The Undertow

I told her about Peter and Ramona and that they were keen to meet her. I also told her about the confirmation that Frank was William Heysen's father.

'Interesting. I feel a bit out of it with all these stray kids turning up.'

'No you don't.'

She laughed. 'You're right. I'd be the mother from hell. Came close a few times but always had the scrape. I have to run, Cliff. Deadline. Give me a ring. Always glad to see Frank and Hilde.'

'Grandpa and Grandma to be.'

She kissed me and left.

My contact at the RTA had read too much le Carre and Len Deighton. He liked to think of himself as a mole, selling his organisation's secrets to an enemy power. In a way he's right, and he is taking risks, although the worst he'd get is dismissal rather than the Lubianka or the Isle of Wight. Still, that's the way he likes to play it. My payment goes into his TAB account which, since he charges steeply and I'm sure I'm not his only client, perhaps suggests why he keeps on working.

I phoned him with William Heysen's car registration number.

'I'm snowed under,' he said. 'Call you back.'

'It's urgent.'

'It'll cost you.'

'What first-class service doesn't?'

That got me a laugh and a pretty quick return call. William Franz Heysen drove a late model Toyota Land Cruiser-colour black. His address was 2/15 Shetland Street, Bowral.

'You sure about that?'

'Checks with the driver's licence. I threw that in for free. You want the previous addresses on the licence? Cost you extra.'

'No, thanks.'

'Roger.' He named the fee. 'Over and out.' Maybe he'd been a Biggles reader.

I hadn't seen William as a country dweller but then, maybe Bowral isn't exactly country these days. All I knew about it was that Graham Kennedy had lived there somewhere before he died, and that Jimmy Barnes once had a place there too. Maybe still did.

I was about to pick up the phone to tell Frank I had an address for William when it rang.

'Mr Hardy, you've been neglecting me.'

Catherine Heysen was one of those people who didn't feel the need to identify themselves over the phone, believing that they can project themselves sufficiently by voice alone. With her, it worked.

'I'm sorry, Mrs Heysen. There's been quite a lot going on.'

'Which I want to hear about. I suppose you've seen Frank and know his paternity has been confirmed.'

'Yes.'

'Have you found where William is?'

'Sort of.'

'We really must talk. I'd like you to come here, please. After all, I am paying you.'

She couldn't resist slipping that in, but she had a point. There was a fair bit to tell her and, as Frank had said, she was still in danger if our theories were right. William could wait. But I wasn't going to let her have it all her own way.

'How's the shoulder?'

'Healing very well, thank you.'

Almost flirtatious at first, she was now back to being the ice queen. William had said she was a liar and had dropped other hints about her, but there was no good reason to believe that he always told the truth. I'm amused whenever I hear someone say, 'I like working with people'. People are hell.

'Mr Hardy?'

'I could be there in an hour.'

She'd got what she wanted. She hung up without another word.

I always think Lane Cove has a look of mortgages having been paid off. I'm not sure why, it probably isn't true, but the suburb has a comfortable feel, as if the residents have put their troubles to rest. The house where Catherine Heysen was staying was more comfortable than most-an expansive Federation number that had been given another storey without too much disturbance of its original lines. Hard to do. It was set on a big sloping block so that the house was well above the street level and would have, from the upper floor, a good view over the houses opposite to the National Park. Might even catch a glimpse of the river.

No need to worry about security. A high cyclone fence overgrown with creeper ran along the side, and both gates in the imposing brick fence had all the alarm systems they needed. I pressed a buzzer by the entrance, aware that I was under video surveillance. After a short pause the heavy iron gate swung open and I went up a tiled path to the house. Wide verandahs all around. Well-tended garden on both sides, well-worn bluestone steps.

The door opened before I reached it and a largish man in a suit stood waiting for me. He stuck out his hand. Heavy rings on two fingers. Had to be the brother who took after the mum.

'Bruno Beddoes,' he said. 'Catherine's brother.'

It struck me that this was how William Heysen might look in twenty years time-confident, well-groomed, a bit soft. That's if he managed to stay out of gaol in one country or another. We shook hands and he told me that Catherine was waiting for me at the back. We went down a wide hallway with rooms off either side to a short passage leading out through French doors to the verandah. More tiles, more creeper, hanging baskets, wind chimes.

Catherine Heysen was posed on a cane lounge with a cashmere blanket over her knees. She wore a loose black sweater which emphasised her pallor. Wearing less makeup but with her hair carefully arranged, she had an air of fragility quite unlike how she had appeared at our first meeting. She extended her hand to me and I took it briefly. Cool and dry. What else?

'Please sit down, Mr Hardy. Would you like some tea or coffee? Perhaps a drink?'

'Nothing, thank you. I can't stay long. I've found that your son is living in Bowral. I'm driving down there this evening to talk to him. He's apparently involved in something that could land him in trouble. Frank's very concerned about him.'

'As I'd expect. What sort of trouble?'

'To do with immigration as I told you. The details are unclear.'

'Surely there's legitimate work in that area?'

'I suppose so, but the indications are…'

'And what are they, the indications?'

'Can I tell you the suspicions I have about who may have framed your husband and arranged for you to be shot?'

'You already have-a disgruntled client of Gregory's to do with his

… unpleasant sideline. I found it plausible.'

She couldn't help patronising me, just couldn't hold it in. I remembered Lily saying she would have been the mother from hell. This woman looked more like it. I tossed up whether to tell her almost nothing or to hit her right between the eyes. Pique won out.

'There's a man named Matthew Henry Sawtell. He-'

The almond eyes flashed and her clasped hands flew up to her face. 'Oh, my God!'

Better than I thought, but too much better. She stared at me through her fingers.

'I… I knew him,' she said. 'I thought he was dead.'

'He might be, or he might not. I told you this was just a suspicion.'

She was genuinely alarmed and, although I doubted the genuineness of her invalid pose, she had been shot and could still be emotionally shaky. I half rose from my seat.

'Are you all right? Can I get you something?'

'Yes, yes please. Can you find someone in the house and ask them to get me a cognac.'

Make it two, I thought.

When I arrived the house had seemed empty, apart from Bruno, but now people appeared from everywhere. Another man and two women. The women fussed over Catherine and Bruno produced a bottle of cognac and a couple of glasses. He handed me the tray.

'I hope you're not upsetting her.'

'Trying not to, but I think some chickens are coming home to roost.'

'What the hell does that mean?'

'You can ask her when I go.'

'Make that soon.'

I went back to the verandah and poured two solid drinks. She tossed off half of hers and then took a small sip as she looked at a point somewhere above my head.

'Matthew Sawtell and I were lovers. I… left him for Frank.'

I was tempted to tell her that William had said she had a thing for uniforms, but I kept quiet.