The Grocers' Son, page 15
I continued to explain while he stood with his arms crossed and head titled slightly at an angle. I knew it to be his “I’m working things out” pose.
“Any picture we can build up that might lead to either proof that he did kill those men, or whether he was setup, as Eileen suspects, or whether he confessed to spare someone else, needs this amount of detail. That’s why there’s a focus on his previous whereabouts and doings. Once we’ve gathered as much as we can, it’s a matter of examining each item, weighing its validity, then either discarding it or putting it on our ‘to-do’ list.”
Harry took a seat next to Tom. “I understand, Clyde,” he said. “Go on. This is very interesting.”
“As for the prison’s visitor’s book,” I said, “Billy spent half an hour going through all the visitors to the gaol during the period of Purchase’s incarceration. He had four visits in all. Only one of the other inmates had a meeting with an outsider in that time—his brief. Willoughby was visited twice by Elwood Pearson, who brought along his solicitor both times. The first time on New Year’s Day, and the second time on the twenty-fourth of January, two days before Purchase’s execution. The other visitor also came twice—Ian Henderson, the man who put him away. The first time on the second of January, then the last on the morning he was hanged. He arrived in the prison at five in the morning, talked to Purchase in his cell for half an hour, then drove out the gate at quarter to six, fifteen minutes before the executioner put the noose around his neck and sent him to the great beyond.”
Steve looked up from his notebook, his writing interrupted. “Let me get this straight, Clyde. Freddy’s father and his solicitor visited twice, then Henderson more or less a day after each of their visits?”
“Yup, and Henderson didn’t stay to watch the execution either.”
“Isn’t that a bit odd?” Tom said. “Seeing he was there at the time.”
“Not everyone has a stomach for watching a man hang,” I said.
“Have you, Clyde?” Tom asked.
“Not while I was a cop, Tom,” I replied, forcing my mind to stop forming images of collaborators launched to their deaths from balconies in small towns all over northern Italy when I’d fought with the partisans during the German retreat. Shooting was instant—most times—but hanging by amateurs often left the victim to strangle slowly, howling guttural noises of terror as women and children stabbed their legs and beat them with broom handles and hoes to make them suffer more while they died.
“I’ll visit the prison guards who were on duty when he was hanged and see if they can shed light on anything,” I said. “Perhaps they heard rumours from other guards who were in charge of his cell during the weeks he was in Long Bay. Oh, one last thing I haven’t mentioned is that he was in solitary confinement from the day he arrived until his final walk to the hangman’s noose.”
Steve shook his head. “That’s bloody dreadful. Someone really wanted him to keep his mouth shut.”
“And now, for this last piece of information, I need you to put your private investigator hat on, Steve.”
“Uh oh,” he said. “Something to do with Freddy?”
“It’s about him, yes, and his father.” I shuffled through the documents I’d brought in with me. “Elwood Pearson’s will. Steve and I both wondered why Freddy didn’t seem to be overly worried over the sixty grand gone missing from his father’s safe when he told us about it. Well, Mr. Pearson senior left the entirety of his estate to his son, at the time valued at over twenty-six million pounds.”
“Holy Dooley!” Tom said.
Harry mumbled for a bit, working his fingers on his thighs. “I make that about sixty-eight million in today’s money,” he said, then whistled.
“Which means …” Steve said.
“I think whoever robbed the safe wasn’t really after the money—it was a bonus for sure—but most likely taken to make everyone think it was the reason for the robbery. I’m as sure as I can be that they were really after the accounts journal.”
After a lengthy silence, Tom spoke. “I’d venture to say that the only reason Freddy wants us to investigate his father’s death is to find out who killed him, so he can discover what happened to the missing accounts book. Sorry, Steve …”
“Don’t be sorry for me, Tom. My eyes are wide open when it comes to Frederick Pearson.”
I knew right then that Steve and I needed to have a very frank conversation.
CHAPTER 9
It was not long after eight the following morning when knocks came at both the front door and the backdoor of my flat. The timing was extraordinary, as one followed almost immediately after the other.
“Wait a moment,” I said to Harry, who’d stayed in bed when I’d left for my morning run. By the time I got to the pool on my way home, he’d been waiting for me, chatting to Craig. We’d showered together when we got home, after which he’d got stuck into the kitchen to cook a full breakfast while I sorted out some paperwork that I hadn’t put away the evening before. “Call me cautious, but both front door and back door at the same time?”
Harry grabbed a kitchen knife, and I retrieved my gun from under the sink. I tilted my head toward the front door and Harry nodded. I went for the back door.
“Jesus, Octavius, what the—”
“Sorry, Mr. S., didn’t want to use the front door just in case someone seen me coming in that way.”
“Where the blasted hell do you want this?” Harry called out from the kitchen.
I gestured to Clarrie Junior to follow me. Harry stood in the kitchen doorway from the hall with Harley in his arms; not in an embrace, but picked up, one of Harry’s arms under his knees the other supporting his back.
“Well, Clyde? Out the front window? Tell me where you want me to put him.”
“If Okky wasn’t here, I’d be happy to make a few suggestions,” Harley said, shaking with laughter.
Harry put him down then slapped his arse. Clarrie Junior merely rolled his eyes.
“Did you two plan this?” I asked.
“I had no idea Harley was here. Honest,” Clarrie’s son said. “Can I have a word, Mr. S.?”
“Business?” I asked.
“Yes, it’s about your barmaid.”
“Then sit down and have a cuppa while we finish our breakfast. What’s your preference, Harley?”
“Some of your nice strong coffee please, Clyde. Mine’s a social visit. Thought I’d pop in on the way to work.”
He didn’t fool me for a minute; he’d come to ask how we’d been getting on with our investigation.
“Eggs and bacon, boys?” Harry asked.
They both nodded, so I got to putting the coffee pot on the stove, trying to light both it and the kettle while Harry nudged me aside with his hip, rearranging my pots on the stove so he could light the grill for the toast and to put his frying pan back on the gas.
I don’t suppose I should have been surprised to see that Harley and Clarrie Junior—I still found Octavius too awkward to use when thinking of him—were pals. There were only four or five years between them. As they laughed and joked between themselves, encouraged by Harry who was really a big kid at heart, I learned that Okky was only one of his nicknames. Among the lads he grew up with he was known as “Snake”, bestowed upon him because of the one that supposedly lived in his trousers. All right, that one made me smile. From years in the army showering with other men, I’d noticed it had always been the scrawny ones.
By the time Harley was on his second round of eggs and bacon, I eventually asked Clarrie Junior what news he had of the barmaid. “It’s the publican’s missus has her hand in the till, Clyde. Twice while we was there, I saw her slipping a teddy into the top of her stocking while she pretended to be fixing her suspenders.”
“Where was the barmaid while she was stuffing ten-shilling notes into her nylons?” I asked.
“Out the back cracking it, Clyde. While she’s away, it’s then missus-sticky-fingers goes to work. She’s short and the bar comes up to just under her tits, so none of the punters buying drinks can see. If I hadn’t seen it done elsewhere a hundred times before I wouldn’t have noticed. She’s had a past that woman.”
“So, you reckon the barmaid’s doing blokes out in the back of the pub?”
“Yup, in the keg cellar,” he replied. “Fifteen shillings for a gobbie and two quid for a root.”
“Two pounds?” I said. “That’s city prices, surely.”
“You should see the norks on her, Mr. S., and she takes it up the bum too, no extra charge.”
I was dumbfounded—not because the barmaid’s repertoire, but because of the knowing look on Clarrie Junior’s face.
“How do you know all this, son? You didn’t …?”
“Me mates chipped in. All in the line of work, Mr. S.,” he said with a grin so wide I could have grated a carrot on the braces on his teeth. “Anything to help crack a case.”
Harry hooted with laughter, not at what Clarrie Junior had said but at my reaction—the stunned mullet look he called it.
“I hope at least you wore a franga,” I said.
“Of course, Mr. S. You might take me for a half-wit, but I’m very particular about where I put my old fella.”
“Anywhere wet, warm, and hairy is what I heard,” Harley said.
“I heard that’s how you describe your date when you offer it to all the blokes, Harley,” Clarrie shot back as quick as a flash.
I laughed along with them thinking how long ago it had been since I’d been involved in a round of friendly but smutty repartee. It must have been in North Africa, in 1940, when our gang of four mates had first met in the desert, throwing back crudities at each other.
“If that’s all, Mr. S., I need to get going.”
“Hang on a sec, young man, I’ll grab my wallet.”
“No need, just tell me who’s your favourite for the cup at Doomben this arvo.”
“I don’t bet on the Queensland races, but let me get my slip for your dad.” I went to the bedroom and took the list of my horses and their races from my jacket pocket, which I’d forgotten to give to Clarrie Junior’s father after work yesterday. By the time I’d delivered the contract to the publican in Clovelly and got home, I couldn’t be bothered going back out again. I had intended to drop it in this morning on my way to work. “Caulfield and Randwick. Four nags, three of them for a place, but this little beauty, Octavius, Zaetta is her name, put a fiver on her to win.”
I gave him seven pounds, fifteen shillings in notes and change. He took the note on which I’d written my bets and he went through it quickly. “A fiver on this horse whose names start with a Z—I can’t pronounce it—and five bob for a place on the other three. What’s the extra two quid for?”
“It’s for the cheeky young lad who came back quick smart with news from the pub and made me a happy detective.”
“Jeez, I’m happy too to dip the wick for you any day, Mr. S. Especially for two quid a shot.”
I leaned over and pretended to cuff his ear. “You tell your dad that if he wants to pass on my bet for Zaetta to other bookies, I don’t mind, but I don’t want any odds shorter than twenty to one.”
“I’ll have a fiver on her too,” Harry said.
“Maybe you might want to pass by the R.S.L. and see who’s got a book open, Harry,” I said. “Don’t want to draw attention to Clarrie. My big win last year made enough money to make him look suspicious among the other bookies, and this filly is running her maiden race. It will look odd if he pulls in two big outsiders like this.”
“This tip’s from the horse’s mouth?” Clarrie Junior asked.
“From the horse’s mouth,” I replied, glancing at Harry, who’d realised that Zaetta had been trained by my friend Augusto who ran Howard Farrell’s horse stud. “The other three horses are to throw anyone off the scent.”
“Gimme your fiver, Mr. Jones,” Clarrie Junior said to Harry. “I’ll place your bet with another bookie that Dad uses when he wants to spread bets.”
“What about me, Okky?” Harley asked.
“Fancy a tram trip after you finish work?”
“Sure, where to?”
“Bondi Junction. I’m sure you’ve got a couple of quid spare. You and I are gonna place a bet on Clyde’s horse with my mate, Drongo.”
“Won’t that look suspicious?” I asked.
“Nah, Drongo’s sister is one of my girlfriends. You know him, he’s Barney Doland’s brother.”
“Just be careful, you two,” I said, remembering that Barney was one of Harley’s occasional bed-mates. “Barney’s dad is a pretty tough bloke. Been inside more times than I can remember.”
“But I’m sure you’ve got stuff on him, eh, Mr. S.? Besides, he wouldn’t want you to know his son was running a book.”
“Unlike your dad, Octavius?”
His cheesy grin did anything but make me feel happier about the whole idea.
*****
“All right, Harley,” I said, a few minutes after Clarrie Junior had left via my back stairs. “I know you weren’t simply ‘passing by on your way to work’. It’s about your father, isn’t it? And I don’t mean Joe.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Harry said, leaning over my shoulder and giving me a kiss. “I’ll see you late tonight.”
I told him to have a good day then turned back to Harley.
“Clyde … my father will always be my dad. My real dad that is. But cross my heart and hope to die, I can’t stop thinking about that man who grabbed me in the market. It was real. No illusion, no daydream; I can even remember the smell of him—tobacco and Old Spice. And he had this colourless mole on his left cheek, in line with his nostril but underneath the outer corner of his eye, just like the photo.”
“Harley—”
“I swear I’m not back-remembering, Clyde, if that’s what you were going to suggest. It was the first thing I looked for when Mum showed me his photo on the day you came for lunch.”
“What can I say? I’ve asked around and no one, absolutely no one has ever seen any evidence of a ghost or a vision, or whatever you want to call it. Ask Luka next time you see him. I don’t know who you saw, my friend, but if your mother is right, then somehow it was something telling her to find out whether he was innocent or guilty of the murders.”
“I’m so confused, Clyde. Tell me, have you found anything yet?”
“Listen, Harley. You know how fond I am of you. How long has it been now, nine, ten, years? You were eighteen and I’ve really cared for you all this time. You know I’d never lie to you, but so far, we have nothing but a huge heap of scraps. It’s going to take time to sift through it all—”
“I’m afraid to ask this, but do you know who my birth mother was?”
I nodded. “But I think you should ask your mum first.”
“She told me to ask you. That’s why I’m here.”
“Ah, Jesus, Harley. Are you sure?”
“I don’t care if she was a bad person or what she was. I just need to know. My mum’s my real mother and I’ll never stop loving her, but want to know why she … surely you understand? Why would she give me up? Did she hate me so much?”
“No, no, Harley. Quite the opposite. She loved you so much that she gave you up to save your life and paid with her own.”
*****
“And that’s why he disappeared?” he asked, twenty minutes later after I’d given him a broad account of what happened to Milly, Don, and Willoughby.
“He probably didn’t know what to do with you, Harley, and his sister must have seemed the safest option for a tiny baby. He knew you’d be in good hands.”
“But why didn’t he come back, Clyde?”
“Maybe he couldn’t. The fact that his best friend disappeared at the same time makes me think that if Elwood Pearson’s men couldn’t find him, they couldn’t force who your real father was out of either him or Don.”
“But he was queer … that’s another thing I can’t get my head around.”
“Look, it’s not unusual for queer men to have children. Just look at Steve. He has two kids. Unless we can find Don Weaving, if he’s still alive, we’ll never how it came to happen that your father and Milly … you know. But look at the photos of you two—there’s no mistaking your face was painted by the same artist as your father’s.”
We’d been sitting on the kitchen floor, Harley lying in my arms, my back in the angle of the cupboards that joined in the corner of the room. He’d alternately blown his nose and wiped his eyes while I’d told him the story of Milly Spaulding’s terrible end and how Willoughby and Don had vanished.
“Would it be wrong of me to wish that they’d gone off together? Found some happiness?”
“Look, Harley, to be honest with you, I have a sneaking suspicion there’s more to their disappearance than your mother’s murder—as awful as that was. Someone must have tipped them off that Elwood Pearson had arranged an unexpected release and they didn’t have time to hide whatever they’d been up to during the three years he’d been put away. We know he was furious that she’d played around behind his back and that he wanted her and you dead as revenge. I know it doesn’t make sense, but some men have egos bigger than either you or I will ever understand.”
“Jesus, I hope the bastard pays for it some day,” Harley said.
“He’s dead,” I replied. “Shot through the head on the same night your father was hanged, if that’s any consolation. Anyway, he was released at lunchtime, your father arrived with you at your parents’ shop later that same night and Milly’s body was found the next day. Maybe they’d only heard he’d been released a few minutes after he’d walked out the prison gate? Perhaps Milly told Willoughby to hide their baby? Maybe he intended to come back and get you, but when he heard she’d been murdered, feared for not only his own safety, but also for yours? Just be content to know that whatever the reason, it was with your own best interests at heart. That’s why he asked your mum and dad to take care of you and to pretend that you were their own. I’m sorry I can’t tell you any more. I can only pose questions and make suppositions. I told you all I had were scraps of information.”
