wanting me, I might have pushed her out into the rain. But now I wanted strongly to believe her. She had the look I’d seen before-when I’d located a runaway and brought him or her home. The hopelessness, displayed in the speech and body language of the parents, vanished in an instant on the doorstep and their world was back as something manageable, or almost, at least for now.
‘That’s good,’ I said.
We sat quietly for a time while the rain beat on the car roof. I realised that, for all the deception and doubt and much of it not dispelled, I was glad she was there.
‘So,’ she said, ‘you know I am what is called a drama queen.’
I grinned. ‘You are indeed.’
‘Tell me why you are running away from your house.’
‘It’s complicated. It’s this other business I’ve been dealing with. I have to stay out of sight and try to work out what to do next. The police know where I live, so do the bad guys, probably. They know this car.’
‘Do they know of your connection to me?’
‘No.’
‘You could do your thinking at my place.’
I was about to say no as a matter of instinct-emotional complication was the last thing I needed-when my mobile rang. I made an apologetic gesture to Marisha and answered it, expecting the cops or worse.
‘Hardy.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Dr Farmer, I’m sorry. I was going to call you. It’s been a hell of a night. I had to leave Tania at the casino. She had plenty of money to get home. Isn’t she-?’
‘No, she fucking isn’t. Who did you leave her with?’
‘What?’
‘I’m speaking English, aren’t I? You’re not telling me you left her standing at a roulette wheel with a pile of chips in her hand.’
‘No. She was playing the poker machines and she’d struck up a conversation-’
‘With a woman?’
‘Yes, an Aboriginal woman named-’
‘I don’t want to know her fucking name. Aboriginal. Jesus. Well, thank you very much.’
She cut the connection and I stared blankly at the phone.
‘Dr Farmer,’ Marisha said. ‘Your other client?’
‘Right.’
‘An angry man?’
‘An angry woman.’
‘That’s worse. Come on, Cliff. It’s a terrible night. You look troubled and you don’t know what to do next. Have you got a better offer?’
20
Marisha’s apartment was warm and welcoming. We went to bed and made love, not with the passion of the previous occasion, but looking for and finding mutual comfort. I slept. My mobile rang a couple of times and sometime in the night I crawled out of bed to switch it off.
‘That might be important,’ Marisha said.
I slid back into the rough, deep red cotton sheets, pulled her towards me and wrapped myself around her small body. ‘All the more reason to ignore it. I can’t deal with anything important right now.’
She stiffened momentarily, then relaxed. ‘I understand.’
I dug my hand into her mass of hair and put my face down to inhale its smell. ‘Do you?’ I said. ‘I wish I did.’ ‘You’re making no sense. Go back to sleep.’ But, strangely, I wasn’t tired anymore. I lay with my
arms around her, staring up at the ceiling. A certain amount of street or moonlight or both filtered into the room through the matchstick blinds. I began to run over the various strands of the Farmer case in my mind and found myself able to separate them out and look at each with some clarity. Minutes slipped by as I did the sort of analysis I could usually best manage when charged up with caffeine or alcohol. Without those stimulants I was still physically worn but mentally alert. Good sex can have strange effects. Marisha muttered and pulled away from me. I let her go.
There was something big stirring in the Illawarra. Big enough to warrant two deaths already-Frederick Farmer and Adam MacPherson-and an attempted third, mine. The Wombarra land owned by Sue Holland and Elizabeth Farmer was somehow at the centre of it. Outlaw bikies were involved and, more than likely, some of the local police. I couldn’t put Barton’s behaviour down to incompetence or antagonism. Behind it all was some big contractor paying out big money-a sizeable chunk to Wendy Jones-tied in, probably, to the acquisition of Sue Holland’s land. Was Elizabeth Farmer’s land still targeted?
My sources of information were De Witt, Purcell and possibly Farrow. Marisha was right. I couldn’t afford to be out of touch. I switched on the mobile. The calls had been from Farrow first and then Elizabeth Farmer. I didn’t want to talk to Farrow just yet and whether Tania had come home or not, there was nothing I could do about it.
Marisha was deeply asleep. I dressed quietly and went back to where I’d left my bag. I plugged in the laptop and booted it up. The solitary message was from Purcell. It read: Hardy, I’ve got a line on what’s happening down here. If you want in on it, meet me at the pub just up from that crummy motel you were in-tomorrow at 10.00. Like before, wipe this.
I deleted the message and cleared the trash. Annoying not to be able to reply, ask for more detail, but it was a different Hotmail address from the one before and my guess was that he used them once only. I shut the computer down and leaned back in the chair to think. I was confused. I couldn’t see why Purcell would want me to be in on anything, let alone guess what it might be. And he couldn’t have known when he sent the message, at 9.16 pm, that the events of the night would make me a hot property in the Illawarra.
Every cautious instinct said stay away. Every curious instinct, backed up by professional pride, said go there. No contest. I’d left my watch by the bed and didn’t know the time. The digits on Marisha’s stove and microwave blinked on double zeros and I knew what that meant. She hadn’t reset them after a power failure. Not unknown at my place. It made me feel friendly towards her as I crouched down by the bed to retrieve the watch. It scraped harshly on the polished floor but she didn’t stir. I slipped the watch on and stood, looking down at her. Her dark hair was spread out on the red pillow and one hand was cocked up near her mouth as if she was speaking on a phone. I realised that I had no idea what I thought about her.
It was five forty-five, still dark and a blanket of quiet and stillness hung over this part of Sydney. I could get on the road, stop for breakfast and a shave somewhere along the way and be in the Illawarra early enough to consider exactly what to do. Except that…Marisha’s bag sat on the floor, gaping open. I dug into it, feeling around, and came up with a set of keys. The car keys were attached to an NRMA tag carrying the make and registration number. A Hyundai. I detached the car keys and pocketed them. I went into her work room and found a pad and paper. The note I left told her I’d borrowed her car and would get it back as soon as possible. I said I’d left my car keys but she wasn’t to use the Falcon except in an emergency because the police would be looking for it. I felt I owed her that much at least.
The Hyundai didn’t have a lot of power but it handled well and I made good time south as daylight dawned. I’d only had a couple of hours sleep but I felt almost fully charged. I caught an early news service on the radio-the usual stuff, the government under attack for lying and lying some more in response. A major marijuana haul up north had the police puffing out their chests. The weather was going to be fine along the coast and the bright, slightly cloud-streaked sky told me the same.