here?â
Wain was regaining his confidence. He picked bits of shrub and leaf from his jacket and deposited them on the bench. âWhatâs in it for me?â
âAre things that bad, that a professional discussion attracts a fee?â
âMatter of principle, Hardy, you prick. Never liked you and still donât.â
âItâs mutual, Rex. Letâs say I ask you some questions, and depending on your answers I decide whether what you say is worth any of my clientâs money. Otherwise, finish your drink and get on your bloody bike.â
The recovered confidence was tissue-thin. He drained his glass and pushed it at me. âOkay. Iâll have a bit of ice and water this time.â
It took over an hour and half a bottle of scotch to get anything useful out of him. He hadnât been the senior man on the Heysen murder but heâd done a lot of legwork and had sat in on all the briefings and progress reports. He was convinced that Heysen was guilty of hiring Padrone to do the wet work.
âWhy?â I said.
âWe talked to the sister, this hooker. Pammy, Priscilla . . . Pixie, thatâs it. William Street prostie. She reckoned Padrone told her heâd done it and that he was going to give her some of the money. Said she never got it, but we thought she was lying.â
I cast my mind back to the trial reports. âThat didnât come out at the trial.â
Wain shook his head. âCassidy, the D heading us upâ heâs dead by the wayâwas real pissed off about that. She shot through. We couldnât find her. Couldnât make anything of it, like. But it firmed us up on Heysen, you know how it is.â
I did, and I wondered if this lay behind Simmondsâ idea that the police had more on Heysen than they could use.
âGo on.â
âWith what?â
âYou put the case togetherâmeans, motive, opportunity. What was Padroneâs motive?â
âShit, no worries there. He was dying of cancer and Heysen had been the only one to offer him anything. He offered to pay him enough so he could go to Germany for this special treatment. Padrone hated doctors anyway. Got the dough, did the job and then couldnât get permission to travel. He was fucked and he knew it, so he decided to take Heysen with him. End of story.â
Wain poured more whisky and water. When he drank it he showed the brownish teeth of a heavy smoker.
He wasnât smoking now and his fingers werenât stained. He didnât seem like the type to have given up voluntarily, and I concluded he simply couldnât afford it. Wouldnât improve his mood.
âYou havenât told me much.â
âWhy the fuck should I? All youâve given me is a shove around and some third-rate scotch. I donât even know why youâre interested in this old shit.â
âYou donât need to know. I was thinking of giving you some money if you could . . .â
âDo what? Iâm on the bones of my arse, Hardy.â
âYour phone rings.â
âChrist knows why. I havenât paid the bill in months.
Canât be long before I get cut off. Come on, what dâyou want? Iâll give it to you if I can.â
He reached for the bottle but I moved it away. It was just a feeling but the way heâd said end of story didnât play with meâdidnât sound right for him.
âThere was something more about Heysen, wasnât there? I know he was a prick who no one liked, that he treated you all like shit. I hear what you say about the sisterâs evidence that you couldnât produce. But Iâve got a feeling there was something more. Something to hide.â
That almost seemed to sober him. He rubbed at his bloodshot, defeated eyes and his shoulders slumped. He behaved as if he was looking down a long tunnel with no turning and no light at the end of it. âJesus Christ,â he mumbled. âI thought