Matrimonial Causes (6 page)

It came to me in a flash and I reacted instinctively by flattening myself against the wall, pressing back into a long boarded-up doorway.
All the flapping posters had been taken down and
nothing had been put up in their place.
The posters would have posed a problem for anyone trying to shoot from further up the lane. I trusted the feeling of danger; I'd had it too many times before in quiet
kampongs
and apparently empty paddy fields, but I felt ridiculous—this wasn't Malaya, or Vietnam, or New York City. I sucked in a breath and realised that I'd been holding myself in a sort of suspended animation. Survival stuff. Why not? I moved my head out of its rigid, locked position and forced myself to look with one eye down the lane. I desperately wished for a weapon, but my Smith & Wesson .38 was locked away in the office filing cabinet.

To use even one eye you have to expose some forehead. I squinted up the lane, prepared to run forward to my doorway. What the hell if I looked ridiculous? I was imagining things. No one was watching. The bullet tore a furrow through the bricks a metre or so in front of me and whined off to hit the wall opposite. I was blinded by the brick dust but still registering impressions. The shot was muted. A silencer fitted. Bad for accuracy, but what use was that to me now?

I heard a sound behind me and used my undamaged eye to look. A car had turned into the lane and was coming slowly towards me.
Jesus
, I thought,
a crossfire. Good planning, men. This is it.

The car continued slowly up the lane. It was a sleek green Rover, a respectable person's car. The driver was a fat man, pale-faced, apprehensive.

‘Hardy!' The harsh voice came from up near the church. ‘Leave it alone!'

The Rover stopped. I could feel my fingers crushing the salad sandwich into a soggy mess. The driver wound down his window.

‘I'm looking for an auto-electrician,' he said.

It wasn't the first time I'd been shot at and it didn't leave me weak and shaking, although it was a while before I could peel myself from the wall and go into my building. When I got to my door and fished for my key I realised I was still holding the food and drink. I put them on the desk and opened the drawer where I'd installed a cask of red wine. It was a good fit. I filled a coffee mug and rolled a cigarette. A bullet within a metre of the skull cancels out some good resolutions. Bitter lemon just wasn't going to cut it. I smoked the cigarette, ate the squashed sandwich and drank the wine. All very natural functions and reassuring to be able to perform them. I wanted it to stay that way.

Given that, I had the option of doing what I was told—dropping it. I could return Virginia Shaw's money, tear up her Melbourne number and get on with summons-serving and doing character checks for employers and looking for a little light car-repossession work. I could even spend some money—fly up to Cairns and see if Cyn was cheating on me with someone in a safari
suit. A great start to my new, independent life as a small businessman that would be. Two jobs, two messes and a quick run for cover.

Not on. My phone call to Andrew Perkins had produced immediate results. I'd rubbed a few people the wrong way as an insurance investigator and there were those around who didn't like me for one reason or another, but not enough to send a shooter. It had to be Perkins. The intention may not have been to kill me. It was hard to tell, also impossible to prove. Perkins didn't have to go into hiding on my account, but he'd be on the defensive. What was clear was that Detective Ian Gallagher had been right—there was something
behind
the Meadowbank shooting, perhaps something big. I could go to Gallagher and show him … what? The chunk out of the wall? The brick dust in my hair?

After another cigarette and half a mug of wine I'd convinced myself that the personal had merged with the professional and that I should have a meeting with Andrew Perkins. I dug out my slightly out-of-date copy of
Hammersmith's Australian Law List,
one of the tools of the trade, and looked up Perkins. No chance of a private address, but some of the more status-conscious types liked to list their clubs. Perkins' entry named the GPS Club—meaning he'd attended one of the major private schools—the Naval & Military and the White City Lawn Tennis Club. No affiliations with my only club—the Balmain-Rozelle RSL. I couldn't see myself strolling into the GPS Club wearing my Maroubra High School tie and a brief second lieutenancy, gained in the field, wouldn't cut much
ice at the Naval & Military. But White City was a different matter. Tennis shirts and shorts tend to cancel out class differences and my father-in-law, Dr George Lee, was a member.

I phoned White City and was told that the members engaged in social tennis on Saturday afternoons and club competitions on Sunday, weather permitting. It was Friday and the forecast for Saturday was fine and warm. I phoned Cyn's father at his practice in St Leonards.

‘Doc? Cliff. Lost many lately?'

‘No more than usual. Had an extraordinary haemorrhoid just now—big as a cricket ball.'

‘Wish I'd been there. How's Inge?'

Inge is Cyn's mother—a Danish-born snow queen whose genes dominated Doc's to produce my blonde wife. Doc is squat and dark—a case of opposites attracting. Lee is a gipsy name, in some cases, and Doc and I had formed a good bantering friendship over the years based on our common supposed gypsy heritage, sporting interests and love for Cyn, who is an only child.

‘She's fine. Cynthia's gone to Queensland so I know the two of you aren't coming into bourgeois territory to cadge a decent meal. No trouble I hope, Cliff?'

‘No trouble, Doc. I need a favour. You're a member at White City?'

‘Mmm, yes. Haven't been down there for a while.'

‘Ever met a bloke named Perkins? A lawyer?'

‘Don't think so. As I say, I haven't played there much lately—too old, too busy.'

‘You're still financial, I hope.'

‘Of course. Still the best grass courts in Sydney, and grass is the only surface for the game.'

‘I agree. Could you find out whether this Andrew Perkins plays regularly and get me in to meet him?'

‘How soon?'

‘Tomorrow would be fine.'

‘You're a bull-at-a-gate sort of chap, Cliff. I'll see what I can do. Where are you?'

I told him the office number would get me for the next few hours and I'd be at home after that. I resisted the call of the wine and drank the bitter lemon as I made some judicious entries in a file headed ‘Shaw, Virginia'. I made out a deposit slip to bank her cheque and wrote a cheque of my own for my NRMA membership which had fallen due. Paperwork over for the day—a big change from my previous job. I was missing Cyn, or rather the thought of her, already. I didn't have a contact number in Cairns. I supposed I could get one from the office, but why hadn't she given me one? Why hadn't I asked? I glanced around the drab office thinking that Cyn would have been able to brighten it in some way. I hadn't invited her to see it. We weren't in good shape. Doc and Inge would be worried if they knew.

I flicked through a few circulars that comprised most of the mail—install a security system, buy a safe, fit a car alarm. Fear was the name of the game and I was a part of it. I went out of the office and down the corridor to the one bathroom-cum-toilet that services the whole building. I washed my face and combed my hair. I wanted a cup of coffee. There was a broom-cupboard-sized alcove near the bathroom with a shelf and a power point that might work. A birko, Nescafe and some long-life milk would raise my quality of life. The phone was ringing in my office and, as I sprinted down the cracked lino to catch it, I thought about sprinters and shooters.
Was the guy who shot at me in the lane the killer
of
Charles Meadowbank?

Doc Lee had been on to White City and come up trumps. Andrew Perkins was a regular player, a never-miss-it type who could be relied on to be at the courts tomorrow if the weather held.

‘A few sets'd do me good, Cliff,' Doc said. ‘I'm putting on weight. Might get me playing more often. Inge will bless you. Mind you, it's her bloody cooking that's making me fat.'

We arranged to meet at 1.30.

Leaving me with twenty hours to fill in. I found myself reluctant to leave the office. I didn't like the thought that a gunman could be out there waiting for me. I had a feeling that I was getting involved in something big and complex and had no organisation—like the army or the Greater Eastern Insurance Company—to back me up. No spit 'n' polish, no saluting, no keeping office hours, but this was the price to be paid for independence. My Smith & Wesson .38 Police Special was an eight-shot double action revolver with a three-inch barrel. It was comfortable to carry and fire and accurate over a short distance. I cleaned and loaded it and fitted it into a holster that nestles into the small of the back. Pull your shirt-tail out and no one knows you have death sitting just above your left buttock.

Just to be sure, I went up onto the roof to scout the terrain before leaving the building. You can travel a fair distance over the top and get a look down into the side streets and back lanes for a few blocks around. Everything looked normal and quiet. I peered out over the building next door and found myself looking at Primo Tomasetti's empty cement slab. There was a door right next to it and I could get into that building from mine. The idea of renting the space suddenly had a much greater appeal. I locked up and left and nothing happened. I banked Virginia Shaw's cheque just before closing time. No one had booby-trapped my car; no one was lying in wait for me in Glebe.

The empty house oppressed me. It had soft spots in the floors, patches of rising damp and Cyn and I had been forced to move our bed to another part of the room because the ceiling had developed a dangerous-looking sag. A couple of uprights were missing from the stair rail. Cyn had said a dozen times that she'd get them replaced. There are woodworkers who can reproduce the exact shape. I had a feeling it would never happen. Outside was no better. There was enough work in the small front, side and back spaces to keep an active man busy for days. I sat in the concreted backyard and smoked.

I went inside and rang the Melbourne number.

‘Yes?' A male voice. Educated, uninterested.

‘Virginia Shaw, please.'

‘Who's calling?'

‘Hardy, from Sydney.'

A pause of maybe fifteen seconds and then he
was back. ‘Try again in twenty-four hours.' The phone went dead.

Intriguing.

I stood under a hot shower, had my second shave for the day and put on fresh clothes. I strapped the gun on and went to the RSL for a meal and a few drinks. No one followed me coming or going and I won $15 on the poker machines.

White City resisted change. The grandstands were still made of wood and a lot of the courts were like the hallowed centre playing space—grass. It had an old world air without any pretension. I saw Sedgman win the NSW Open there in 1952, Hoad, Rosewall and Laver a bit later. Newcombe and Roche looked to me to be as good as any of them. I played there myself once, in a schoolboy tournament. Tom Wild and I were eliminated in the second round of the doubles. I wasn't good enough to play singles, but it was still a kick to play with a net that went all the way down to the ground and have the balls collected by someone else. And Doc was right—there's something about the living, breathing surface of grass that makes the game on it a better experience.

I parked outside the complex and wandered in, wearing my whites and carrying a towel and my far from new Wilson racquet. Doc was waiting for me by the clubhouse. We shook hands and said how good it was to see each other. I meant it. I liked the old boy with his rough head, stocky
body and no-nonsense manner. He came from a long line of well-heeled professionals but it didn't seem to have polished him too much. He was as much at home with boxers and jockeys as with Macquarie Street surgeons and Vaucluse socialites. He
had
put on weight, though. His stomach stretched the waistband of his shorts and he was fleshy around the neck.

‘I'll sign you in and I think we can get a court to ourselves for half an hour. I'll need that to get the kinks out.'

‘Me too.'

‘Then it'll be a couple of sets of doubles. D'you want to play men's or mixed?'

‘Mixed.'

‘Very wise. What about this lawyer chap? Want to play with or against him? I'm told he's a big man, red-headed. Shouldn't be hard to spot, although it'll get pretty busy around here soon.'

‘Shit, no, Doc. I want to follow him home when he leaves. I wouldn't mind a chance to get a look at him—see whether he can hit a volley or not.'

‘Hmm. This is all to do with the cloak and dagger business you've got yourself into?'

We were moving into the clubhouse—parquet floor, big windows and several tons of cut crystal, dull pewter and polished glass. In pride of place was a picture of John Bromwich executing a two-handed backhand. Totally proper in his long trousers and wrist-buttoned shirt and utterly unorthodox in his stroke. It was a great photo. Doc introduced me to the secretary of the club, a blazer-clad moustache wearer whose name I instantly forgot. He signed me in as a visitor and
we went out onto the crisp grass of Court 12. Doc had a tin of pressure-tested balls and we hit up for a couple of minutes. He had powerful, accurate groundstrokes, an erratic volley and a weak second serve. I was solid on the forehand, weak on the other wing, both at the back of the court and at the net. My serve was a reliable, medium-paced kicker.

We played best of three for service and I won. I hadn't played for almost a year, since a holiday Cyn and I had on the south coast, and I was rusty. I served two double faults, fluffed a backhand, whacked a great forehand volley into the corner, but lost the game when I tried to do it again and missed. Doc's second serve was very fat—slow with minimum spin. He had me love-thirty with a couple of good first serves and then he faulted with the first ball twice and I passed him easily when he unwisely came in. The game went to deuce and I won it with a good cross-court forehand and a lucky lob.