She looked at me. In the dim street light her eyes gleamed dark and cold.
“Are you going to look for whoever killed him?”
“It might turn out that way.”
“Let me know when it does, I might help you.”
I started to say something but she raged at me.
“Look, they fucked, got off, got pissed. She liked gang bangs, Ricky said. He was teasing me. Jesus.”
She started to cry again; her thin shoulders shook and her breath shuddered in and out with a thin, reedy sound like papers being shuffled. I wanted to reach over and comfort her but it was the wrong move at the wrong time. I felt for my tobacco and remembered that I’d left it inside the house.
“What was Ricky to you Penny?”
“Nothing, worse luck.” The childish expression seemed to stop the crying. “He was wrapped in Noni. She came down here from Paddo or wherever the fuck she lives and I wouldn’t see him…” She pulled herself up in the seat until her back was ramrod straight. In that position there was just a suggestion of swellings under her sweater. In profile there was a slight heaviness to her face that suggested strength and stubbornness. She swung her head around, the heaviness disappeared but the strength was still there.
“Take me to Bare Island, I want to see Ricky.”
Her voice was steady with no note of hysteria in it and I couldn’t think of any reason not to do as she said. She didn’t look like someone who had to ask permission to go out at night. I started the car and drove off. I took a quick look at her. She was staring out the window as the familiar places whipped past in the dark but the look on her face made me think that she was about ready to leave La Perouse.
6
Bare Island is connected to the rest of Australia by a hundred yards of old wooden causeway over a rocky deep water channel. A wind off the ice cap was blowing in all directions at once and whipping up the spray from the water and blending it in with the drizzle when I drove down to the foreshore. I rummaged in the back of the car and found a yellow plastic slicker for me and an ancient, mouldering duffel coat which I gave to Penny. We coated up and ran to the police truck parked near the beginning of the causeway. Two cops were sitting in the truck and I pounded on the glass of the driver’s window as we flattened ourselves against the side trying to get some shelter. The window came down and the occupant swore as some rain whipped into his face.
“What the bloody hell do you want?”
I’d seen his face down at police headquarters on one of my not infrequent and ill-starred trips down there. I dug deep for the name that went with it.
“Evening Mr Courtenay,” I said. “Nice night?”
“Yeah great, who’re you?”
“Hardy, private enquiries, I’ve seen you down at Brisbane Street.”
“Yeah? Who do you know there?”
“Grant Evans.”
It wasn’t a bad name to throw around just then. Grant had recently got a promotion and men on the way up sometimes take others up with them. Courtenay wasn’t unimpressed, as the writers say. I thought I’d better move in on him quickly.
“This is Penny Sharkey,” I said, guessing. “She’s a relative of the dead boy.”
The other cop leaned across and looked out. “I can see that.”
“Shut up Balt,” Courtenay snapped.
I looked at Balt. The collar on his gabardine overcoat was turned up and some wisps of straw-coloured hair stuck out from under his hat. His head was long and his eyes were as pale as an arctic night. When the migrant rush from Europe got going after the war we called them all “Balts” wherever they came from, but this one looked like the genuine article.
“What’s your interest, Hardy?” Courtenay asked.
“I’m on a missing persons case – girl. She was last seen with Simmonds. I hear she was on the spot but isn’t around now. Thought I’d come and have a look here and ask you about the girl.”
“Did you now?” Balt rasped. “What about her?” He jerked a thumb at Penny. His hostility was undisguised and probably stemmed from trouble he’d had himself as a migrant. Race prejudice has a pecking order and the Aborigines get no-one to peck. Balt seemed to be the wrong man on the wrong job, or perhaps the cops thought he was just right for it.
“I thought she might be able to help,” I said mildly. “She saw Simmonds this afternoon, might spot something important now.”
It was lame, I knew it, Courtenay knew it, Bait didn’t even listen.
“Who’s your client?” he rapped out. “Who’re you looking for?”
“Ease up, Balt,” Courtenay soothed him. He looked down at the girl who was huddled inside the duffel coat. The talk had washed over her like a wave of nothing. The water drops in her hair glistened in the light from the inside of the truck. She looked stoical and immovable, able to outlast us all.
“I heard he was on the rocks. Still there?”
Courtenay nodded. “Down on the rocks outside the wall. The place is a fort. You know it?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s a fort like I say, with these high walls around it. Built to light off the Japs.”
“Russians,” Penny said suddenly.
“Alright, Russians. Anyway Simmonds was shot somewhere up on the island and fell down to the rocks. Ended up in a sitting position. He’s still there. We need some pictures.”
“Who found him?”
“Girl. She called us, went around to the house. Then she shot through. She your misser?”
“Yes. Can we take a look out there?”
“If you like. He’s not pretty. No face to speak of.”
Penny turned away, her nails scratched the smooth surface of the truck as she reached out for support. I moved closer and put my arm around her. Balt’s sneer was a hiss of stinking gas in the dark.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“Who’s out there?” I asked Courtenay.
“Foster, forensic guy, photographer, stretcher boys on the way. Tell Foster I OK’d you.”
“Right.” We crouched ready to move off into the rain which seemed to be easing a little.
“You might remember the co-operation when you see Evans,” Courtenay muttered, trying to keep the sound from travelling to Bait.
Penny sprinted off into the drizzle. We dodged the posts that prevented vehicles driving onto the causeway and started across. The visibility was poor and we had to watch our footing; the wooden handrail and the planking were twisted as though the island had tried to wrench itself free of the continent. There was an oasis of light down under where the causeway ended at a gate that stood up like a stand of spears. We struggled down some steps to where two men stood in stiff formation near a dark shape on the ground. A roughly rigged-up floodlight on a six foot high stand threw shadows around and caught flecks of spray and drizzle in the air. One of the men was wearing a white boiler suit and heavy rubber gloves, the other was fiddling with one of the cameras slung around his neck. The dark crumpled heap against the pitted cement wall looked like something that had been screwed up and thrown away. One of his legs stuck straight out and the other was tucked up under him at a crazy angle. His face was a sagging collapsed hole. He was wearing a light khaki jacket and denims. The left side of the jacket was an oozing dark stain. Penny looked down at him, a shiver ran through her and I could feel her trembling across the distance between us. Then she turned away and leaned her back against the wall. She stared ahead of her, across the water to La Perouse and beyond.
“How do you read it?” I asked Foster.
He pointed up. “He got it up there and fell down. Got the head shot I mean.”
“And then?”
“Can’t be sure, but I think he was propped up and shot in the chest.”
“To finish him off?”
He shrugged. “Could be.”
“When was this?”
“Sometime this afternoon. Look, who’re you?” I’d wondered when In was going to ask. I told him that Courtenay had given me the nod. Hi looked happier, as if he’d done his duty as a policeman. The cameraman suddenly let off a flash. We all jumped.