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Evelyn arrived at casualty, pale and flustered, and I gave her an account of everything, from the moment Jeff went down, the stupid look on Fred’s face, following the ambulance to St. Vincent’s, to the doctor telling me Jeff had suffered a major heart attack.
Evelyn gave the nurse her details, and we waited together in the designated area.
Half an hour had gone by when a male nurse appeared from a large admittance door and introduced himself as Mitchell. ‘We conducted an angiogram and found two blockages in the blood vessels around his heart. We went ahead and put stents in to open the vessels. He’s been stabilised and, so far, he’s doing very well. The stents are so good these days, we don’t need to proceed to heart bypass surgery unless there’s no option.’
‘He’s scheduled for an operation in two weeks,’ Evelyn said. ‘Does this affect that in any way?’
‘I’ll consult with Dr. Lim, and consult with Mr. Lyons’ specialist. We’ll put him into the cardiac rehabilitation unit overnight, and depending on how successful the stents are, he could be going home as early as tomorrow morning.’
I tried to focus on Mitchell, but my eye kept wandering to Evelyn. She wore a black pants suit, expertly applied makeup, and her hair was packed into a tight bun. Two strands framed her face, and she wore black-rimmed reading glasses.
She said, ‘Can we see him?’
‘Absolutely. He’s sitting up, happy as Larry.’
Evelyn turned to me, but I cut her off. ‘It’s okay, you see him. I’ll get going. If you need anything, give me a call.’
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
***
My clothes were still damp, and I felt a chill seeping into my bones. I took the ute out of the car park, shoved it down the back of a little laneway, and walked up to Oxford Street, home to the Sydney Mardi Gras, and ordered an extra hot tall black in a hole-in-the-wall café.
Jeff’s overreaction didn’t instill much confidence in me. If a man suffered a heart attack at the mere mention of a book, something bigger was going on behind the curtain.
The barista served the coffee, and I called Reggie. I gave him the same rundown I’d given Evelyn, and he sucked air in through his teeth. ‘Jesus tap dancing Christ.’
‘Murphy’s Law says I find his daughter and he kicks the bucket.’
‘Murphy’s Law says our highest paying client kicks the bucket before you find his daughter.’
‘Did anyone ever tell you you’re a pessimist and a money-hungry bastard, Reggie?’
‘It’s not my fault. My wife desires a particular lifestyle.’
‘Don’t pin your materialism on Brenda. She’s one of the thriftiest people I know. One of her commandments should be ‘thou shalt not pay retail’.’
‘Fine. My bad. But that’s why we’re made for each other. How close are you to finding Mr. Lyons’ daughter?’
‘I’ve got a lead I need to follow up—a stripper Tamsin knows—and I’m going to get in touch with Capital Letter publishing.’
‘Woah, woah. Tread careful, Matt, d’you hear me? Do not mention Cash and Hendrix. In fact, I advise against you calling them altogether.’
‘Forget I said anything.’
‘Matt? I said leave it alone. I do not need a lawsuit on my hands.’
‘I’ll see you Reggie.’
I hung up.
The coffee took the chill away, but I needed something more substantial. I found Santorini Bar and Grill and ordered the grilled Cypriot cheese with a house red, looked up the number for Capital Letter Publishing, and called.
A male intermediary answered.
‘Matt Kowalski for Warwick Fripp,’ I said in my hardest tone.
‘Just a moment.’
Fripp came on the line within seconds.
I said, ‘It’s about the Heather Morrison manuscript, the one called Broken Trust.’
The line went quiet before he said, ‘Who are you? Are you with Malone?’
I freewheeled it. ‘I’m the new guy. We need to talk.’
‘Please, you have to understand. It is categorically impossible to meet you today. You have to believe me. I’m sorry, I just can’t. It’ll arouse too much suspicion.’
I said, ‘Okay, then. When?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow? The usual place?’
I hesitated and racked my brains. ‘No. Somewhere different. The Knox Street bar in Camperdown... you know it?’
He said he didn’t, but he’d look it up. Judging by the way he sounded, and the way he was speaking, Fripp appeared to be dealing with people way out of his comfort zone. It put weight against the threats made against Tamsin, so it stood to reason that maybe Fripp was being threatened about the book, too.
I said, ‘Go downstairs into the main bar. My name’s Matt. I’ll meet you there at two o’clock.’
I hung up, and it hit me: he had my mobile number now.
