“Several men, sons of engineers and others involved in the construction of the bridge, have vanished or died. There seems to be a connection.”
She stood, picked up a mattock and began hacking at the hard earth around a deeply implanted stump. “Got to move this if I’m going to get the layout right for Madam. I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“Neither do I.”
“What were those names again?”
I gave them to her. She kept hacking, stopped, gave the stump a tug. It wobbled, just a little. “Dad knew a man named Samuels, I think. Yes. And he disappeared. That’s right. I remember Dad talking about it.”
“Was this Samuels somehow connected with the bridge?”
She put down the mattock and took off her cardigan. “I think he might have been. There was always a lot of talk about the bridge when we saw Grandpa. He was terribly proud of it.”
“That’s understandable,” I said. “ I’m proud of it, and all my dad ever did was drive over and help to pay for it.”
“Mm. Yes, now that you get me thinking about it, I believe Dad and Mr Samuels did talk about the bridge. But they played golf together mostly. I don’t think there was a Sons of the Bridge Builders Society or anything like that.”
“No?” I watched her continue her attack on the stump. “I don’t suppose your grandfather ever mentioned any enemies? Men with grudges against him?”
“Grandpa? He was just a sweet old man when I knew him. You’d think he’d have trouble climbing a ladder. But he told me he’d walked across the top of the arch after the bridge was finished, and I believed him. D’you think that could be true?”
I grinned. “Don’t ask. Is there anything else you can tell me about your father, the bridge, friends connected with it. Anything like that?”
“No. Nothing. Did you find the woman? The woman Dad played golf with? You haven’t asked me to…”
“I found her and talked to her. She couldn’t help.”
“What was she like?”
The mattock hung from her hand, forgotten. She was looking for something positive, some shred of comfort in a fatherless world. “Attractive and intelligent. She really cared for your father and I think she misses him badly. But she…”
“Has a husband and property to protect. Kids.” She swung the mattock viciously so that the blade stabbed three inches into the stump. “Fucking heteros!”
It was getting cold sitting there motionless in the shade. I stood and shivered. “I’m sorry to upset you, but these things don’t usually work out too well.”
“You warned me. You’re doing your job. I understand. Give us a hand here.”
I helped her to pull the mattock out of the stump and the moment of friction passed. She gave off a nice smell-of earth and wood and leaves, and I wanted to touch her, to make contact with those good, healing things. She might have sensed this, might have misinterpreted. In any case, she wasn’t going to let it happen. She stepped back. “Do you need any more money, Mr Hardy?”
“No.”
She pointed to my head wounds. “You say they don’t have anything to do with this case. Are you working on a couple of things at once? Not a good idea in my game.” She waved a hand at the sleepers and mounds of earth.
“Nor in mine,” I said. “The other thing’s all cleared up now. I can concentrate on finding out what happened to your father.”
“Good,” Louise Madden said.
I drove around for a while looking for a place to buy a beer and a sandwich. On the way I passed a lot of houses that reminded me of the ones you see in Hollywood on the ‘homes of the rich and famous’ tour. Here, they were the homes of the rich and unknown who preferred to stay that way. I ate the sandwich and drank the beer sitting in the car. From where I’d parked, I had a magnificent view of Middle Harbour. I speculated about why the rich always live in elevated positions and the less rich further down the hill. My scratchy historical knowledge suggested it had been so since mediaeval times. That was an interesting thought. Was the position taken for reasons of safety, the last point to be attacked by an enemy, rather than domination? Were there exceptions in South America? It was the kind of half-baked question Helen and I used to have fun with. The people up here certainly looked safe. Or at least their houses did. There still weren’t many actual people about. I flicked through my notebook again, underlining the names-Madden, Glover, Barclay, Samuels, Booth. Maybe some of them had lived in Castlecrag or similar places. Bellevue Hill was the same sort of location after all. But a lot of those high, mediaeval forts were stormed and taken, if memory served me right. Safety is an illusion.
I still wasn’t fully recovered from my hectic night. I took a couple of aspirin with the swallows of beer for my aching head, and the sun came out again and heated up the car and I dozed off.
I woke up with that panicky feeling of not knowing where I was, or even who. Comprehension came back in a rush as I stared down at the water and the, from this distance, fragile-looking boats: men were dead, men had vanished and I was investigating how and why. Maybe other men were under threat and here I was, sleeping in the afternoon. On the client’s time. It occurred to me that the Glovers, Barclays and others could probably afford the investigation better than Louise Madden. But they probably wouldn’t want to pay me to sleep. The way things were going, billing Ms Madden was going to be tricky. That led to thoughts of Cy Sackville and my court appearance. Maybe I should call him off and save some money. But Cy would be disappointed. Maybe we could sue the state for public mischief?
“And kiss your arse goodbye,” I said aloud. I started the car and drove to Northbridge.
14
It had been some years since I’d been to Paul and Pat Guthrie’s house, but I found it without difficulty. The big peppercorn tree in front was unmistakable. Guthrie’s block was wide and long with a deep water frontage. Pretty flash, but after the place Louise Madden had been land-scaping it looked modest. There were the usual couple of cars parked in the driveway, and the untidiness of the garden, giving the place a sort of weekender feel, was another thing I remembered and liked. A couple of dogs ran out and barked at me as I approached the house. Paul Guthrie wandered out onto the high deck that ran around three sides of the house to see what the dogs were barking at. When he saw me he raised a hand in a vaguely naval salute and beckoned me forward.
I skirted the barbecue pit and the swimming pool, which had a heavy plastic cover over it. Guthrie came down a set of wooden steps from the deck. He must have been close to seventy but he moved like a man twenty years younger. His handshake was firm without being competitive. When you’ve pulled oars for as long and as hard as he had, you don’t need to show off your strength. Guthrie had been an Olympic sculler, and the strength and springiness needed for that tough event were still in him.
“Cliff,” he said, “it’s great to see you.”
“Same here, Paul.”
“What happened to your head?”
“The usual. How’s life?”
Another man might have taken a quick look around his possessions before answering; not Guthrie. “Pat’s in the pink,” he said. “The boys are fine. Two grandchildren, like I told you, and I can still row a boat. How would it be?”
“You’re a lucky man, Paul.”
“I know. Come inside and have a drink and tell me what you’re up to.”
We went into the house at ground level and down the wide passage to Guthrie’s den, which housed his sporting trophies and family mementos-more of the latter than the former. He saw me settled in an armchair, went out whistling and came back with two cans of light beer.
“Cheers,” he said. “I suppose you got those head wounds on that gambling boat, the Pavarotti?”