‘Apparently he’s got some sort of twelve-hour pass. I’ve agreed to be at home at nine to say hello to him. The kids’ll be up at six for the tree and the presents and then they’ll be off to the pageant. I want you to be there when he arrives. He can think what he likes. It’s just a ploy for him. He’ll go off and get drunk and with any luck they’ll put him back where he belongs. I’ll get a divorce and move somewhere.’
“Won’t he expect to see the children?’
‘They’ll stay at their friends’ place and sleep over. He never showed any interest in them before-except as things to shout at and give an occasional whack.’
‘You’re not going to this pageant?’
She shook her head. ‘That’s not the deal. They’re going to video it and the kids want me to see the final edited version. That’s what’s real to them these days, isn’t it?’
‘I haven’t got any children. I wouldn’t know. And after he goes, then what?’
‘I don’t trust him. I’ll need you to stay with me the rest of the day, until 9 o’clock or whatever.’
She’d told me that she’d given up being a clothes horse after she’d had the twins and that she’d qualified as a computer programmer after Ronnie went inside. She was a freelance-desktop publishers called her in to trouble-shoot for them. It was interesting and paid well. She said that to convince me I’d get paid. It did more than that-it told me she was bright and steady and to be taken seriously. I liked her.
‘I’m due to have lunch with some people. A senior policeman as it happens. You could come with me.’
She looked at me, no doubt taking in the greying hair, the crow’s feet, the broken nose. I could only hope she was seeing the sense of humour, the sterling integrity.
‘Yes, I’d like that,’ she said.
I was at her house in Rozelle at eight-thirty on Christmas morning. I’d seen three kids on their new Christmas bikes and was feeling cheerful. The house was a weatherboard double-fronter that had recently had a coat of paint. It sat on a wider block with more space in front and back than at my place in Glebe, but then you couldn’t see the water the way you can by standing on my back fence. I prowled around in professional fashion and was satisfied that there were only four ways an intruder could approach from.
‘Merry Christmas,’ Fran said when she opened the door.
I said the same and presented her with a bunch of flowers.
‘A prop?’
‘As you like. You’ll be interested to hear that your house is a security nightmare.’
The morning was warm and she looked good in a short white dress that left her strong brown arms bare. I wore chinos and a short-sleeved shirt. I had a Smith amp; Wesson. 38 in the pocket of my linen jacket. I stepped inside onto polished boards with light flooding in from enlarged windows. There was an old-fashioned coat and hat stand by the door. I hung my jacket up and arranged it so I could stand in the doorway and reach the gun.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No gun.’
‘Probably not.’
She nodded and looked away.
Ronnie arrived in a taxi at ten-fifteen. As he opened the gate and came up the path Fran opened the door and I got a good look at him. Some men bloat in prison, others build their bodies. Ronnie had done the weights. He was about my height, a bit over six feet, but he’d bulked up above the waist. He wore tight white jeans and a denim shirt that couldn’t close around his thick neck-not that it mattered because he had the shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist.
I glanced at Fran. She was staring at the man bouncing up the path as if she was a Billy Graham convert about to accept salvation. Then he grinned and I felt her go tense beside me.
‘Ugh,’ she whispered. ‘Steroids.’
He bounded up, pulling off a pair of sunglasses. He squinted, saw Fran, then me.
She stuck out her hand. ‘Hi, Ronnie.’
He stopped dead, just out of hand-shaking range. He was handsome, with dark hair and regular features, but his iron-pumping had given him a slightly pin-headed look.
‘Who’s this?’ he growled.
‘Cliff,’ Fran said, touching my arm but leaving me a clear reach to the gun. ‘This is Ronnie Phillips, my former husband.’
‘Still your bloody husband.’
‘Not for long.’
‘You fuckin’ bitch.’ He made a fist and stepped forward. I moved up past Fran. That pleased him-something to hit. He’d probably been wanting to do it since his first bench press. But he was slow; the looping right came at me but I had all the time in the world to deliver a short jolt to his bulging left bicep. I hit the spot just right. He yelped and the intended punch became a grab at the arm which dangled, the fingers in spasm.
‘Visit’s over, Ronald,’ I said. ‘On your way.’
He wanted to have another go but that kind of punch leaves an arm pretty well useless for a couple of minutes and he wasn’t silly enough to think he could take me with one hand.
‘You bitch.’
‘You’re repeating yourself,’ I said. ‘But if you like we can stand here and chat for a bit while Fran calls the cops. I can tell them that you threatened her.’
The bounce had gone out of him; only the bastardly was left. He made a show of staring into my eyes before he covered his with the shades. He flexed the left hand, quick recovery. Then he turned and went down the path. He kicked the gate shut behind him and it swayed with the force of the kick.
‘Petty,’ I said.
Fran’s hand was on my shoulder. ‘Let’s have a drink,’ she said.
The house had a comfortable feel, even with the possibility of the return of Ron. We had a couple of glasses of wine and I took a few turns around the block, just checking. Fran made a salad and we got to talking in an easy way as if we’d met more than just twice. The Christmas tree in the corner of the living room was properly decorated and the wrapping paper scattered around it indicated that the twins, Paul and Harriet, had had a good deal of loot. (I had presents for Frank and Hilde and would get some from them. I’d got a book in the mail from my sister and that was my lot.)
We talked, I admired her garden which was mostly herbs, vegetables and fruit trees-my idea of a garden. Fran phoned the Lane household where the kids were staying and was told that everything was going fine and they were looking forward to her dropping in.
‘They’re a bit dull,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to come in. I’ll be quick.’
She changed into loose white pants and a blue silk blouse and looked good. I drove to Drummoyne and admired her as she walked away from the car. No sign of Ronnie. I listened to the radio and tried to remember who’d won the four grand-slam tennis titles that year and the runners-up in the mens and women’s singles. It was a typical slice of a private detective’s day- waiting and killing time.
Fran smelled slightly of brandy when she got back into the car. She kissed me on the cheek and I could have taken a bit more of that.
‘Boring for you.’
‘Worth it now. Kids okay?’
‘Fine. I’ll pick ‘em up tomorrow morning. Do your friends know you’ll have company?’
‘They don’t, but they’ll be pleased.’
We set off with quite a few unasked questions in the air. I had the presents on the back seat-a bottle of Scotch for Frank, gardening gloves and shears for Hilde and a six-pack of the priciest tennis balls on the market for young Cliff who was doing well in a junior tennis development program. Fran said she felt bad about not having a gift so we stopped at a Bondi pub, had a drink and she bought a bottle of champagne.
‘So he’s a good cop, this Frank?’ Fran said.
‘The best. He’s quiet but you’ll like him. Don’t worry, they’re easy people to get on with. Like you.’
‘Do we tell them what we’re really doing today?’
‘Up to you.’
‘Let’s not.’
Everything went well at the Parkers. Cliff was off playing tennis and Fran and Hilde talked about kids and how independent they were these days. Frank and I had beer and chablis while the women drank champagne. The lunch was good and we’d just about finished when a bleeper sounded in the living room.