Chapter 10: David hits Sydney

Shorts, for comfort, were next on his mind but fled when he saw a full-length reflection. Aghast at the weight he had lost he opted instead for long cotton trousers and bought with the sole intention of looking neat. Complexion conscious, the last purchase was a wide-brimmed Panama. He paid with crisp $100 notes and then, satisfyingly dressed, bought a fruit drink and salad roll and sat on a bench to recuperate. Noel Valentine was next on the agenda and he didn't want to arrive sweating. His chin dropped to his chest. He seemed to remember dreaming about sweating.

With directions he found the taxi rank and asked for the corner of Esplanade and Grove. The address proved to be a guest house from which his Florence Nightingale had already departed. When he asked where to and when, the landlady could only say Sydney, two weeks ago. He felt cheated, and stood at the door wanting to ask something that would get the right answer, but not knowing what. The woman was not unfriendly but saw no point in dithering when she could offer nothing else.

After spending an indecisive moment on the steps staring at the closed door he pulled down the brim of his Panama and walked away.

Thursday lunchtime, 3 January, and he was in Sydney. The whole country was suffering through a heat wave, and fires, accidental and deliberate, were keeping authorities everywhere busy.

After hiring a car he booked into the Hilton in the heart of the city with the intention of finding somewhere cheaper later. Sydney was crowded with tourists and on the streets he felt anonymous. Once in his room and settled he hovered over the telephone. But for a moment only. With the receiver cradled against his ear he dialled a local number and heard it ring twice.

'Good afternoon, Gem Techtronics. May I help you?'

He experienced a curious twinge in his throat.

'Yes, thank you. If Mr Patton is there I'd like to speak to him please.' His accent had altered. 'My name is Clayton Berger.'

'I'm very sorry, Mr Berger, but Mr Patton met with an accident some weeks ago. I'm afraid it was fatal.' The voice held just the right amount of corporate bereavement along with implicit apology at her inability to satisfy his request.

'He's dead?' He took on an incredulous tone.

'Yes,' she said regretfully. 'May I ask if you were calling in a personal or professional capacity?'

'Both. You'd better put me on to Mr Davies then.'

There was a pause.

'I'm dreadfully sorry, Mr Berger, but Mr Davies is no longer with us either.'

'Don't tell me he's dead too.'

His tone was interpreted as levity and in poor taste. 'Yes.'

'Good God! I didn't mean to sound offensive. What happened?'

'Both Mr Patton and Mr Davies died in car crashes. Mr Davies three weeks before Mr Patton.'

He thought for moment.

'I'm at a bit of a loss. What's happening to the company?'

She was professional to the core. 'Mr Nicholas Donaldson is now running the company. He's not here at the moment. May I get him to call you when he returns?'

'Nicholas Donaldson,' he repeated slowly.

'He and Mrs Davies; the late Mr Davies' wife.' When she got no response she said, 'If you leave your number I'll ask Mr Donaldson to return your call.'

'Where's Mrs Davies?'

'She doesn't come into the office. Your number, sir?'

'Huh, oh thanks but I won't bother. I'm only here for a couple of days.' He was thinking while talking. 'In view of the circumstances I might leave it until my next visit. Well,' he said with more than a hint of cheerfulness, 'Thanks for your time, and have a nice day.' He replaced the handset.

Cursing one of the diminishing bouts of weakness that forced him to seek somewhere to rest he flung himself onto the bed and waited, spread-eagled, for his heart to normalise and his muscles to cease their twitching.

Reluctance to rejoin the heat kept him indoors until early evening when, having allowed time for homeward bound traffic to thin, he drove to Elizabeth Street, Paddington. White and unexceptional, the hire car slowed as it passed No. 5. There was a For sale sign fixed to the dark green wrought iron gate. Foliage sprouted above the high red brick walls either side, obscuring the first floor balcony. Alexander Patton's estate was in the process of being wound up.

He accelerated and drove around to Rose Bay. The house he parked downwind from was built back from the road, a modestly-sized one-storey with immaculate garden. He didn't expect to see anyone. Mrs Davies and her two children would be sitting at their dining table enjoying their dinner. Well, maybe not enjoying - the absence of Mr Davies would still be keeping them company. He sat there for a while, elbow out the open window and cheek in palm trying to formulate a plan that took him further than tonight, further than driving over to North Sydney to inspect Donaldson's Kirribilli home and returning to Paddington. One thing was firm; somehow finding Noel Valentine once his present problems had been sorted. The need to thank her was palpable.

Donaldson's fortunes were more visible than Davies'. He lived in a leafy street backing onto the harbour and neighbouring the Royal Sydney Yacht Squadron. A high fence blocked the multiple-storey from the street and kept children and others safe. He could hear both behind the wall. A ball rose regularly to a boy's voice calling encouragement, and fell in concert with a fit of barking. Otherwise the street was quiet. It was 8.30 and the light fading. Resigned to the knowledge that if he continued he was going to cause hurt he switched on the ignition, put the car into gear and drove to Rushcutters Bay where he sat looking out over the water until midnight. The next drive was short; back to Paddington. After parking a couple of streets away he walked silently in his loafers to the late Alexander Patton's address.

The gate was locked. Unobserved he used the crossbars to climb and landed on a path beside a plot of greenery. The dirt and bark were dry; someone was neglecting the watering. As expected, the house was in darkness. Breathing through his nose he tried the door. Locked. Of course. He stepped back and scanned the balcony and abutting trees which didn't look strong enough to take his weight. The ground floor windows were barred. He would have to use the chisel he had brought on the door. Pity, because it was an oiled sensuously-tactile western red cedar. He ran the pads of his fingers down the grain. Beautiful. Soft wood. Therefore easy entry with minimal force. He was gambling that because the house was empty any alarm system would be unoperational and after several minutes worth of careful effort because the neighbours would be the type to call the police if they heard untoward sounds he was in. No alarm. He smiled in the dark. A grim, unamused smile.