‘What does that mean?’ I asked.
‘May the sun fill your heart.’
‘And yours,’ I said.
I found some old shorts and a towel in the car, changed and went for a swim. It was cold but the surf was low and I ploughed along, telling myself that giving up cigarettes was the smartest thing I’d ever done. In sheer physical moments like that I almost believed it. After the swim I jogged gently along the beach in the sun; the sand was hard-packed and substantial and I stretched out trying to get some bounce into my forty-year-old style. Off to the west the buildings and the foreign-looking trees had a temporary, painted-on appearance, as if a big wind could get up in the centre of Australia and push the whole lot into the sea.
I went to sleep on the sand and woke up with a start. I’d been dreaming about a wave. It started as a little fellow just spanking the water’s edge, then it went back, rolled in again and got bigger each time. The last time it was really big, rolling over the sand towards the pavilion.
I went for another swim and then sat watching the movement of the tide. The beach emptied around me; where bodies had been, there were now just impressions in the sand casting low shadows. Soon the water would come up and smooth them out. The beach got a clean slate every day, unlike people.
Manny was polishing glasses when I got to the coffee bar. He held one up. ‘Drink?’
‘All right. Thanks.’
He poured two hefty tumblers of yellowish fluid. I took a swig. It was raw and fruity.
‘Make it myself,’ he said. ‘Very bad about Bruce.’
‘Very bad.’
‘Very dangerous place, Sydney.’
I grunted, wondering what other dangerous places he knew.
‘The police were here,’ he said.
I looked up at the shelf where the cassettes were stacked. He shook his head. ‘Didn’t tell them about that.’
‘Why not?’
He finished off his wine, if that’s what it was, in a gulp. ‘Where I come from we have a saying-don’t trust your mother or your sister or your brother, they might be sleeping with a policeman.’
I nodded and took a conservative sip. ‘How did you get involved with this? I mean, Ann and Bruce?’
‘Bruce came in for coffee and we got talking. I said there weren’t too many young men around like him, made strong. They’re all, what is it-weedy? Or fat. But Bruce, he was strong.’
‘Yeah, he was.’
‘We arm-wrestled a couple of times.’ He looked me over dubiously. ‘You wanna try it?’
‘No thanks.’ His biceps and neck muscles stretched the ribbing on his T-shirt. ‘Who won the wrestling?’
‘Bout a draw. I used to want to be a writer. Long time ago. Bruce talked about his writing and Ann, she’s a writer too isn’t she?’
‘Sort of,’ I said. ‘So you helped them?’
He shrugged and poured himself another slug. ‘Have another?’
‘No, thanks, I’ll go steady. I’m expecting Ann in soon.’
His moustache seemed to droop even more and his eyes and mouth pursed up tightly. ‘You going to work with Ann?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Should,’ he said. ‘Drug scene here is real bad.’
‘Not my line,’ I said and, saying it, remembered what my line was. I pulled out my photographs of Singer and handed them to him. ‘Ever see this bloke?’
He looked at the pictures carefully, first at one and then the other. He seemed to be analysing the images, judging them, but by what criteria I had no idea.
‘Sorry, Mr Hardy, never seen him. What’d he do?’
Before I could answer, Ann Winter came dodging between the tables. She was wearing the same clothes as she had the day before but her hair was shining with Point Piper shampoo.
“Lo Cliff, ‘lo Manny.’ She sat down near us and began to roll a smoke. Manny slid away towards his coffee machine and I moved across to sit opposite her. She looked up from the makings to smile at me as if she liked crows’ feet and broken noses. Maybe she did.
‘How were the cops?’ I asked.
‘Cop,’ she said. ‘Interesting.’ She ran her tongue along the edge of the paper and completed the cigarette. Manny put a coffee down in front of her and lit the cigarette in a series of nice fluid movements. There was something threatening about his combination of good manners, bulk and deft movement. Ann bobbed her head at him and went on talking through her smoke.
‘She’s young and she studied sociology. We had a good talk. It was a bit like a seminar, really.’
I finished the wine in a swallow. ‘Sociology?’ I said.
‘Yes. Majored in it, same department as me. She was very understanding.’
I was used to cops who majored in football with sub-majors in Holdens and snooker. It looked as if Frank Parker had some classy help in the field.
‘What did you tell her?’
‘Nothing much. What do I know? I didn’t mention you.’
‘Take your tapes?’
‘No, I explained that they were my research material and she said that was okay.’
Understanding is right, I thought. It seemed a rational way to deal with an intelligent person like Ann Winter. Frank Parker was acting pretty shrewdly with me; perhaps we were entering a time when the cops suited their approach to the subject. I wondered what the appropriate approach would be for the person who had disembowelled Bruce Henneberry. I looked down and realised that I’d automatically taken Ann’s tobacco and had started to roll a cigarette. I finished it and tucked it away in the pouch.
‘How long did you smoke for?’
‘Twenty-five years.’ That was true, and it meant that I’d started about the time she was born. She nodded and puffed.
‘And it still bothers you?’
‘Not much. Just when I need to think.’
She laughed. ‘It must bother you all the time, then.’
‘Not really. I do a lot of sitting in cars looking around, walking down streets with people carrying money-babysitting, really.’
‘This isn’t babysitting.’ She drained the coffee and pulled hard on her cigarette. ‘What about Leon?’ The way she said the name was an accusation. ‘You know he’s dead?’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘Maybe I should give that cassette to the police.’ She stubbed the butt out, hard. ‘Only I can’t because you’ve got it.’
‘Take it easy,’ I said. ‘I’ll give it to them myself in a day or so if I don’t come up with something. I promised Parker.’
‘Constable Reynolds had a word or two to say about him.’
I invited her to tell all, but she wouldn’t. I asked her what she’d heard about Leon.
‘Just that he died. Oh, yes. I’m invited to his wake tonight.’
‘His what?’
‘Wake. He left some money and a note that said he wanted to have a wake. The woman who manages the house found the note and word got around. I got asked through a girl who fixes up the old men.’
‘Fixes them how?’
‘Fucks them, of course, or gets them as close as she can. D’you want the details? She…’
‘No, I don’t want the details, but I do want to go to the wake.’
‘Why?’
I shrugged. ‘Something might happen, someone might say something interesting. Will you take me? Where is it?’
She looked at me and didn’t reply. I reminded myself that she was trained to observe, judge and report on people, to classify and quantify them. I tried to look responsible and intelligent, disinterested and analytical.