‘Thank you for seeing me so promptly, Mr Coleman.’
‘The view, Mr Hardy. The view.’
I looked through the glass at the complex which was more or less visible through the trees. Roofs, windows, chimneys, antennae, wires, and the huge white concrete sail-shape dominating everything. I preferred the trees. ‘Impressive,’ I said.
He released my hand. ‘It is indeed. Nuclear power represents the future. I’m a great believer in the future. I built this house as close as possible to the reactor to demonstrate my faith in the future.’
I nodded. It wasn’t a promising start, given that I’d come to talk about the past.
‘Can I get you something-tea, coffee?’
‘Coffee would be good, thanks.’ The servant was still at the door. Coleman said, ‘Coffee for Mr Hardy please, Richard.’
Richard sloped off and Coleman indicated that I should sit in one of the three leather armchairs. I took one facing away from the future, enabling him to sit opposite it and make sure it didn’t go away, if that’s what he wanted to do. It seemed so. He sat quietly looking out the window until Richard came back with a coffee pot and other things on a tray. He got a small table from somewhere in the room and put it by my chair. He left me to pour the coffee-a nice, manly touch.
‘It’s over sixteen years since my daughter was attacked,’ Coleman said abruptly.
‘Yes.’
‘I take it you’re familiar with the details of the case, Mr Hardy.’
‘Yes. And with your behaviour at the trial and subsequently’
‘Ah, yes. All that. It seems to have happened in another life. In a way it did.’
I poured some coffee and took a sip. It was thin and weak. What do you mean?’
‘Are you a Christian?’
‘No.’
‘I thought not. You have a hardness about you. An unforgiving quality.’
‘Did you forgive Werner Schmidt?’
‘In time, Mr Hardy, I did. I found Jesus and he helped me to forgive. You tell me Schmidt is dead?’
I put the cup down. Some of the coffee slopped into the saucer and onto the top of the stool. Another big job for Richard. ‘Yes. It looks as if he was murdered.’
‘Ah, I see. And you’ve come into my house to meet me and decide whether I murdered him.’
‘Or had it done.’
‘Yes. That happens, doesn’t it?’
‘In the best of circles. The person I’m working for doesn’t move in the best of circles but she wants to know who killed Schmidt. It’s important to her.’
‘Why?’
‘It’d take too long to explain. I doubt that there’s much I could do if you had paid for the murder.’ I waved my hand at the window and the furniture. ‘You seem to have the resources. Unless you were very careless you shouldn’t have any problems. Still, no harm in asking. Do you remember the Newcastle earthquake?’
‘Of course.’
‘Where were you when it happened?’
‘In my showroom. We felt it quite strongly. Some of the stock was displaced.’
‘Any witnesses?’
‘Certainly. About twenty or so of my staff. Are you telling me Werner Schmidt was killed in the earthquake? That can’t be. I read the names in the newspaper…”
‘People change their names, Mr Coleman. Schmidt was going under another name and he died on the day of the quake. Whether it killed him or not is another question.’
‘Remarkable.’
I expected him to say something like God moves in strange ways, but he didn’t. He was an actor and poseur from way back. Now he sat with his chin resting in his plump, white hand. He wore a couple of gold rings, one with a large black stone in it. He was playing the thoughtful being, the philosopher. Could this softie, this born-again moneymaker, have ordered a hit? He was too armoured in righteousness and self-approval to judge. I took another sip of the lousy coffee and said, ‘How’s your daughter these days, Mr Coleman?’
It was a brutal, full-frontal thing to say, but I had to do something to shake that smug composure. His chin slid away from his hand as if he’d been left-hooked by Dempsey. His big, meaty shoulders convulsed; wrinkles bunched around his eyes, and from plump and rosy he changed to pale and flabby in a matter of seconds. The composure shook but did not break. I watched, feeling guilty but fascinated as he put the whole thing back together again. He drew in a gasping breath, touched one of his rings, smoothed his hair and let the hand drift down to tug at an earlobe. The smile came then, slowly but with close to full candlepower and the lines and wrinkles on his face were smoothed out. ‘She is in very good hands, Mr Hardy. She is not unhappy. How many people can say the same? Can you?’
Good question. I stared at him as he completed the transformation back from stricken parent to grateful believer. I decided he was genuine, in his own terms. He wouldn’t kill anyone, he didn’t need to. God and good accounting would provide. I muttered something about needing to be sure and he nodded sagely.
‘I remember what the vengeful impulses felt like,’ he said. ‘I wanted to kill Werner Schmidt and I would have, if I’d been given the chance. Thank the lord it didn’t come to that.’
‘I’ve seen the press photos,’ I said. He smiled again, more genuinely still. ‘I almost went to gaol. I’ve had something to do with prisoners since and I wish I had had that experience. It would have helped my empathy, perhaps.’
This was getting too rich. ‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a touch of gaol and all it gives you is constipation, indigestion and boredom.’
‘I suppose it depends how you spend the time. You must be wondering, Mr Hardy, why I asked you here when we could virtually have conducted our business on the phone.’
I shrugged. ‘I would have wanted to meet you anyway. But… what’s your point, Mr Coleman?’
‘You say you have a client for this enquiry of yours?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Can you accept two clients on the one matter?’
‘It’s unorthodox, but it’s been known to happen. Why?’
‘You’ve sized me up and you don’t like me. I can accept that. I’ve also sized you up and, while I have many reservations about you, I don’t think you are a mindless thug like many members of your profession.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Mr Hardy, there’s someone I think you should meet.’
16
Richard was waiting outside a side entrance to the house, putting the finishing touches to the polish on a white Mercedes. I wondered whether owning a Merc was another sign of faith in the future. Probably. Coleman and I got in the back and I settled into a leather seat that felt as if it had been hand-built, specially for me.
Coleman said, ‘Mr Fanfani’s place, please, Richard.’
‘Sir.’ Richard put the Merc into drive and we slid forward without feeling anything so vulgar as the turning of wheels. Richard used a remote control device to open the gates and we cruised out onto Oppenheimer Street with scarcely a pause.
The car wasn’t quite a limousine-there was no bar, TV or stereo-but it was opulent enough. Coleman gazed out of the window at the houses where, in all likelihood, some of his carpets were laid. I was still feeling some contrition about the way I’d hit Coleman with the question about Greta. The feeling had made me compliant, up to a point, but now I was getting impatient. ‘This is impressive. I like the feel of a good car. But would you mind telling me where we’re going?’
‘To see a man named Antonio Fanfani. He lives in Loftus, not far away’
‘I didn’t think anyone lived in Loftus.’
‘I sometimes think that people like yourself, who work and live in places like Darlinghurst and Glebe, are a different species from us suburbanites. What do you think?’
‘I think you’ve done some checking up on me.’
‘Yes. And I telephoned Mr Fanfani as soon as I finished talking to you.’
“Who is he? What’s he got to do with this?’
‘I believe in letting people speak for themselves. You had your say and I had mine. We should let Antonio do the same. I will tell you this-he was a member of that organisation I formed.’