I almost dropped the coffee cup. 'You saw him? When was this?'
Professor of Psychology or not, he looked as pleased by my reaction to his statement as anyone would have been. 'Happily, I'm not afflicted by short-term memory loss like so many people my age. This was three days ago.'
'What happened?'
'I was sitting on the front verandah, reading. It catches the afternoon sun. I saw a car pull up outside the Heysen house. Cars, again. All I can say is that it wasn't the car William used to drive when he lived here. This was a big car, a four-wheel drive model-' he waved his hands to illustrate the style-'and black. As I say, not his old car, but definitely him.'
'Did you speak to him?'
'No, no. I'm sure he didn't even see me. I suppose I assumed he'd been to see his mother and was fetching something from the house for her. I didn't know anything about him being missing. He went in.'
'How long did he stay?'
'I'm afraid I don't know. I went inside to make some notes on what I'd been reading. I still do some research and writing, you see. I didn't go to the front again at all that day. The car had gone by the next day but he could have been there five minutes or five hours.'
'How did he look? Confident? Furtive?'
'Really, Mr Hardy, you ask the most extraordinary questions. I only glimpsed the boy for a few seconds.'
'Your impression?'
He thought. I suppose psychologists think a lot and don't need any props to do it. His cup stayed on the table and he didn't scratch himself or tent his fingers. He just sat. 'Preoccupied,' he said at last. 'As you'd expect.'
I nodded. Preoccupied perhaps, but not about his mother, who he hadn't contacted. It was unlikely that he hadn't heard about the shooting. I thanked him for giving me his time.
He smiled. 'The odd thing about my situation is that in one way I have all the time in the world and in another, who knows? Maybe not much.'
'I think you're good for a few years yet.'
We moved back into the passage. 'I hope so. I still enjoy life. I'm glad to have met you, Mr Hardy. I haven't encountered many-what should I say, men of action? — in my life. You'd make an interesting case study.'
'I don't think so.'
'Oh, yes. You're drawn to intrigue and violence like a moth to a flame.'
I drove to the office mulling over what Professor Lowen-stein had said, both about my character and his sighting of William Heysen. Intrigue went with the territory, but was it true that I welcomed violence? Cyn had always said so and she, like the professor, was very smart. I didn't think of myself that way, but I knew I'd been involved in violence for the greater part of my life-from boxing as an adolescent in the police boys' club, through military service and on into my career as a PEA. I decided that it was only partly true. I'd done the things I'd done not primarily because I sought the violence involved, but because I rejected the alternatives-the passive life, the routines. That satisfied me on that score.
I parked, climbed the stairs and went into the office. The building is old and in poor repair. After my little nook had been closed up for a few days the general decay of the place seemed to creep in as a smell. But it's probably just the cockroaches and mice-some dead, some alive-in the wall cavities. I sometimes wondered what the space I rented had been used for in the past. I once found a threepenny bit in the skirting board and a stiff, brittle condom caught in the slats of the venetian blind. Doesn't tell you a lot but gives you ideas.
The sighting of young Heysen, apparently prosperous, had to be a positive. Up to that point, given Rex Wain's 'whisper', there had been a chance he wasn't in the country. But why does a mother-fixated son not visit that mother in hospital? Because he can't? Lowenstein could have mistaken preoccupation for worry. Whatever the reason, it hadn't brought me any closer to finding him.
I made some notes on the conversation with the Prof and couldn't help underlining a phrase-He was nothing like his father… The conversation had left me with questions to add to the list I already had: why had William Heysen gone to the house? What, if anything, had he taken, or left? Would Catherine Heysen allow me to search the house? Where was William living? How many black 4WDs are there in Sydney? Not all of the questions I jot down at these moments are sensible.
The coffee and paracetamol buzz was fading and my abused back was aching. A big man in a red Commodore. I was looking for bright and dull coloured cars in a city full of cars. Needles in a very big haystack. As I looked at my notes and doodles, I came close to being sure of one thing, more a matter of intuition than logic: the attacks on Catherine Heysen and me had to do with the old Heysen-Bellamy matter, not Billy boy.
The phone rang.
'Hardy.'
'This is William Heysen.'
I was surprised, but not as surprised as I would have been a few hours earlier.
'Oh, yeah? The William Heysen who drives a black 4WD and doesn't visit his mother in hospital when she's been shot?'
'Do you want to talk, or just make smartarse remarks?'
'You talk, I'll listen.'
'I understand you've been looking for me.'
'Right, on behalf of your mother.'
'Yes, but before she was shot.'
'True.'
'Why?'
'It's a long story. It goes back to Dr Gregory Heysen.'
'My father, the murder conspirator.'
'I have to tell you there's some doubt about that.'
'What? That he wasn't guilty?'
'Possibly. I think we should meet. There are… things to discuss.'
'Such as?'
I had to think about that. The whole matter of his paternity was hanging fire and could go either way. But I had him on the hook and didn't want to lose him. I couldn't think of a better bait.
'The identity of your father.'
'What do you mean?'
'We need to talk. Where are you, William?'
'Patronise me, and you'll never hear from me again.'
Nasty. Maybe he was the doctor's son.
‹T› ›
I m sorry.
'Is your enquiry in any way to do with the police?'
That was a curly one if only he knew it. But I played a straight bat. 'No.'
'All right. We'll talk.'
'Where are you?'
A few seconds elapsed and then the door swung in and a tallish young man stood there, lowering a mobile phone from his ear. 'Right here.'
I couldn't stop myself. 'Who's the smartarse now?' I said.
'Melodramatic, I'll agree.'
He came in and dropped down into the client chair. He was very much as his mother had described him-not quite as tall, slim, dark-haired with an olive tint to his skin, handsome and aware of it. Too aware. He was clean-shaven; his hair was long but neat. He wore loose pants, a T-shirt and a denim jacket, all pricey, all clean. If he was on drugs they hadn't taken any toll on him yet. He sat straight in the chair and looked at me with a confident manner, bordering on cockiness.
'What's this about my paternity?'
'Let's back up a bit,' I said. 'How did you find out about me?'
He didn't want to concede anything but apparently decided to yield a fraction. 'I found your card in the house. I also heard an answering machine message from you that dated back a bit. Plus, a person I know told me you'd contacted her asking questions. Satisfied?'
'That fits. Why haven't you visited your mother? Why drop out of sight?'
He shook his head. 'That's all I'm saying until I hear more from you.'
I wasn't used to fencing with someone so much younger, but there was something steely about him that made it necessary. 'I should really get your mother's permission to tell you this, but when you went off the rails after you found out about your father, she-'
His poise slipped for the first time. 'What? She said that?'
'Yes.'
The composure returned almost immediately, shades of his mother. 'Incredible. Go on.'
This was getting tricky. I didn't want to tell him about Frank and the paternity test and all the rest of it. Not yet, anyway. I swivelled around creakily in my chair that needed oiling and probably more than that. I stared out the window for a moment in the hope of unsettling him. It worked.
'Well?' He was a bit off balance now.
'Look, William, you're the one sneaking around, hiding, making furtive visits, worried about whether I'm tied in with the police. You're obviously in some kind of trouble. I suggest you change your attitude.'
He didn't like it, but he didn't get up and leave. 'I'll tell you this,' he said quietly. 'That woman's a monster. She's so manipulative she doesn't know what she's doing half the time. I didn't go off the rails, as you put it, because I discovered my father was a criminal. I simply experimented with a different lifestyle for a while. I'd played the role of the achieving son for so long I was sick and tired of it. I knew she was living through me, having somehow stalled in her own life. Then I saw a… an opportunity and pursued it.'
'Which has put you in danger.'
'Maybe, but I believe I can handle it. There, I've put some cards on the table. Your turn. I'm interested in this paternity business, but it's almost certainly one of her fantasies. If that's the basis of your investigation, you're on a hiding to nothing.'
'It's a bit more than that. There's a strong possibility Dr Heysen was framed and that the person who did it wants no enquiry. I think that's why your mother was shot and why I was attacked.'
'The mouth,' he said. 'And the stiff neck.'
He was smart and observant. 'Exactly. I'm sure you're relieved to learn that your mother being shot wasn't to do with you and your activities.'
'You're on the wrong tack there, Mr Hardy. I never for a minute thought that was a possibility. You've met her. How many enemies do you think she's been capable of making?'
'Whether that's true or not, she's your mother and you don't seem very concerned about her.'
'Oh, I know she's all right.'
'How?'
'I went in there, into the hospital. I'd changed my appearance somewhat. I got close enough to see that she's not in danger and is getting the best of care.'
'No thanks to you.'
'She doesn't need help from me. She's never needed help from anyone. Either that, or she needs so much help she's beyond helping.'
'I think you've worked on that line.'
He let that pass, which probably meant I was right. 'We seem to have reached a stalemate. Are you going to enlighten me about this paternity business or not?'
'You're curious?'
'Who wouldn't be? Most people have a changeling complex at some time or other.'
I had to think what to say. He'd come to me so I suppose I could say I'd found him. Job completed, at least the unstated job of locating him. But he was likely to vanish again and there was nothing to prove I'd seen him. But there was still the original question and its probable after-math-the attacks on Catherine Heysen and myself. Would she want to employ me on that? Or was I still on it on Frank's behalf? Confusing.
'I think your mother should tell you about it,' I said.
'No chance. I don't care if I never see her again.'
'She's planning to sell the house.'
He shrugged. 'It's hers to sell.'
'You have an interest.'
'Not interested.'
'Meaning you've got all the money you're ever going to need?'
'I wouldn't say that, but…'
I was at the end of my patience with him. 'You're full of shit, William. You've got an opportunity, you say. Okay, you're going to make big bucks. But you haven't made them yet and you've got a few problems. Just possibly, I could help you there, get you out from under.'
I could almost see the brain wheels turning. I still didn't like him, but there was no denying his smarts. No nervous gestures from him though; he was still in control as he weighed the odds. 'Out from under,' he said. 'Strange expression. I don't have any problems. What makes you think I do?'
'I've been told you're smuggling drugs in from Indonesia.'
He threw back his head and the laugh that came from him was genuine and full-hearted, perhaps with a touch of relief in it. 'Me? Smuggling drugs? That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Every link in that chain is compromised. More money changes hands for information and corruption than ever gets made by anyone involved. It's a high risk business, too high.'
'Sounds as though you've considered it.'
'Oh yes.'
'I've got that from two sources.'
'Well, I might've given some people that impression. Look, if I tell you what I'm on about, or give you an idea of it, will you tell me what I want to know?'
'I guess. If you'll contact your mother, confirm that you've spoken to me and that you're alive and well.'
'Protecting your arse. All right. I don't like it but all right.'
'Unship your mobile and do it now.'
He didn't like that, but he'd painted himself into a corner. He rang the hospital and asked to be put through to the ward. 'Mother?' he said.
I came around the desk and heard Catherine Heysen's distinctive voice, perhaps less confident than it had been previously. 'William, is that you?'
'Yes, Mother. I'm talking to your private detective with the split lip and the aching back-Mr Hardy, in his Newtown office. Here he is.'
He was full of tricks. I took the phone, said a few words and then busied myself making coffee. The conversation obviously didn't go well for either of them, but it met my stipulation. He closed off the call as the coffee maker began its geriatric process.
'Satisfied?' he said.
'Yeah. So what's your game?'
He put the tiny phone back in his jacket pocket and I wondered if he'd used it to take a photograph or record the conversation or do any of the hundred and one things they're capable of doing these days. From his smug self-satisfied look it seemed possible, but he was still the one who had had to ante up first.
'I suppose you could say I'm into immigration facilitation.'