‘Shot?’
‘Shot dead. See? It’s hard to come home and be… normal with that in the background. I have to think about it and…’
‘I understand. Well, I’ve been thinking about it since you rolled off last night.’
‘Come on, Helen
‘It’s all right. I’m going to get a place of my own.’
‘Jesus!’
‘Don’t carry on. In this street if I can. Close by, anyway. I’ll butt right into whatever you’re doing and it can go to bloody hell if need be. I’ll have that right. Otherwise you can be with me when you want to be and need to be. It’ll be better. Not domestic. You’ll like it.’
Like it? I thought. Like another failed relationship? But maybe she was right. ‘You’re incredible.” I kissed her and she turned her face and kissed me back, hard. She smelled of coffee and tobacco and what two things ever went together better than those?
‘I love Sydney and I love you. I’ll have both. It’ll work.’
I nodded. She was the finest diagnostician of human relationships I’d ever met. If she wanted it to work it probably would. She rinsed her cup and picked up the morning paper from the pile where I’d thrown it.
‘I’ll start looking today.’
‘Can I help?’
‘Nope.’
‘Okay. How far back do those papers go?’
She riffled through the pile. ‘Two weeks at least. Slob.’
She went off to shower and I dug through the papers for the reports on the shooting of Carmel Wise.
It had happened on a Friday night; I get two papers on Saturday morning so I had two accounts, two sets of photographs. The National Herald’s reporter fancied herself as a stylist: ‘At 9 p.m. last night the courtyard outside the Greenwich Apartments was an oasis of quiet in a sea of sound. Kings Cross was at full blast all around, but in the leafy courtyard there could have been someone sitting down to read T. S. Eliot. They have a New York feel, the Greenwich Apartments, as if Woody Allen might wander through with his clarinet or Ivan Lendl might come bounding along on one of his late night runs. Instead, attractive Carmel Wise, 21, hotshot videotape editor and movie buff, stepped out of Greenwich into hell
Helen came into the room dressed in white and smelling good. I couldn’t see how any real estate agent could resist her. She’d probably get a penthouse with a view of the bridge and the choicest bits of Darling Harbour. I was rumpled and unshaven. She looked over my shoulder.
‘That’s the one?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The story ran for a while. What was she called…?’
‘The Video Girl. Helen, could you take a look at some woman’s stuff. Give me your analysis?’
‘You’re not just trying to make me feel useful?’
‘No.’
‘All right.’
I cleared a space on the bench and spread out Tania Hester Bourke’s belongings. Helen moved them around, looked at the photographs. She examined the purses, the sunglasses, the makeup and other items. I showed her the photo of Tania, glass in hand, smiling at the lens.
‘What d’you want to know?’
‘Anything you can tell me.’
‘Mm, well. The passport is five years old, that’s obvious, and the photographs,’ she tapped the quarto-sized glossy black and white picture, ‘is a couple of years later.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘Hair. Clothes.’
‘There’s two suitcases full of her clothes. Would you be able to tell how long ago they were bought? How long since they were worn?’
‘Yes.’
‘Great. Anything else?’
‘She was an air hostess when the passport photo was taken.’ She flipped through the passport. ‘She went all over the place. By the time the other picture was taken she was doing something different. Look, she makes a few trips here and there in ‘82 and ‘83. Nothing like before. Same places-Singapore, Bangkok, Jakarta, but less often. I bet she’s got batik cloth and a lot of silk stuff in the cases.’
‘Right. What does that mean?’
‘Nothing much. She’s got expensive tastes to judge by the makeup. Ah… you want to play Watson?’
‘Sure.’ I stroked an imaginary moustache.
‘City girl, private school, no skills to speak of… smoker, dieter…’
‘Come on.’
‘She’s a good bit thinner in the second photo. Did I ever tell you about when I put on a stone and half?”
‘No.’
‘I will one day. Point is, I know about dieting and the look it leaves. This woman’s got it.’ She poked at the documents. ‘Fair bit of money passing through the accounts.’ She ran a finger down a bank statement. ‘But it’s hard to tell with these things. It always looks like a lot, doesn’t it?’
‘Yeah, and it feels like nothing at all.’
Helen tapped the photos into a neat stack and put them aside. ‘Well, that’s all I can tell you for now. Um… I’ve got enough for a deposit on something small. Wish me luck. I’m off.’
‘Good luck.’
We kissed. We pressed together hard and thoughts of gunned-down girls and ex-air hostesses went out the window. She broke away and glanced at the photographs again. ‘Oh, one more thing. Your mystery woman likes men.’
‘Meaning?’
‘She’s not a lesbian. This is man-attracting equipment.’ She dangled one of the gold sandals from her little finger. Helen’s fingernails were short and painted a pale pink. She wore a couple of light silver bangles around her wrist that looked good against her tanned skin. ‘And look at the picture-she fancies the bloke next to her.’
She was right. Tania had her hand on the arm of a big, blonde man. She looked as if she’s just turned her big brown eyes away from him for the sake of the photograph and that they’d be back on him soon.
‘Husband?’ I said.
She shook her head. ‘No rings, not that that means much. No, I wouldn’t say so. He doesn’t look like the husband type.’
‘There’s a type?’
‘Of course. Women can spot husbands, attached men, semidetached and so on, when they walk into a room. Usually, as soon as they open their mouths they confirm the guess. She won’t be too hard to find, will she? You’ve got a ton of evidence.’
‘Maybe not.’
‘How does she connect to the girl who was shot?’
‘I don’t know. She lived in the flat the girl was using.’ It struck me then that the suitcases could have come from somewhere else. ‘Maybe she lived there.’
‘Did they know each other?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who took the photos?’
‘I don’t know that either. A man.’ I pointed to the stuff that had belonged to Mr Greenwich. ‘Are you serious?’
‘What about? Getting my own place?’
The words sounded harsh and reproachful to me. I wanted to argue and convince her that she should stay right there. But I knew I ‘d be running all over the city that day and not be home until God knows when. I didn’t have an argument to use. Helen knew it too. She looked determined but not reproachful. I drew a breath and scratched my stubble. ‘No, I know you’re serious about that. I mean about this attached and detached man business.’
‘Yes.’
‘Which am I?’
She slung her brown leather bag over her white linen shoulder and grinned at me. ‘That’s one of the things we’ll find out, won’t we?’
4
Back to the papers. The Herald reporter had overused her poetic licence. Further reading showed that Carmel Wise had not stepped directly into anything. She must have walked across the courtyard, 30 feet or so, before the bullets were fired. The damage to the sign suggested the direction from which the shots had come-from the left as you faced the Greenwich Apartments. The girl had been hit several times in the back and once in the head; I assumed the shooter was at ground level because any marked angle to the line of fire would have pinpointed a window. I was already starting to think of it as a professional job.
The News printed a photograph of the girl. She had a strong, high-cheekboned face with big eyes and a curious set of teeth, slightly gapped all around. The effect was pleasing. Her hair was dark and drawn back, giving her an intelligent, slightly surprised expression. She looked older than 21 and like someone who would be worth talking to.