‘Uh huh.’ I didn’t know whether that was good news or bad. A psychologist might say that the expectation had been realised in the mind rather than in reality.
‘Anyway,’ Horrie continued, ‘I scooted along to my car. It was parked back there.’
He pointed back towards Gollan Street.
‘And I took off hell for leather for home. Do you want to go and take a closer look at the church?’
‘Later,’ I said. ‘How far did you get, Mr Jacobs?’
A bit of the bounce went out of him. ‘Adamstown. I hit another car as I told you. My fault, I suppose. They took my licence away. May has to drive me around now. It’s a bloody nuisance. There’s nothing wrong with me. I can still drive.’
There was a querulous note in his voice, the first time he had sounded anything but firm and confident. I took another look at the place, peaceful and quiet now but a scene of flying bricks and shattered glass back then. There were six houses placed so as to give a view of the side of the church. I asked Horrie Jacobs whether he had sought confirmation of his account from the residents.
He shook his head. ‘Never thought of it.’
‘Do you think the police would have talked to them?’
‘Not them. No chance! Want to try it now?’
‘That’s my job. You’re paying me to do it. What’re your plans now?’
‘Nothing much.’ He looked at his watch. Mays picking me up in twenty minutes. Do you want to come out to Dudley?’
‘No. I’ve got a few things to do here and in Newcastle first. Would it be all right if I came out later this afternoon?’
‘For sure. Not a fisherman by any chance, are you?’
I shook my head. ‘I’ve never caught a fish in my life.’
‘Pity. Well, I’ll see you at home later. And thanks, Mr Hardy.’
‘Cliff,’ I said.
He nodded and walked off, a small figure holding himself very straight, but not quite the man I imagined him as being back on December 28.
I ran my fingers through my hair and did up a button of my shirt. I was wearing drill trousers and my old but smart Italian leather shoes. I didn’t look like Richard Gere, but I wasn’t Charlie Chaplin either. I got out a notebook and pen and my Private Enquiry Agent’s licence and approached the first of the six houses, a wide fronted Federation job with windows that looked directly onto the collapsed side of Holy Cross church. I opened the gate, and walked up the path, keeping an eye and ear out for a dog. No dog. No-one home either.
At the next two houses I drew blanks. The women who spoke to me at the door seemed relieved that I hadn’t come to take money from them but couldn’t offer any help-not at home, or not looking in the direction of the church at the time. The fourth house had the best view of the destruction; light glinted on french windows looking out across a patio and a low fence towards the church.
I went up the steps to the front of the house but I didn’t have to knock. The door was opened and a woman stood framed against the light. She had a cigarette in the hand she used to open the screen door and a drink in the other hand. Welcoming.
‘Saw you going into those other houses,’ she said. ‘Knew you’d be coming here.’
I showed her the licence. She drew on the cigarette and puffed smoke over my shoulder. She was tall and lean, wearing a singlet top and shorts. Bare feet.
‘I’d like to ask you a few questions about what happened when the church was damaged,’ I said. ‘That is, if you were here.’
She moved her thin body aside to let me pass by her into the house, although I could have made it easily. She stayed propped up against the door and I had the feeling that she’d touch the wall all the way down the passage. Either that or grab me for support. She was a good-looking, thirty-five-ish woman with short dark hair and glazed blue eyes. She was very drunk. ‘Insurance,’ she said.
‘No. I’m a private detective. I’m making enquiries about the death…’
She took a risk, moved away from the door-jamb and grabbed my arm. The cigarette threatened to burn a hole in my shirt sleeve. ‘Come in,’ she slurred, ‘it’s about time someone looked into this.’
5
She walked with unnatural steadiness down the dark passageway towards the light. She grabbed at the door that led through to the kitchen and I’d have bet there was a mark on the wood at just that spot from all the other times before. The kitchen was modern and dirty. The polished floorboards were sticky and there were glasses and mugs all over the sink and a few more of each on the table. There was no sign of solid food ever being consumed. She made straight for the bench where a four-litre cask of white wine was sitting precariously near the edge. On the floor beneath it was a thick puddle that had attracted flies and dust.
She dropped her still-burning cigarette into the sink and, without consulting me, took a glass from beside the sink. She ran water into it, swilled it out, and filled it to the brim from the cask. Then she filled her own. ‘Have a drink.’
I took the glass, feeling the slippery, greasy surface and wondering how long since it had seen hot water.
‘Let’s go outside.’
The french windows were open. She made it through them with inches to spare on one side and flopped down on a banana lounge, the metal legs of which moved and scratched the patio’s tiles, not for the first time. I sat opposite her in a canvas deckchair. She lifted her glass carefully to her mouth; her breasts rose under her singlet and the thin roll of fat around her waist tensed. She drank and the flesh subsided. ‘I didn’t get your name?’
‘Cliff Hardy. From Sydney.’ I don’t know why I said that, possibly because I thought she might talk more freely to someone who wasn’t going to be around to talk about her.
She grinned sloppily and sang, in a passable imitation of the voice that used to close down one of the Sydney TV stations each night, back when the stations closed: ‘My city of Syd-ney, I’ve never been a-way. Great town, better than this hole.’
I got out my notebook, allowing me to put the dirty glass of warm wine down on the tiles. ‘Mrs…?’
‘Atkinson, Rhonda Atkinson, formerly of Sydney, now of Shitville.’
“You said there was reason to enquire about the damage to the church.’
‘That’s right. Finally getting the message, are they?’ She drank half of her glass in two gulps and waved her hand at the kitchen. ‘Would you get my smokes? They’re in there somewhere.’
I went into the kitchen and looked around among the debris. A packet of Sterling ultra-milds and a disposable lighter lay on a shelf above the sink along with an array of about twenty bottles with labels detailing the prescribed doses. ‘The capsules, for depression’; ‘the tablets, for sleeplessnness’, ‘the tonic…’ They were all prescribed for Mrs R. Atkinson and they did not make me feel hopeful. None of the labels recommended that they be taken with liberal quantities of cheap wine.
I took the cigarettes out to Mrs Atkinson. She flipped the box open and pulled one free with a practised pout of her full lips. I lit it for her.
‘Want one?’
I shook my head and went back to the chair.
‘Wowser, are you? Don’t drink neither?’
I couldn’t have that. I grabbed the glass and took a decent swig. I’d drunk it warmer and worse in my time, much worse. ‘Tell me about the church, Mrs Atkinson.’
She finished off her drink and rested the empty glass on her slight stomach roll. She blew smoke in the direction of Holy Cross. ‘My husband’s under there,’ she said, ‘only they won’t bloody-well admit it.’
Rhonda Atkinson was convinced, or pretended to be convinced, that her husband was beneath the collapsed foundations of the church across the road. To the suggestion that the wreckage had been cleared and only one body discovered she said, ‘Huh, with bloody great scoops and shovels as big as a room. They must’ve missed him. Dumped him in a truck like garbage.’ She knew nothing about Oscar Bach and cared less. She had not been at home when the earthquake struck. It took half an hour and lot of phony note scribbling and head nodding and the finishing off of the glass of warm white to get away from her.