The Bat(91)

‘I hope she loves me, of course.’

Sandra emitted a rasping laugh. ‘And how are you, Harry Holy?’

‘Terrible.’ Harry smiled sadly. ‘But I may feel a lot better if I can trap a murderer.’

‘And you think I can help you?’ she said, lighting a cigarette. Her face was, if possible, even paler and more drawn than before, and her eyes were red-rimmed.

‘We’re lookalikes,’ Harry said, pointing to their reflections in the blackened window beside the table.

Sandra said nothing.

‘I remember, if a bit unclearly, that Birgitta threw your bag on the bed and the contents fell out. At first I thought you kept a Pekinese in your bag.’ Harry paused. ‘Tell me, what do you need a blonde wig for?’

Sandra stared out of the window. That is, she was staring at the window, possibly at their reflections.

‘A customer bought it for me. He wanted me to wear it when he was with me.’

‘Who . . .?’

Sandra shook her head. ‘Forget it, Harry. I’m not saying. There aren’t many rules in my profession, but keeping your mouth shut about punters is one of them. And it’s a good rule.’

Harry sighed. ‘You’re frightened,’ he said.

Sandra’s eyes flashed. ‘Don’t try it, Harry. You won’t get anything from me, OK?’

‘You don’t need to tell me who it is, Sandra. I know. I just wanted to check first if you were frightened of saying.’

‘I know,’ Sandra aped, clearly furious. ‘And how do you know then?’

‘I saw the stone roll out of your bag, Sandra. The green crystal. I recognised the sign painted on it. He gave it to you. It’s from his mother’s shop, the Crystal Castle.’

She rested her big black eyes on him. Her red mouth had stiffened into an ugly sneer. Harry placed a careful hand on her arm.

‘Why are you so frightened of Evans White, Sandra? Why won’t you give him to us?’

Sandra tore her arm away. She turned back to the window. Harry waited. She sniffled and Harry passed her the handkerchief which, unaccountably, he had in his pocket.

‘There are plenty of other people who feel terrible, you know,’ she whispered at length. Her eyes were redder still as she turned to him. ‘Do you know what this is?’ She drew up the sleeve of her dress and showed him a white forearm with nasty, red marks, some of them encrusted.

‘Heroin?’

‘Morf. Morphine,’ Sandra said. ‘Not many people in Sydney can manage it, so most end up on heroin anyway. But I’m allergic to heroin. My body can’t take it. I’ve tried it and I almost died. So my poison is morphine. And last year there was only one person in King’s Cross able to supply it in sufficient quantity. And he takes his payment through a kind of role play. I make myself up and don a white wig. OK by me, I don’t give a shit what kicks he gets out of it, so long as I get what I need. Anyway, there are bigger sickos than those who want you to dress up as their mother.’

‘Mother?’

‘I think he hates his mother. Or loves her more than is normal. One of the two, I don’t know for sure, he won’t talk about it, and Christ knows I don’t want to, either!’ She gave a hollow laugh.

‘Why do you think he hates her?’

‘The last few times he was rougher than usual. He bruised me.’

‘Round your neck?’

Sandra shook her head. ‘He tried. Soon after the murder of the Norwegian girl was in the paper, the strangling. He put his hands round my throat and told me to lie still and not to be frightened. I didn’t give it any more thought afterwards.’

‘Why not?’

Sandra shrugged. ‘People are influenced by what they read and see. Take 9½ Weeks, for example, when it was on at the cinema. Suddenly there were loads of punters who wanted us to crawl around naked on the floor while they sat watching.’

‘Shit film,’ Harry said. ‘What happened?’

‘He put his hands round my throat and ran his thumbs over my voice box. Nothing violent. But I took off the wig and said I wasn’t up for that game. He came to his senses and said that was fine. It had just come over him. Didn’t mean anything.’

‘And you believed him?’

Sandra rolled her shoulders. ‘You don’t know how a bit of independence can affect the way you see things,’ she said, finishing the whiskey.

‘Don’t I?’ Harry said, eyeing the still untouched Coke bottle with disapproval.

McCormack was drumming his fingers with impatience. Harry was sweating even though the fan was on full. Otto Rechtnagel’s neighbour had had a lot to say when Yong turned up. Much too much. Sadly, nothing of what she said had been of any interest. Yong seemed to have found it hard to behave as a good listener in her less than convivial company.