The Greenwich Apartments (3 page)

I nodded. She was the finest diagnostician of human relationships I'd ever met. If she wanted it to work it probably would. She rinsed her cup and picked up the morning paper from the pile where I'd thrown it.

‘I'll start looking today.'

‘Can I help?'

‘Nope.'

‘Okay. How far back do those papers go?'

She riffled through the pile. ‘Two weeks at least. Slob.'

She went off to shower and I dug through the papers for the reports on the shooting of Carmel Wise.

It had happened on a Friday night; I get two papers on Saturday morning so I had two accounts, two sets of photographs. The
National Herald's
reporter fancied herself as a stylist: ‘At 9 p.m. last night the courtyard outside the Greenwich Apartments was an oasis of quiet in a sea of sound. Kings Cross was at full blast all around, but in the leafy courtyard there
could
have been someone sitting down to read T. S. Eliot. They have a New York feel, the Greenwich Apartments, as if Woody Allen might wander through with his clarinet or Ivan Lendl might come bounding along on one of his late night runs. Instead, attractive Carmel Wise, 21, hotshot videotape editor and movie buff, stepped out of Greenwich into hell …'

Helen came into the room dressed in white and smelling good. I couldn't see how any real estate agent could resist her. She'd probably get a penthouse with a view of the bridge and the choicest bits
of Darling Harbour. I was rumpled and unshaven. She looked over my shoulder.

‘That's the one?'

‘Yeah.'

‘The story ran for a while. What was she called …?'

‘The Video Girl. Helen, could you take a look at some woman's stuff. Give me your analysis?'

‘You're not just trying to make me feel useful?'

‘No.'

‘All right.'

I cleared a space on the bench and spread out Tania Hester Bourke's belongings. Helen moved them around, looked at the photographs. She examined the purses, the sunglasses, the makeup and other items. I showed her the photo of Tania, glass in hand, smiling at the lens.

‘What d'you want to know?'

‘Anything you can tell me.'

‘Mm, well. The passport is five years old, that's obvious, and the photographs,' she tapped the quarto-sized glossy black and white picture, ‘is a couple of years later.'

‘How can you tell?'

‘Hair. Clothes.'

‘There's two suitcases full of her clothes. Would you be able to tell how long ago they were bought? How long since they were worn?'

‘Yes.'

‘Great. Anything else?'

‘She was an air hostess when the passport photo was taken.' She flipped through the passport. ‘She went all over the place. By the time the other picture was taken she was doing something different. Look, she makes a few trips here and there in ‘82 and ‘83. Nothing like before. Same places—Singapore, Bangkok, Jakarta, but less often. I bet she's got batik cloth and a lot of silk stuff in the cases.'

‘Right. What does that mean?'

‘Nothing much. She's got expensive tastes to judge by the makeup. Ah … you want to play Watson?'

‘Sure.' I stroked an imaginary moustache.

‘City girl, private school, no skills to speak of … smoker, dieter …'

‘Come on.'

‘She's a good bit thinner in the second photo. Did I ever tell you about when I put on a stone and half?'

‘No.'

‘I will one day. Point is, I know about dieting and the look it leaves. This woman's got it.' She poked at the documents. ‘Fair bit of money passing through the accounts.' She ran a finger down a bank statement. ‘But it's hard to tell with these things. It always looks like a lot, doesn't it?'

‘Yeah, and it feels like nothing at all.'

Helen tapped the photos into a neat stack and put them aside. ‘Well, that's all I can tell you for now. Um … I've got enough for a deposit on something small. Wish me luck. I'm off.'

‘Good luck.'

We kissed. We pressed together hard and thoughts of gunned-down girls and ex-air hostesses went out the window. She broke away and glanced at the photographs again. ‘Oh, one more thing. Your mystery woman likes men.'

‘Meaning?'

‘She's not a lesbian. This is man-attracting equipment.' She dangled one of the gold sandals from her little finger. Helen's fingernails were short and painted a pale pink. She wore a couple of light silver bangles around her wrist that looked good against her tanned skin. ‘And look at the picture—she fancies the bloke next to her.'

She was right. Tania had her hand on the arm of a big, blonde man. She looked as if she's just turned
her big brown eyes away from him for the sake of the photograph and that they'd be back on him soon.

‘Husband?' I said.

She shook her head. ‘No rings, not that that means much. No, I wouldn't say so. He doesn't look like the husband type.'

‘There's a type?'

‘Of course. Women can spot husbands, attached men, semidetached and so on, when they walk into a room. Usually, as soon as they open their mouths they confirm the guess. She won't be too hard to find, will she? You've got a ton of evidence.'

‘Maybe not.'

‘How does she connect to the girl who was shot?'

‘I don't know. She lived in the flat the girl was using.' It struck me then that the suitcases could have come from somewhere else. ‘Maybe she lived there.'

‘Did they know each other?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Who took the photos?'

‘I don't know that either. A man.' I pointed to the stuff that had belonged to Mr Greenwich. ‘Are you serious?'

‘What about? Getting my own place?'

The words sounded harsh and reproachful to me. I wanted to argue and convince her that she should stay right there. But I knew I'd be running all over the city that day and not be home until God knows when. I didn't have an argument to use. Helen knew it too. She looked determined but not reproachful. I drew a breath and scratched my stubble. ‘No, I know you're serious about that. I mean about this attached and detached man business.'

‘Yes.'

‘Which am I?'

She slung her brown leather bag over her white linen shoulder and grinned at me. ‘That's one of the things we'll find out, won't we?'

B
ACK
to the papers. The
Herald
reporter had overused her poetic licence. Further reading showed that Carmel Wise had not stepped
directly
into anything. She must have walked across the courtyard, 30 feet or so, before the bullets were fired. The damage to the sign suggested the direction from which the shots had come—from the left as you faced the Greenwich Apartments. The girl had been hit several times in the back and once in the head; I assumed the shooter was at ground level because any marked angle to the line of fire would have pinpointed a window. I was already starting to think of it as a professional job.

The
News
printed a photograph of the girl. She had a strong, high-cheekboned face with big eyes and a curious set of teeth, slightly gapped all around. The effect was pleasing. Her hair was dark and drawn back, giving her an intelligent, slightly surprised expression. She looked older than 21 and like someone who would be worth talking to.

The
News
' coverage was less lurid. Carmel Wise was dead when she was discovered in the courtyard by Mr Craig Wilenski, a resident of the block of flats opposite the Greenwich. This happened at 9.30 p.m. and there was no evidence for the
Herald's
nomination of 9 p.m. as the time of the shooting. Mr Wilenski was returning home at the time; he phoned from his own flat and was not a witness to anything. Neither was anybody else; no-one heard the shots, no-one heard anything suspicious.

But the man from the
News
must have filed what he had as quickly as he could and then pressed on because the Sunday edition carried the first of the ‘Video Girl' stories. ‘Police confirmed that the flat which Ms Wise had occupied contained hundreds of videotapes,' the story ran. ‘The victim was carrying a bag in which there were more videotapes.' Then came the kicker: ‘Videotapes were found in the pockets of the coat Ms Wise was wearing and in her Honda Civic sedan, parked several blocks from the courtyard in which she met her death.' She was ‘the Video Girl' from that moment on.

The tabloids were in full swing by mid-week. The newshounds had learned that Carmel Wise had worked for all five Sydney television stations (‘Video Girl Channel-hopped'), that she had appeared on quiz programmes as a movie expert (‘Video Girl Knew 5000 Movie Plots') and that she had written, directed and produced a film for $10 000 which had made a bundle (‘Big Bucks for Video Girl's Mini Budget Movie'). Personal details were very sparse—daughter of wealthy Sydney business man Leo Wise, educated at a Jewish private school, attended the National Film & Television School briefly. She had just completed work on a TV documentary on the ten richest people in Sydney, the producer of which, Tim Edwards, described her as ‘a major talent with a great flair, perhaps too much flair for this project.'

By Thursday Carmel Wise was inside-page news at best. The police were calling for help from the public but the public wasn't helping. No-one had seen anything. The scribblers had looked up all the TV stars and ‘personalities' who might have had any contact with Carmel Wise but had drawn blanks. A TV doctor who had known her slightly said that she was ‘a very private person'. This got a small notice. Two nurses were killed on the North Shore and the ‘Video Girl' slipped from sight. I saw
no thing of the pornographic implications that Leo Wise had complained of, but they could have been exploited in other papers.

I made some more coffee and thought about it. Unlike most cases where there are only winks and nods to go on and the cops and journalists have muddied the waters, I had solid leads. I had Tania Bourke and Mr Greenwich and if the woman who'd called the flat the other night hadn't been a witness to the shooting I was a Frenchman. (I think we should stop knocking Dutchmen,
they're
not nuking Pacific islands and blowing up boats on our doorstep.)

I had almost too many leads. The question was whether to start with Tania Bourke and the man, or the witness, or get the official view on the case first.
Let your fingers do the walking,
I thought. I dialled the number for Frank Parker who had recently been elevated to Detective Inspector. While the phone was ringing I recalled that Frank had taken Hilde and their baby daughter away to Europe. Frank's first leave in years. His assistant, Barry Mercer, answered.

‘Homicide.'

‘You make it sound highly desirable, Mercer.'

‘Who's this?'

‘Hardy.'

‘Frank's away.'

‘I know, they've gone to show their baby London and Munich, their roots. I wonder what the baby'll make of it?'

‘Well?' Mercer has no sense of humour, no babies either so far as I know. He's a thin, dark, intense young man who tries to think and feel the way Parker does. He has at least one problem there-Parker likes me and Mercer doesn't.

‘I need some information on the Carmel Wise shooting.'

‘Why?'

‘The father's not happy.'

‘Why?'

‘Jesus, don't you ever say anything else?'

‘Why isn't the father happy?'

I didn't want to tell Mercer about the mystery of flat one, not yet. ‘The porno angle,' I improvised. ‘He doesn't like it. Thinks you're on the wrong track.'

‘That's solid,' Mercer said. ‘Rock solid.'

I was surprised. ‘I didn't read about it. There was nothing in the papers I saw.'

‘There was a bit in the
Globe.
One of those snoopy bastards got onto it before we could stop him.'

‘Stop him? Why?'

‘I haven't got time to discuss it with you, Hardy. I'm up to my ears in work. We got another nurse this morning.'

‘That's bad. Who's handling Wise?'

‘Bill Drew, he's here. You want a word?'

‘Yeah, thanks, put him on.'

‘Before you go, how'd you know Frank and Hilde were … you know, showing the kid the cities?'

‘Postcard. Didn't you get one?'

‘No.'

‘I'll put in a good word for you.'

‘Fuck you. Here's Drew.'

I didn't know Drew so it was just as well he had a formal manner.

‘Detective Constable Drew.'

‘This is Cliff Hardy, Mr Drew. I assume Mercer's okayed it for you to fill me in a bit on the Wise matter.'

‘I'll do what I can.' Cool, very cool.

‘Professional job, would you say?'

‘Certainly.'

‘Mercer says you like the porno angle.'

‘Looks like it. The movies in the shops are fairy-floss—the
real stuff circulates in the dark. Big money. We think the girl was involved, probably at the production end. She must have offended someone.'

‘Why're you keeping this line of inquiry quiet?'

‘Why d'you think?' he said impatiently. ‘Look, we've got people out there, informers, people who hear things. But we'll get bugger all if those sleazos know we're interested.'

‘Yeah. Well, her father says there were no dirty movies in the flat. I took a peep myself last night. All looked straight to me.'

There was a pause and the office noises became muffled. Drew must have put his hand across the mouthpiece. ‘Just checking with Mercer,' he said. ‘The stuff in the flat and the car were all right, but you should see what was in her bag.'

‘Bad?'

‘How long ago was it she was killed? A week and a half?'

‘About that.'

‘I saw some of this stuff that night. I haven't been able to fuck since. My wife's complaining. I'm thinking of applying for compensation.'