I stopped further up the curving, rising road and walked back to the flats. It was an old block of about ten apartments that had once commanded a majestic harbour view at the back. Even from the road you could see that the modern, multilevel building had whittled this away. Still, a bijou address, especially with the off-street parking. The Commodore was parked in the space along the side of the wide drive-way marked ‘6.’ I stood around contemplating my next move when a white Jaguar cruised noiselessly up and stopped fair and square across the entrance to the drive.
It was my day for crossing roads and taking cover. I stood behind a VW van parked on the other side of the road and saw a white-haired man get out of the Jaguar and help the woman I’d seen at the morgue into the back of the car. The young man was there too, patting people and murmuring things, but he stayed behind as the Jag drove off. He held a respectful attitude until it was out of sight and then he seemed to loosen up. His step on the way back down the drive was almost jaunty. The wind was blowing leaves along the footpath, and a gust pushed a heap of them up against my feet. Some detective, I thought, stands around being late autumnal while things are happening. Breaking in on bereavement is one thing, but if the man with the red Commodore had been bereaved he’d got over it awful fast.
Flat 6 was on the second level at the back. The entrance was through a hand-some door in a tiled, balustraded porch. It was one of those doors that was opened electrically from inside the flats but it wasn’t locked. I looked down and saw that the door had snagged on a piece of uplifted carpet, just enough to prevent the lock from engaging. Conclusion: the young man didn’t live here and didn’t know that you had to give the door a shove to get the security you were paying for. I went into a quiet, cool lobby with cream walls and dark timber and up a flight of stairs. I tried to give my knock on the door of number 6 the authority that brooks no denial.
The man who answered the door was middle-sized and fair in colouring except for his slightly flushed face. He’d taken off his suit jacket and loosened his tie. He held an opened bottle of champagne in one hand. “What do you want?” he said.
I flashed the licence folder quicker than a camera shutter. “My name is Hardy. Sergeant Meredith asked me to have a quick word with you.”
The familiar name did the trick. He eased back and I was part way through the door before an objection occurred to him. “He didn’t say anything to my mother or me back at the morgue.”
I fished out my notebook and leafed through, still inching my way in. “Well, he knew your mother’d be distressed. Now you are Mr…?”
“Clive Glover.” He held up the bottle. “I suppose this looks bad?”
“I don’t know, sir. Not necessarily. Could we go inside? Thank you. Now your mother made a formal identification of…?”
We moved down the passage into a large sitting room with a kitchen off it to one side and another passage that probably led to bedrooms. “My father, Mr Colin Glover. Yes.”
He sat down in an easy chair in front of an elaborate marble-edged fireplace. A half-filled tulip-shaped champagne glass was sitting on the tiles in front of the grate.
I looked around the room, which showed signs of affluence, taste and an orientation towards the past. The furniture was expensive but old; the decorations owed nothing to modern ideas of design.
One item was of more interest to me than others-of great interest. I’d missed it at first because the bright, late morning light, coming in from a window that gave the depleted view of the harbour, struck the glass and obliterated the image. I moved a little and could see it. Hanging over the fireplace was a large photograph in a heavy black frame. The picture was of the last stage of construction of the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
8
“Well, I don’t care. I hated the old bastard.”
“Mr Glover?”
He leaned forward, filled a glass, lifted it and drained the contents. Then he poured another and sipped. “My father. I’m glad they found him, and I’m glad they found him dead. Being missing was no good to me.”
I sat down on a two-seater couch without being invited. I probably wouldn’t have refused a glass of champagne, but Glover seemed intent on drinking the whole bottle himself. He was a nervy type, I decided-inclined to be loud-mouthed and assertive but really pretty unsure of himself. I noticed that his fingers were heavily nicotine-stained a millisecond before he rummaged in the pocket of the jacket he’d dumped on the back of his chair and pulled out a packet of Senior Service. He lit up and sucked the smoke deep. There was no ashtray around. It wasn’t the sort of room where you expected to find one.
“I don’t think I understand,” I said.
“I’m not going to make a secret of it. My father was ruining the business. He wouldn’t listen to me when I said I could save it because he said only engineers understand engineering.”
“And you are…?”
“An accountant. He was wrong. I knew how to save the business. Now I can do it.”
I really wasn’t interested. All I wanted to do was ask about the photograph, but I’d got myself into an odd situation. Usually, quickly assumed disguises are seen through quickly and you’re lucky if you get your couple of questions across. Glover seemed to want to believe I was a cop and to talk, but he’d wake up sooner or later. “The engineering firm, I see. Would that account for the photograph? An engineering marvel, the bridge.”
He glanced up at the photograph and a look of contempt came over his face. “So everyone seems to think. I’ve heard nothing but ‘Grandpa built the bridge’ since I was knee high. I never go over the bloody thing myself unless I have to. I hope it falls down. Probably will one day.”
“Your grandfather built the bridge?” I couldn’t keep the surprise and inquisitiveness out of my voice.
“He was one of the engineers, yes. I…” He drew on his cigarette and used the action to give himself time to think. Also, probably, to take a good look at me: leather jacket, no tie, broken nose and hair that needed cutting. “Could I see your ID again?”
“Just a few more questions, sir, and I’ll be on my way. Your father went missing when?”
“A couple of weeks ago. I want to see the ID.”
I reached into my pocket. “What’s the name of the firm?”
“You’re not a policeman.”
“I never said I was. You assumed it.”
“You said Sergeant Meredith…”
“I lied. I don’t want to make trouble for you, Mr Glover. You can take over the firm and build Meccano sets for all I care. I just want some information.”
“I’ve nothing to say.”
“How would your mother react if I got her across here and she found you with the champers open?”
“How could you do that?”
I got up, standing as tall as I could, and went across the room to the telephone. “I got the number of the Jag. Two calls and I’ve got the phone number of the silver-haired gent it’s registered to. One more call and I’m onto your Mum.”
“Who are you?”
“I told you at the door. You let me in, remember? Come on, Mr Glover. Be smart. A couple of questions and I’m gone and you can open another bottle and get a couple of girls in. What’s the name of the firm?”
“That’s one question. Glover and Barclay.”
“Who’s Barclay?”
“Two. He was a partner. Son of the original Barclay, like my father was son of the original Glover.”