It’d been a strange morning’s work on both matters I was pursuing. As I drove towards Lugarno, I did a cruise of the area, following Forrest Road down to the river, and reflected on the coincidence that both cases involved young men who seemed to have achieved some upward mobility. It was late in the morning and I was hungry after my meagre weight-conscious breakfast. In my experience, well-heeled women like Sammy and Danni Price didn’t sit at home with a sandwich and the Midday Movie. They went out to lunch. I bought a salad roll and a Diet Coke at a milk bar and took up a position with a good view of the house, hoping one of them would emerge. If they both emerged I’d have to make a decision. It can be an intellectually challenging game, whatever Cyn used to say.
I couldn’t see the water from my spot but I knew it was down there at the end of the road that had been carved out of the rock so that some rugged bushland rose up above it. Had to be nice looking back up at Lugarno from the river. The Price house in Forrest Road was a newish rambling affair on a big block behind a high besser brick fence and large silver-frosted iron gates. The neighbourhood was a mixture of houses old and new with a few up-market townhouse developments thrown in. It was elevated and leafy, without any through traffic. Nice place if you had a good car and a swimming pool and didn’t mind being that far from the CBD. It looked as if everyone living there would be much the same — comfortable and conservative — but I knew that wasn’t true: there’d be secret drinkers and cross-dressers and One Nation voters.
I’d finished the roll and was draining the Coke bottle when a white Celica glided through the open gates. Sammy off for lunch. With whom? Where? I got a good look at her as she flashed past. Her blonde hair was formally arranged and she wore bright, dangling earrings. For lunch? But it was her bearing and expression that had me turning the key — she was high on something, very high, and looking to get higher. She looked as though she was following the Gough Whitlam adage — the fun is where I am!
I muttered this in my best Gough voice as I followed the Celica at a discreet distance. Sammy was a good driver and the Celica was a good car. Her traffic sense was exemplary. Unlike a lot of drivers, who speed up and pass only to be stopped at lights and intersections and get nothing out of it, she could judge how to get smoothly through the traffic and avoid hold-ups. It took me all my time to keep up with her while staying, as she did, just over the speed limit. The route was basically east and she eventually pulled up outside a block of flats on the outskirts of Rockdale. She drove into the parking area and sounded the horn three times. I stopped in the street, ready to follow when she pulled out. If she went west I’d have to do a U-turn over double lines. Dangerous stuff.
The next three toots were louder and impatient. She got out of the car and lit a cigarette. She wore a pink suit with a tight, short skirt. High heels. After a few puffs she threw the cigarette away as a man approached her. He was tall and fair-haired, wearing a light grey suit. Blue shirt, red tie. They greeted each other very formally, shaking hands and exchanging a few words. She handed him the keys. He opened the passenger door for her and she got in with a flash of smoky nylonned legs. He moved smoothly, like a young man, got behind the wheel, backed out and we were off east again.
Their manner puzzled me. This was obviously an arranged meeting, yet they met like strangers. These days it isn’t usual for women drivers to turn their car keys over to men, and the way Sammy drove suggested that she enjoyed it. And the suits! He didn’t drive nearly as well as she did and was easy to keep in sight. We ended up in Kogarah, a bit short of Tom Ugly’s Bridge. The Celica pulled into a car park servicing a complex that included a marina, a restaurant and a motel. Up-market, nice views. It took a while for me to find a spot a short distance away and I walked back with my golfing cap on, hoping I looked like a yachtie.
The sun shone, the water sparkled; a great day to be lunching or boating and not so bad for snooping. Nobody bothered me as I strolled through the car park and mounted the steps leading up to the restaurant that had an appropriately nautical air. Sammy and her friend were lunching alfresco on the wide, shaded balcony that gave them a glorious view of the Georges River out to Botany Bay. I kept my distance but at a guess they were on oysters to start and they don’t usually put mineral water in a silver ice bucket.
‘Help you, sir?’
A waiter type appeared from nowhere. He seemed to evaluate the retail value of my clothes at a glance and his tone was critical.
‘No, no. Just having a look before taking a sail. Nice place. Booking necessary?’
‘Absolutely, sir.’
‘Good. Well, another day.’
Hanging around is one of the skills a private enquiry agent has to perfect and it’s not as easy as it sounds. It was easier back in the days when I smoked; at least you looked as if you were doing something. Of course you are doing something, but the trick is to look as if you’re not, and yet somehow belong where you are. Breaking my no-drinking-before-six rule and not for the first time, I bought a can of light beer from the liquor store that was part of the marina complex and took up a position in the shade across from the restaurant. I’d picked up the local rag in the store and had that as another prop. A man drinking beer and reading the paper on a beautiful day down by the water is doing no wrong.
The paper was full of the usual parish pump letters and articles about traffic and air quality and sewerage and water quality. It’s funny how those very basic human needs are the stuff of local politics — and usually get stuffed up. Sammy and her handsome hunk were taking their time over the barramundi and the creme caramel. I was through to the local bowls competition results when they emerged. Sammy was tall and slim but shapely with that air some women have of appearing not to know how good they look. She tucked her hand under her companion’s arm as they went down the steps like two models on the catwalk.
I drained the last lukewarm drops from the can and deposited it and the paper in the nearby bin. Keep Kogarah beautiful. They crossed the car park, but I didn’t even consider sprinting for the Falcon or hiring a boat — this pair wasn’t thinking anything but sex. They walked so close together they were almost intertwined and only broke away a fraction when they mounted the steps to the motel reception.
She said something to him as they hit the last step and they both laughed — blonde heads tossed, trim, taut bodies ready for action. Their youth and vitality made me feel old and depressed. Tracking them from the office along a walkway to their room, I felt as if I was back in the bad old ‘Brownie and bedsheets’ days when a big part of the job was obtaining divorce evidence.
Sammy’s companion unlocked the door and ushered her inside with a hand planted firmly on her behind. Would have made a good picture in the old days. No business of mine now, at least not directly. I stood at my vantage point under a stand of plane trees in a corner of the car park and considered my next move. I couldn’t see any reason to tell Price his wife was having an affair; it didn’t seem to have any bearing on his strategy to protect and help his daughter. Or if it did, I couldn’t see what that bearing was.
I walked back to my car and picked up the mobile, thinking to call the Price house. If Danni was at home I’d go over there and wait to see if she went anywhere interesting. It was hot in the car and I got out to stand in the shade to make the call. I was about to punch in the numbers when a man loomed up beside me. When I say loomed I mean loomed — he was tall and wide with a shaven head, and the pale hand that plucked the mobile from my grasp and threw it away was super-sized.
‘Hey,’ I protested.
He just stood there, a pace away now — a hundred kilos of bone and muscle in T-shirt and jeans. I had a gun and a tyre iron and I thought I’d need both to make an impression on him, but they were in the car. For now it was just me.
‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’
He moved a step closer and it took everything I had and a bit more not to back away. ‘You’re asking the wrong question, mate. That’s the question I should be asking you.’
At least we were talking. I opened my mouth to reply but he swung a punch into my belly that knocked the wind out of me and buckled my knees. He grabbed me by the collar and I heard the faded denim rip as he hauled me upright and pressed me against the bonnet of my car. I wanted to talk but I was still trying to breathe.
His breath was ripe with marijuana as he spoke close to my ear. ‘But I’m not interested in your answer, mate. I just got a message for you. Whatever you’re doing, drop it!’
He let me go and I scrabbled at the hot metal for something to hold to stop me falling. I managed to keep my feet and sucked in deep breaths as I watched him walk away. At fifty metres off he still looked big.