Peter Corris

Forget Me If You Can

The Hearing

‘Would you care to introduce yourself to these ladies and gentlemen, Mr Hardy? As you know, they are charged with deciding whether or not you are a fit person to hold a private enquiry agent’s licence.’

‘And who are you?’

‘Dr Campbell. I’m the Chairperson. My speciality is the socio-psychological profile of applicants.’

‘Holder, in my case.’

‘Yes. Although suspended.’

‘Well, perhaps I could just give them my card, but that’d be assuming they’ve got time to read it. They’re busy people, I imagine.’

‘I can understand your resentment at these proceedings, but now you’re being insulting which won’t help your cause. I gather that you’re a rather aggressive individual.’

‘I don’t know. I was an amateur boxer as a kid, then I was in the army, then I was an insurance investigator. I’ve been a private detective for fifteen years. They’re pretty violent occupations at times, but whether I was aggressive to begin with or the jobs got me that way, I don’t know. Question of nature and nurture, I guess.’

‘An interesting observation. You’re an educated person?’

‘Not really. I did a year of Law at university, but I didn’t do well at it and dropped out.’

‘Why?’

‘I thought Law might be about law, which I was interested in. I found out it was about money.’

‘You’re not interested in money.’

‘My Irish gypsy grandmother told me I’d never have any.’

‘Irish gypsy. That’d account for your dark appearance and the beaky nose… I’m sorry to be personal… This is irrelevant.’

‘That’s okay. The nose has been broken a few times. I don’t recall my grandmother’s nose. She was five foot one and a hundred pounds, so I’ve got a bit more than a foot and sixty pounds on her.’

‘I notice you use the imperial measures rather than the metric. Isn’t that rather old-fashioned of you?’

‘Yes. I’m old-fashioned in some ways, but I wear a digital watch.’

‘So you do, and you’re looking at it. Are you an impatient man?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you an intelligent man, Mr Hardy?’

‘I don’t think there’s an intelligent answer to that question. My guess is that the thing you’re most likely to overestimate is your own intelligence.’

‘I see. I thought you were a little defensive about dropping out of university.’

‘Maybe. If I’ve got a reputation for anything it’s for seeing matters through. I like to finish things off, if I can. I feel bad if I can’t.’

‘That’s the first serious thing we’ve heard you say.’

‘You come to me with a serious problem and pay me serious money and you’ll see how serious I can get.’

‘Do you smoke and drink?’

‘Stopped smoking years ago. Sometimes I go a day without a drink if I’m too busy or I forget.’

‘Where do you do most of your work.’

‘In Sydney. All over the city. I’ll go to the bush if I have to, but I prefer pavements to paddocks.’

‘What sort of work do you prefer?’

‘I take what comes along. The client has to be at least as honest and ethical as me.’

‘How honest and ethical is that?’

‘Impossible to answer. As much as I can be while doing my job.’

‘What are you afraid of?’

‘Boredom, bureaucrats and bullshit.’

‘I was told by one of your referees that you were charming. We haven’t seen much of that in this interview.’

‘I’m sorry. You were right. I resent these proceedings and I’m a bit tense. The charm tends to drop away when I’m tense. When this is all over, I’ll be charming.’

‘How would you describe your relations with the police?’

‘I find it hard to be charming with the police.’

‘What about with other professionals you come in contact with?’

‘I try to avoid doctors and politicians. I deal with lawyers a lot. Some are okay. I don’t mind journalists. I like beekeepers.’

‘Really? Do you know many beekeepers?’

‘Not many.’

‘How do you feel about cars?’

‘They’re necessary.’

‘Guns?’

‘Useful-sometimes, rarely.’

‘What is the role of the private enquiry agent in the general scheme of law and order, in your opinion?’

‘Big question.’

‘You must have thought about it.’

‘Yeah. I’d say we’re at the end of a chain, a sort of last resort. People have been let down by ringing other numbers in the phone book.’

‘That sounds rather… negative.’

‘I don’t think so. It means the private detective can turn people away, exploit them or help them. His choice.’

‘And which do you do?’

‘Apparently, it’s not for me to say. It’s for your committee to decide.’

‘Mmm. You’re not married, Mr Hardy?’

‘Divorced.’

‘Children?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I think that’s all I need, Mr Hardy. Thank you. I’ll hand you over to the other members of the committee.’

‘Thank you, Dr Campbell and… uh, I like your dress.’

Copper

Senior Detective Sergeant Martin Oldcastle said, ‘I can’t tell you how much I hate doing this, Hardy.’

I looked at him-fifty-four and beginning to show it in face and body, hair retreating and almost completely grey, thick-lensed glasses. ‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘Really encourages me to take the job and give it my best.’

‘You know what I mean. Jesus. I’ve been in the force for nearly forty years. Loved it. Now I feel that every bloody copper in Australia’s out to get me, ‘cept Mickey, of course.’

Oldcastle had blown the whistle on a clutch of policemen, a few senior, most junior, to himself. These officers were involved in extortion, covering up of crimes from murder on down, witness intimidation and the organising of armed robberies. Oldcastle’s story was that he’d stumbled across the skullduggery when he happened to be present at the death of ‘Irish’ Jack Murphy. Murphy was a long-time prison escapee, hit man and standover merchant who was shot by police in Coogee three years back. Oldcastle was only marginally involved with the task force that cornered Murphy, who had fired several shots but taken a great many more himself.

Oldcastle was concerned that the force had been excessive and, with no-one else close by, he bent over the supposedly dead body to examine the wounds. Murphy told him with his dying breath the names of the corrupt police (several of whom had been in on the shooting) and some details of their activities.

‘I was shocked, I admit it,’ Oldcastle had told me at our first meeting a few weeks back. ‘I’d seen crims shot before. Our blokes, too. I wasn’t a cherry or anything like that. I’d wounded men myself. But there was something about this- Irish was practically blown to bits and still he was talking. That was what got to me. If he’d been stone dead, as he should’ve been… Okay, end of story. Or if he’d just been pinged and was talking. Right, I could’ve understood that. But the way it was, shit, I had to believe him. I had to! Didn’t want to, didn’t want to fuckin’ be there. But I was, and my life’s never been the same since.’

It was Oldcastle’s mate, Mick Gordon, who’d suggested that he come and see me. This was after Oldcastle had poked around, working on his own time, taking considerable risks, to accumulate evidence that indicated a number of police officers were far worse criminals than any they had put away or were ever likely to put away. I’d got to know Mick when he worked at the Kings Cross station. He was one of those men, and they’re not unknown in the police force, who you instinctively like. He told a good yarn and listened well; he smiled easily but took serious things seriously. He effaced himself in a curious way but remained a strong personality in your memory. We’d got on as well as a copper and a private investigator can. The time came when Martin Oldcastle felt ready to present his evidence and confided in Gordon, whom he’d known since school days in Darlinghurst.

‘I don’t mind telling you, Cliff,’ Gordon had said to me, ‘I advised Marty to forget the whole thing. To go for early retirement, take his package and get to buggery out with all his friendships intact and no bloody trouble.’

It was typical of Gordon that he would be frank in that way, both to Oldcastle at the time and to me later. But Oldcastle hadn’t taken Gordon’s advice. When, inevitably, yet another enquiry into police corruption was announced, Oldcastle submitted a sample of his material anonymously, was encouraged to supply more and eventually offered himself as a witness. His safeguard, supposedly, was that only the enquiring commissioners knew the areas and names his evidence covered, but it wasn’t long before that vessel leaked and Oldcastle got his first death threat. The first of many. The commissioners offered him protection, of course, but how safe does the fox feel when the huntsmen are offering him protection against the hounds? Mick Gordon had sent him to me after the death threats and here we were, discussing round-the-clock seclusion and protection for six days before his first appearance and for as long as he was singing.

One of my difficulties was that Oldcastle wasn’t very likeable. He appeared to lack a sense of humour, although stress might have blunted it-give him that. He was a driven type, by reputation a workaholic as a policeman. He had no family, a plus from my angle-no way to reach him through dependants; but he was a cold customer-not self-obsessed, which is uncongenial but human, but rather not concerned with other people, almost oblivious of them except as tokens in some bureaucratic, institutional game. Mick Gordon appeared to be his only close friend. That was understandable, Gordon had the touch to bring out the human characteristics, even in an automaton like Oldcastle.

He got up from his chair and stared out the window, adjusting his glasses, no doubt thinking about cleaning them, although any blurriness was certainly on my panes rather than on his lenses. ‘After the shooting,’ he said slowly, ‘they offered us all sorts of counselling-psychologists, trauma and guilt experts, hypnotists, relaxation advisers. All bullshit. No limit to the medical backup-leave, tranquillisers, sleeping pills. Union all over them. Some of the blokes took some of it on board as a bludge, you know? Even though they’d actually enjoyed blowing Murphy away. I understand that. I can’t say I ever felt upset about the couple I shot, and one of them wasn’t ever much good after that.’

‘What’s the point?’ I said.

‘The point is there’s bugger-all of that now, is there? I need tranquillisers, I need leave and counselling and how much d’you reckon I’d get if I was to explain what I’m doing and ask for it? You think the union rep’d be on the blower offering me support?’

I still hadn’t decided to take the job and the element of self-pity in this outburst didn’t make him any more appealing. But at least he was feeling something.

‘Just exactly what are you doing?’ I asked.

He left the window and sat down. He adjusted his glasses and squared his shoulders. He was clean-shaven, wore a neat blue suit, white shirt and dark tie; no rings, no lapel pins. His watch was stainless steel on a leather strap. He was a plain man who apparently had no need for the accessories a lot of cops these days trick themselves out with-moustaches, bracelets, signet rings. ‘I’m trying to put a bunch of murdering, thieving, lying bastards in gaol where they belong,’ he said.

Of course there was a lot more to my question than that. I meant, among other things: Why are you going against the traditions of the institution you’ve spent your life in? But Martin Oldcastle wasn’t the sort of man to serve up easy answers to questions like that. Too honest. That honesty tipped the balance in his favour, but I had one more question.

‘If I take this on, it’s going to cost money. You’re looking at seven or eight thousand dollars.’

‘Not a problem.’ Flatly, like that.

‘Well…’

He leaned forward across the desk. ‘I’ve been a senior police officer for twenty years. I’ve got no family. I don’t drink much and I don’t gamble. I bought my flat back when a decent place to live in didn’t cost the bloody earth. I drive a 1988 Falcon. I play bowls at the weekend and I go on bus tours around Australia in my holidays. It’s my life we’re talking about and I can afford to pay you if you’ve got the guts to take it on.’

Maybe the choice of car swung it, maybe the bus tours. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’ll need two signatures-one on a contract and one on a cheque.’

What I was signing up for was personal protection of Oldcastle for every hour of every day I could manage. That’s somewhere well short of twenty-four. I had to sleep and I had to deal with other things from time to time. Luckily, if that’s the word, I wasn’t in any kind of relationship just then that required any attention. Still, thinking you can protect someone just by becoming their Siamese twin is a mistake. You lose perspective and flexibility. For example, it’s useful to walk around a subject’s neighbourhood a few times to get the feel of the place. You don’t want the subject there with you. You need to call on a few of the neighbours, lying your head off about why you’re ringing their bells, and you need to be alone when you do it. You need to drive the subject’s car to the supermarket and buy a frozen pizza and a bottle of wine and see if anyone takes an interest. Stuff like that, and you need trustworthy backup while you’re away and that costs money and makes you anxious. It isn’t my favourite kind of work…

Surprisingly, Oldcastle turned out to be an easy guy to spend time with. He was quiet and knew how to occupy himself, probably from long practice. He read, mostly travel books and biographies, watched television and videos and did cryptic crosswords. His collection of LPs, cassettes and CDs surprised me. He listened to everything from Beethoven to the Black Sorrows. He told me that Joe Camilleri was the equal of any American or British modern musician and I listened and had to agree. The classical stuff tended to make me sleepy. He noticed me nodding off somewhat during something by Brahms or Bach or Haydn, one of them, and he turned the music off.

‘Show you something,’ he said.

He switched the light off in the room, slid the glass door open and went out onto the balcony. I followed him-a body that knows something about bodyguarding is that much easier to guard. He drew my attention to a smashed and twisted section of the aluminium door frame and some deep pitting of the bricks nearby. ‘You’d know what this is, wouldn’t you, Hardy?’

‘Sure. How close were you?’

‘Too bloody close.’

The damage was on a level with my nose. Oldcastle was about five foot ten, say, two and a half inches shorter than me. Forehead or temple, depending. Fatal either way.

Oldcastle stepped back inside, turned on the light and went across to a drinks tray that he kept near the fridge. Old-fashioned set-up but nothing wrong with it. He lifted a bottle of Cutty Sark and looked at me enquiringly. I nodded and he poured two solid ones over ice. We sat down well away from the still-open door.

‘Cheers,’ Oldcastle lifted his glass, drank and pointed at the balcony. ‘Trouble is, I couldn’t tell if they were meant to miss and just scare me, or if the shooter wasn’t quite up to it. The light would’ve been tricky at the time.’

I drank. I hadn’t had any Cutty Sark for a long time and it tasted good. The way we were going we’d be Cliff and Marty in no time. ‘Did you report the shooting?’

He shook his head. ‘Didn’t even tell Mick.’

‘Why not?’

He shrugged and knocked back some more whisky. ‘No bloody point. He’d only worry all the more. I was still in my anonymous phase then, anyway, and couldn’t tip my hand.’

‘Any guesses as to who it was?’

I regretted the question as soon as I’d asked it. I didn’t want to know who Oldcastle was naming or anything about them. Not my problem. I wanted to walk right away from this when he’d sung his song and let everything go through official channels after that. If his evidence was as good as he made out, there’d be warrants sworn against his enemies as soon as he stopped talking. So far, Oldcastle had recognised that as my unspoken position, but the memory of the bullets fired at him and the loosening effect of the good Scotch caused him to drop his guard.

‘I bloody know who it was. Lance Christenson. He put four bullets into Murphy and his was the first name Murphy said to me. He was a champion rifle and pistol shot but I’ve heard his eyesight’s not what it was. Had to be him. Another drink?’

He’d loosened his tie, tossed his Scotch off and was clearly inclined towards another. Why not? I thought. Later, I wished I’d gone for a long walk instead. Oldcastle had told the truth when he’d said he didn’t drink much. Two more Cutty Sarks and he was well away. I got names and dates and places and amounts. Trouble was, I was complicit. I suppose I could have stopped the flow, but I was interested-professionally, and like any tabloid paper reader. I knew some of the cops, some of the lawyers and some of the crims and a couple of the women. One of them, Lettie Morrow, I’d known very well indeed, and that presented a serious problem.

Lettie was a beautiful woman with a light brown skin, black hair and slanted eyes. Her ancestry could have been Aboriginal, Polynesian, African or Asian or a mixture of any or all. Lettie didn’t know or care. She’d been abandoned in a taxi hours after being born and had been raised in institutions and foster homes. She was intelligent and athletic, did well at school and stayed out of trouble until she was twenty and had almost finished her nursing course. She met Royce Brown and that was the end of the straight life for Lettie. Brown had been dead for five years when I met Lettie but she had photographs of him and you could see what he had on offer-incredible goods looks, a fine physique and a smile to make their knees knock. He was also a heroin addict and a sociopath.

Lettie stuck with Brown for ten years-most of which he spent in gaol-had a child by him, used smack with him, turned tricks for him, did anything. She was arrested for this and that, served some time. When Brown OD’d she fell apart for a while, then got herself back together, got her nursing qualification and worked as a drug counsellor. We had a brief, intense affair and although I hadn’t treated her well we stayed friends afterwards. We’d lost touch though and Oldcastle said she’d taken up with Lance Christenson and was deeply involved in his operations-providing girls, entertaining contacts, laundering money.

‘What’s he look like, this Christenson?’ I asked.

‘He looks like Errol Flynn, and acts like him.’ That made sense. Lettie had made fun of my battered face, claimed to appreciate ‘pretty’ men and lamented that they were in short supply- at least the kind that liked women. I still had a load of guilt about Lettie. I didn’t exactly blame myself if she’d drifted back under the influence of a handsome bad man, but I felt I owed it to her to find out how deeply she was implicated in Christenson’s activities. The way Oldcastle told it, she’d take a long fall with him when he told all he knew. There was too much that was good and strong in Lettie for me to allow that to happen without at least giving her a warning. Big problem of the semi-professional-conflict of interest.

Doctors and lawyers, clergyman and accountants have pretty clear guidelines for their conduct. Playing on both sides in a conflict is out-the patient, the client, the parishioner gets the full commitment. In this game, it’s rather different. We operate in the gaps between the systems-the media, the law, police, prisons- and we see up close how the systems work in their own interests first and foremost. I’ve always felt that people should come first, especially people I like. I thought about it after Oldcastle had staggered off to bed. If Christenson already knew that Oldcastle was going to bucket him, there couldn’t be any harm in tipping Lettie, who might not know, the wink.

I continued to think about it through the next day which was only three days before Oldcastle was due to give his evidence. That night I turned the body over to two of Pete Marinos’ men to guard. Pete runs a medium-sized agency on professional lines. I’d been using his services when required on the Oldcastle case and this was just an extension of the same. I felt nervous about it though and told the two guys what to do more times than I should have. Oldcastle had been hungover and tetchy in the morning, but by evening he seemed calm and unconcerned about my taking leave of absence.

‘I expect you’ve got a woman to see,’ he said.

‘That’s right, as it happens.’

‘I could never get along with women. I liked them all right but I couldn’t ever tell if they were fair dinkum. Never found one I could trust.’

I couldn’t think of anything to say to that. I left the flat, resisting the temptation to give just another tip or two to Pete’s men, and called the last number I had for Lettie on the car phone.

‘Lettie Morrow.’

‘Lettie, this is Cliff Hardy.’

‘Hello, Cliff. Hell, it’s been a while since I heard from you.’

‘Yeah. I wonder if we could get together for a drink tonight? I’ve got a couple of things to talk over with you.’

‘Sure. I’m not doing anything tonight. Bit knackered to tell the truth. Why don’t you get a bottle of that white wine you like, what is it again? Some bloody bird?’

‘Cockatoo Ridge.’

‘That’s it. Get a bottle and come over. You remember where I am.’

I did, a small semi in Elizabeth Bay or Woolloomooloo, depending on how you thought of it. For Lettie it was the Loo, always. I don’t know what made me resist the invitation: the sexual connection between us had been very strong but I didn’t need that complication just now. In public was safer.

‘No fear. My earning curve is up just now.’

She laughed. She had a great laugh and I almost reneged. ‘You can say the words, Cliff, but that don’t make it true.’

‘C’mon, Lettie. This isn’t on the cheap. Why don’t you throw on something flash and meet me at the Berlin Bar in an hour.’

‘Now that is a serious offer. Why not? Sure, see you there, Cliff.’

The Berlin Bar was in Elizabeth Bay. Lettie could walk there in her five-inch heels. I knew she loved the place because it catered to her sense of the dramatic. She might arrive in a dinner suit and top hat, a la Dietrich, or in almost nothing, a la Madonna. No way to tell. What I did know was that her favourite drink-champagne with a shot of cognac-would cost a bomb. I was wearing a suit-as I’d taken to doing because it saves thinking about what to wear-so I was dressed okay for the Berlin. What I didn’t have was nearly enough money in my wallet. My first port of call was an autobank.

The Berlin Bar was at street level and brightly lit for the first third of its depth so people could be seen and admired from the street. I parked as close as I could get and under a light. It was still fairly early; the place wasn’t crowded and I got a table near the front with a good view of the street, the door, the bar and anything else you might want to see. I hadn’t been there for some time but it hadn’t changed; why would it? You can’t do any better than full most nights at outrageous prices. I ordered a bottle of French champagne, two flutes and a quadruple cognac in a small snifter. The change out of a hundred dollars was barely worth putting in my pocket and it crossed my mind that I might have trouble putting this event on my expenses.

All such thoughts vanished when I saw Lettie approaching the table. Being old-fashioned, I stood up politely, but I think I was really signalling to the other patrons that she was with me. She wore a grey satin dress that dipped low in front and ended at mid-thigh, a black silk jacket that seemed to part from and cling to her as she walked; the inevitable spike heels. Her hair was loose on her shoulders. She walked straight up and kissed me on the mouth.

‘Hi, Cliff, you bastard.’

She was high on something; there was a slightly unfocused look to her slanted eyes and an odd, upwards angle to her neck.

‘Hello, Lettie. Sit down and have a drink. I hope you haven’t switched to Jack Daniels.’

She sat, looked at the ice bucket and glasses and a slow smile spread across her wide, thin-lipped mouth.

‘You beauty.’ She poured a good slug of brandy into a flute and let me fill the glasses. She drank half of hers in a gulp. All this was new-she used to be a sniffer, a taster, a sipper. I drank some champagne, the first drink I’d had for the day and not a bad way to start. Lettie looked older than she should and was using make-up to correct some of the damage. She still looked terrific but there was a line here, a sag there that suggested what was to come. She finished her drink and poured another. She used to be able to drink all night and not show it, but that was in her old style. With this fast-lane technique something else was possible. She was high, but also nervous.

‘So,’ she said.

‘Do you know a man named Lance Christenson, Lettie?’

‘Cliff, did you expect me to wait?’

‘Does that mean yes?’

She smiled and shrugged, not an easy thing to do, but she was full of those tricks. ‘You left such a hole in my life, Cliff.’

‘This is serious, Lettie.’

‘Drink up. You’re making me feel like the greatest lush in Elizabeth Bay, which I’m not. What d’you expect me to say? Sure, I fuck Lance. He’s got a big dick. Bigger’n yours.’

I poured some more champagne into my glass and took a drink. Somehow it didn’t taste as good. Lettie was fidgeting with a purse she’d taken out of the pocket of her jacket. I didn’t like to think about what was in it apart from money and her flat keys.

‘Lance has got some bad trouble coming his way,’ I said. ‘I don’t want you to end up with a share of it. What’s happened to you, Lettie? I thought you had it all together?’

‘You thought! Fuck you! Fuck what you thought! You know what I saw and heard when I was doing that drug work? Catholic boys who’d been buggered by priests; Koori girls who’d been raped by Salvation Army blokes. Not just once, Cliff, and not just in one fucking hole either.’

‘Take it easy.’

‘I can’t take it easy. I couldn’t, I mean. In the end I couldn’t take it any more. The holier the talk, the worse the abuse.’

‘So, it’s a shitty world. Everyone knows that. It’s no reason to take up with

‘You wouldn’t know a thing about it.’ She drank again, poured some more and put the rest of the cognac down in a swallow. Her mouth was set now and the sparkle in her eyes wasn’t just alcohol and drugs. She was very, very angry and I got ready to have something thrown at me. Suddenly, she shook her head as if to let all the anger fly out along with her frothing, bouncing hair. She grinned at me and pushed her chair back. ‘Excuse me, darling. I’ve got to go and powder my tits.’

She walked towards the toilet clutching the pocket purse. Heads and eyes followed her. There was something about Lettie that absorbed all your attention. I began to hear the bar noise-conversation, bottle-clinking and background music-for the first time. I also took notice of the customers. Same-sex and mixed-sex couples, singles… Too late. A big, darkhaired man with regular features dropped into a chair on my left. Another man, smaller and much less handsome, sat where Lettie had been. Some people claim to be able to tell cops on sight. Not me, but I can recognise two legitimate warrant cards when I see them. They were produced and put away too quickly for me to read the names, but I didn’t have to guess at the identity of the guy with the classic profile that was half-turned towards me.

‘Lance Christenson,’ I said.

‘Chief Inspector to you.’

I kept my eyes on the man opposite me, who struck me as more threatening of the two. Christenson was a little fleshy, less than fit and very self-satisfied. The other one, who was fair, with light eyes behind slightly tinted glasses, looked hungrier and keen to impress. Ambition is a very dangerous quality.

‘For now,’ I said. ‘I didn’t catch your chum’s name.’

Christenson smiled, showing perfect white teeth, probably veneered at great expense to law-abiding citizens. ‘His nickname’s Flick. Know why?’

‘I know you’re going to tell me.’

‘One Flick, and they’re gone. You’re going to be one of them, Hardy. Gone for good, unless we can talk a little sense into you.’

It was going to be a matter of timing. Just for a second, I wondered whether it was worth hanging around to swap shit with Christenson. I decided it wasn’t and slammed my reversed left fist backwards into Flick’s Adam’s apple. Done right, the blow will kill a man but I knew I wouldn’t have the force to do that with my left hand. Also, Flick had reacted. He was late, but not too late to deflect some of the force upwards towards bone rather than soft tissue. He sagged and gasped for breath just the same, and I grabbed him, hauled him up, his arm twisted to breaking point behind his back. He let me take him. He knew enough about this stuff not to get into busting his own limbs.

It happened quickly and probably didn’t look so bad to the Berlin Bar patrons-one big man dragging a smaller one towards the door which wasn’t so far away. Another big man was following at a respectable distance and not saying anything. Could’ve almost been a lover’s quarrel in that setting. I was almost to the door when I saw Lettie emerge from the toilet. She saw what was happening but it didn’t seem to worry her as she headed sinuously towards the table; she was in that neutral state where the only things that matter are inside your skull.

I dragged my man through the door and out onto the footpath. I didn’t fancy pulling him all the way to my car and didn’t think I’d have to. Christenson came out under the neon sign that showed a Marlene lookalike in fishnet stockings and top hat with a cane between her legs. He stood there as if he knew what an effective visual it made.

‘Let him go, Hardy,’ he said.

‘My car’s not that close.’

‘Too many lookers-on. We won’t bother you.’

People from the bar and passers-by were standing around getting an eyeful. I loosened my grip but stayed ready to knee him in the kidneys if I had to.

‘You and your dog mate’re in for a surprise, Hardy. A very big surprise.’

That was an exit line if ever I’d heard one and a theatrical type like Christenson wouldn’t waste it. I slung Flick down into the gutter and walked away to my car.

I hadn’t learned a thing, except that Lettie was back in the life and probably in deeper than before. It wasn’t hard to understand-unless they’re incredibly lucky, abused people gravitate to those who will abuse them. Christenson was a user of people, a handsome man with a charming smile and a heart like a hailstone. I was sorry about Lettie, but her problems predated me and were deeper and wider than mine, which disqualified me as a helper. I have enough difficulty fighting off the attractions of booze oblivion and violent solutions without trying to save souls. I would write Lettie off the way I had others and I’d feel bad about it from time to time.

Personal survival with a few basic principles intact is the bottom line. The threat to me had been real, but precisely how far Christenson and his offsider would have gone was hard to gauge. Christenson certainly hadn’t looked anxious, but his type runs on confidence and they have it and use it so much they can become insensitive to hostile forces. My involvement had concerned him enough to get Lettie to play a part and to bring his enforcer along. Men like Christenson see life as a series of deals, wins and losses, debts and credits. To some extent tonight he’d exposed himself, showed some of his cards with no result. He wouldn’t be happy.

I tried to comfort myself with these thoughts as I drove, not forgetting to watch out for tails and observers. Nothing. It was twenty minutes before I realised that I was driving towards my place in Glebe, not Oldcastle’s flat in Dover Heights. I didn’t want to spend another night on his couch, hear his catarrhal cough in the morning and eat high-fibre cereal for breakfast with the TV on. I wanted a tuna and mayonnaise sandwich and my own cut-price Scotch, my own bed and books, radio in the morning with black coffee and toast with butter. I phoned in, was told everything was quiet and left the night watch to one of Pete’s men. I circled a few blocks in Glebe until I was sure I hadn’t attracted a following and did two passes of my house, looping down towards the water and back around until I was sure there was no-one hanging around out front or in the back. If there was anyone there they were good and deserved their chance.

I went into the house and tried to enjoy the anticipated familiar things. I couldn’t. All I could think of was Christenson’s statement: ‘You and your dog mate’re in for a surprise, Hardy. A very big surprise.’

What the hell did that mean?

Two more days to get through. I told Oldcastle what had happened at the Berlin Club. He identified Christenson’s companion as a Detective Constable Fraser. ‘That man should never have been allowed in the police force. He’s vicious. I don’t know about him killing people, but he’s marked a few one way and another, women as well as men.’

‘What d’you think Christenson meant about a surprise?’

Oldcastle shook his head. ‘No idea. All I know is I should have spoken up a lot sooner. You know what worries me, Hardy? There must be a hell of a lot of people who know about this-other police, politicians, journalists, blokes in your game. And they keep quiet. Why?’

I studied him. The one night on the booze was just that, one night. He was perfectly composed again now-clean-shaven, collar and tie on in the morning when he didn’t have to go anywhere, polished Oxfords. He was preparing himself for an ordeal in the only way he knew, by following routines, keeping up appearances. My respect for him had grown, but his limitations were obvious-a lack of imagination, a wish to remain apart from the real current of life. It might make him a compelling witness or a feeble one, hard to tell.

I answered his question in an offhand way saying that people worked their own territory and didn’t look for trouble. He shook that off like a dog shedding water.

‘No,’ he said sharply. ‘It’s worse than that. It’s fear. Fear! Citizens afraid of the very people sworn to protect them. What could be more screwed up than that?’

An idealist, I thought. Dead dangerous.

We got through the next two days without incident. Oldcastle told me that he had all his physical evidence in a safety deposit box in a city bank and he made arrangements to call there immediately before he was due to front the enquiry.

‘It’s better you don’t know which bank,’ he said. ‘No one knows except me.’

‘Suits me,’ I said. ‘Will we be able to carry it all?’

He patted a battered briefcase he kept in the room he called his study. It contained a desk, a filing cabinet filled with copies of National Geographic and Australian Geographer and several bookcases holding his collection of travel books and biographies. I knew what was in the filing cabinet because I’d sneaked a look; in fact I’d done a fairly thorough search of the place at odd times when opportunities presented. When you’re guarding someone like Oldcastle, you’re also guarding what he knows and what he’s got. As far as I could tell, he had nothing significant in the flat.

We ate something from the microwave and had a glass of light beer each. It was a warm night and Oldcastle seemed to enjoy the drink. None of Pete’s boys were around; there’d been absolutely no signs of any trouble and I was going to stick by Oldcastle right up until he walked through the door to the enquiry room.

He got up to make coffee and I poured another couple of inches of beer. ‘What’re you going to do when this is all over?’

He spooned the coffee into the filter. ‘If everything goes well, Christenson and all the other bent bastards’ll be off the force and in gaol. I’ll go back to work.’

It was hard to believe that he was serious, but everything in his body language and manner suggested that he was. I sipped the last of the beer and was looking forward to the coffee. Oldcastle would do a crossword and listen to music. I’d get on with reading Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil and maybe have a Cutty Sark before bed.

A knock on the door startled me out of this pleasant anticipation. Oldcastle lived a lonely life and, apart from a neighbour dropping in to discuss something about the maintenance of the block and a misdirected pizza deliverer, there hadn’t been any callers. I waved Oldcastle back towards the kitchen, unshipped my. 38 and moved to a position beside the door. You don’t stand in front of the door and you don’t put your eye to the spyglass in these situations, not if you value your life. You keep a few bricks between you and whoever is outside.

‘Who is it?’ I said.

‘It’s Mick Gordon, Cliff. Open up. I have to talk to Marty.’

Gordon’s voice carried well and Oldcastle heard it. His pleasure was evident. ‘Mick,’ he said. ‘Let him in, Cliff. It’ll be good to see him.’

It was the first time this cold, aloof man had used my name. I was touched in an odd way. I put the gun away and unlocked the door. Gordon came in, eyeing me warily. He wore a sports shirt and slacks, smelled faintly of Scotch and was carrying a newspaper. His shirt was sweat-damp under the arms and in front, but it was warm and the flat was three levels up and Gordon was a little overweight.

Oldcastle stuck out his hand and the two men shook. ‘How are you, Mick? Jeez, it’s good to see you. No other bugger… Well, never mind. I’ve got the coffee on. Is there any of that beer left, Cliff?’

I shook my head. Gordon grinned at me. ‘Bloody wowser doesn’t even keep a few cans in the fridge. Can you believe it? No, coffee’d be fine, mate. In a minute. Look, there’s something I’ve got to talk over with you.’

‘Sit down, Mick,’ Oldcastle said.

Gordon reached into the pocket of his shirt and took out his cigarettes. ‘You know me, Marty. Can’t talk without smoking and I know how you feel about smoking inside.’ He put a cigarette between his lips and moved towards the open door to the balcony, raising the lighter as he went. Oldcastle followed him.

‘What is it, Mick?’

Looking back, I should have spotted it, but it all seemed so natural at the time-the smile, the cigarette, the lighter, the casual, familiar gesture. They stepped out onto the balcony. The curtain was drawn back, the room light was on. I didn’t hear the shot but the glass door shattered and blood, bone and brain matter splattered against the wall. I shouted uselessly and jumped forward, knocking over a chair. When I got to the balcony Gordon was standing over Oldcastle, who was lying against the door with half of his head blown away.

‘I told him not to do it,’ Gordon said.

He raised the lighter and lit his cigarette. He took a long drag and blew the smoke out in a steady stream. He looked at me. His expression was half-sorrowful, half-defiant and I knew what Christenson had meant by a surprise. ‘I can give you the names of two senior members of the force and a lawyer who’ll take an oath I was playing cards with them tonight.’

‘Don’t bother,’ I said.

The Brothers

Fabrizio Panella was the middleweight champion of New South Wales for a brief time in the late Seventies. The title didn’t mean much to most people but it meant a lot to Fabrizio for two reasons. One, it got him two major pay nights, first against Wally Carter for the national title. The fight was a draw so Fabrizio didn’t win the title but next he went in against a Spaniard who held the European title and took him all the way to a points decision. The two fights earned Fabrizio enough to buy the Sorrento Bar in Leichhardt, where he prospered.

But equally important was the fact that the title gave him an edge over his brother, Mario. The two had never got on. Mario fought as a light-heavy and never won a title. Light-heavy has never been a crowd-pleasing division, and ham and eggs fighters like Mario were either outpaced and outclassed by middleweights, or had to slog it out with heavyweights. Mario ended his career with two knockout losses, a battered face and a resentful attitude. He went to work for the Leichhardt Council as a gardener.

I hung around the Sorrento Bar a bit, got to know Fabrizio and talked boxing with him. Prize-fighting had been outlawed by the NSW government after the last election and the debate about the effects of the ban were still being discussed. Fabrizio was in favour of the ban. He introduced me to Mario who had come into the place on some family errand. After that I used to say hello to Mario when I saw him around, mostly in the municipal parks. I like parks; I sit in them and think and wish I had a dog. But a private detective has no business with a dog, a child or a wife and I had none of the above.

One night Fabrizio came over to where I was sitting in the cafe and plonked down another long black. ‘On the house, Cliff.’

‘Grazie.’

He shuddered. ‘Don’t even try. Your accent’s terrible. I’ve got a problem. I want to hire you.’

I sipped the coffee. Working for friends is dangerous. You can easily end up unpaid and losing a friend. But turning down friends is hard too, so I grunted.

‘You know my boy, Roberto?’

I did. Roberto Panella was eighteen, a star soccer player and in his first year at university. His father was very proud of him.

‘He’s fighting,’ Fabrizio said.

‘Soccer players fight. It’s the hot Latin blood.’

‘No, I mean he’s boxing. In the ring.’

Fabrizio was very anti the noble and manly art. He suffered from slightly blurred vision in one eye as a result of boxing. It was nothing much and only really affected him when he was tired, but he took it as a symbol of what time in the ring could do. He. considered himself lucky not to have been badly hurt and he didn’t want his boy to take the risks he had taken. He had refused to let him box in the Police Boys’ Club as a kid and had made sure there was no boxing in the training at the soccer club.

I drank some coffee and waited out the diatribe against boxing. It ended with, ‘Look at Mario-a face like a pizza.’

‘What makes you think Roberto’s boxing?’

‘I can tell. Bruises, cuts. And when he doesn’t know I’m looking he makes the moves, you know.’

I’d boxed as an amateur for several years, reaching the lower levels of the state welterweight finals. You duck and weave and it’s considered good practice to bounce around doing it as you go about your daily business. If sufficient brain damage occurs, the ducking and weaving can become like an involuntary tic. I could see why Fabrizio would worry if he saw Roberto ducking left leads when he got up from the table, weaving away from right hooks when he got a book from a shelf.

‘What does the boy say?’

‘He says no. He says he’s not fighting. He’s lying to me.’

‘You have to be registered to fight as an amateur in this state,’ I said. ‘Just ring up the boxing federation and…’

‘You think I’m a fool? I’ve done that. He’s not registered. Cliff, he’s got more money than he should have. He’s fighting for money.’ He took a small cigar from his shirt pocket and lit it. Fabrizio only smoked when he was very relaxed or very stressed. ‘He’s fighting in those fucking bloodbaths.’

Fabrizio rarely swore and when he did it meant there was something worth swearing about. Officially, boxing was outlawed but, as foreseen by opponents of the ban, and I numbered myself among them, in closed-down factories and defunct garages fights were held which paid scant attention to the Marquis of Queensberry rules. They were called ‘smokos’.

Out of curiosity I’d been to one of these fights at Penrith. There were four contests on the bill including a fifteen-rounder, a strictly illegal length in the legitimate game. The preliminary fights were a farce and in the main event a fat, tattooed biker and an Aboriginal teenager had spilt a lot of blood and displayed no skill. The biker collapsed from exhaustion after absorbing a lot of crudely delivered punishment. All they did was give the crowd something to bet on. The audience surprised me- mostly yobbos but there were many well-heeled types too and a lot of money changed hands. A couple of hard characters controlled the betting, took their cut and presumably paid the fighters’. The equipment-ropes, canvas, gloves-was worn out and defective. There was no medical supervision and all the referee seemed to do was separate the contestants at the bell and prevent them from biting each other. If Roberto Panella had fallen into this dark, dirty world he was in serious trouble.

Fabrizio puffed on his cigar and signalled for a coffee. He looked inquiringly at me. I shook my head. Two of the Sorrento’s espressos I can handle, but a third would have me up watching the late, late movie.

‘Where does Roberto live?’

‘He shares a house in Annandale with some friends-two boys and girl.’ Fabrizio looked dubious about the arrangement, but he was struggling to be a modern parent. ‘It’s a nice house, in Johnson Street.’

‘You’re sure he hasn’t got a decently paid part-time job? They do exist. And maybe he’s just watched Raging Bull too much.’

The coffee came and Fabrizio took a sip and a puff. He frowned and sighed and it wasn’t because the coffee was bad. He was a very worried man. ‘He’s got the same job he always had. Mario got it for him-three nights a week at the council maintenance depot. He checks the mileage on the vehicles, washes them down, stuff like that. He works hard but the pay isn’t much. Lately, Cliff, he wears beautiful clothes.’

‘Okay, what d’you want me to do?’

Fabrizio looked at me directly and I could feel him weighing our relationship in the balance. We’d shared experiences, stories, bottles of wine, but I was still an Anglo, and childless. ‘He goes to expensive restaurants.’

That said a lot. He was already getting intelligence reports on his son. He would feel demeaned by this and not exactly uplifted by hiring a private detective.

‘I’ll help any way I can,’ I said. ‘Let’s leave it like that. I’ll ask around and… ‘

‘No!’ He brought his big boxer’s fist with the spread, flattened knuckles down on the table. The coffee cups jumped. ‘I will pay you what you usually charge. I want you to find out who got my Roberto into this shit! Then I will deal with him.’

I hadn’t seen Roberto Panella for over a year and when I saw him coming out of the big Annandale house I was shocked at the change in him. He’d grown a couple of inches, not surprising between sixteen and eighteen, but he’d also bulked up in the shoulders and chest in a way that suggested weights or the heavy bag or both. What really rocked me was the black eye he was sporting. I’d caused and suffered a few of them in my time. It’s not a one-punch thing, contrary to popular opinion. The flesh around the eye is mashed between the glove and the bone by a series of blows and is deeply bruised. Those shiners can last more than a week and if you get too many of them the skin can be permanently darkened and coarsened.

Otherwise, Roberto was in great shape, jumping out of his skin. He unlocked a battered white Corolla hatchback, tossed in a gym bag and a backpack and skipped around to the driver’s door. He pulled smoothly away from the kerb, drove to the Booth Street lights, turned right and threaded through to Arundel Street in Glebe opposite the university, where he got one of the last all-day parking spots. He took out the backpack, locked the car and jogged towards the bridge over Parramatta Road. He was wearing jeans, a football shirt and sneakers and he moved as only an eighteen-year-old athlete can move.

A going-on-fifty-year-old ex-athlete has learned a trick or two in his time, like people forget things and come back to their cars, or change their mind about what they’re doing. I waited in my illegal parking place until I was sure Roberto had gone for good before selecting a key on a ring that holds more keys than any ring should and crossed the street. It was the work of a couple of seconds to lift the hatch on the old car, zip open the gym bag and sift through the contents. I was back in my car when the parking attendant came into view. I drove off and stopped in Glebe Point Road for a coffee and a think.

Roberto’s gym bag had held a singlet, shorts, socks, a jockstrap, a pair of boxing boots and a mouthguard. There was also the business card of Freddy Trueman, who ran a gymnasium in Newtown. The card was embossed on good quality cardboard with Freddy’s name in capitals. Aerobics and weight training were the gym’s specialities. In the old days, Freddy’s card had featured crossed boxing gloves. ‘Former Australian featherweight champion,’ it had said, which was true. But the word was that Freddy had got the title when the former champion was having trouble making the weight and had thrown the fight in return for a percentage of Freddy’s earnings from then on. It was a fairly standard arrangement but it backfired this time because Freddy had lost on a second-round KO in his first defence and was finished after that. He’d gone on to become one of the worst of the old-style fight manager-trainers-a real chew ‘em up and spit ‘em out merchant. I was surprised that he was still in business and even more surprised that he had such a flash card.

I drove to Newtown and parked in one of the gentrified streets off the main drag. Freddy’s gym had been spruced up: there was a stylish sign over the footpath outside, a fresh surface on the stairs and a new handrail to replace the old one that had given you little support and many splinters. The renovations continued inside: paint job, polished floors, resurfaced mirrors and new equipment including weights and exercise machines. A dozen or so men and women were working up serious sweats. There was one unoccupied boxing ring.

My next surprise was the sight of Freddy Trueman coming towards me. He’d lost about thirty kilos since I’d last seen him. He was plump now rather than gross and, in a white silk shirt, grey slacks and black slip-ons, sleek rather than slobby. His thin white hair was fluffed up and he wore tinted glasses. His eyes used to be permanently bloodshot.

‘Cliff, boy. How are you?’

‘Hello, Freddy-not as prosperous as you by the look of things.’

He glanced around the big, bright room with its gleaming chrome and polished surfaces and let out a wheezy laugh, the product of hundreds of thousands of cigarettes. ‘Yeah, this fitness thing, it really caught on. And I had the right spot-you wouldn’t believe the amount of money in Newtown these days.’

I looked at his shrunken waistline. ‘You’re taking some of your own medicine.’

He patted his stomach. ‘Diet and exercise, son. Diet and exercise. You don’t look too bad, all things considered. Come for a spot of aerobics?’

I wished I could take the glasses off; his eyes had always given him away, even in the ring.

He was the living embodiment of ‘shifty’ and I couldn’t believe that he’d changed. He also frightened easily. ‘Got an office somewhere, Freddy?’ I said. ‘Nice desk?’ I moved forward and backed him towards the nearest wall.

‘Hey, hey, what’s the big idea?’

I don’t know what I would have done if the weight-lifters had come to his aid, but they didn’t. I put one foot on his right polished loafer and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. A button spun away on the polished boards.

‘Still train real boxers here, do you?’

‘Sure. Amateurs, you know. The old game’s dead.’

‘How about Roberto Panella?’

‘Who?’

‘Italian kid. Eighteen. Middleweight I’d say. He’s got a shiner on him the size of a saucer.’

‘Don’t know him.’

‘I found your card in his gym bag. I’m working for his father. You must remember Fabrizio. He’s not happy. He’s making threats against those responsible for getting his boy into fighting.’

‘Jesus. Okay, Cliff. Ease up. Come back here and we’ll talk.’

I released him and he straightened himself up, stepped briskly around me and ushered me to the back of the gym where there was a partition wall. His office was small and there was no teak or leather but it was a big improvement on his old set-up of a laminex table and plastic chairs. The furniture was modern and the boxing pictures on the walls were framed instead of cellotaped to the wall as in the old days. Freddy sat behind his desk and I perched on a corner of it. He looked up at me anxiously.

‘Bobby Pain,’ he said. ‘That’s the name he goes by. Good, eh?’

I ignored that. ‘He’s fighting smokos, right?’

Freddy shrugged. ‘Kids want to fight. They always will. They want the dough, too. This law’s a fuckin’ farce. When’s the last time anyone died in the pro ring in New South?’

‘I know the arguments. What’s your cut?’

‘Shit, Cliff. I don’t train him or manage him or anything. He comes in, uses the equipment, spars a bit with amateurs, with the headgear and all. That’s it.’

‘Who handles him?’

Freddy stroked the loose flesh that sagged around his chin from when he was fat. ‘Fabrizio Panella was a bloody good fighter.’

‘I know that.’

‘But Mario was a bum.’

I had a few words more with Freddy and went off to spend the rest of the day doing routine things. I was back at the gym, playing on the exercise machines when Roberto came in at about 6 o’clock. The first thing I noticed was that he didn’t look at himself in any of the mirrors the way most of the other patrons did. The second thing was the seriousness of his workout. He skipped, shadow-boxed, used the light and heavy bags and sparred with an Aboriginal featherweight. Roberto wasn’t much slower than the lighter man and he was beautiful to watch. I’ve seen a lot of fighters over the years, enough to be able to tell when a kid has what it takes. Roberto had ring sense-he always knew where the ropes and corners were and if you can control the territory you’re on the way to controlling the opponent. He also knew how to pace himself, how to get the other guy to waste energy and when to move up on him. It was point-scoring, fight-winning stuff.

‘Fabrizio should be proud of him.’ Freddy Trueman was standing beside me. I hadn’t heard him approach because I’d been absorbed watching such natural gifts.

‘Fabrizio wants him to use his brains and use his feet to kick a soccer ball. You’ve taught him a few moves, don’t deny it.’

‘Mario’s behind it, like I told you.’

‘How many smokos has he fought?’

‘Five or six. I hear he has a punch. Last one must’ve been tough, but.’

I could see what he meant. Roberto was protecting the eye but doing it well, not adjusting his classical style and cutting loose when the opportunity presented.

Freddy gave a deep sigh. ‘Christ, he’s got it all right. If only the game wasn’t fucked.’

‘Like to handle him, would you, Freddy?’

‘Not with Fabrizio hiring the likes of you to fairy godmother him. What’re you going to do, Hardy?’

‘I wish I knew,’ I said.

It was a very tough call. Roberto was an adult, free to make his own choices, but his father was my friend and I knew he had the boy’s best interests at heart. Fighting smokos was a oneway ticket to blood loss and brain damage. Roberto’s fitness and skills wouldn’t save him; eventually he’d run into some steroid-pumped maniac impervious to pain who’d break his jaw or rupture his kidneys. So I told Fabrizio about Bobby Pain and where he was training.

‘I remember Freddy Trueman,’ Fabrizio said. ‘I can handle that fat slob. I’ll… ‘

‘He’s not fat any more and I’ve got a feeling he’ll be on the lookout for you. He used to have some pretty hard mates, probably still has. Any way, he’s not the one who got Roberto into it.’

‘Who then?’

I told him. We were in the Sorrento. It was after nine and wet out and the place was almost empty. Fabrizio got a bottle of grappa from under the counter and poured two solid shots. He told me about the rivalry between him and Mario, how it had started when they were small and had continued for the rest of their lives. Fabrizio had been better at everything than his brother, at school, at boxing, at business, and to top it all he had a son. Mario had four daughters.

‘But I didn’t think he hated me,’ Fabrizio said. ‘He knows how I feel about boxing. This is the worst thing he could do to Josie and me.’

That was another thing; Fabrizio had married an English girl named Josephine. It was a registry office job and neither Fabrizio nor Josie nor Roberto went to church. Their daughter Sara went occasionally. Mario was a staunch Catholic.

‘You’ll have to talk to Mario,’ I said. ‘Tell him to back off.’

‘You can’t tell Mario anything,’ Fabrizio said. ‘You have to show him.’

I never found out how he arranged it, but two nights later, close to midnight, I was back in Trueman’s gym along with Fabrizio, Freddy, Roberto and Mario. Roberto’s black eye was like a ragged stain on his pale, handsome face; Freddy was nervous, Fabrizio was calm; Mario was angry.

‘Don’t do it, Dad,’ Roberto said. ‘I don’t want to see it.’

‘I should have done it a long time ago,’ Fabrizio said.

The brothers had stripped to their singlets; they took off their shoes and socks and laced on boxing gloves.

‘This is silly,’ I said.

‘Cliff, you are referee,’ Fabrizio said. ‘Freddy, you’re the timekeeper.’

Mario said something in rapid-fire Italian. I looked at Roberto. ‘He says Dad always had it easy and me the same. He says he was just trying to toughen me up.’

‘What d’you think?’

Roberto shrugged. ‘I like fighting.’

The three of us got into the ring. Freddy tapped the bell and I beckoned the brothers forward. I took a short lead-and-leather blackjack from my hip pocket and flopped it in their faces. ‘I’m not going to give you any bullshit about wanting a fair fight,’ I said. ‘The first dirty trick I see and whoever did it’s on the fucking floor.’

‘Si,’ Fabrizio said and they backed off without touching gloves.

Roberto quit protesting and took up a position by the ring apron near his father’s corner. Despite himself, he was excited. He’d probably been aware of the antagonism between his father and uncle for most of his life and he couldn’t help but be interested to see it played out physically. But it was more than that. Boxing-no matter how much you are against it intellectually you can’t deny the drama.

Freddy hit the bell and they went at it. Mario was taller and heavier and the outdoor work had kept his weight down and his strength up. Fabrizio had spent more time sitting down than standing or moving and he liked his focaccia and grappa. He was soft in the middle and his reflexes were way off in the first exchanges. Still, he could protect his head and duck and sway away from trouble, as in the old days. But Mario was landing solidly to the body and coming forward confidently. Fabrizio got in a few jabs towards the end of the round and seemed to be finding the range and timing, but I knew that a couple of the body shots had hurt him and his breath was short when he went back to squat on his stool. No fouls or threats of them and I put the blackjack away. Roberto moved towards his father, caught his glance and shaken head and stayed where he was. Fabrizio’s singlet was sodden and Mario’s nose was leaking blood. Honours about even.

The minute between rounds seems like a long time when you’re not fighting and like an instant when you are. I leaned back against the ropes, looked around the silent room and wondered what the two wives and five daughters would think. It was a totally masculine occasion, a sweat and blood affair, and intelligence had nothing much to do with it. I was worried for both men and about the effect the fight could have on Roberto. Only Freddy Trueman was genuinely enjoying himself. He hit the bell with enthusiasm.

Fabrizio was still sucking in air and the blood was still running from Mario’s nose when they got to centre ring. I stepped between them. ‘This only goes three rounds,’ I said.

Fabrizio nodded. ‘Basta,’ he said.

Nothing much happened in the first minute of the second round. Then Fabrizio appeared to slip on a sweaty spot on the canvas; Mario landed a clumsy right that knocked Fabrizio off balance. Roberto shouted something and Mario waded in, swinging. Suddenly, Fabrizio wasn’t off balance at all-he nailed Mario with a perfect straight left, right cross combination. Mario sagged and a savage uppercut straightened him up so that his feet seemed to leave the floor. He fell back against the ropes and his legs had no prop in them. Fabrizio claimed him and held him as if he was going to rough him up in close.

‘No!’ Roberto yelled. He jumped onto the apron.

Fabrizio eased his brother to the canvas.

‘Mario always got excited when he thought he had his man hurt,’ Freddy Trueman said. ‘And the silly bugger was usually wrong.’

I don’t know what Fabrizio had in mind when he set up the fight, but he couldn’t have anticipated the result. He paid me for a day’s work and the next time I saw him he avoided all mention of Roberto, Mario and boxing. I considered that I had a professional right to more information and I got it from Freddy Trueman. The brothers had become closer than ever before after the fight; they’d both tried to persuade Roberto to stop fighting with no success. Roberto, Freddy told me, had turned pro and gone to Melbourne where boxing was still legal He’d found himself a Maltese manager. Bobby Pain was due to fight a six-rounder at the Footscray Town Hall in a fortnight and Freddy offered to get me tickets.

‘You’re managing him?’

Freddy grinned. ‘I’ve got an interest.’

Nothing ever really changes in the boxing game.

Lucky Jim

‘He’s a diabetic, Mr Hardy. And he’s only just turned sixteen. Oh God, I don’t think I can bear to talk about it.’

I had my pen and notebook out, but what I really needed was some blotting paper, and my office supplies don’t run to it. Mrs Truscott’s tears were trickling down her face and soaking into the lace collar of her dress: she was a stylish-looking woman in her middle forties. Well-heeled, to judge by the clothes and accessories. Her son, James, aka Jamie, had been missing for two days and Mrs Truscott had come to me rather than the police for a not uncommon reason. At her divorce, she informed me, she had won custody, but her husband was rich, well connected, and poised to use any excuse to challenge the custody order. A police missing person’s bulletin would provide a perfect excuse.

‘My ex-husband is a very vindictive man. He’d stop at nothing to get Jamie back. And the thought of him living with Roger and that slut of his… ‘ She wasn’t dumb; she realised how it sounded and she pulled out of the spin. ‘They couldn’t possibly look after him properly.’

I took notes and asked questions and told her I’d give the case twenty-four hours, after which she would have to go to the cops. It was a reasonable position to take-the police don’t get too excited before seventy-two hours have elapsed. I looked at the photograph she handed me. James Truscott was a tall, thin lad with a long, intelligent face. Brains looked to be his long suit rather than muscle, but there was something athletic about the way he held himself.

‘He takes insulin?’

She sniffed and wiped away tears with a pink, scented tissue. ‘Three times a day, before each meal.’

‘What else does he have to do about the diabetes?’

‘Diet, of course, and exercise. And test his blood sugar at least once a day.’

I remembered my diabetic mother eye-droppering urine into a test tube and dropping in a tablet and cursing when the result didn’t suit her. It didn’t sound like much fun for a sixteen-year-old.

‘How does he do that?’

‘With a glucometer. That’s a little machine with a computer that reads the blood on a reagent strip. Jamie’s very brave. He doesn’t mind pricking his finger to get the blood.’

‘And he gives himself his injections?’

‘Oh, yes. Jamie would never allow anyone else to do that. I wanted to get him a nurse to do it. His father could certainly have afforded it, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He’s been doing it himself ever since he… ever since it… since he was a little fellow of fourteen.’

From the look of him, Jamie would have been a pretty long streak of a fellow at fourteen, but I didn’t say anything. She told me about his excellent school record, his popularity, his golf-playing.

‘Has he got a girlfriend?’ I asked.

‘Of course not. He’s far too young for that sort of thing.’

I was beginning to build up a picture. I had a couple of other cases on hand, but I agreed to visit the Truscott residence in Chatswood that afternoon to look over the scene of the disappearance. After she’d signed a contract and a cheque, and restored her gold Parker pen and hefty chequebook to her purse, Mrs Truscott began to look a little uneasy.

‘I think I know what’s happened,’ she said.

Look out, Hardy, I thought. This could be cheque-tearing-up time. ‘You’d better tell me,’ I said.

‘I think his father has arranged for someone to abduct him so that I’ll have to go to the police and report it. Then Roger will have him set free and I’ll be made to look like a neglectful parent. Oh, how I hate that man.’

I relaxed somewhat. Mrs T’s theory wasn’t worth the paper it wasn’t worth writing it on, but I pretended to give it some weight. Clearly, she wanted to talk about Roger. ‘I have to ask, Mrs Truscott-why is there so much ill-feeling between you and your husband? It sounds as if there’s more than… infidelity involved.’

Her chin was soft, a bit loose, perhaps needing a tuck soon, but she jutted it firmly across the desk at me. ‘The diabetes is on his side of the family,’ she said.

She drove a bronze Celica; I followed her in my rust-pocked Falcon. The two-storey house in Chatswood with ample grounds and well-tended gardens front and back was close to the golf course where, I was told, young Truscott was a junior member. He played off a 9 handicap and got in a round almost every day, studies permitting.

‘He got a hole-in-one,’ his mother told me as she conducted me up the stairs to the boy’s room, ‘but he had no witnesses. I believe him, his father didn’t. He’s a very honest boy. Of course I drive him to the club and check his bag to make sure he has barley sugar with him and his diabetic identity card as well as his bracelet. Just between you and me, I ring and check with the professional while he’s out playing, just to make sure that he’s all right.’

I was beginning to feel Mrs Truscott’s motherly concern wrapping itself stiflingly around me, and I was only a casual employee. I asked her if I could look at the room on my own. ‘Man stuff,’ I said, trying for a hearty tone. ‘It might help me form a clearer picture of Jim.’

‘Jamie,’ she said and retreated tearfully down the stairs.

He might have had a serious, chronic disease, but Jim Truscott (as I had begun to think of him) presented as one of the healthiest young men I had ever snooped on. He was obviously an organised and motivated student, keen on golf and other sports, and not immune to the attractions of the opposite sex. He had a couple of cunningly concealed copies of Playboy, and I found a packet of condoms with two missing. A rock radio calendar on the wall had the birthdays of his mother and father circled and annotated. I did a quick check of the upstairs bathroom where Jim’s tracksuit hung and a pair of smelly sneakers lived, and rejoined Mrs Truscott in her chintzy living room.

‘I can’t find any of these things you mentioned,’ I said. ‘The needles and the sugar-testing machine. Where does he keep them?’

‘In the upstairs bathroom. They’re gone. Whoever took him knew he had to have those things to live. It must be Roger.’

I doubted it. It looked to me as if the boy had tidied his room and taken his survival equipment with him, but not his expensive set of Ping clubs or his spiked shoes. Something was obviously more important to him than golf. I was beginning to form impressions of the lad and the crosses he had to bear-antagonistic parents, an over-protective mother, the discipline of diabetes.

‘This will sound silly,’ I said, ‘but are you sure there was no message-a note, a phone call?’

‘Of course not. What do you mean?’

‘I’m not sure. He appears to be a nice, considerate lad. I see he’s got your birthday marked on his calendar. I can’t believe he’d put you through this sort of worry. Have you checked your letterbox?’

‘My accountant handles all the bills and I don’t get many letters, not since the divorce… But I check the box daily.’

I’d noticed that the telephone was attached to an answering machine. ‘What about telephone messages?’

‘What do you mean?’

I walked over to the instrument. The light was flashing. ‘You don’t play back your calls?’

‘I don’t know anything about it. I never touch it. Jamie’s friends use it. He runs downstairs and takes the calls upstairs. It’s all beyond me.’

I felt sorry for her in her lonely, isolated existence but even more sorry for Jamie. I even felt a little sorry for Roger. I hit the button and a young voice came through

loud and clear: ‘DON’T WORRY, MUM. I’M FINE. I’M STAYING WITH A FRIEND FOR A WHILE. I NEED TO WORK A FEW THINGS OUT AND I THINK YOU DO AS WELL. I’LL BE IN TOUCH SOON. LOTS OF LOVE.’

‘Oh, thank God,’ she said, ‘but on earth what does he mean? Where is he?’

‘Who’s his best mate, Mrs Truscott?’

Joel Lawson was another tall, lean teenager. I talked to him on the putting green at the Chatswood golf club where he’d gone immediately after school. He was rolling them in and leaving them close, one after another. I interrupted him, introduced myself and showed him my ID.

‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘a private eye.’

‘Think of me as a social worker,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for James Truscott. His mother’s worried about him.’

He tapped his ball with the toe of his putter. ‘Why?’

‘She doesn’t know where he is. Do you?’

‘Didn’t Jim tell her?’

‘Son, if he’d told her she wouldn’t be paying me to find him. This is serious. Where is he?’

Tap, tap. I was about to grab the putter when he reversed it and flicked the ball up into his hand. Neat catch. ‘What’s her problem?’

‘He’s a diabetic. She worries.’

‘He can play thirty-six holes in a day. He’s fit. She’s an idiot.’

I was inclined to agree but she was writing the cheques. ‘She’s got the say, Joel. Where is he?’

‘It’s no big deal. He’s with Julie, Julie Massingham. She’s his girlfriend.’

It sounded as if he wished she was his but that wasn’t my problem. He gave me her address and phone number. ‘Tell him to come and have a game. I’ll lick the arse off him.’

I grinned. ‘What’s your handicap?’

He dropped the ball onto the green and lined up a putt. ‘Thirteen.’

‘Work on it.’

I called Julie’s number as I drove towards the address in Willoughby. A young female answered. I hung up.

The house was an old weatherboard, probably scheduled for demolition when the owner could get the right price. For now, a student share-rental joint if ever I saw one. I opened the rusty gate and walked up the overgrown path. The grass in the front yard had been half-cut fairly recently. At a guess, the Victa had run out of fuel and the mowing person had run out of money or energy or both.

My knock brought a pretty dark-haired teenager to the door. I tried as best I could to minimise the tough look my broken nose and generally battered appearance give me. ‘Julie Massingham?’

‘Yes.’

I showed her my PEA licence and kept the smile in place. ‘My name’s Hardy, Ms Massingham, as you see. I’ve been hired by a Mrs Truscott to find her son. Is he here?’

‘Yes, Jim’s here.’ She let out a sweet, tinkling laugh that made me feel better about everything. A great laugh, that. Lucky Jim, I thought.

The boy appeared, lanky and awkward, in the passage behind her. ‘Jule? Who’s that?’

I went in and gave him my spiel. No fists to fend off, no abuse, no running out the back door. Easy money.

It was pretty much the way I thought it would be. Jim had wanted to prove to his mother that he could look after himself for a while. He showed me the careful record he’d kept of his glucometer tests, his diet chart and daily weigh-ins. We drank Diet Coke in the untidy but clean kitchen. They were amused that I didn’t have a hipflask of Scotch to spike it with.

‘I knew she’d worry,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t dream that she wouldn’t get the phone message. A private detective. Jesus!’

Julie gave him a more-than-sisterly, less-than-totally-committed kiss. ‘Might be a good thing. Get the message across to her.’

I drank some Diet Coke. It’s a whole lot better when it’s not lukewarm and flat. ‘What message? That her Jamie can manage his diabetes, or that he’s got a girlfriend?’

‘She’s got a lot to learn,’ Jim said.

Forget Me if You Can

‘Hardy, you vile, low animal. I’m going to get you. I’m going to make you wish you’d been aborted. I’m going to… ‘

I snatched the phone up and shouted into the receiver even though I knew I was wasting my time. She had a tape playing. There was no-one listening to me. It made no difference. If I cut the call off she just rang again and played the tape. My answering machine tape at the office had been filled, night after night, with a stream of abuse and threats. It seemed she wanted to make me suffer for ruining her life, but how, when and why I’d done this was never made clear. She wept, she raged, she swore. If there was a theme to it, it was that there was no love in the world-due to me. She certainly knew something about me-the abuse contained names and mentioned places and events that were familiar, but there was no pattern to them, no clue to her identity.

I’d had to turn the fax off. She fed reams of newsprint through, eating up my fax paper. Tying up the phone and forcing me to kill the fax was costing me business. I’d changed the office number, which was a nuisance in itself, but now she’d got onto the home number and was doing the same thing.

I left the phone off the hook which meant that no-one could get in touch with me. What use is a private detective who can’t be phoned or faxed? What was I supposed to do-walk down George Street with a sandwich board advertising my services?

I was thinking these thoughts as I sat by the useless phone with a big Scotch in my hand at 4 o’clock in the afternoon-at least two hours before my big Scotch drinking time. I wanted to curse her, but how do you curse someone you don’t know, whom you’ve never met?

It started with a phone call. ‘Mr Hardy, my name is Maureen Hennessy and I’d like to meet you to discuss a very delicate matter.’

I could remember the voice, just. There was nothing distinctive about it. A normal voice. Like mine. ‘Yes, Ms Hennessy. Would you come to my office and we can

No, she couldn’t come to the office and she couldn’t explain why. Could we meet at the Archibald Fountain in an hour? I’d had some odd meetings at odd places in my time but that was a first. Why not? I thought. I had nothing immediately pressing to do and it was only a short walk down the way. I showed up and she didn’t. I walked around the fountain in the sunshine. Everybody looked impossibly young. I began to feel like a fool. I started peering at women, wondering. If this went on too long I’d be arrested as a public nuisance. Did I feel I was being watched? The thought occurred to me and as soon as it did I had the feeling. Big help.

I went back to the office via a William Street pub where I had a couple of drinks to wash away the feeling of foolishness. The first of the messages was on the tape.

‘Hardy, you prick. You cocksucker. I saw you there-six foot one of pure stupidity. How did it feel to be waiting for nobody? That’s what it’s like, arsehole. That’s what it’s fucking like!’

I was so shocked I didn’t do any of the things I should have-checked the time, taken the tape out and kept it. When I got over my surprise I shrugged, rewound the tape and got on with things. One of those days. But it turned out to be many days, running into the second week and a serious nuisance. After that first one, the messages were always recorded with the voice slightly distorted. The stuff coming through on the fax was simply sheets of the Sydney Morning Herald cut to fit.

After a few days of this I rooted back through all my files to see if I’d ever done anyone by the name of Hennessy an injury. The files only went back six or seven years. I was buggered if I was going to keep nearly twenty years worth of useless paper just to feed the silverfish. Also I’d lost some stuff when I’d moved office after a couple of shotgun blasts had rearranged the first one. I’m not a good record keeper; things tend to get scrambled, and I’m not patient when it comes to going through them, especially if I’m in an evil temper.

So I wouldn’t swear to it, but as far as I could tell I’d never had a client by the name of Hennessy or an enemy or a friend in the past seven years. To the best of my knowledge, the only Hennessy I’d ever come up against was the brandy in the bottle, and not much of that since the recession. I went through again, looking for the initials MH and came up with a few, but all men and either dead or harmless. The message on the home phone worried me. It meant she could have the address. What next? Dog turds under the front door?

The problem was, I couldn’t see what I could do about it. You can change phone and fax numbers as much as you like, all you’ll do is piss off your friends and clients. There are ways of finding out the numbers. I was in very bad odour with the New South Wales police force just then as a result of finding evidence that cleared a guy they thought they had dead to rights in a fraud case. In any case, I couldn’t see myself going to them and asking for a number trace. For harassing phone calls? From a woman? I’d be a laughing stock.

I told Joan Dare about my problem over dinner in an Indian restaurant in Glebe.

‘Your trouble is, you’re a linear thinker,’ Joan said. Joan is an ex-lover. We have a meal occasionally and talk, usually about sport, politics and mutual acquaintances. She has her life all straightened out. She edits a gardening magazine and has brought her two great passions- gardening and writing-together.

‘I know I am. It’s the only way I can think. What would a non-linear thinker make of it?’

We were pushing the remnants of the pappadams and chutneys around. I’d drunk most of the bottle of Wolf Blass but that was all right because I could walk home. Joan is nervy and thin and can’t hold much drink, so she tends to favour expensive wine and enjoy the glass or two she has. The Wolf Blass had hit the spot. She sipped at the tiny amount she had left. ‘You’re thinking in terms of a woman from the past with a grudge against you. Right?’

‘Sure.’

‘Don’t. Think of a man who’s out to get you here and now. You’ve admitted business has ground to a halt. I can see that you’re rattled.’

I nibbled at a fragment of pappadam. ‘Very devious.’

‘Worked, hasn’t it? If you’ve neglected something you should be

… Don’t stare at me like that. You look as if you want to break my nose.’

‘Tommy Aarons! I forgot all about him.’

Joan snapped her fingers. ‘There you are. Now you know where to go looking. Don’t tell me the details. Just thank me nicely, buy me a cup of coffee and I’ll be on my way. Glad to be of service.’

That’s pretty much what happened. Joan and I had had a tortuous affair way back when I’d used her as a port in the storm of my marriage to Cyn. She’d endured it for her own reasons for a long time, then she’d shut me out of her life for years. These days we were comfortable with each other’s surfaces-friends. I kissed her goodnight. She got into her Honda Civic, parked beside the building that houses the Aboriginal Islander Dance Theatre, and drove away. I set off for home almost at a jog, thinking about Tommy Aarons.

Tommy was an ex-boxer, ex-copper, turned security guard. He’d saved some money and borrowed some more and set up his own small security firm. It was nothing fancy, just half a dozen men and three women, providing light-duty bodyguards and surveillance, checking for insurance claim cheats, shoplifters and pilferers, strictly small-scale stuff.

I’d first met Tommy back in the old days when he was a very promising middleweight and I used to knock around with the boxing crowd. Learning from experience was Tommy’s great strength. A hiding from Wally Carr took him out of boxing and into the police force; it was a very short time before he realised how slow promotion was unless you were prepared to do certain things and lick certain arses.

Tommy discovered that there were many more private security guards in the state than police officers and pondered the fact. He took his minuscule superannuation and his considerable skills and built on them. We’d stayed in touch as beer-drinking and sparring partners, bemoaning the declining quality of beer and the state of boxing, and he’d asked for my advice when he was setting up his business. Everything had gone nicely until a month or so ago when one of his female employees had charged him with sexual harassment.

This was a particularly vexing problem for Tommy. He was a discreet, selective, non-demonstrative, non-political homosexual.

‘My sex life’s almost as dull as your average straight’s,’ he once told me. ‘I’ve never… well, I’ve never done a lot of things.’

The obvious defence wasn’t available to him. Tommy had built his business on stature and reputation: 184 centimetres, 80 kilos; former number two contender for the Australian middleweight title; senior constable, New South Wales Police Force. No room in there for anything, pink. He asked me to investigate Liz Richards, the woman who’d brought the charge. I agreed because Tommy was a mate and because I thought it unlikely that he was guilty.

Still, I was reluctant to take the matter on because it was a messy, nebulous kind of thing. Tommy was an attractive man; Ms Richards, to judge from her photo, was an attractive woman. Who was to say what went on in the realms of fantasy and make-believe?

The few preliminary enquiries I made confirmed this reluctance. It looked to me as if Ms Richards could be a lesbian. According to Tommy, she shared a flat with another woman who was seldom around and favoured mannish sports jackets worn with straight-leg jeans and medium heels. Hard to tell. The scenario hadn’t appealed to me; the hearing seemed a fair way off and I had shamefully neglected the matter when ‘Maureen Hennessy’ hove into view.

Now, the Aarons case seemed to have possibilities to line up with Joan’s lateral thinking. I convinced myself that this was the way of it. Tommy’s accuser, or an accomplice of hers, had cooked up the strategy to deflect me from my obligation to Tommy. It had bloody nearly worked. I only had two days now to turn up something useful on Liz Richards. I went to bed full of resolve and purpose which an empty bed only intensified.

The next day I swung into action. I put messages on the answering machines containing veiled hints to the caller that I was onto her and that I was going to see that she’d suffer penalties under the several laws she’d broken. I’d torn up the last vast ream of faxed newsprint and turned the machine off. Now I scrabbled around in the office rubbish bin, thankfully unemptied, and recovered the top sheet which, of course, contained the number of the sending machine. I wrote out a message in block capitals using a thick marking pen:

HARDY TO YOU. I KNOW WHAT THIS IS ALL ABOUT. SEND AS MUCH CRAZY SHIT AS YOU LIKE, IT’LL ALL HELP TO HANG YOU.

I phoned Tommy, told him I was sorry about my slackness and promised him I’d work around the clock. I then set about a proper surveillance of and enquiry into Liz Richards and her flatmate, one Marion Jacobi. Ms Jacobi was tall, slender and red-headed. The brief I’d been given by Tommy-’mannish sports coats, etc’-was very misleading. That night she wore a drop-dead, knee-length black silk dress, high heels and a white jacket. She and Liz Richards, who was attractive in a heavyish way, met two very attentive men for dinner at a Bondi fish restaurant, pushed on for a frisky drink at a club in Edgecliff and wound up in Potts Point being squired through a huge security gate into an apartment block that looked like something out of old Hollywood with a touch of old Morocco. I went home confused.

One of the strange things about these harassment matters is that the accused and the accuser usually continue to work together. It’s as if they’re bound together by the matter at issue and neither can surrender any ground. Liz Richards went to work and stayed there all day. You can’t watch two places at once efficiently, but it wasn’t far from Tommy’s offices in Bondi Junction to the Richards’ flat in Paddington and, as far as I could tell, Marion Jacobi spent the day inside.

I’d pressed a lot of buttons that morning and tapped into the sources we private enquiry agents have for finding out your golf handicap and whether your ingrowing toenail is on the left foot or the right. When I got back to the office in the mid-afternoon (no abusive phone messages, no newsprint fax), I hauled in the catch and came up with nothing useful. If anything, the information seemed to confirm what had been denied by my experience the night before, that Liz Richards and Marion Jacobi, who was a qualified physiotherapist working from the flat, were lesbians. They belonged to the same gym, went on holidays together and shared the household expenses. But they signed no letters to newspapers, subscribed to no lesbian publications and didn’t put on sequins or leather for the Gay Mardi Gras.

I tapped the office cask of white wine and sat down to think things over. In New South Wales sexual harassment claims were sometimes made to the Anti-Discrimination Board which then attempted to conciliate the matter. Liz Richards hadn’t gone that route. She’d filed a civil suit which, if successful, put her in line for heavy compensation from the offender. That was the root of Tommy’s trouble. When he’d come to me he’d talked of cases where a quarter of a million dollars had been awarded to the victim.

‘I operate on a margin, Cliff,’ he’d said. ‘Something like that would put me out of business.’

There’s no way to insure against it and the allegation is difficult to defend. I rang my lawyer, Cy Sackville, to get the benefit of his encyclopedic legal brain and the news wasn’t good. Most such cases were settled out of court to avoid the adverse publicity. To Tommy, a hefty out-of-court settlement would amount to the same thing as a judgment against him. I wished I’d taken the whole thing more seriously at the beginning and hadn’t let myself be diverted by the abusive caller. There were many ways Ms Richards could have found out about Tommy’s strategy and cooked up one of her own. Angrily, I drained the third glass and headed out into the late afternoon.

I picked up Liz Richards when she left the office in Bondi Junction and followed her home. I was driving with three glasses of wine inside me on an empty stomach which was a stupid thing to do, but I did it. I ate slices of pizza as blotter as I drove. The flat was in a biggish block that overlooked the Showground and Moore Park. Nice view. I parked, ate and watched. The same two men the women had spent the previous night with arrived with bottles. It got dark. I could see shapes moving past the windows. They dimmed the lights. I left them to it, whatever it was.

I locked the car, climbed out, pushed open the gate on its one good hinge, all done on automatic pilot. I was tired and frustrated, looking forward to a shower and drink. The key was in my hand, centimetres from the lock before I realised that the door was ajar. My hand dropped and I felt a splinter from the jemmied jamb stick deep into my palm. The surprise and sharp stinging pain brought me to full alertness. I eased my. 38 out of its holster, crouched and pushed the door open enough to sidle through. Nothing happened, so I went in, keeping low and darting across into the open doorway of the front room on the right.

The house was quiet. I waited for a full minute, then stepped out into the hall. The hall light was on and so was the light on the stair landing and the one above that. She was hanging from the top balustrade. The ivory coloured lace wedding dress she wore was stained and soiled. The angle of her neck was cruel and unnatural; her face was dark and swollen and her eyes and tongue protruded clownishly. But in the harsh light I recognised her. I knew who she was, or who she had been twenty years ago.

Blood was still dripping from my hand when the police arrived and it was an edgy business for the next hour or so. I explained that I knew the dead woman as Susannah Morgan. I had met her long before when I was working as an insurance claims investigator. She had made a claim for a fire she’d clearly started herself. She’d also made a claim on me although I’d barely exchanged ten words with her. I’d forgotten her entirely-partly a matter of not thinking much about the things I’d done before I’d become a private detective. It was hard to believe that such a hatred and self-destructive force had festered for all that time, but when the cops entered her house they found news clippings about me, photos taken with a long lens, letters pinched from my mailbox. She had been receiving treatment for paranoiac schizophrenia for years and apparently had recently stopped taking her medication. They found my fax on her bed with blood, spittle and shit smeared over it.

Liz Richards was successful in her action against Tommy Aarons. The settlement put him out of business and he now works as a security guard for wages. On reflection, I think he was railroaded and I never had the heart to send him an account. I think Ms Richards discovered that I was on the job and she and Ms Jacobi threw up a smokescreen for those two nights. A setup. All in all, it was one of those episodes you try to forget. But can’t.

Close Enough

‘I’ve got to know, Mr Hardy.’

‘You remind me of that Clint Eastwood movie,’ I said. ‘Where Dirty Harry doesn’t remember whether there’s any bullets in his gun and the punk says, “I gots to know”. Did you see it?’

‘No,’ Sean Trumble said. ‘I…’

‘Harry pulls the trigger and the gun’s empty. Good scene. It always gets a laugh. You ought to see it.’

‘Why are you telling me this? I came here to hire you to do an investigation.’

I fiddled with a paperclip on my desk. No need to worry about scratching the surface. The desk hasn’t got a surface. Trumble, a prosperous-looking type in his fifties, sat uncomfortably in my client chair. The chair was only partly to blame for his discomfort. He had a problem.

‘I’m trying to laugh you out of it,’ I said. ‘Don’t do it. From what you’ve told me I can guarantee you that it isn’t worth the grief.’

‘I’ve got to know. If you won’t do it I’ll go to someone who will. It’s just that I’ve been told you’re honest and capable.’

Put it like that and what could I say? If I could have dissuaded him altogether I would have felt that I’d performed a service, but business wasn’t so good I could afford to turn away a client who’d just cross the road and get someone else to make him unhappy. I got him to sign the standard form and took a cheque from him. Then I took notes, trying to get the names straight and spell the addresses correctly. Basic efficiency. He’d been pretty efficient himself, coming equipped with photographs and documents. I assembled a considerable file on the matter before I’d put a foot through a door. Because physical resemblance was at the heart of the trouble, I studied Trumble closely as he got to his feet and reached for my hand. He was medium-tall, about 180 centimetres and a bit overweight at around 85 kilos. His suit was expensive and his curly grey hair was styled rather than just cut. Square jaw, slightly crooked nose, deep-set blue eyes with crow’s feet. He wore the air of a well-polished rough diamond.

We shook hands, he lifted his smart trench coat from the back of the chair and went out. I settled back to look over the documents and consider what I’d let myself in for.

Sean Trumble had served in Vietnam, two tours as a volunteer. He was a fervent anti-communist who loved soldiering and at that time there was plenty of work around for men of this persuasion. With his long-term mate, Lee North, also a Vietnam vet, he went off to Angola as a mercenary to fight against the Marxist MPLA. Just before leaving he married Clara Moon, his childhood sweetheart. North was best man.

The two mercenaries had barely fired a shot in anger before, along with a dozen or so others, they were captured by Cubans fighting for the MPLA. They were given a swift trial for ‘crimes against humanity’. All were found guilty but the sentences were somewhat arbitrary. Trumble got twenty years, North was executed by firing squad. Trumble served three years in some Luandan hellhole and was released after a swap of prisoners was arranged between the contestants in the civil war. While in prison he learned of the birth of his son, David, and the boy and his mother were waiting for Trumble when he finally got home in the Eighties. He was cured of soldiering and settled down to become a manufacturer of barbecues which sold like crazy through the good times of the Eighties.

Trumble had been lucky in Vietnam and Africa, but his luck ran out in 1987 when his wife died suddenly of cancer. They had no other children and David became the focus of his father’s life. Trumble sold his business at a massive profit in 1990 in order to give himself more time to devote to the boy. David shaped up to be a winner-very bright at school, an outstanding athlete, musically talented.

‘I can play the mouth organ a bit,’ Trumble had told me. ‘That’s about it, but David can pick up any musical instrument and get a tune out of it right away.’

To add to all this, Trumble said that he and David got on well. Then he pulled a tortured face. ‘Like mates,’ he said.

That was the problem. As he got older David began to resemble Trumble’s dead mate, Lee North, more and more until by now, at sixteen, he was the spitting image of him. I spread the photographs Trumble had left on the desk. One showed Trumble and North as ten-year-olds, in football kit. They were of similar size and build, but North was dark and had longer, leaner features. Trumble was fair-headed and had the blocky look he still retained. Another snap of them as teenagers, dressed up for a night on the town, emphasised the difference. Trumble had filled out and looked pugnacious; North was slim with an amused, sceptical cast to his face. There were three photographs of David, carefully annotated on the back-at two years, ten years and sixteen. The little boy’s fair hair had turned progressively darker and his initial chubbiness had given way to a wiry slimness and cleanly etched features.

I stared at the pictures for a long time. They weren’t peas in a pod, Lee North and David Trumble. The hairlines were different, and North’s ears stuck out a bit whereas David’s were standard issue. But the resemblance was startlingly close.

How the hell was I to set about this? Trumble had provided birth certificates for himself, Lee North and the son he suspected was not his son. Sean Trumble, son of Eric and May, nee Douglas; Lee North, son of Percy and Rose, nee Valletta; David Trumble, son of Sean and Clara, nee Moon. Trumble’s parents were both dead and he had been an only child. Rose North was alive at the age of seventy-seven, having survived her husband by ten years. Lee North had a brother, Peter, and a sister, Maria. Trumble had provided addresses in Sydney for both but said he hadn’t spoken to either for many years.

There were two more photographs. One a conventional studio-style portrait of Sean and Clara in their wedding outfits. He looked uncomfortable in the slightly too tight tuxedo, she cool and elegant in a white lace dress with her veil pushed back. She was a very attractive young woman with light hair and skin. There was a frailty about her, but that may have been my imagination, working backwards from the knowledge that she had died very young. The other picture was the one that must have given Trumble nightmares since his suspicions were aroused. It showed his bride in the arms of the best man. You could read it either way-a high-spirited kiss on an emotional day, or a passionate embrace that had nothing to do with the occasion.

One of the great advantages of working for yourself is that you can choose how hard you want to work, how long and how little. I decided that I would do no more than go through the motions for Sean Trumble. It was highly unlikely that I’d be able to find anything out anyway and, I told myself, Trumble probably didn’t want to know anything, not really. The more I thought about it the more I convinced myself that he’d be satisfied with a non-result-nothing proven, forget it.

I cooked up a thin cover story in my head and dialled the number he’d given me for Mrs Rose North.

‘Carlingford Nursing Home.’

That was a surprise. ‘Ah, my name is Hardy. I’m a journalist. Do you have a Mrs Rose North with you there?’

‘Yes we do, Mr Hardy.’

‘Would it be possible for me to speak to her? I…’

‘Oh, would you?’ The woman at the other end of the phone sounded as if I’d offered her a holiday in Bali. ‘Mrs North is a most interesting woman, but very lonely. She seldom gets any visitors and that’s such a pity because her mind is very active and… What would you want to talk to her about, Mr Hardy?’

‘Her late son. I’m writing about the Angolan civil war. He fought there you see.’

‘Fascinating. I’m sure Rose would love to talk to you. When would you like to come?’

‘Where are you exactly? And who am I talking to, please?’

‘I’m sorry. My name is Mrs Saunders, I’m the supervisor here. We’re in Carlingford Road, Epping.’

It was three-thirty and I had nothing pressing on hand. It would take me forty-five minutes to get there, half an hour with the old dear, back in the city by five-thirty, just in time for the first drink of the day. ‘How about today, Mrs Saunders, within the hour?’

‘Wonderful. I’ll send someone to tell her you’re coming and get her tidied up. She’ll be thrilled. Just drive in the gates. There’s plenty of parking space.’

The nursing home was a Victorian mansion set in big grounds dominated by large trees. The early April afternoon was breezy and leaves were blowing over the gravel drive and the lawn and the flower beds. An old man was raking the leaves into piles and watching while the wind blew them away again. He didn’t seem to mind. I parked to one side of the building and walked up a set of deeply worn brick steps onto a wide verandah that swept around the whole structure. A gap had been made in the waist-high wall around the verandah and a ramp built down to ground level. There was another ramp beside the steps that led into a small lobby. I pushed open the door, stepped inside and was greeted by a woman who’d evidently been waiting for me.

‘You must be Mr Hardy? I’m Mavis Saunders.’ She was a stout, motherly type in a blue dress vaguely reminiscent of a nurse’s uniform with a white cardigan draped around her shoulders. We shook hands and she led me up the stairs and down a corridor to a corner room. She pushed the door open and beckoned me in.

An old woman was sitting in a cane chair near the open window. The room smelled of flowers and medicines and tobacco. The woman was smoking a cigarette held in a long holder. She looked up at me with beautiful dark eyes sunk deep in a sallow, lined face and took a deep drag.

‘Rose is a terror,’ Mavis Saunders said. ‘We cannot stop her smoking no matter what we do, so we allow her to have two or three each day as long as she sits by the window and blows the smoke outside.’

Rose North blew the smoke at Mrs Saunders.

‘Rose!’

The old woman grinned and I couldn’t help grinning back. Mrs Saunders plumped a cushion behind the old woman’s back and pointed to a chair I could bring closer to the window. ‘She’s a little deaf but there’s nothing wrong with her brainbox, is there, Rose?’

‘No.’

There was the hint of an accent even in that one syllable, along with a considerable amount of authority. Mavis Saunders stopped fussing as if she’d been reprimanded. ‘Well, I’ll just leave you with her. About half an hour, Mr Hardy.’

‘Fine.’ I pulled the chair across and sat down. The dark eyes bored into me as she drew on her cigarette again.

‘Would you like some tea?’ Mrs Saunders said.

‘Coffee,’ Rose North snapped.

‘You know you’re not allowed coffee.’

‘Perhaps just this once, Mrs Saunders,’ I said.

Rose North grinned again and Mrs Saunders sighed and bustled out of the room.

‘I’ve got a million and one things wrong with me. Don’t get old, that’s my advice to you. I don’t suppose you’ve got any cigarettes on you?’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs North. I gave it up.’

‘Everyone has. Damn foolishness. Well, you wanted to talk about Lee, Mavis said. Poor boy. I never could understand why he wanted to go off and shoot black people, him and his brother.’

I looked at my notes. ‘Did Peter go to Angola as well? I’d have thought he was too young.’

The old woman smoked and said nothing for a couple of long minutes. Mavis Saunders came in with two cups of coffee on a tray. Rose North snatched at hers with a brown, wrinkled hand. A little spilled into the saucer and she deftly tipped it into the cup. Her hands didn’t shake. I took my cup and sipped it-instant and pretty weak at that. The old woman gulped hers down fast. She took a last drag on her cigarette, flicked the butt out of the holder and dropped it into the cup. She lit another and drew in the smoke. ‘Always best after a coffee, better still with a glass of wine. You know how much wine they allow me here?’

I shook my head.

‘A litre a week. Can you imagine that? Not worth having. What were you saying? My memory jumps around a bit. It’s all right for most things, it just sort of skips a beat now and then.’

‘I said I thought your son Peter would have been too young to have fought in Angola.’

She stared through the window at the waving treetops, the cigarette burning unheeded in its holder. She sat very still and seemed to be looking down a tunnel into the past. Her voice was quieter and the accent stronger. ‘Eric and May Trumble are dead, is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And my Percy is long gone. He was a good man, Percy, but… I am Maltese, did you know that?’

‘No.’

‘Yes. African, Arab, Greek, Roman-real mixture. Passionate people. What harm can the truth do now? Eric Trumble was Lee’s father, not Percy. I had an affair with Eric soon after Percy and I were married. What do you think of that?’

I had many questions but no idea of how to ask them. How does a married woman with a lover know which man is the father of her child? Did Eric Trumble know about his paternity? Did Lee North know? Most importantly, was the old woman romancing? She twisted in her chair away from the window and stared at me. ‘I don’t know why I told you that. There’s something about you that made me want to say it. That’s your talent is it, Mr Hardy? Making people talk?’

I mulled over what I’d learned as I drove back to the city. She had shown me a family photograph of herself with Percy, Lee, Peter and Maria. Lee and the girl resembled the mother, lean and dark. Peter followed his father who was a stocky, sandy-haired type. No doubts about paternity there. The information was just a further twist to an already screwy story and didn’t help me.

I’d felt bad about lying to Rose North about my interest in her family, but there was some comfort in my feeling that she didn’t believe me anyway. She’d been about to press me for more details on my project when a kind of cloud had passed across her face and her mind drifted away. Mrs Saunders had chosen that moment to come in and pronounce her tired and Rose hadn’t objected. Her last words to me were, ‘They were brave, brave boys, but very, very, foolish.’

Well, one of them was foolish still. The address I had for Maria North was in Stanmore, not far from the comforts of home. I’d intended to leave her until the next day but the intriguing elements in the case had got to me. I called her number on the car phone.

‘Maria North-Barr.’ The voice was a rich, slurred contralto.

I gave her the journalistic spiel, including that I’d just come from seeing her mother, and asked if it would be possible to see her.

‘I would be positively delighted, Mr Hardy, positively delighted. It’s, been ages since I’ve talked to a journalist. It’ll be just like old times. I’m just having a little drink. You do drink, I trust.’

I told her I drank and that I was only a few minutes away. I turned off Parramatta Road and drove through the leafy, gentrified streets of Stanmore. Her house was an imposing Federation job set in a big overgrown garden at the bottom of a street that ended at the railway line. The location-the tracks were within seventy metres of the house-would have sliced thirty grand off the value. A train rumbled past as I pulled up and a plane roared low overhead at the same time. Double-glazing would be an essential.

The name of the house on the brass plate by the front door was Rosalind. It should have been Neglect. I’m an expert on neglected houses, my own being an outstanding example, but this one had mine beat to a frazzle. The tiles on the porch had cracked and lifted as weeds pushed up through them. A tangle of shrubs and weeds and creepers had invaded the porch and the window ledges. Small gardens grew in the guttering, spilling out to trickle down the brick walls.

I rang the electric bell and got no result so I knocked hard on the door, dislodging flakes of paint. High heels clicked on boards and I heard a muttered curse as a step was missed. She flung the door open and looked at me with the same deep, dark eyes as her mother. ‘Mister Hardy, please do come in.’

She was tall and thin, wearing a blue silk dress that would have fitted better if she had another kilo or two of meat on her bones. Her dark hair, with a little grey in it, was swept back and held with a blue headband in a style ten years too young for her. I put her age at about forty-five. I took the hand she extended-the free one, the other carried a glass-and shook it. ‘It’s good of you to see me like this,’ I said. I reached inside my jacket. ‘You wanted some identification.’

She waved that away and swayed slightly but regained her balance quickly. ‘Now that I’ve seen you I have no doubt whatsoever that you’re who you say you are. Not that I really care. Come in and have a drink.’

I followed her into the house, which smelled of damp and dust, through to a big tiled kitchen with French windows letting out onto a back garden more wild than the one in front. The windows were open and a train rattled by, shaking the cocktail fixings set out on an old-fashioned card table. She pointed to a pair of deckchairs with slightly torn canvas. ‘Sit you down. I was just having a martini. You’ll join me?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

She slugged back the rest of the drink she’d carried and poured two more from a crystal pitcher. Her hand shook but she managed to get the glasses two-thirds full. Then she dropped an olive in each and added more gin. ‘Gilbey’s gin keeps you thin,’ she said. ‘I believe that, I really do.’

I reached forward to take the glass, doubting her ability to get it to me. She smiled, lifted her own and steered herself into her chair. ‘Cheers.’

I drank. The vermouth bottle was on the table but it might just as well have stayed in the cupboard. The drinks were almost pure gin, diluted a bit by melted ice. Not that I minded. She took a hefty pull and extracted a cigarette from the packet on the table. It gave me a chance to study her. My original guess at her age was way off-she couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, but cigarettes and booze had put ten years on her. Her hands were slender and young-looking, but the fingers were heavily nicotine-stained; the flesh around her neck was firm although her chin was sagging and her fine eyes were disfigured by deep pouches and a mass of premature wrinkles.

‘So, you’ve been out to see Rose and now you’ve come to see me. All about poor Lee. That’s strange. I haven’t thought about Lee in ages. Mind you, at one time I used to think about him a lot.’

‘It must have been a shock, to hear of his death in that way.’

‘Not really’. She sucked on her cigarette and then on her drink, taking in smoke and gin as if they were tea and toast. ‘He did two tours in Vietnam and he always said that if Charlie didn’t get him some jealous husband would. Drink up.’

She was almost through hers and staring at the blueish pitcher. She had a long start on me and I had almost twice her body weight, I reckoned I could stay the pace. When we’d replenished and she’d got another cigarette going she asked me about her mother and seemed satisfied with the account I gave.

‘We never got along, and I never got along with Peter. Only with Lee. Lovely Lee.’ She laughed and smoked jerkily. ‘Never got along with my husband either. He’s a film producer and I’m an actress. Was an actress. Bad combination. He gave me this house in the divorce settlement, the bastard. Bought it for me, and my fuckwit of a lawyer let him get away with it. What’s the name of that movie? Planes, Trains and Automobiles — that’s this place.’

The words were tumbling out, alternately slurred and too precise as the liquor got to her. She topped up her glass and raised it to her mouth. It was lipstick smeared around the whole rim and she didn’t quite make the contact, a few drops spilled down her chin. I looked away and she caught the reaction.

‘I know, I know. I’m a sloppy drunk. Can’t help it. Nothing else to live for. What d’you want?’ She gazed at me blearily through her cigarette smoke, forcing her eyes to focus, imprinting more wrinkles. Suddenly she appeared to get everything together and to have a moment of clarity. I’d seen it before in hopeless drunks- a flash of sobriety before the shutters come down. ‘You’re not a journalist. Haven’t taken a single note, not one! What do you want?’

I judged that I only had her attention for a short time and that it was worth the risk. I took out the photograph of David Trumble and put it down in front of her. ‘Do you know who that is?’

She barely glanced at the picture. ‘Course I do. It’s Lee.’

‘It’s Sean Trumble’s son, David. Trumble hired me to investigate his suspicion that Lee North was the boy’s real father.’

She threw back her head and let out a shriek of laughter. The sound was cut short as she gasped for breath. Alarmed, I got out of my chair but she made a fierce gesture for me to stay away. She gulped in air somehow and followed it with a couple of lungsful of smoke and more gin. When she spoke her voice was wheezy and thin.

‘Of course he fucking was. Of course! Lee fucked everything. He fucked me when I was fourteen and let me tell you those were the best fucks I ever had. Best ever! Best!’

‘But his mate’s wife… ‘

‘He fucked her the night of the wedding. Sean passed out and Lee did the job.’

‘How do you know?’

‘The silly bitch told me. Told me when she heard she had cancer. Wanted to know whether she should tell Sean. Idiot. Oh, Lee. Oh, lovely, lovely Lee

She was weeping now, the tears falling into her glass and down the front of her dress. She dropped her cigarette and I bent down and retrieved it from the dusty floor. I picked up the photograph and put it in my pocket.

‘Is there anything I can do for you, Maria?’

‘Yes,’ she sobbed. ‘You can piss off.’

Families are hell. Who said that? I drove back to Glebe, feeling none of the satisfaction that usually comes with having got the answers to the questions. I opened a can of beer and sat down to consider my next move. There was no proof of either discovery-that Eric Trumble had fathered Lee North and that Lee North had fathered David Trumble-but I had no doubt that both things were true. But could I communicate that certainty to my client? And should I? I’m no social worker, but you’d have to have the sensitivity of a sewer pipe not to be concerned about how the revelation could affect the prospects of young David,

One can became two and I switched to cask white without getting any inspiration. I fed myself and the cat out of cans and settled down to scribble some notes on the meeting with Maria North-Barr. Of the three people I’d met so far in the case, only Rose North had any serenity and it was partly due to senile dementia. An unhappy business. I flicked on the television and turned it off almost straight away. I picked up Theroux’s Happy Isles of Oceania but put it down after a few pages. I had all the spleen and depression I needed.

The sound of the doorbell was welcome. I took another swig of wine and wandered down the passage to open the door. Sean Trumble stood there, pale and tense, his hands thrust in the deep pockets of an anorak. The night had become cold without me noticing.

‘Well, what’ve you found out?’

I told the first lie to come into my head. ‘I haven’t started on it yet.’

His right hand came out, holding a heavy pistol. ‘I know you’re lying, Hardy. Get back in there and keep your hands in sight or I’ll put a bullet in you.’

You don’t argue with a Vietnam veteran and an ex-mercenary. I backed down the corridor towards the stairs. He stepped inside and flicked the door closed with his foot.

‘Anyone else here?’

‘Yeah. Three cops. We’re playing a little poker.’

‘I’m not in the mood for jokes. Turn around and keep moving.’

‘I prefer to keep an eye on you and I’m telling you I haven’t…’

He raised the pistol an inch. His hand was steady.

‘You’re lucky I don’t make you fucking crawl. You saw Rose North and Maria today. Had a good long talk with the both of them.’

‘How could you know that?’

‘Think I’m stupid? Think I’d trust someone in your stinking business?’

‘You didn’t follow me. I’d have spotted you.’

‘ I didn’t, but the other guy I hired did. I guess he knows the tricks of the trade as well as you, maybe better.’

It wasn’t as much of a blow to my pride as if Trumble himself had tailed me, but it was bad enough. I turned around and went back to the living room and my glass of wine. Trumble watched me but there was indecision written all over him. He couldn’t be sure there wasn’t anyone else in the house and if he shot me he might not learn what he was burning to know. I emptied my glass.

‘Want a drink, Sean?’

‘Fuck you, I… ‘

I tossed the glass from one hand to the other. An old trick but he was so agitated he fell for it. His eyes followed the glass for an instant, long enough for me to take a long step and chop down on his forearm with a clenched fist. If you hit the right spot in the right way, the nerves jump and the hand opens. He dropped the pistol and I shirt-fronted him, throwing him back against the stairwell. He hit awkwardly and the breath whooshed out of him. I picked up the pistol and ejected the magazine before tossing it to him. He tried for it, but he dropped the catch.

‘I’ll get you a drink anyway. You’re going to need it.’

I put three fingers of Scotch on top of a couple of ice cubes and drew off another glass of wine for myself. When I got back he was slumped in a chair, rubbing his forearm. He accepted the glass and took a gulp.

‘There was no need for that. I wouldn’t have shot you.’

‘Matter of professional pride.’

He’d closed off my options, so I told him what the two women had told me-straight, word for word as close as I could remember it, no punches pulled, no embellishments. He sipped his whisky as he listened. I finished about the same time he emptied the glass. He swilled the ice cubes, clockwise, then anti-clockwise. My nerves were screaming but he seemed to relax.

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it,’ I said.

He stared at the floor and appeared to go into a kind of trance. When he spoke his voice seemed to be coming from far away. ‘So David’s not my son. He’s my father’s grandson. And he’s my… nephew.’

I nodded.

He smiled, put the glass down on the floor, stood and held out his hand. ‘That’s close enough. Thanks, Hardy.’

‹‹Contents››

Archie’s Last Case

Archie Merrett lived in a Glebe flat a few streets away from my place. I used to see him pretty often in the pub. We’d have a drink or two, pass the time. Archie had plenty of time to pass and he appeared to have lots of money to spend as he was doing it. He was about sixty-five when I first met him ten years ago; he had no hobbies apart from the horses and drinking, and he said he’d come back to Sydney after retiring and living on the Gold Coast for a time.

‘It was all different in my day, boyo,’ he told me almost every time we talked. ‘We earned our dough.’

I’d nod and drink some beer and try to catch what he was saying above the noise of the television. He was usually saying the same thing.

‘What’ve you done today, Cliff?’

‘Served a summons or two, collected a debt, held a guy’s hand while he had a meeting with some people he’d never met before.’

Archie’s old eyes, peeping out between puckered wrinkles, would light up. ‘Any trouble?’

‘No.’

‘Different in my day.’

‘When you were all boyos.’

‘You can laugh, but it used to be a tough racket.’

He was referring to the private enquiry agent business which he’d been in from the time he got back from New Guinea in ‘46 until his retirement about twenty years later. In those days, according to Arch, most of the work was in divorce-although Arch preferred to call it ‘matrimonial’.

‘It scarred a man, Cliff, all that climbing in and out of windows, taking photos, going to court and hearing the terrible things men and women said and did to each other. It put me off marriage, I can tell you.’

I liked to hear his stories about the Fifties when I’d been body-surfing, boxing and thinking about girls and adventures in foreign parts, so I’d often egg him on with a remark like, ‘Ruined a few suits too, eh, Arch?’

A throaty, fifty-a-day chuckle. ‘You bet. Did I ever tell you about the time I was under a bedroom, down with the cat shit and spiders, with a stopwatch in my hand.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Well I was. I’d got a bit of stick from a judge about being vague in my evidence and I’d decided to go scientific. I was going to time those bloody bed squeaks-so many to the minute.’

“What happened?’

‘Bloke must’ve weighed twenty stone, wharfie he was, and this little slip of a woman. Don’t know how she survived it. Anyway, I’ve got the stopwatch out and the torch on and I’m counting the squeaks and suddenly the whole bloody lot’s coming down on top of me. Bloody borer in the bearers.’

Arch’s wheezes and gasps would overwhelm him for a few minutes until he caught enough breath to light another cigarette. Then he’d tell me about the time he was out on a window ledge and felt a sneeze coming on, or when the grandmother kidnapped her baby grandson from her Protestant daughter-in-law so she could have him baptised as a Catholic. I liked Arch and his stories. The emphysema and circulation problems got him in the end, of course. I visited him in hospital a few times. They put a hole in his neck and took off one of his legs. Then he died and I missed him.

A few weeks later I was surprised to get a call from a solicitor who said he was the executor of the estate of the late Mr Archibald Ronald Merrett, deceased as of 1/5/90. It took me a second for the name to register.

‘Arch,’ I said. ‘Oh, yes. What can I do for you?’

It turned out Arch had left his case files to ‘my friend and confidant, Mr Clifford Hardy, for his education’. The solicitor sent them round the next day-three cardboard boxes which had formerly contained bottles of Reschs Pilsener and were now jammed full of manilla folders, some bulging, some containing only a single sheet. I stacked the boxes under the stairs and didn’t look at them for months until I was laid up with a sprained ankle, the result of jumping for a smash that Yannick Noah couldn’t have reached. Just for something to do, I dragged out the boxes and started reading. I forgot about the ankle and the pain and about how I had to be careful not to take too many pethidines with alcohol. I could hear Arch’s ruined voice talking to me from the pages. Especially when I got to the last file in the third box. It was a thick file: transcripts of interviews, memos, photographs, receipts. I read it all through. There was also a tape. I put it in the machine, poured out a glass of white and sat back to listen. I’d heard old Arch tell a hundred stories, but it was an eerie feeling to hear him telling one last yarn…

Alistair McLachlan gave me the drum. He was the solicitor representing Mrs Thelma Lucan-Paget in her divorce action against her hubby, George. Thelma had the goods on George- notes, receipts for presents, a hotel bill. The core was Mrs Beatrice Butterworth.

I said to McLachlan, ‘Uncontested, Mac?’ He didn’t like being called that. He didn’t like me, full stop. But he knew I did good work. ‘Not clear at this stage, Merrett. Probably. There’s a lot of property involved. No children, thank God. But things to be sorted out.’

Gravy for you, boyo, I thought. McLachlan told me what he wanted-a series of photographs plus an affidavit. My job was to snap George and Bea leaving her flat at Rose Bay, going to dinner or whatever they were doing that evening, toddling back to the flat, closing the door. The pictures had to be timed and annotated: 27/2/66-8.30 p.m.: subjects entering Romano’s… I was happy to do it. A nice clean one. No lock-picking, no bribing hotel employees, no stealing bedsheets. On the evening appointed, I loaded up the old Ashai Pentax and headed for Evans Road, Rose Bay.

Medium-sized block, older style, garden courtyards on the ground floor, balconies on the upper levels. Beatrice Butterworth’s flat was at the back; it had both features-a small balcony and a landscaped courtyard. The balcony would have had a nice harbour view-say, thirty grand, all up. There was a wide driveway that was marked out in parking spaces, six of ‘em, one for each resident. Bit tricky if you were pissed to park and unpark, but otherwise okay. I’m back there, behind a tree, camera at the ready, super-fast film, and the door opens. A bloke answering the description I’d been given- heavy build, balding, fleshy face-comes down the steps with this good-looker on his arm. She was twenty years younger than him, say thirty, blonde, wearing a blue silk dress, a real sort. A pleasure to take her picture. They sidle up, chatting and laughing, to this silver-grey MG sedan. I took another picture as he helped her in- great legs she had, take your breath away.

Off we went towards the city. I was following in my FE. I had a sense that there was something wrong but I couldn’t put my finger on it. They went to this Greek joint in Elizabeth Street, overlooking the park. I’m close behind them. They give each other a peck-I snapped that, nice shot-and go in. Nothing to do now but go and have a couple of beers and a counter tea, pick ‘em up again on the way out. Starters, mains and afters, bottle of plonk, coffee, what are we looking at, hour and a half? I moved off and, again, I got this feeling that worried me. Didn’t know what it was, probably imagination. An hour later and I was back there, too nervous to eat. I’m jotting down times and places in my notebook, sniffing around. Couple of smokes and here they come again. Christ but she was beautiful, like a film star, and fat George could hardly keep his hands off her. Didn’t blame him. Anyway, I got a good kiss shot with his hand on her bum. I skedaddle around and through the park so I’m ready to follow them back to Rose Bay, and that’s when I twigged. ‘Arch,’ I said to myself, ‘we’ve got company.’ He was good, very good. A little bloke, nothing special about him-sports jacket, open-neck shirt. But I saw the camera as he got into his blue Mini and I realised that I’d seen the car before-in the street at Rose Bay. I also had something you need in this game, call it intuition: I knew this bloke and me had been working the same side of the street. Tricky situation. He must’ve seen me. I’m five ten, not skinny, and this was an uncontested. How careful did I have to be? Only thing to do was pretend I hadn’t seen him, play along, and see what happened.

Back to Rose Bay. George scrapes his MG on the brick wall of the flats and they both get out laughing. What’s a few hundred bucks to George? I drove on. I hadn’t quite finished the job but what the hell? I was more interested in the bloke in the Mini. I parked further up the street and came back quickly on foot. Lucky. George and Bea were having a smoke out in the open, looking from the street down towards the water, before going in to co-respond. The little bloke got a shot of George lighting her up. Then he looked around nervously. He was looking for me but he had no chance. He raced around the back when they went down the drive and got a picture of Bea opening the door to her flat. Nice work. It occurred to me that if I grabbed his camera I’d have the best series of sneak photos since the world began.

I scooted away back to the street and crouched down behind the Mini. When he put his key in the lock I came up behind him and gave him the old forearm-bar. It works particularly well on little men, cuts off the wind and the resistance. In New Guinea we used it on Jap sentries, before slipping the knife in.

I said, ‘Put the camera on the roof of the car. Leave the key in the lock and stay very still. If you don’t, I’ll break your bloody neck.’

He does what he’s told, very meek and careful. I slid my hand away long enough to get inside his jacket and grab his wallet. Then it was chin up again and don’t move a muscle.

‘Let’s talk,’ he said. ‘I’ve been waiting for you. We’re in the same game. I’m Ted Pike.’

‘What game would that be, Ted?’

‘Private enquiries. My ticket’s in the wallet.’

I let him go and grabbed hold of his car keys and the camera. He turned around slowly and faced me-pale, pixie features, bat-wing ears, a face only a mother could love. But not distinctive. He stood about five foot six and would’ve weighed about nine stone. Slip in anywhere, you’d never notice him. I took my time opening his wallet. He wasn’t going away, not with me in charge of his car and his camera and his cash. He had a fair bit of money in his wallet and his PEA licence. Besides, he’d been waiting for me.

‘So,’ Ted said. ‘Do we talk?’

‘You talk, I’ll listen.’

He sniffed. ‘Tough guy. This is a matrimonial, right?’

I nodded.

‘I’m on Mrs Butterworth. Her husband wants a divorce. You know the drill, he needs repeated acts of infidelity.’

‘No, he doesn’t. He only needs the one. She needs repeated acts. Besides, Butterworth’s wasting his money. I’m on the bloke, Lucan-Paget. His wife’s citing Mrs B as co-respondent. The divorce isn’t going to be contested, so your bloke’s got his cause, cut and dried.’

‘That’s not the way I hear it,’ Pike said.

I gave him his things back and we shook hands. ‘I’m Archie Merrett, Ted. Hope I didn’t hurt you. I think we better have that talk.’

The pubs were closed. We went to a club Pike knew in Darlinghurst and started to compare notes. He knew a lot more about what was going on than me, and some of the names he started dropping were big ones-newspaper bigwigs like Alexander Farfrae, doctors like Molesworth and Hamilton, politicians like Redding, Bothwick, the judge. Lucan-Paget as I already knew, was a vice-president of the AJC; Mrs Butterworth’s husband, although I hadn’t made the connection until we started chatting like this, was Sir Peter, chairman of Allied Industries Proprietary Limited.

‘Interesting,’ I said. ‘I like to move in the best circles. Now tell me what you meant when you said you were waiting for me.’

‘Not you, yourself, Arch,’ Pike said. ‘I mean, I didn’t know who you were. But we knew there’d be someone working for Mrs Paget-Lucan.’

‘Lucan-Paget,’ I said. ‘Who’s we?’

‘I’ve got some mates I think you’d better meet. All good blokes. I’m sure you’ve heard of some of them. Ross Martin? Frankie Bourke?’

They were PEAs. And not the most ethical ones either. I got a sniff of it then, but Pike wasn’t about to tell me any more. He suggested a meeting at the club the following night. I agreed and asked him if I could have a couple of his shots of the happy couple.

He grinned. ‘I wasn’t taking pictures, Arch. Like I said, I was waiting for you.’

There were five of us at the club the next night-me, Pike, Bourke, Martin and Dick Maxwell. Bells would have started ringing in the heads of any cops or lawyers who saw us together, but it wasn’t that kind of a club. Pike, as I discovered, was a sly type, always looking for an angle; Martin and Bourke were both ex-cops, resentful, lazy and dishonest; Maxwell was a queer and a drunk with family connections to some top people. I was an old soldier with short wind and starting to put on weight. Getting past it. An unholy bunch. We ate a bit, particularly Maxwell and Bourke, sailed into the beer and the Scotch, wrapped ourselves in cigarette smoke and got down to it.

Pike and Maxwell laid it out. This bunch of filthy rich eastern suburbs snobs had all started rooting each other’s wives. The men were all boardroom and club bar chums; the women were all younger than the men. Things got out of hand and thoughts turned towards divorce. The problems were, the disputed custody of a fair number of kids, a hell of a lot of property involved, reputations at stake in areas like the law and politics where reputations mattered, and a fair amount of bitterness. Naturally, these types tended to have the same lawyers, or at least members of the same firms. Things got sticky.

‘The chaps attempted to stitch things up neatly,’ Maxwell said. ‘Make arrangements, come to agreements, one gentleman to another. Worked well up to a point.’

I said, ‘I never heard a whisper until I got my little piece.’

Maxwell nodded. ‘Right. That’s one of the things that worked. All very hush-hush, nothing in the papers.’

Pike grinned, showing that he’d reached the good bit. ‘But the women weren’t having a bar of it. They got their own lawyers and that’s where nasty, low-life types like us come in.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Martin said, and got a laugh.

Dick Maxwell said, ‘He was, dear boy’ and got another laugh. Maxwell and Pike went on to explain how a deal had finally been put together by the nobs and the lawyers. A clutch of men and women had agreed to become the official co-respondents so that none of the people who couldn’t afford to be named would be.

‘That’s not right,’ I said. “The solicitor told me Mrs Butterworth would be cited as the correspondent in Lucan-Paget vs Lucan-Paget, and that the divorce would be uncontested.’

‘Who’s the lawyer?’ Maxwell asked.

‘Alistair McLachlan.’

‘When you go and see Mac with your snaps, Archie old love, you’ll find out things have changed a trifle. I imagine Mrs Butterworth needed a little pressure to bring her into line. That’s what all of us have been doing-getting the goods on this one and that so that the shysters can apply the screws.’

‘Right,’ Pike said. ‘The upshot’s something like this: Redding will divorce his wife but he won’t cite the judge. He’ll cite Joe Blow, who’ll get a pay-off.’

Maxwell chortled. ‘I’d like to meet him-Joe Blow.’

Pike ignored that and went on, ‘Mrs Molesworth will divorce the doctor, but she won’t cite Mrs Hamilton, the other doctor’s wife…’

Maxwell took a big swig of gin and exploded into laughter. ‘She’ll cite Henrietta Head, or May Kum, the Chinese…’

I laughed along with everyone else. Maxwell wore green suede shoes, hung around gymnasiums and drank neat gin as if it was iced water, but he was a funny bastard until he got nasty and then got too pissed to move. Pike lit a cigarette from the stub of the last, a temptation I’ve always avoided, and went on with his report.

‘Farfrae’s paying a bundle to keep out of it. His missus has got terminal cancer. He’ll be on the loose soon anyway, but if there was a scandal just now, some of his churchie kinfolk would grab his company off him.’

‘Who’s he been rooting?’ I asked.

Bourke waved a forkful of spaghetti. ‘Everybody.’ He leered at Maxwell. ‘Boys, even.’

Maxwell smiled. ‘Hence his generous contribution to the fighting fund. Ted?’

‘They’ve got together a heap of cash,’ Pike said. ‘To pay the dummies, square a couple of the lawyers, buy off this person and that. A quarter of a million, we’re told, and plenty more where that came from.’

I lit a smoke and tried to sound casual. ‘Who’s holding the kitty?’

‘Terry Farmer of Soames, Farmer amp; Cain,’ Maxwell said. ‘We’ve got an arrangement, Terry and I, although it’s not quite what Terry thinks.’

‘Iron each other’s silk hankies, do you?’ Martin said.

Maxwell had drunk enough to turn snaky. ‘You chaps in your flannel pyjamas with your winceyette wives,’ he snapped, ‘don’t have any idea how much fun an interesting piece of fabric can be.’

‘Easy, Dick,’ Pike said. ‘Frankie’s a poofter basher from way back. He can’t help it. We all know this couldn’t have worked without you.’

‘What couldn’t have worked?’ I said. ‘All I see’s a bunch of PEAs collecting their fees and sitting around getting pissed. Nothing special about that.’

‘We’re going after half of the fund,’ Pike said. ‘A hundred and twenty-five thousand-twenty-five grand each. We were just waiting for the last man to come aboard. Glad it was you, Arch.’

I said, ‘Why?’

Ross Martin put his big fists on the table. He wore rings on several fingers, as some of the people who’d had face-to-face dealings with him had cause to regret. ‘You can’t afford to turn it down, Arch. Like the rest of us, you’re not young, you’re not getting any quicker. I’ll bet London to a brick you haven’t got any gilt-edged investments.’

I looked around the table but I didn’t even have to think about it. Not really. Didn’t even have to remember the supercilious tone of McLachlan and his kind, and the late cheques and the cheques that bounced and the accounts that were never paid at all.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘How?’

Dick Maxwell had mopped his flushed, damp face with a silk handkerchief which he stuffed back into the pocket of his Harris tweed sportscoat. Pissed, but holding himself together, he lifted his glass. Somehow, Maxwell’s glass always seemed to contain an inch or so of gin. ‘To the Commonwealth Matrimonial Causes Act, 1959 to 1965,’ he said. ‘To the right honourable convention of the discretion statement.’

That was the end of side one. Arch had enclosed a copy of the Act in the file. The Act had been in force when I began working in private enquiries, and I’d done a bit of divorce work back then-more the serving of papers and checking on assets sort of thing than photograph-taking, but a bit of that as well. Then the law was changed in the early Seventies and we had no-fault divorces of the kind that Cyn and I got. It was interesting to read over the relevant bit of the old legalese again:

A discretion statement in respect of adultery committed prior to the petition shall be filed-

(1) with the first pleading by the spouse

(a) seeking dissolution…

(b) seeking judicial separation…

(2) with the application for custody by a respondent (not otherwise required to file a discretion statement) who seeks custody of a child of the marriage.

(3) in respect of adultery committed by a spouse in respect of either of the above two proceedings between filing of the petition and its hearing (as soon as practicable after its commission) unless in a prior discretion statement the applicant has stated that he is living as man and wife with the person referred to in the discretion statement.

In such discretion statement the applicant shall set out:-

(a) particulars of adultery since marriage or particulars of subsequent adultery;

(b) circumstances leading up to its commission; and

(c) grounds on which the court is asked to exercise its discretion.

And so on.

What this meant was that all the people bringing divorce actions had to lodge with the court a detailed list of their own infidelities. Mostly, these statements were not read by anyone. They were lodged simply to comply with the law, but sometimes a judge who smelled a rat, or took a dislike to one of the parties, would take the statements into consideration. Then the feathers might fly. I filled my glass again. By way of penance, I did a few of the excruciating exercises the physiotherapist had recommended and turned the tape over

…

We had a few more meetings in different places. McLachlan played it just the way Pike said he would-paid me, even thanked me, but there was no follow-up. The last get-together we PEAs had was in one of the Lebanese joints that had opened up in Surry Hills. Funny food.

Dick Maxwell said, ‘The legal eagles’ve got the whole thing stitched up like a Savile Row suit. The divorce hearings are going to come on to coincide with some interesting criminal cases, and there’ll be some subtle misspellings in the lists published in the Farfrae press.’

Ross Martin shook his head. “These people have got the world licked. My fuckin’ wife took me for every cent. And I haven’t seen my kids for five years.’

‘Justification for every man here, if needed,’ Maxwell said. ‘Personally, I find the idea of going to bed with the same person for fifty years obscene, but…’

‘Shut your gob,’ Bourke said. ‘I’m a Catholic. All this divorce business’s so much Protestant bullshit. The man says what’s what and confesses his sins. The woman and the kids do what he tells them. That’s it.’

‘Right, Frankie,’ Pike said. ‘Which brings us to the next point of business. And this’ll be news to all of you blokes except me and Dick. We’ve worked it out-eight hundred bucks apiece.’

I think every one of us sat a little straighter in his chair. I knew I’d have a fair bit of trouble laying my hands on eight hundred quickly. I could do it, just, but I’d be stretched. I assumed it was the same for the others, but I was getting the hang of the scheme now. “For the clerk of the court,’ I said.

Pike nodded. ‘Right. Four grand’s a lot of money to a bloke like that. And what’s he got to do? Turn a blind eye for an hour or two. Nothing’s missing. No harm done.’

‘Unless the bigwigs decide to get heavy about it,’ Martin said.

Maxwell slowly took out a packet of black Balkan Sobranies and lit one. It looked like he was enjoying his affluence already. ‘They won’t. When they find out that someone knows everything about who was up who, they’ll pay like little gentlemen. I know these people, believe me.’

‘Eight hundred gets you twenty-five grand,’ Pike said. ‘Tax free. That’s better than thirty to one.’

Everybody looked at everybody else for a time. We hid behind our drinks and cigarettes. Eventually Frankie Bourke nodded and Ross Martin followed suit. They didn’t look altogether happy though, and I think I was talking for both of them when I opened my trap. ‘It sounds all right,’ I said. ‘No, it sounds bloody good. And possible. I just…’

‘We’ve got the details worked out, too,’ Maxwell said quickly. ‘The timing, method of approach

‘I’m sure you have,’ I said. ‘But you interrupted me, Dick. I just wanted to say that if you and Ted have got any idea of pulling a con on Ross and Frankie and me you’d better forget it. You’d both be in hospital for a very long time.’

Bourke said, ‘Not in hospital. Somewhere else.’

Maxwell said, ‘I’m hurt. But point taken.’

Pike sat very still. ‘Frankie knows the court from his police days. He can look things over and make the contact with the clerk, name of Patterson.’

Bourke nodded.

‘My office is in the Rocks. Hop skip and a jump from the court. I’ve hired a photocopying machine.’

‘A what?’ Martin said.

‘You’ll see,’ Pike said. ‘We’ll copy the documents and get them back quick smart. Then Dick will make contact with the marks through his lawyer mate.’

‘Dick and me,’ I said.

Everyone nodded. If we’d been more friendly we’d have clinked glasses. But we weren’t friends-just partners in crime, which is an altogether more serious thing.

And that’s where the tape ended. There were some scribbled notes on the conversation pinned to the bill from Azim’s in Elizabeth Street-kebabs, kefta, felafel, hommos, salad and bread, Turkish delight, $22.90-not bad for five.

I couldn’t leave it there. I had to know. I phoned Arch’s solicitor with some politely framed enquiries about his late client’s circumstances. Not polite enough. The solicitor must have had a deep distrust for our profession. He probably feared I would challenge the will on the basis of something I’d found in the files. I did my best to reassure him, but all I got out of him in the end was that Arch had owned his substantial waterview apartment outright and had some quality investments. His estate had gone to a relative. The solicitor wouldn’t say who.

I could almost hear Arch’s harsh, cracked voice gently mocking me. ‘You’re an investigator aren’t you, boyo? Investigate!’

‘Right, Arch,’ I said. I wrote down all the names and tried to assemble information about them. I knew that Sir Alexander Farfrae, the press baron, and Colin Redding, the politico, were both dead. The Who was Who told me that George Lucan-Paget was dead too. I’d never heard of the doctors, but neither was listed in the current register-presumably gone to join ordinary mortals. A couple of phone calls got me the unhelpful intelligence that Sir Arthur Bothwick, the judge, was alive, but in a nursing home suffering from advanced Alzheimer’s.

The women were all said to have been younger, therefore probably still around, but a quick check on a couple of them showed several subsequent marriages and name changes. Too complicated, and it was unlikely that they would talk to me, anyway. That left the lawyer, Terry Farmer, and the private dicks. I rang Richard Adcock who runs a magazine called Seneca, which is dedicated to keeping law-makers and lawyers in line.

‘Hello, Cliff Hardy, private eye,’ Richard said. ‘About as popular as…’

‘Don’t, Richard. Please don’t. Terry Farmer. What d’you know?’

‘Interesting. What do you know?’

‘Nothing. I’m looking into something that happened a quarter of a century ago. So far, everyone’s dead.’

‘Send out for a ouija board, Cliff,’ Richard said. ‘Farmer’s dead, too. Of AIDS last year. One of the oldest victims.’

‘Shit. Alistair McLachlan?’

‘Barrister, solicitor or what?’

‘Solicitor.’

‘Hang on.’

I was at home, nursing the ankle. I judged I had time. I limped to the kitchen and tapped the cask of white. When I returned Richard was back on the line-waiting, very keen.

‘Cliff,’ he said. ‘We’re going to have to go tit for tat on this.’

‘It’s ancient history,’ I said.

‘I like a good story.’

‘I’ll buy you lunch and tell you all, when I’ve got to the bottom of it.’

‘What if I want to print?’

I thought about it-about Arch and the big names involved. Some of that old power might still be lurking about and Arch had deemed me his ‘friend and confidant’. ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘I can’t promise.’

Richard sighed. He’s a great radio and TV performer and knows how to sigh, even into a telephone. ‘I’m too intrigued to hold back. I accept your risible terms. Alistair McLachlan had a very big eastern suburbs practice. He committed suicide the hard way twenty-four years ago. The cops said he must have nearly ruptured his soft palate with the gun muzzle. He left a lot of very unhappy people behind him. Cliff?’

‘I’ll call you,’ I said.

There were no current listings for Pike, Bourke or Martin as private enquiry agents. That didn’t necessarily mean they weren’t still active-working for big security firms or trading under names like Ace Detective Agency. But I had never heard of them and, from the sound of Arch’s notes, they were contemporaries of his-highly strung men with chequered pasts and some very bad habits. The odds against them still being around were long. But Dick Maxwell was still around and still working, after a fashion. What’s more, I knew where he was. The problem was whether to take him a packet of Earl Grey tea or a bottle of Beefeater gin.

I bought both and drove up to Springwood in the Blue Mountains, where Maxwell had got himself a job as ‘security manager’ of an estate owned by Peter Blain, a wealthy man who had made a lot of enemies. Blain was tough, but getting along in years. He was also a homosexual which was probably how Dick Maxwell got the job. When sober, Dick Maxwell could do a decent job, but he hadn’t been sober very much in the last ten years. One month you’d hear that he’d taken the cure, was going to AA and drinking nothing but tea with lemon; the next you’d see him in the Journalists’ Club, spinning yams, lying his head off, totally pissed.

I drove past the Lindsay house, where the tourists’ cars were parked higgledy-piggledy all along the track, down deeper into the valley. The Blain estate was vast-a high drystone wall fronted the unmade road and the twenty or so hectares of cleared land were surrounded by dense bush. I pulled up outside the elaborate iron gates, a small one for people on foot and a big one for motor traffic, both set in a stone arch, remote-controlled and electrified to the hilt. Birds circled overhead, then settled back into the trees. Some of them whistled and called and were answered from, deeper in the forest. I sucked in deep breaths of the cool, clean April air. Every time I go to the Blue Mountains I think the same thing: What the hell am I doing, living in that city shithole when this is all here and available? Then I go back to the shithole and it throws a lot of very confusing answers at me.

The booth behind the small gate was empty but there was a squawk box to talk into.

I pressed the button. ‘Cliff Hardy to see Mr Maxwell.’

Maxwell’s fruity tones came through: ‘Clifford. How nice. What would it be about, this unexpected call?’

‘Arch Merrett,’ I said.

The pause at the other end spoke volumes. ‘Ah, well, I don’t quite know…’

Peter Corris

CH20 — Forget Me If You Can

‘He’s dead, Dick. He left me some files and you know what an inquisitive type I am.’

‘Best to let old Archie rest in peace, don’t you think?’

‘No, I don’t. Let me in, Dick, or I’ll make a hell of a lot of trouble. I can see a greenhouse through the gate here. How about I put a few thirty-eight slugs into it for openers?’

‘You, ah… wouldn’t have a drink on you by any chance, would you?’

‘Beefeaters,’ I said. ‘Half bottle.’

The buzzer sounded and I pushed open the smaller of the two gates. I tramped up a gravel path that ran beside the bricked driveway. The house was a huge, rambling two-storey affair, all windows, stone and wood, half-covered in creeper. I was still a hundred metres from it when I saw Maxwell coming down the path. He was wearing country squire gear-tweed jacket, drill trousers, boots-and carrying a shotgun. I stopped and took out my pistol. Maxwell stopped, too. We were both out of effective range, but I fancied my chances better than his. As a target, he was approximately twice as wide. Maxwell stared at me for a few long seconds, then he broke open the gun and came forward with it hanging limply over his arm.

‘Cliff, old love! What a pleasure. How’d you like my country seat?’

‘Very nice, Dick,’ I said. ‘I like your attention to security, too.’

He jiggled the gun. ‘Force of habit. I’ve got nice little digs around the side here. Come along and we’ll have a natter.’

We followed the path past the greenhouse to a long walkway, bordered by flowers and topped by a pergola draped with vines and creepers. Maxwell had a small cottage set at a short distance from the house.

‘Servants’ quarters,’ he said as he opened the door. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’

I went through into a neat living room, rather dark on account of the small windows which were half-obscured by creeper, but comfortably furnished. Maxwell took two shells from the gun, closed it up and rested it against the wall. He was looking at me closely and I produced the flat bottle from my pocket as I put my. 38 away.

‘Splendid.’ He bustled away into the deeper gloom and returned with two old-fashioned crystal glasses. ‘Good gin likes its own company best.’

I put the bottle on the low table in the middle of the room and sat down. ‘Like you, Dick?’

He was already turning the cap. ‘Perforce, these days,’ he said.

‘I want to talk about the old days.’

‘Cheers.’ Maxwell drank a double slug straight off and poured again.

I took a sip. ‘Don’t get pissed on me, Dick. It won’t work.’

‘There’s not enough in this little bottle to get me pissed. And there’s nothing else on hand. I’ve been drying out.’

I didn’t say anything, didn’t feel any guilt. A drunk finds reasons to drink, that’s the way it is. I got up and went through the cottage to the kitchen. The refrigerator held milk, yoghurt, low-fat cheese, fruit juice and diet soft drink. I found a plastic iceblock tray in the freezer, flexed it and filled a bowl with ice. On the way back to the sitting room I glanced into the bedroom-single bed, spartan fittings, not Dick Maxwell’s style at all. In the front room the level in the bottle was much lower and Dick was slipping the shells back into the shotgun. I came up quietly and put the muzzle of my. 38 into his fleshy neck.

‘Don’t be silly, Dick.’

‘For me, not for you.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘They’ve sent you, haven’t they? They’ve kept their word after all this time.’

I put my pistol away and relieved him of the shotgun. I set the bowl of ice on the table and steered him back to his chair. ‘Dick,’ I said. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. As I told you, Arch Merrett left me his files. Your name came up in the last one. A divorce case. I know something about it but I want to know more. It’s idle curiosity, that’s all.’

Maxwell’s hand shook as he poured himself more gin. He added a couple of ice cubes and his tremor rattled them against the sides of the glass. ‘I wish I could believe you.’

‘You can. Tell me about you and Arch and Pike and the others.’

‘It all went wrong.’

That didn’t surprise me. There was something too flash about the scheme as outlined in Arch’s notes-too many people in the know, too many to square. ‘How?’

‘Every bloody way. From the word go. Pike was supposed to copy…’

‘The discretion statements, I know. Just tell it, Dick. If I get lost, I’ll ask you for directions.’

It took him a while and the rest of the gin, but I got the full story. Photocopy machines were slow affairs in those days, requiring careful handling. Pike’s broke down and he was late getting the documents back to the court. This put the clerk under some kind of pressure and he talked to someone who talked to someone else. When the time came for the boyos to put the screws on, they met with delays and confused arrangements that taxed their nerves and stretched the bonds of friendship.

‘They got onto us,’ Maxwell said. ‘I never found out how, exactly.’

He waited for me to speak and when I didn’t he went on, ‘Through the lawyers, possibly. It’s usually the lawyers. I got a visit from a very nasty type who did me a considerable hurt. The same happened to the others, I shouldn’t wonder. We all left Sydney for a time. That was part of the arrangement.’

‘Did you get the money?’

Maxwell sniffed. ‘Some of it was paid, I believe. I didn’t see any. We all lost our licences, of course. That was easy for them. And they all got their divorces. Shits.’

‘But you got your licence back.’

‘Ten years later, dear boy, and I had to do some very smelly things to get it.’

‘What about the others?’

Maxwell shrugged. ‘Pike went back into the racing industry in some capacity. God knows what. Probably doping horses. Ross Martin got fifteen years for importing smack. He died in prison. Bourke drowned up at Coolangatta. Fell out of boat when he was fishing. And now you tell me Arch Merrett’s dead. He was a dark horse.’

‘Meaning?’

The bottle was practically empty and Maxwell was looking edgy again. ‘Hardy, you haven’t been stringing me along, have you? I’ve lived with this for twenty-four years.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘The word was that our lives were forfeit. I was given to understand that I could be snuffed out at any time. It was a threat, of course, designed to keep one’s trap shut, and I complied, believe me. But I always thought that it might happen. That one of those bastards might decide that today was the day.’

‘They’re all dead, Dick. Except one who’s in a hospital and doesn’t remember his own name.’

‘Sons, daughters, associates…’

‘Come on. It’s water under the bridge. No-one remembers. No-one cares.’

He was still suspicious. ‘Except you.’

‘I’m the curious kind. I like to know the end of a story. Besides, I liked Arch.’

One of Maxwell’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Did you? Well, yes, I suppose people did. He was a clever devil. Looked and sounded ordinary.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Maxwell emptied the last few drops of gin into his glass. I still had half an inch in mine and he reached over and took it. ‘You’ve heard what happened to Pike, Bourke, Martin and me. Tell me, just to satisfy my curiosity, where did Merrett go when he left Sydney.’

‘The Gold Coast.’

‘Is that so? And when he died was he reduced to the status of a servant, like me, or was he in comfortable circumstances?’

‘He was well fixed.’

Maxwell drained the gin and leaned back in his chair. ‘I leave you to draw your own conclusions.’

I thought about it on the drive back to the city. All circumstantial, but it added up: Arch Merrett ratted on his fellow conspirators and got away with at least some of the money and his hide intact. Frankie Bourke went looking for him up north and didn’t come back. Arch had left me the files for my ‘education’, but I think the lesson he wanted to teach me was one I had learned a long time ago.

Gone Fishing

The ‘back beach’ on the east coast of Fraser Island is a wide strip of white sand that runs for 125 kilometres from Waddy Point in the north to Hook Point in the south. The best time to see it is after the tide has wiped out the thousands of 4WD tyre tracks that turn the beach into a kind of temporary two-lane highway. The worst time is in the middle of the day with the sun beating down and the Toyotas and Land Rovers roaring along, scaring the birds and leaving behind fumes and traces of oil and rubber.

I’d seen it at both times and at all times in between for the past four days. I’d put ‘fishing’ on the Application to Camp form I’d lodged with the Parks and Wildlife people in Hervey Bay. I had the permit and all the gear-rods and reels, lines, hooks, sinkers, knives, buckets, net in my Land Cruiser. I also had a portable generator that ran a fridge to make ice for the esky. The equipment had come with the vehicle and I hadn’t touched it, apart from the ice and the esky. My idea of catching fish is to go to Doyles and put a fork in a couple of grilled fillets. I was a fisher of men.

Simon Bucholtz and his brother Alex, nineteen and eighteen respectively, had disappeared in July. They’d gone backpacking to Queensland, taking a break from their university studies after the first semester. They’d called their father from Maryborough to say they were pushing on to Bundaberg, and hadn’t been seen or heard of in the ten weeks since. The police had done all the usual things, including giving up the search. The boys’ father, Horst Bucholtz, had come to me- on the recommendation of a satisfied client- with his slender thread of new evidence, his straw to cling to, his piece of floating wreckage.

‘My friend saw them, Mr Hardy. Eight weeks ago. He was getting a plane on the beach on Fraser Island and he saw the boys just as he got on board. He flew to Brisbane and then to the States. He did not know the boys were missing until he got back yesterday. Even then Bucholtz was a big man, fifty plus and looking it around the eyes and in the way he carried himself. His wide shoulders had a defeated slump that looked unnatural with his trim physique and athletic grace. He sniffed, pulled the shoulders back and got himself under control. ‘Even then, he only mentioned seeing them as a casual afterthought. He was amazed at my reaction. He thought I had gone mad.’

‘I can imagine,’ I said. ‘He knew the boys well by sight?’

A sharp nod. ‘He knows them, yes.’

There’s not much you can do when a desperate parent gets into that positive mode, but you have to try. ‘Even so, eight weeks is a long time for them to be out of touch. I’m sorry, but you have to expect…’

He was all systems go now, imperious. He stopped me with a raised clenched fist. ‘Foul play. No. When I told him what had happened, Claude immediately phoned someone he knows on the island. This man was present when Claude spotted the boys. He says he has seen them in different parts of the island.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Fishing, camping, walking.’

‘When did he see them last?’

The shoulders slid forward. ‘He thinks a month ago, maybe six weeks.’

‘You should go to the police, Mr Bucholtz. They…’

‘No! I can’t understand why they would stay there. They must be in some kind of trouble. The police could make it worse, whatever it is. I want you to find them. Please, find them and find out what’s going on. Then I’ll decide what to do.’

It sounded screwy but interesting. I was upfront with Bucholtz. I told him that before I’d take him on I’d run a check on him, talk with the police and his friend Claude and his contact on the island. He agreed.

I did all that and found nothing to deter me. Bucholtz was a builder and prosperous. His wife had died two years before. Nothing remarkable about the boys-Simon doing Arts at Sydney, Alex doing Environmental Studies at the University of Western Sydney. Missing Persons in Brisbane faxed me a selection of their file which told me nothing useful. Claude Tolbeck, motor mechanic and fisherman, confirmed Bucholtz’s account.

I mugged up a bit on the island during the flight to Brisbane. It was basically built of sand carried north from the rivers of New South Wales and deposited by peculiarities of the currents and waves over thousands of years. It had rainforest and lots of other vegetation, magnificent beaches, crystal-clear springs and was free of rats, mice and all feral animals except the dingo. Timber-getters and mineral sands miners backed by Joh Bjelke-Petersen had been happy to chop and mine it into a moonscape but conservationists, led by John Sinclair of the Fraser Island Defenders Organisation (FIDO), had stopped them. It was now a number one tourist destination.

After I’d spoken briefly on the phone to Tim Driberg, Tolbeck’s contact on the island, and learned that I’d need a 4WD to get around, I gave Bucholtz an estimate of the money he was looking at. It was pretty high-fares to and from, vehicle hire and insurance on top of my daily rate. He couldn’t write a cheque fast enough.

I’d flown to Hervey Bay, hired the Land Cruiser and taken it on the ferry to the island. I’d heard about Fraser Island for years of course, but wasn’t quite prepared for the strangeness of it. There is something weird about all those trees sprouting out of pure sand and the lakes that just sit there, not being fed by streams or springs. Once I got used to driving on the sand I began almost to enjoy the place. As much as circumstances and my city habits permitted.

Tim Driberg had lived on Fraser for thirty years, had been a logger and a sandminer, and claimed to know every inch of it. He moved around by land and sea between the couple of small freeholds he owned, fishing, winching out bogged 4WDs and taking photographs for sale to travel magazines. He was about sixty and looked it although he was still lean and muscular. A long white scar on his right leg that almost glowed against the tanned skin came, he said, ‘from goin’ six fuckin’ rounds with a chainsaw’. His faded blue eyes crinkled in the lean, leathery face when I asked him about the boys. We were on the balcony adjacent to the bar of the Cathedral Beach Resort and drinking Crown Lager. I was on my second, Driberg was one ahead of me.

‘Handsome lads, very handsome. But shy. I turned a camera on them once and they ran like rabbits.’

‘Where was this?’

‘I forget. As I told Claude, I spotted them here, there and everywhere.’

I got out a map and pinned him down, confirming what he’d told me on the phone. Dilli Village, Eurong, Happy Valley, Cathedral Beach, Waddy Point on the east coast; Lake Boomajin, Central Station, Lake McKenzie and Lake Allam inland; near the Kingfisher Resort and at Massey Point on the west coast.

‘I’d say they were headed for the ferry back to Hervey Bay last time I saw them.’

‘But you didn’t see them board the ferry?’

‘No.’

By this time I’d already checked at some of these locations, showing photos of the boys to campers and fishermen and getting no response. Driberg seemed happy to have me pay for his drinks.

‘You don’t have a lot of information, Mr Driberg.’

He lit a cigarette and blew smoke out over the rail towards the fringe of dense bush that ringed the resort. ‘I’m an old Fraser Island hand. We keep ourselves to ourselves. I leave it to the fuckin’ greenies to worry about the outside world. Rwanda and all that shit. What did the outside world ever do for us?’

After driving the Land Cruiser over the sand and through the creeks, I’d been dry and had drunk the beers quickly by my standards. They’d run through me and I went to the toilet. When I got back Driberg had gone. The barman signalled me.

‘Tim got a packet of smokes. Said you’d pay for them.’

‘Why not?’ I put the money on the bar. ‘Where’ll I find him if I need to talk to him again?’

‘He’s got a place a bit north of here. I don’t mean the Sandy Cape joint. Just past the first creek and in a bit. He’s a character. Another beer?’

‘Yeah, thanks. What d’you mean, a character?’

The barman, a young tawny coloured man, expertly knocked the cap off the bottle and produced a fresh glass. ‘Hates the tourism. Yearns for the old days-chainsaws and draglines. A real redneck.’

After several nights of camping out I was happy to take a cabin in the resort that night. I had a decent meal and some wine and went to sleep listening to the sound of the surf pounding on the beach. The next two days I spent driving around the island checking on Driberg’s sightings of the Bucholtz boys. I got no confirmations and everything pointed to a need to see Mr Driberg again. I drove north, fording the streams high on the beach in the approved fashion (the vehicle hirers threatened penalties for driving through salt water), and located Driberg’s shack in the scrub behind the dunes. It was empty and bore signs of having been vacated hastily. The tyre tracks of his old Land Rover were distinctive and they headed north towards Sandy Cape. Going there would mean another couple of nights on the air-bed in the one-man tent with mosquitoes and Bundy rum for company and a tinned-food dinner in my belly, but what the hell? It was the one part of the island I hadn’t yet visited and one of the few places where Driberg hadn’t claimed to have seen the boys. That might mean something.

Driving on the back beach is tricky. You have to judge the tides right or you can find yourself being pushed so high up the beach you’re likely to get bogged in the soft sand. At a couple of points you have no option but to go inland to avoid rocky outcrops that bar the beach. You keep the revs up or you’re likely to find yourself axle-deep in sand. Time and tides were on my side and by the time I rounded Sandy Cape there was only one set of tyre tracks to follow.

According to the barman at Cathedral Beach, Driberg laid claim to a bit of land near the block on which the Sandy Cape lighthouse stood. His claim was disputed, but he’d built a shack there out of materials he’d brought ashore himself from his boat. The light was failing as I drove along the firm, straight beach with the lighthouse dead ahead, the only man-made thing in sight. I wasn’t confident of locating Driberg in the twilight and didn’t fancy setting up camp in the dark, so I turned off into a dry creek bed and made my arrangements-tarpaulin stretched across from the roof rack on the Land Cruiser to a couple of trees, tent, primus stove, driftwood fire, baked beans, tinned pineapple, beer, coffee and Bundaberg rum.

I was deeply asleep when I felt something nudging my ear. Dopily, I thought it was a mosquito and slapped at it. My hand hit something cold and hard, metallic. I woke up. A torch beam dazzled me and I threw up my hands to shield my eyes. Something thumped me in the chest and I collapsed back onto the air-bed, zipped up in the sleeping bag.

‘I thought you’d come after me,’ Driberg said. ‘And a city slicker like you’s got no fuckin’ chance out here against an old bushwhacker like me.’

I struggled to sit up and free my hands. ‘I’m not against you. I just wanted to talk to you.’

‘Like hell you did.’

First he hit me with the beam, then with the metallic object. The beam dazzled me and the blow put out all the lights.

My throat was dry, my head hurt and my hands were lashed together behind my back. My ankles were tied and I was lying on my back on sand. An insect was nibbling at my ear.

‘Hey!’ I yelled. ‘Hey!’

I swore and tried to summon some saliva up for my dry gullet that felt as if it had been sandpapered. I managed to struggle up into a sitting position although my cramped limbs didn’t want to move. I realised that my eyes were gummed shut and I wanted desperately to rub at them. I forced them open, feeling the mucus crack. With sight other senses returned; I could hear birds calling and feel a warm wind. I could smell the bush and smoke and something else. I squinted, trying to focus on the shapes around me. I was in a clearing about half the size of a football field with thick bush all around. But I still couldn’t make out the shapes.

I blinked hard several times and tried again. Some of the shapes were like cages or pens, others were smaller. They were laid out geometrically with a well-trodden path between them. I could see plastic water containers and drums.

I got my throat moistened and yelled again, louder. The first times must have just been croaks because now there was a reaction. I heard noises from the pens-grunting, barking, squeaking and the insistent howl of frustrated cats.

‘Music to my ears.’

Driberg was standing beside me, barefooted and wearing only a pair of shorts. Casually, he kicked me in the shoulder and I fell back. I tried to look up at him but the sun was just above his head and I had to look away. ‘Fuck you. What d’you think you’re doing?’

‘I know what I’m doing, mate. Happy to tell you. I’m running Noah’s fuckin’ ark here. I’ve got four pair of real wild pigs, a half dozen foxes, a couple of German shepherd bitches the dingos’ll go crazy over, lots of rabbits and cats and I don’t know how many rats. All doing nicely.’

The message in the pamphlet I’d read came back to me-’free from feral animals’. Driberg’s weatherbeaten face cracked into a smile when he saw that I understood.

‘You’ve got it, mate. I made a good living here, logging and sandmining. Me and some other good blokes. Doin’ no harm at all. Then the fuckin’ greenies and tourists took over. Well, they’re in for a surprise. When I let this lot loose their paradise is fuckin’ gone forever.’

It was dangerous to ask but I had to know. ‘The boys?’

‘Nosey little bastards. Spied on me and found out about this place.’ He drew a finger quickly across his throat.

‘Why did you admit to seeing them?’

He spat down at me, missing my face by a couple of centimetres. ‘Yeah, I fucked up there. Panicked a bit. I wasn’t sure who else’d seen them or where so I tried to keep it vague. You pressed too hard, mate. Should’ve taken the hint.’

‘Where’re the boys?’

‘Six feet fuckin’ under, where you’re goin’ to be. This sand’s easy to dig.’

‘You won’t pull it off, Driberg. People know about me. I’ve got a vehicle…’

His laugh was harsh and almost out of control. “That’s where you’re wrong. You don’t know the island. In the old days, before the four-wheel-drives, cars and trucks were always getting stuck in the sand. Know what happened to ‘em? The sand swallowed ‘em. Must be hundreds out there off the back beach.’

‘The lighthouse keeper. He must know…’

‘Automated a year ago. That’s when I started this up. I really love those pigs, you know? They’re going to breed like crazy and rip shit out of this place. You’ve pushed me ahead of schedule a bit but I’m flexible. I guess now’s the time. It’ll take a bit of organising but I’m ready for it. Have to drop them all off in the right places. Say a week and it’ll be done. I’ll shoot through and who’ll fuckin’ know?’

Thinking was beyond me. All I could do was react out of anger and helplessness. ‘You redneck lunatic,’ I rasped. ‘You should be locked up.’

His fierce grin turned sour and ugly. ‘Just for that, cunt,’ he hissed, ‘I’m goin’ to feed you to the fuckin’ pigs.’

He moved to step over me. What he’d said pumped adrenalin and fear into me. I pulled my knees back, pivoted on my bum and lashed out with both feet at his leg. I caught him right on the scar and he screamed as I felt something give in his knee. He went down hard with the leg buckled under him. He lay on the sand, winded and gasping. I scrambled to my feet and did the only thing I could do-I launched myself forward and fell on him with all my weight. I heard ribs crack and he moaned as the breath rushed out of him again.

The animals in their pens and hutches were setting up a cacophony and I realised that I was adding to the noise by swearing in a continuous stream as I struggled up and off Driberg. I scrambled away from him and couldn’t get to my feet again-my legs wouldn’t obey my brain. I needed to get my hands and legs free but the straps were hard and tight. Driberg was stirring. Off to my right was a pen with corrugated iron nailed all around it. I wriggled and crawled over to it, praying that Driberg was a bush carpenter. He was. The sheets of iron didn’t quite meet at the corner of the pen and there was a raw edge I could reach if I could only stand up. I could see Driberg slowly coming to life and fear got me on my feet again. I backed up to the iron, located the edge with my fingers and began to saw at the straps. Driberg was only a few metres away. He gasped, spat, saw what I was doing. There was a steel stake leaning against a tree at the edge of the clearing and he began to crawl towards it, blood dripping from his battered face. Then he was up and hobbling. I sawed at the strap and felt it fray and then break. Driberg had his hand on the stake. I bent down and my clumsy, cramped fingers seemed to take an age to undo the strap around my ankles. I got it free just as Driberg shuffled within reach and swung the stake. I ducked and he missed. He fell, dropping the stake. I pounced on him; his contorted face swam up towards me and I delivered the best head butt of my life. I got him solidly on the nose and I heard and felt the bone break and the cartilage collapse and I was glad.

I had sadness, anger and fear to exorcise. I found a. 303 rifle and ammunition in Driberg’s shack and I shot every one of the animals big enough to take a bullet. The rabbits and rats were securely held and I left them for the authorities to deal with. I took Driberg back to Cathedral Beach and made the phone calls to Hervey Bay and Sydney and gave all the explanations. I wasn’t there when they dug up the bodies of Horst Bucholtz’s kids nor when they held a kind of commemorative service for them on the creamy white beach south of Sandy Cape. Bucholtz sent me a photograph of the event and I’ve kept it. Great beach.

Cross My Heart

‘You know me, Cliff,’ Tommy Herbert said, ‘honest as the race is long.’

Tommy was a jockey and life was a joke to him. He’d broken his neck as a twelve-year-old riding trackwork, survived to become a moderately successful rider, and regarded every day of his life as a bonus. He was still making jokes even though he’d copped a five-year suspension that would certainly end his career. Tommy was nearing forty, having trouble with his weight. He was pretty well-fixed but he needed another couple of good years of steady earnings, saving and investment to set him up.

‘I never heard any different, Tommy,’ I said.

‘Have I ever put the handbrake on? Sure, when the horse was ready to kill itself trying and had no hope. Have I ever backed a horse I wasn’t riding? Yeah, when I’d lost the ride on account of my weight and I knew it was a good thing.’

‘Jockey’s aren’t allowed to bet.’

Tommy lit a cigarette and fanned the smoke. He said he hated smoking and only did it to keep his weight down. Maybe. He was tall for a jockey, about five foot five and he didn’t have a beaky nose or a squeaky voice. Pass him in the street and you wouldn’t guess his profession unless you looked at his hands and wrists. They were over-developed and odd-looking. ‘I’d sorta announced my retirement. Then I de-retired.’

I smiled. ‘You’re stretching it, mate, but I take your point. No batteries, funny whips, six-way turf talks with other riders?’

‘Cross my heart,’ he said. ‘You don’t hear that any more do you? Be a good name for a horse.’

‘So, what d’you want me to do?’

He stubbed out the cigarette which looked like a matchstick in those huge hands. ‘I got five years for involvement in race-fixing. I’m appealing. Hearing’s in two weeks. I want you to investigate those four bastards that put me in this and get them to change their bloody stories.’

‘It’s a bit late in the day.’

He shrugged. ‘It was all such bullshit I didn’t take it seriously. I set the whole thing up? Me? I was into Brucie Bartlett for two hundred grand? I never even met the man.’

I believed him but I had to play the devil’s advocate. ‘The way I heard it, there’s a tape.’

‘He rang me. It was weird. He said all these strange things. I was tired and pissed-off. I’d been in the sauna for an hour and hadn’t eaten for a day. Low blood sugar. I didn’t know what I was saying. It sounds bad but it was all a fake.’

I like the races enough to go to the track half a dozen times a year and have TAB bets once or twice a month. Mostly doubles and quinellas when I get the time to nut them out. I’ve lost more than I’ve won, but factor in the pleasure and excitement and I’d reckon I’m about even. I’d met Tommy when I was bodyguarding a horse five or six years back. The horse got to the post and won with Tommy on top. I backed it and won money. I saw Tommy from time to time after that-we jogged together at Bondi a few times, went to a couple of fights. He was an acquaintance more than a friend but I liked him and wanted to help, but business is business.

‘I charge two hundred a day, Tommy, and expenses. You’re looking at a couple of grand minimum, and no guaranteed result.’

He grinned. ‘You’re talking to a jockey, remember. Guaranteed results stink. As for the money,’ he opened his mouth and bared his even, white teeth. ‘My dentist charges two hundred bucks a fucking hour!’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘You’ve hired me.’

The case against Tommy was this: four jockeys, Lockie Mallet, Rex Goot, Tony Zelinka and Owen Johns, claimed that Tommy had approached them with the proposition that they run dead in a two-year-old handicap at Randwick. He claimed to have a big bet on the long-priced ‘bushie’ he was riding and that their non-taxable, non-traceable share would dwarf their normal riding fees and bonuses. According to the jockeys, Tommy had named the bookmaker concerned as Bruce Bartlett. Goot had approached Bartlett and got confirmation of the bet which, he said, Tommy had made on the nod.

Goot, acting as a spokesman, reported the matter to the stewards immediately before the race. He claimed that he had been unable to contact Bartlett until this point and so wasn’t sure that Tommy was serious. The chief steward cautioned the jockeys to let their horses run on their merits and allowed the race to proceed. Tommy’s horse won easily. Bartlett was interviewed and confirmed Goot’s story. Tommy was summoned to appear before the committee. The evidence was heard, including a taped conversation between Tommy and Bartlett which appeared to substantiate the accusations. Tommy was given his suspension; Bartlett was fined ten thousand dollars for betting irregularities; the other jockeys were privately commended by the committee.

Sometimes you work on the assumption that your client is lying, sometimes that he or she is telling part of the truth, rarely can you assume you’re getting the straight goods. It affects your attitude and approach but it doesn’t matter as much as might be thought. Usually, it sorts itself out. I gave Tommy the benefit of most of the doubt, rating him at about 75 per cent as a truth-teller. Above average. Still, I ran a quick check on him in the usual way, forking out money to people who know how to crack the computer codes, and came up with nothing: he hadn’t bought anything expensive, paid off any loans or debts or done anything to suggest he’d come into money. I hadn’t expected anything different.

I did the same on the four jockeys and waited for the results. I spent time by day and night following each of them and tapping all the sources I have that intersect with the racing world-a few cops, an ex-bookie, a former clerk of the course at Warwick Farm, a callgirl controller, a gym manager. I made notes as my observations and the information accumulated, avoiding premature conclusions. I put a lot of kilometres on the Falcon, quite a few drinks down my throat and the throats of others and exercised the vocal cords in smoky pubs, steamy gyms and quiet parks.

Mallet lived alone in a Kensington flat, drove a Mazda and seemed to have no interests other than horses. He’d missed the last two corporation payments on his flat. Zelinka had a wife and four kids in Matraville and had recently dropped a girlfriend in Paddington and acquired another in Darlinghurst. He shared her with several other men; she wasn’t very good-looking and consequently not very expensive. Johns was a very low-key, low-profile homosexual who lived with a young strapper. He drove a Holden Statesman but was slightly behind on the payments. His friend had recently switched from a motorbike to a scooter. They seemed to spend most of their time watching videos.

Rex Goot was a little more interesting. Older than the others at about thirty-four, he’d had a topsy-turvy career as a rider with some big wins, long, bare stretches and more than his share of suspensions for minor infringements. He was considered a good reinsman but ‘cranky’ and inclined to let owners and trainers know his opinion of their horses and methods. He was separated, rented a modest semi in Randwick and his last maintenance payment cheque for his two children had bounced. His wife had re-presented it only to have it bounce again. Then it was third time lucky with a very angry Mrs Goot having to cough up the default fees.

‘He’s paying the mortgage on the former family home in Concord,’ my informant, an enterprising bank data base man told me, ‘but he was late with the last one and the next’s due tomorrow.’

‘Did he have enough on hand to cover the last payment?’ I asked.

‘That’ll cost you more.’

I thought about how characters like this were making money from characters like me by tapping keys. What a world.

‘Day after tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Tell me about how he stood last time and what he does this time. Then charge me.’

‘I got it.’

He meant what he said. He had my Bankcard number and had a way of charging fees against the card. I didn’t know how he did it and didn’t want to know. The charge appeared on my statement as ‘Security Enquiries’ and I could bill my client without difficulty. What a world.

I turned my attention to Bruce Bartlett. A press photo showed him as a big, beefy character with a dimple in his chin. There’s no way to run the standard check on bookies-they handle a lot of cash and everyone knows that their accounts are elaborate fictions. The taxation people leave them alone as long as they get a reasonable whack. Trying to calculate the real income wouldn’t be worth the grief. Still, I poked around and found out what I could. My chief informant was Perce Kelly who runs an SP book in the Bedford Arms hotel in Glebe. Bookies are Perce’s speciality.

We met in the back bar of the Bedford, not far from Wentworth Park where Perce did a lot of his business. I put a schooner of Old down in front of Perce and sipped at my middy of light.

‘What d’y drink that piss for?’ Perce said.

‘I use unleaded petrol, too.’

Perce shook his head and drank a third of the schooner in one pull. ‘Christ help this country if there’s another war.’

‘Brucie Bartlett,’ I said. ‘What d’you know?’

Perce told me that Bartlett had started off with a country licence and worked his way up to the city tracks. He was a man good with numbers but with no flair. Not Perce’s style.

‘Can you see him taking bets on the nod from Tommy Herbert?’

Perce rolled some White Crow and lit up. ‘Maybe. Just.’ He downed another third of the schooner. ‘Not really.’

‘Jesus, Perce. That’s not a lot of help.’

Another suck on the rollie, another pull on the beer. ‘What I mean is, Cliff, I can’t see Tommy fuckin’ betting with him!’

‘Would the ten grand fine hurt Bartlett much?’

‘Nup. He wins.’

Perce’s glass was empty, something that usually he dealt with straight off. Now he smoked and turned the glass in his hands.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Brucie used to be in partnership with a bloke named Kelvin Johnson. They fell out and split up. Bad blood. Kelvin had lots of style but no fuckin’ sense, if you know what I mean. They weren’t suited. It happens. Happened to me when I had a licence. Funny thing, though, about that day at Randwick

I knew Perce’s style. The next move was up to me.. If I didn’t make it, he’d come up with a yarn about the old days. I took a fifty out of my wallet and put it on the table. I finished my drink and picked up the glasses. ‘I like funny stories,’ I said.

According to Perce, Johnson and Bartlett had become rivals as bookmakers and had run something of a vendetta against each other which had been costly to both. There were a lot of technical details about laying off of bets which I didn’t fully understand, but the upshot was that the two men were locked in a somewhat irrational conflict that spread to include their two sons who had also been friends at one time.

‘But Kelvin’s finished,’ Perce said. ‘He must’ve been stretched pretty thin and the race before the one Tommy got rubbed out for fucked him. He took some big money on the long-odds thing that won. Took it late and couldn’t lay it off anywhere. And you wouldn’t believe it, but Kelvin bets himself. Big. He was probably on the favourite. He got screwed and Brucie was crowing.’

‘Was Bartlett…?’

Perce rubbed the side his nose in the age-old manner, rolled another White Crow and worked on his schooner.

It doesn’t do to make too much use of the one source. Spread the enquiry around and you reduce the risk of feedback and fuck-up. I went back to my other informants, particularly the former clerk of the course. Des Joseph describes himself as a ‘sober alcoholic’. The booze cost him his job and his family and was on the way to stripping him of everything until AA saved him. He works as a drug counsellor and I met him through one of my clients who was making a serious attempt at drinking himself to death. Des helped him to pull out of it and I’ve referred a few other people to him since. We get along although sometimes I think he eyes me as a prospective customer. We met, as always, in a coffee shop at the Cross.

‘This is twice in three days, Cliff,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you’re not working up to seeing me about something else.?’

‘I’m sure. Say a number of jockeys were under investigation by the chief steward. Who’d do the investigating?’

‘They’ve got a couple of blokes, more or less in your line.’

‘Would anyone collate the information?’

Des sipped his long black and gazed past me out to Darlinghurst Road where probably every third person was a likely candidate for his services. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘They call the jockeys under investigation in one by one, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Would anyone look at the information on them across the board, other than to consider if they’d colluded about something?’

Des doesn’t waste words. ‘No,’ he said.

My bank computer man called the next day to tell me that Rex Goot was late with his last mortgage payment and seemed to have become short of cash a couple of months before.

‘Nothing going in or too much going out?’ I asked.

‘Bit of both. Looks as if he hasn’t been banking some of his earnings.’

I thanked him; he checked the expiry date on my card. That’s the way he is. I sat down with my notes and drew my diagrams with the connecting arrows, names in boxes, question marks, ticks and crosses. When I thought I had it all nutted out I called Tommy.

‘I think I’ve got it,’ I said.

‘Jesus, what’s it been, five days? You could’ve strung it out for twice this long. You’re throwing away money.’

‘Okay, I’ll get back to you.’

‘Ha-ha. You know me, Cliff, I’ll joke on my death bed. What’ve you got?’

‘A theory.’

‘Shit.’

‘With facts. Can you get hold of race tapes?’

‘Of course I can. I subscribe to a service. We all do. Gotta see how good we look and how lousy the others are.’

‘What do the tapes show, just the race?’

‘Nah, you get the horses in the ring beforehand and then coming back after, the owner smiling, the works.’

‘I want you to get the tape of the race before the one they say you were trying to fix.’

‘I didn’t have a ride in it.’

‘Does that mean you can’t get it?’

‘No, but… ‘

‘Just do it, Tommy, and bring it around here. When can you get it?’

‘I can have a courier deliver it tomorrow morning, first thing.’

‘Okay. I’ll expect you here about ten.’

It isn’t in the rule book, but sometimes the client has to do some of the work, take some of the risk. I knew Tommy’s habits pretty well. He was a gregarious type who liked to hang out with other jockeys and talk. He told a good yarn and was excellent company and the racing fraternity would be rallying round him to some extent. I knew he wouldn’t lack for company that evening and that he wouldn’t be able to keep completely quiet about the latest development. Tommy would spend some time in a club or a pub or both where he’d have one drink, two at the most before switching to mineral water, and talk.

The next morning I was parked outside Tommy’s flat in Clovelly. Tommy and his wife of ten years or more had no children and didn’t seem to feel the lack. Racing was Tommy’s life and his wife was a keen golfer. Tommy played golf occasionally and his wife sometimes went to the races. They had it worked out pretty well. The flats were in a big block that featured a swimming pool and other comforts. If I sold my house and took out a mortgage I might just have been able to afford one. I drank coffee and listened to the radio and saw the courier arrive. A little while later Tommy emerged from the car park in his white Merc. I waited. Sure enough, a dusty Pajero with mud smeared over the numberplates fell in behind him. I joined the procession.

Tommy took the logical route to Glebe and I hung back, making sure that the occupants of the Pajero were concentrating on what was in front of them and ignoring the rear. At Centennial Park I called Tommy on his car phone.

‘Hey, Cliff, what’s up? I’m on my way.’

‘I know you are, mate. I’m not far behind you and there’s a blue Pajero in between us that’s been on you since you left home. Don’t look!’

‘Shit. What do I do?’

‘Chatted to a few people last night, did you?’

‘Christ, yes, I guess so. I’m sorry, Cliff, I… ‘

‘It’s okay. We can get something out of it with a bit of luck. Drive to the bottom of Glebe Point Road. Right down to the water. Have you got anything with you apart from the video? A book or something?’

‘Fuck, you think I carry War and Peace around with me. I’ve got the Gregory’s and the form guide for Canterbury.’

‘That’ll do. Wrap the paper around the Gregory’s and walk a bit to the left as if you’re going to throw it in. We’ll see what happens. And don’t worry, I’ve got a gun.’

‘I never worry about guns, just the fuckers that use them.’

He sounded shaky but he did all right, drove normally. There were two men in the Pajero. I got close enough to take a look and didn’t like what I saw. The driver was a big, dark guy, maybe a Maori, with a calm, professional air; the other man was smaller, smoked continuously and looked edgy. I was edgy too. We reached Redfern before I realised that I’d had the radio on the whole time-Andrew Olle and Paul Lyneham had run through their routine-and I hadn’t heard a word. I switched it off and considered ringing Tommy again. Decided against it. Didn’t want to rattle him.

The peak traffic had passed and Glebe Point Road was flowing smoothly. The Pajero was one car back from the Merc and I was one back from it. Tommy stopped at the Bridge Road lights and I thought again about calling him and telling him to shake off the Pajero. Last chance. I didn’t do it. I told myself we were in my territory and that I had the edge. We passed the Valhalla cinema and the only butcher shop left in Glebe. There used to be three or four, maybe five. The crazy thoughts you have when you nerves are stretched.

Tommy headed for the bottom. I turned at Federal Road, stopped, unshipped the. 38 and ran through the park past the new bit of garden, down towards the big Moreton Bay fig. The Pajero had turned and parked, pointed back up the road. I was still moving fast but I could see Tommy strolling towards the water with a package in his hand. The smaller man got down from the 4WD. I was close enough now to see that he was carrying a weapon, assault rifle or shortened shotgun. That was enough for me. I shouted for Tommy to get down and I fired at the Pajero.

The armed man crouched and took in the situation quickly. Tommy was twenty metres away, I was a bit further. He swivelled and pointed the weapon in my direction. I lengthened my stride and threw myself behind the tree that was big enough to stop a mortar shell. I heard the blast of the shotgun and a sound like hail hitting the leaves high above my head. I sneaked a look around the tree; Tommy was flat on the ground and the shooter was piling back into the 4WD. The driver took off with a squeal of rubber that left a trail of blue smoke in the air.

I ran down to where Tommy was picking himself up. He was wearing a cream safari suit and it was grass-stained from neck to knee. ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘What was that?’

I tucked the gun away and looked around. The action had taken only a few seconds and the sound of the shots hadn’t attracted any attention. It’s a noisy area with occasional crashes from the container wharf across the water and a high background level from the bridge construction. I helped Tommy up.

‘Let’s get out of here before anyone else asks that question.’

‘Fuck it, we want the cops. We could’ve been killed.’

I thought about that as we walked back towards the tree. The shooter had passed up the chance of an easy shot at Tommy and had fired high at me. Metal glinted under the tree and I stooped to pick up a pellet. I looked at it, then flicked it away.

‘Bird shot. They weren’t out to kill, just to frighten.’

‘They fucking succeeded,’ Tommy said.

Back at my house I made coffee and added a slug of brandy to both mugs. A shottie discharged in anger in your vicinity justifies a drink, even if it’s before ten in the morning. I explained things to Tommy as we drank the coffee and before we watched the video.

‘Those four took too much care to look as if they hadn’t come into money. One by one it looked all right, but put it all together and it’s obviously contrived.’

‘Come again.’

‘Fixed. Faked. I was getting a smell of it, then I learned about Bartlett and Kelvin Johnson. Bartlett hated Johnson’s guts and the race before the one you got done for cleaned him out good.’

I hit the play button and we watched the tape. I didn’t know enough about racing to see anything wrong, but Tommy bent forward almost as if he was in the saddle, watched intently and nodded and clicked his tongue. ‘Play it again,’ he said as soon as the winner passed the post.

‘Hold it. I want to see the next bit.’

The camera followed the horse back and showed the winning owner and trainer along with their losing counterparts. It was only a flash but this was more my sort of thing and I caught it: Rex Goot had won the race on a rank outsider. Just as he neared the enclosure he lifted his whip and almost covered a wink in the direction of a man with a dimple in his chin-a younger version of Bruce Bartlett. As well, a couple of the owners and trainers looked more than a little unhappy. I ran the tape three more times and we pointed out to each other what we’d seen.

‘Comes down to this,’ I said. ‘Bartlett and the four riders fixed that race and took Kelvin Johnson to the cleaners. Then they cooked up the story about you to deflect any attention away from the race. Tommy Herbert, race fixer, made a much bigger splash than a few doubts about a minor race.’

‘Shit, yes,’ Tommy said. ‘It fits. Goot made his report just as we were getting ready. Know why? Because I was doubtful about riding. I felt crook from wasting, but I decided I was jake right at the last minute.’

Tommy accepted another coffee with brandy and lit a cigarette. He brushed at the grass stains and smiled. ‘I don’t know what Sharon’s going to say about my suit. Have to get it to the dry-cleaners before she notices. Trouble is, it’s just come back from the bloody dry-cleaners.’

‘Tommy. You know this game better than me. We’ve got these suspicions and theories and a bit of evidence on tape if you want to see it our way, but it’s not solid. What do we do now?’

He sucked in smoke, drank some coffee and pulled the telephone towards him. ‘We talk to all the right people,’ he said.

Tommy set up a meeting with the owners and trainers of horses involved in the two races and certain of the jockeys. The meeting took place at his flat and Sharon had laid on the works- drinks and eats, cigarettes and cigars. Tommy had a huge video screen and he’d run the race film so many times he could pause, reverse, freeze frame and slow advance like an expert. The trainers and owners ate and drank heartily; the jockeys smoked and drank coffee. Everybody swore a lot. They listened to me and they listened to Tommy. I’d been back to the park and collected a couple of the bird shot pellets.

The upshot was a report to the stewards by two owners and their trainers and an enquiry to which the four jockeys who’d accused Tommy were summoned. Bruce Bartlett was also requested to appear but he happened to be out of the country at the time, likewise his son. The processes that followed were slow and secretive. The racing game was in the midst of a major shake-up involving jockeys ‘tipping’ and being paid for their tips. The authorities didn’t need a major race-fixing scandal and nothing about it leaked out. Rex Goot announced his retirement from riding owing to weight problems. The other three jockeys found rides hard to get and two of them relocated to Singapore.

Bruce Bartlett was prosecuted for tax evasion. He was fined, received a suspended sentence and his bookmaking licence was revoked. Tommy’s suspension was reduced to a minimum period and he confided that he had received a generous ex gratia payment by way of compensation and in return for an agreement to keep mum. He did and pretty soon afterwards he gave up riding to go into partnership as a trainer. He’s got a two-year-old called Cross My Heart that he keeps urging me to back, but for some reason I’m not betting these days as much as I used to.

Christmas Visit

‘They’re letting him out for Christmas. Jesus, I can’t believe it. Christmas Day for Ronnie was just an excuse to get more pissed earlier than on the other 364 days. I need help, Mr Hardy.’

Fran Phillips had phoned me on 20 December and made an appointment for the next day. She didn’t have to tell me that I wasn’t her first choice as a private detective. The big agencies and most of the smaller ones closed down or didn’t accept new business that close to Christmas. I had no plans for the festive season beyond a few days off, some time at the beach and Christmas lunch with Frank and Hilde Parker and their son Cliff, named after guess who. I was trying to persuade an old girlfriend to go with me but so far not succeeding.

Ms Phillips was thirtyish, blonde with an intelligent face and a good figure. She had married ‘Flash’ Ronnie Phillips ten years before when she was a fashion model and he had told her he was a banker. The only business Ronnie ever did with banks was robbing them, along with armoured cars, grog shops and anything else worth his while. He was reckless and lucky for quite a while and he and Fran lived well on the proceeds. They had twins, a boy and a girl. Then a job went wrong, Ronnie lost his nerve, drank too much and knocked his wife about. He was drunk on the next job, a factory payroll snatch. He wounded a policeman, took a bullet or two himself and got twelve years, of which he’d served four.

‘I should’ve divorced him but I never got around to it,’ Fran said. ‘And I can’t shoot through because the kids are in a pageant thing got up by the parents of one of their friends. They’re looking forward to it like mad.’

‘You could get some sort of injunction,’ I said. ‘He abused you…’

She shook her head. ‘It’s years ago and I never reported it at the time. He’s convinced some idiot social worker that he’s reformed. They say he’ll be eligible for release in a year or so and this visit is a step towards his rehabilitation. It’s incredible! He shot a policeman, for Christ’s sake. What d’you have to do to serve ten years?’

I knew a lot of people who’d agree with her. I did myself in a way. Most of the people in gaol don’t belong there at all, and those that do should be there longer for the protection of the community. Fran Phillips wasn’t whingeing, she was angry, an emotion I can sympathise with.

‘So, what’ve you got in mind?’

The look of relief that came across her strong, handsome face made it worthwhile saying something I hadn’t intended to say.

‘Apparently he’s got some sort of twelve-hour pass. I’ve agreed to be at home at nine to say hello to him. The kids’ll be up at six for the tree and the presents and then they’ll be off to the pageant. I want you to be there when he arrives. He can think what he likes. It’s just a ploy for him. He’ll go off and get drunk and with any luck they’ll put him back where he belongs. I’ll get a divorce and move somewhere.’

“Won’t he expect to see the children?’

‘They’ll stay at their friends’ place and sleep over. He never showed any interest in them before-except as things to shout at and give an occasional whack.’

‘You’re not going to this pageant?’

She shook her head. ‘That’s not the deal. They’re going to video it and the kids want me to see the final edited version. That’s what’s real to them these days, isn’t it?’

‘I haven’t got any children. I wouldn’t know. And after he goes, then what?’

‘I don’t trust him. I’ll need you to stay with me the rest of the day, until 9 o’clock or whatever.’

She’d told me that she’d given up being a clothes horse after she’d had the twins and that she’d qualified as a computer programmer after Ronnie went inside. She was a freelance-desktop publishers called her in to trouble-shoot for them. It was interesting and paid well. She said that to convince me I’d get paid. It did more than that-it told me she was bright and steady and to be taken seriously. I liked her.

‘I’m due to have lunch with some people. A senior policeman as it happens. You could come with me.’

She looked at me, no doubt taking in the greying hair, the crow’s feet, the broken nose. I could only hope she was seeing the sense of humour, the sterling integrity.

‘Yes, I’d like that,’ she said.

I was at her house in Rozelle at eight-thirty on Christmas morning. I’d seen three kids on their new Christmas bikes and was feeling cheerful. The house was a weatherboard double-fronter that had recently had a coat of paint. It sat on a wider block with more space in front and back than at my place in Glebe, but then you couldn’t see the water the way you can by standing on my back fence. I prowled around in professional fashion and was satisfied that there were only four ways an intruder could approach from.

‘Merry Christmas,’ Fran said when she opened the door.

I said the same and presented her with a bunch of flowers.

‘A prop?’

‘As you like. You’ll be interested to hear that your house is a security nightmare.’

The morning was warm and she looked good in a short white dress that left her strong brown arms bare. I wore chinos and a short-sleeved shirt. I had a Smith amp; Wesson. 38 in the pocket of my linen jacket. I stepped inside onto polished boards with light flooding in from enlarged windows. There was an old-fashioned coat and hat stand by the door. I hung my jacket up and arranged it so I could stand in the doorway and reach the gun.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No gun.’

‘Probably not.’

She nodded and looked away.

Ronnie arrived in a taxi at ten-fifteen. As he opened the gate and came up the path Fran opened the door and I got a good look at him. Some men bloat in prison, others build their bodies. Ronnie had done the weights. He was about my height, a bit over six feet, but he’d bulked up above the waist. He wore tight white jeans and a denim shirt that couldn’t close around his thick neck-not that it mattered because he had the shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist.

I glanced at Fran. She was staring at the man bouncing up the path as if she was a Billy Graham convert about to accept salvation. Then he grinned and I felt her go tense beside me.

‘Ugh,’ she whispered. ‘Steroids.’

He bounded up, pulling off a pair of sunglasses. He squinted, saw Fran, then me.

She stuck out her hand. ‘Hi, Ronnie.’

He stopped dead, just out of hand-shaking range. He was handsome, with dark hair and regular features, but his iron-pumping had given him a slightly pin-headed look.

‘Who’s this?’ he growled.

‘Cliff,’ Fran said, touching my arm but leaving me a clear reach to the gun. ‘This is Ronnie Phillips, my former husband.’

‘Still your bloody husband.’

‘Not for long.’

‘You fuckin’ bitch.’ He made a fist and stepped forward. I moved up past Fran. That pleased him-something to hit. He’d probably been wanting to do it since his first bench press. But he was slow; the looping right came at me but I had all the time in the world to deliver a short jolt to his bulging left bicep. I hit the spot just right. He yelped and the intended punch became a grab at the arm which dangled, the fingers in spasm.

‘Visit’s over, Ronald,’ I said. ‘On your way.’

He wanted to have another go but that kind of punch leaves an arm pretty well useless for a couple of minutes and he wasn’t silly enough to think he could take me with one hand.

‘You bitch.’

‘You’re repeating yourself,’ I said. ‘But if you like we can stand here and chat for a bit while Fran calls the cops. I can tell them that you threatened her.’

The bounce had gone out of him; only the bastardly was left. He made a show of staring into my eyes before he covered his with the shades. He flexed the left hand, quick recovery. Then he turned and went down the path. He kicked the gate shut behind him and it swayed with the force of the kick.

‘Petty,’ I said.

Fran’s hand was on my shoulder. ‘Let’s have a drink,’ she said.

The house had a comfortable feel, even with the possibility of the return of Ron. We had a couple of glasses of wine and I took a few turns around the block, just checking. Fran made a salad and we got to talking in an easy way as if we’d met more than just twice. The Christmas tree in the corner of the living room was properly decorated and the wrapping paper scattered around it indicated that the twins, Paul and Harriet, had had a good deal of loot. (I had presents for Frank and Hilde and would get some from them. I’d got a book in the mail from my sister and that was my lot.)

We talked, I admired her garden which was mostly herbs, vegetables and fruit trees-my idea of a garden. Fran phoned the Lane household where the kids were staying and was told that everything was going fine and they were looking forward to her dropping in.

‘They’re a bit dull,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to come in. I’ll be quick.’

She changed into loose white pants and a blue silk blouse and looked good. I drove to Drummoyne and admired her as she walked away from the car. No sign of Ronnie. I listened to the radio and tried to remember who’d won the four grand-slam tennis titles that year and the runners-up in the mens and women’s singles. It was a typical slice of a private detective’s day- waiting and killing time.

Fran smelled slightly of brandy when she got back into the car. She kissed me on the cheek and I could have taken a bit more of that.

‘Boring for you.’

‘Worth it now. Kids okay?’

‘Fine. I’ll pick ‘em up tomorrow morning. Do your friends know you’ll have company?’

‘They don’t, but they’ll be pleased.’

We set off with quite a few unasked questions in the air. I had the presents on the back seat-a bottle of Scotch for Frank, gardening gloves and shears for Hilde and a six-pack of the priciest tennis balls on the market for young Cliff who was doing well in a junior tennis development program. Fran said she felt bad about not having a gift so we stopped at a Bondi pub, had a drink and she bought a bottle of champagne.

‘So he’s a good cop, this Frank?’ Fran said.

‘The best. He’s quiet but you’ll like him. Don’t worry, they’re easy people to get on with. Like you.’

‘Do we tell them what we’re really doing today?’

‘Up to you.’

‘Let’s not.’

Everything went well at the Parkers. Cliff was off playing tennis and Fran and Hilde talked about kids and how independent they were these days. Frank and I had beer and chablis while the women drank champagne. The lunch was good and we’d just about finished when a bleeper sounded in the living room.

‘Oh, shit,’ Fran said. ‘Sorry, I left my mobile number where the kids are, just in case. Harriet acts up.’ She got up quickly and went to her bag.

I heard the sharp intake of breath and was moving quickly towards her when I heard her shriek.

‘No! Oh God no!’

Her face, which was tanned and had had some extra colour in it from the wine, turned white; her lips were moving soundlessly.

‘What?’ I said.

‘It’s Ronnie. He’s taken the kids.’

Frank was beside me. ‘Fran, can I…?’

‘No!’ she shouted. She grabbed her bag, pushed past us and ran for the door. I followed, ignoring Frank’s protest. Fran dashed into the street and was heading nowhere, looking around frantically.

I grabbed her arm. ‘What’s happening? Let me help. Frank can help too.’

‘No. He says I have to go home. He’s ringing every hour. No police. Oh God, he must be mad.’

I unlocked the car, bundled her in and was off before Frank reached his front gate. I’d had too much to drink to be driving but I could feel myself sobering up by the second. Fran told me what the Lanes had told her: Phillips had walked in, threatened the adults with a tyre lever, picked up the twins and announced that he was taking them away. He’d ring Fran on the hour and she’d better talk to him if she wanted to see the children again.

‘He must have followed us to the Lanes,’ Fran said. ‘You should have seen him.’

I concentrated on driving, keeping up a good speed but staying out of trouble. She was right. His arriving at her place in a taxi had thrown me. I should have realised that for a man like Ronnie any street is full of available cars. Car theft, offering menaces, abduction-it was desperate stuff that would finish his parole chances. Not a comforting thought, also a puzzling one. Why had he blown his stack?

‘Hurry,’ Fran said. ‘We’ve only got twelve minutes.’

All the rapport between us had gone. I didn’t answer and concentrated on driving and thinking. Where could Ronnie have gone with two distressed kids? How many options would he have, a few hours out of gaol? We reached Fran’s street with a couple of minutes to spare. I pulled up fifty metres from the house. She swore at me, yanked open the door and ran. I got the. 38 and eased out of the car quietly. The earlier recce now came in handy. I went down the side path of the unoccupied house next to Fran’s, into the backyard and over the fence.

I approached the back door trying to remember what sort of a lock it had, whether or not there was a screen door. I needn’t have bothered. The screen door wire had been ripped and the back door jemmied open. I went through into the closed-in verandah behind the kitchen. I could hear children crying and shouting from inside the house. No need for tip-toes. I went through the kitchen into the passage. The crying was coming from the girl’s room; I could hear her brother trying to soothe her.

‘You’ve terrified my kids,’ Fran hissed.

‘They’re my kids, too. I’ve got a right to see them.’

‘They’re not your kids.’

‘What?’

‘I said they’re not yours. Thank Christ.’

The sound of a slap, then a choked cry ending in a kind of laugh. Ronnie was standing over Fran, who was slumped onto the couch.

‘You’ve screwed up again, Ronnie. You’d better run. If they catch you they’ll put you away for good.’

‘I’ll kill youse all.’

I heard the booze in the voice; I saw the carving knife. I moved up, gripped the pistol by the barrel and hit him as hard as I could behind the ear with the butt. He jerked half-around; I hit him again and felt his skull crack. He dropped the knife and fell awkwardly with his weight coming down hard on a buckled knee. The ligaments tore like ripped silk.

‘Oh, god,’ Fran said. ‘I thought you’d gone.’

‘Good. That’s what I wanted you to think.’

Then it was cops, cops and more cops, along with an ambulance for Ronnie and paramedics to treat Fran’s bruises and the twisted arm Harriet had suffered when Ronnie had grabbed her. Eventually they all went away and Fran got the kids calmed and into bed. I phoned Frank and put things right there. Fran found a half-full bottle of Johnny Walker red and poured two stiff ones.

‘I owe you an explanation,’ she said.

One of my knuckles was swollen where it had made contact with Ronnie’s head and my arm was slightly jarred. I flexed both and drank some Scotch. ‘I think you do.’

‘I didn’t know whether I wanted him back or not. I hadn’t seen him for a year. Then he started writing these letters… I just wasn’t sure.

‘I thought Paul needed a father. He was showing some signs. Shit, I just wanted to see him again and try to work out if I could take him back.’

‘I was insurance. Just in case he got rough.’

‘Sort of. He used to be crazy jealous. It was one of the worst things. He swore he’d got over it. That he wasn’t like that any more. Well, he was just the same and worse. I loathed him on sight, all that pumped up macho look. But I never dreamed he’d go after the kids. I’m sorry, Cliff.’

I believed her about the kids; about the rest of it I didn’t know. Were they Ronnie’s children? I finished the drink and stood up. ‘Bad Christmas for the kids.’

‘I’ll make it up to them next year.’

Can you? I thought. Maybe.

Meeting at Mascot

I got drunk at Glen Withers’ wedding and I got drunk pretty often after that without needing any excuse. I was late coming into the office more days than not, couldn’t quite manage to return calls and cope with a hangover at the same time, and business began to suffer. I botched a summons-serving or two and that avenue of funds started to dry up. I was irritable, couldn’t be bothered eating properly and lost weight. The cat left and didn’t come back. There were days when I neglected to shower and shave, neglected to eat and the only thing I didn’t neglect to do was find something to drink by mid-morning.

It was getting towards 11 o’clock and I was congratulating myself on not yet having had a drink, wondering if I could last until noon and doubting it, when a man walked into my office. I disliked him on sight which is a sign of the way I was feeling. He was middle-height with a bulging beer gut, a high colour and not much sandy hair brushed across a pink scalp. His flabby face was scraped clean and he’d put on an after-shave that smelled like over-ripe pineapples. He wore a light blue summer suit with a white shirt, no tie, and he’d let the lapels of his shirt creep out a bit as if he really wished he was back in the Seventies when shirts were opened wide over jacket lapels. He had the gold necklace to fit that style.

He took off his sunglasses and stared at me with pale, piggy eyes. ‘Hardy,’ he said. ‘The private detective?’

I remembered that the filing card I use for a nameplate on the door had fallen off and I hadn’t done anything about it. I thought about denying it, saying that Hardy had moved out and that I was the new tenant, but I couldn’t summon the energy. ‘Right,’ I said and left it at that.

His eyes darted around the room. It was Tuesday and I hadn’t been in since Thursday. A layer of dust covered the filing cabinets, battered desk and client’s chair. When spruced up the decor can have a kind of rough charm; today it looked like stuff left over from a garage sale. He slapped the chair with a newspaper he was carrying and sat down. ‘I’m Rex Hindle. I’ve got a job for you.’

Emotions warred in me. As I say, I disliked the look of him. I also disliked the look of myself. I had two days’ growth sprouting, not a pretty sight with all the grey among the black, and I hadn’t been near soap or a comb in a while. Anyone who’d want to hire me in that condition wasn’t likely to be anyone I’d want to work for. On the other hand, among the junk on my desk were several pressing bills and an over-the-limit credit card statement. I couldn’t afford to be choosy, not right off the bat, anyway. Suddenly I wanted the drink badly and I briefly considered telling him to piss off and tapping the cask. Practicality, tinged with caution, won.

‘There are certain kinds of things I don’t do, Mr Hindle. Despite appearances.’

‘Have to admit I’m fuckin’ surprised. I was told you were pretty sharp.’

Now pride took over. I sat up straighter and gave him a keen-eyed look. ‘I’ve been undercover for a while.’ I scratched my chin. ‘This is all a front.’

He nodded. ‘So, you’re busy?’

I shook my head and wished I hadn’t. I needed the drink and three or four Panadols. ‘It’s finished. I’ll be cleaning myself up later. This place too. How can I help you?’

‘You do bodyguarding?’

‘Sometimes. It depends.’

‘I have to go to the airport and meet a couple of guys coming over from the fuckin’ Philippines. They don’t like me and I don’t like them, but we have to talk. I’ve got some businesses there and things need sorting out. We’ll go to the bar, talk and that’s it. But I need to show them I’m not some sucker they can push around.’

It sounded manageable but I wasn’t some sucker either. ‘What sort of businesses?’

‘What?’

‘What sort of business are you in, in the Philippines?’

‘Ferries. I own a couple of ferries. Real fuckin’ money-spinners when everything’s right.’

‘What’s wrong?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m looking to hire you for a couple of hours, Hardy, not tell you the story of my life. Yes or no?’

‘When is this?’

‘Tomorrow morning. Plane gets in at ten.’

‘What sort of business are you in here?’

‘Jesus. I think I’ve come to the wrong place.’

I shrugged, almost happy to be out of it. ‘Suit yourself.’

He half-rose from the chair, then settled back. ‘Fuck it, they tell me you’re good. Taxis. I own a couple of taxis. I even drive myself if one of the lazy bastards doesn’t show up.’

By now my dislike of Mr Hindle was screwed up about as high as dislike could go. I had only one more card to play. ‘Let’s say three hours,’ I said. ‘Four hundred dollars an hour. Half up front, half when we say goodbye.’

He put his sunglasses back on and patted his thin, slicked-over hair. ‘Deal,’ he said.

I wouldn’t say I turned over a new leaf, but I did stir the old one around a bit. I held off until 6 o’clock for the first drink and didn’t lose count after that. I bought a barbecued chicken and some roast potatoes and salad in Glebe Point Road, took it home, put it on a plate and ate it with a knife and fork. The house was a mess and I left it that way but I made the bed before I got into it and after six and a half hours sleep I got up pretty refreshed. I showered and shaved and put on a clean shirt. I’d got out of the habit of breakfast, but I brewed some coffee and drank it with milk and sugar.

Hindle lived in Hunters Hill so it wasn’t much out of his way to pick me up. He drove a pale blue BMW that matched his suit of yesterday. Today he had on a cream number appropriate to the steamy weather. Only trouble was, his shirt was the same colour and there were dark sweat stains under his armpits. He was a lousy driver-too fast, poor reactions, no manners.

‘Smartened yourself up a bit?’ he said.

I nodded, watching the road the way he wasn’t. ‘When in Rome.’

‘What?’

‘Never mind.’

He took the route out through Redfern and I could see his eyes swivelling around as he paid more attention to the people on the pavements than the cars on the road. He blew out a breath as we waited at a light. ‘Hot weather sure brings out the toey little virgins, doesn’t it?’

A young black woman was crossing front of us. She was skinny with a very short skirt, a skimpy singlet top and very high heels. Hindle watched her avidly. The light changed and he roared away, burning off another car but misjudging the lanes so that he got wedged in and didn’t make up any ground. When the going was clear he glanced across at me. ‘What’s the matter with you? Those Abo sheilas root like rabbits. Not fuckin’ gay, are you?’

‘That one could’ve been my grand-daughter,’ I said.

He laughed. ‘Oh, I get it. No offence meant. No-one told me you had a touch of the tar brush. Should’ve seen it, but.’

‘Forget it,’ I said. I’m an Anglo-Celt mix with a bit of gypsy and French thrown in somewhere, but I was in no mood to explain that to Hindle. Given the way he was driving, my main concern was to get to the airport alive.

We got there about forty-five minutes before the flight was due and Hindle pulled the BMW into a wide spot in the parking station but still almost managed to tickle a car in the next bay. We walked through the terminal. Hindle glanced at a monitor and then at his watch. ‘They reckon it’s on time but it’d be a fuckin’ miracle. What about a quick one?’

I shrugged. I’ve always liked drinking in airport bars. It gives you the feeling that it could be you who’s flying off to some exotic location or coming back with memories and experiences to feed off. Besides, he’d be paying. We went up to the bar which hadn’t been open long and still smelled fresh from the cleaning. There were little bowls of nuts and the air-conditioning was exactly right. In the appropriate company it would be a good place to spend a couple of hours getting quietly mellow. With Hindle, twenty minutes would be ample.

‘What’ll you have, Hardy?’

‘Crown Lager.’

‘Piss.’ To the barman he said, ‘I’ll have a double Jack D with ice.’

The drinks came and Hindle paid with a fifty-dollar note; the barman struggled to make the change. I saw that Hindle had smaller bills in his wallet but the gesture didn’t surprise me. I was glad I’d asked for four hundred an hour, sorry I hadn’t made it five hundred. We drank and Hindle ate two serves of nuts. He tried to make conversation but I didn’t respond. Eventually, like someone who finds comfort in screens, he spun around and gazed at a monitor displaying arrival times.

‘What did I tell ya?’ he crowed. ‘Flight QF 870 from Manila delayed twenty-five fuckin’ minutes. Wonder it’s not an hour.’ He snapped his fingers at the barman. ‘Let’s go again, buddy. And you might lay out a few more nuts. Drinkin’ makes me hungry and eatin’ makes me thirsty. Ha-ha.’

The barman did as he was bid, keeping his eyes down. Drinking full-strength beer at ten-thirty in the morning was sliding back towards the habits of the past few weeks, but Hindle was one of those people to make you put up barriers. I was reaching for some nuts when a woman walked into the bar. She wore a white dress and a short black jacket, white high-heeled shoes. She was Asian-long, straight dark hair, high cheekbones, ivory skin. Everything about her appearance was modest and restrained, but behind that was a kind of sexual invitation beyond words, beyond description. My jaw dropped before I collected myself, but the effect on Hindle was alarming. As if on autopilot, he sucked in his gut and firmed his chins, a low roaring sound seemed to come from his chest and little beads of sweat collected on his forehead. He wiped them away with one of the napkins that sat beside the silver trays of nuts.

‘Jesus,’ Hindle croaked, ‘look at that.’

‘Drink up. Plane’s due in soon.’

He didn’t even hear me. He was off in some warm, soft place where dreams came true. The woman sat at a table and the barman sprang into action with nuts and coasters at the ready. The woman smiled up at him, ordered and reached into her leather shoulder bag. The barman returned to his work station and the woman took out a mobile phone. She seemed to have trouble with it and Hindle slid from his seat.

‘Little lady needs an expert’s touch,’ he said.

It was hard to believe that he’d get anywhere with her, but I knew that confidence in a male was a powerful two-way aphrodisiac, and Hindle was almost secreting it. I watched as he walked across to the woman’s table, gut in, glass held casually. She looked nervously up at him, technologically challenged, hitching a ride on the communications highway. I heard her tinkling laugh and his throaty buzz. I had to look away. He put his glass down on her table, sat and took the mobile phone from her. She drained her glass and Hindle signalled to the barman. I drank too, feeling slightly sick, a little dirty. I wondered why I was here, instead of in my car, driving off somewhere to serve a summons, or keeping an eye on a warehouse with faulty wiring and a big insurance cover with Glen likely to call soon and propose dinner or a movie or both…

Suddenly, Hindle was up and moving towards the door with the woman. I cursed myself for my inattention and stood up to find the barman almost hovering over me.

‘Will you be settling the bill, sir?’

Hit the slowest mover, the daydreamer. Fair enough. ‘Yeah,’ I said. I pulled a ten-dollar note from my pocket and dropped it on the table. Hindle and the woman had moved to the door and I had the odd illusion that they were dancing.

‘Fourteen dollars eighty-five, sir?’

‘What?’

‘The bill is fourteen dollars eighty-five.’

I threw down a five and headed towards the door, glancing at the monitor as I went-still a couple of minutes to go. Hindle and his companion were twenty metres away, moving towards a telephone. I relaxed and hung back. I had twelve hundred dollars at stake and didn’t want to jeopardise it. This beauty was at least an adult and if she wanted to take on a beast it had nothing to do with me. I checked my watch again and that’s when I saw two men block my view of Hindle and his companion. I took a quick step forward, then I felt a sharp sting beside my spine and a voice spoke softly, very close to my ear.

‘You will move as I direct you. Slowly and calmly, or you are a dead man.’

I believed him. An expert with the right instrument can paralyse or kill you in a split second with scarcely a drop of blood. I don’t know much about anatomy, but whatever was sticking into me felt to be in a vital place. I moved as requested, very slowly. The man was slightly behind me so that I couldn’t see his face without turning, and turning was something I wasn’t going to do. Smaller than me, smelling of tobacco, a soft stepper.

‘What’s happening?’ I said.

‘Don’t speak please!’

Up ahead I could see that Hindle had two escorts, steering him in much the same way I was being steered. The woman was nowhere in sight. Idiot, I thought. A decoy. Hindle went for it 100 per cent and you didn‘t do much better. We went out of the terminal and the procession continued across the road and into the car park. I felt the sweat run down my neck and I was so sensitised to the tiny pinpoint of pain in my back that I was sure it was still there, even though it probably wasn’t. My gliding escort couldn’t have a hand that steady. But by the time I’d worked this out we were in the car park with no-one paying us any attention. Child’s play for this guy to cut me down and roll me under a car. I kept walking, following Hindle and the others towards his BMW.

I was thinking fast but not coming up with anything useful. The two men with Hindle were small, compact types, neatly dressed in suits and wearing dark glasses. Hindle handed over his keys and was bundled into the back of the BMW, one of the men sliding in beside him. The other beckoned me forward. I moved towards the car. The beckoning became an impatient wave and I stooped more than was needed to get into the car. I knew I’d put some distance between myself and the man with the blade and I had room to manoeuvre with the other guy. I was set to spin and start hitting when the car park roof fell in on me.

Things were very blurry after that. I was aware of movement and voices but of only one visual image-a shot of Hindle’s terrified face, drained of colour, running with sweat and with the jowls flapping as he shook his head.

The next thing I knew I was stationary and stretched out on my back behind a bush. I felt a leaf fall on my face and I twitched away from it. My ears were ringing and when I opened my eyes the light made me shut them straight off. It felt as if I’d run into a wall.

After a while I pulled myself together and managed to sit up. The motivation was water- my throat was lined with bark and coughing detached bits of it and sent them scraping down my gullet. I stared, blinked and stared again. I was under a tree that grew beside a hole filled with sand. Beyond the hole I could see something smooth and green with a stick in the middle of it. I’ve woken up in some strange places, but behind bushes at the fifteenth green at Kogarah Golf Course has to be one of the strangest.

There were no players in sight. I got to my feet and steadied myself against the tree. A water bubbler was only a few metres away but it took time to get the confidence to make a try for it. I got there, rubbery-legged and sweating. The water was good for every part of me. I gulped it down, swilled it and spat, splashed it on my face, rubbed it into my hair and washed my hands. When I felt mostly human I checked myself over. It was 3 o’clock-I’d lost almost five hours. Everything else was there-home and office keys, driver’s licence, NRMA, Medicare and credit cards, PEA licence. My. 38 Smith amp; Wesson was still in its holster under my arm. I took off my jacket and unstrapped the holster which was uncomfortable over my sweat-soaked shirt. The movement made me aware of a stiffness and soreness in my left arm. I pushed up my sleeve and saw the puncture mark inside my elbow.

I gave up carrying a wallet years ago, too easy to lose or have lifted. I distribute what money I have around various pockets and I touched them now automatically, not expecting to have been robbed. The right trouser pocket felt fuller than it should have been. I emptied the pocket; in addition to the couple of tens and a five I’d had left after paying for the drinks in the airport bar, I had twelve crisp, new hundred-dollar notes. That’s when I knew for certain that Rex Hindle was dead.

I flagged a cab and went to the office where I cleaned myself up and had a couple of medicinal Scotches. Probably not a good idea on top of whatever dope they’d shot into me, but I was in no mood to care. I sat behind my desk for a minute or two to see if there were any ill effects. All I could feel was the whisky doing me good. I ran through my story in my head and couldn’t see any reason not to tell the truth.

The cops at the Kings Cross station don’t like me particularly but they tolerate me. I put my story on tape over lousy coffee with Detective Senior Sergeant Kev Ingham who heard me out, disapproval written all over his craggy face. I even mentioned the twelve hundred dollars.

‘Shit, Hardy,’ he said as he pressed the OFF button. ‘That’s one of the vaguest fuckin’ statements I’ve ever heard. The only person you’ve been able to describe is the woman.’

‘They doped me. Want to see the needle mark?’

‘No, thanks. But it’s a point. You’d better get down to St Vinnie’s and get a blood test. I’ll give you a chit. That might protect your arse a bit.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘You’re supposed to make a contract with your clients, right? Remember the fucking law? I didn’t hear you mention a contract.’

I downed the dregs of the coffee and wished I hadn’t. ‘I haven’t been at my best.’

‘So we’ve seen, and heard. Your licence is shaky, mate. Get to the hospital and go home. You’ll be hearing from us, or someone.’

I got up, feeling capable of making it to the door, just. ‘Meaning?’

‘I ran your Mr Hindle through the computer before you started burbling. He’s known to the authorities, as they say.’

No trace was ever found of Rex Hindle or his BMW, or of the men and the woman who’d dealt with us at the airport. I was found to have a high level of some barbiturate in my blood and to have suffered a minor concussion. A committee that sat periodically to review complaints against PEAs censured me for failing to observe contractual procedures but, in view of my relatively clean record, my licence wasn’t withdrawn. I cleaned up my act, knuckled down to some routine jobs and saw them through. I cut down on the grog and got back into playing tennis at the courts in John Street where Lew Hoad had blossomed.

A month later I got a visit from a Commonwealth policeman named Wilensky. I told him everything all over again and he did a lot of nodding and a little tapping on a notebook computer. He seemed quietly pleased and I asked him why.

‘Rex Hindle was the ugly Australian personified,’ he said. ‘His ferries were floating brothels. He trafficked in young women, young men and drugs. He was slime, Mr Hardy. Your failure to protect him has left the world a better place.’

Which didn’t make me feel better about myself. I also felt bad about losing Glen Withers and the cat, but I felt okay about the twelve hundred dollars.

TV

‘I’ve come to you, Mr Hardy, because I believe you are the only private enquiry agent who lives in Glebe.’

Not the most ringing endorsement, but at least a change from the dreary summons-serving and money-minding I’d been doing recently. The characters who hire you for those jobs are only concerned about your rates and availability, they don’t care if you live in a bus shelter. The person sitting across the desk from me in my office in Darlinghurst was a bit of a change too. She was tall and wide-shouldered but thin. Her face was long, heavily but expertly made up and her hands were large. Her voice was pleasant, a bit over-precise and deep. I had my suspicions.

‘I do live in Glebe, Ms Cato,’ I said. ‘But I don’t advertise the fact.’

‘Oh, word gets around.’ She shifted in the uncomfortable chair. She wore a high-necked white silk blouse with a ruffle down the front, long sleeves. Her black skirt was tight and above the knee. ‘This job requires local knowledge and an… affection for the area. Would you say you qualify?’

‘I would. Do you live in Glebe yourself?’

‘Yes.’ She named the street, not far from mine. Naming streets doesn’t tell you a lot about a Glebe resident. Ms Cato could live in triple-storey sandstone mansion or a weatherboard cottage not much bigger than the room we were sitting in. Until she fished her chequebook out of her shoulder bag and started writing, there was no way to tell her economic status. She crossed her legs. Good legs. Dark-tinted stockings. Medium heels.

‘Perhaps you could tell me about this job for a local boy?’

She smiled. ‘Isn’t it odd how we throw these words around-boy, girl, lady, gentleman. You’re many, many years past being a boy and, as I suspect you’re beginning to realise, I’m not a woman. Would it trouble you, working for a transvestite?’

The smile helped the effect. Great teeth. Working in the Cross I’d known a number of transvestites in my time, also transsexuals at reputedly different stages of transformation above and below. Some were stupid and some were smart; some were brave and some were not, like the rest of us. ‘It wouldn’t trouble me, Ms Cato. I’ll work for anyone who doesn’t want me to break any serious laws and can pay me. I have a few no-go areas.’

She lifted one plucked eyebrow. Did it well. ‘Like?’

‘I steer clear of politics, religion and teetotallers.’

She laughed. Sounded a bit like Bacall. ‘You’re safe with me then. I vote Labor, federal, state and local, and that’s the end of it. I’m an atheist. I like a drink but I have to limit it to preserve my figure.’

‘We all should,’ I said.

She focused her heavily made-up eyes on me. ‘You’re what? Pushing fifty? You don’t look so bad. Pity about the nose and the scars. Nothing a bit of plastic surgery wouldn’t fix. You could look ten years younger.’

‘I wouldn’t feel it. Now…’

‘To the point, yes. I hold weekly gatherings at my house of other cross-dressers. It’s a small group, half a dozen or so. We’re friends. There’s no sex involved. We have a meal and a couple of bottles of wine. We talk about clothes and make-up and some of the problems of our… hobby. There are a few, as you can imagine.’

I nodded. Ms Cato could pass as a woman in the street or in casual social gatherings, especially in a dim light. Not in an office or anywhere the contact with others was close and prolonged. I wondered what she did for a living.

‘I’ve been separated from my wife for a few years, so I don’t have that problem. No children. Some of my friends have wives and families. Terribly difficult. I write and illustrate children’s books, edit them as well. I work at home and my agent handles all the business.’ She gave that good-sounding laugh again. ‘I talk to authors on the phone but I don’t often meet ‘em-a little quirk of mine. When I do, I have to decide what to wear and stick to it. I’ve been known to forget. But cross-dressing can be fun. That’s my message.’

Strange waters but I was interested. She was a very composed person and I knew that some authors of children’s books made good money. ‘So you live as a woman all the time?’

‘No. About half and half. Of course it’s difficult at times. The neighbours had to adjust. The driver’s licence is a real bother. They won’t let you appear as anything but a male unless you cut the bits off, which I’ve never wanted to do. So I have to front up in a suit and tie for the photo. Then, of course, if I get stopped…’ She waved a hand and smiled, making me suspect she’d be able to get out of most tricky situations with charm and brains.

There’s no getting away from it, people who cross over or stand astride the gender line are interesting. I wondered about her sexual preference and whether she pissed standing up or sitting down, but you can’t ask.

‘These meetings,’ I said. ‘There’s a problem?’

‘Twice now, my visitors have been harassed by an individual who arrives on a motorcycle. He sits there outside the house and passes comments in obscene language. He flicks cigarette ash at their clothes, threatens to spray them with beer. It’s very unpleasant!’

‘It would be. Couldn’t you and your visitors retaliate in some way? You must outnumber this yob.’

She shook her head. Silver earrings danced. Her hair was bleached blonde with dark streaks, short but not cropped. ‘No. You have to understand how vulnerable a transvestite feels, our sort anyway. Basically we’re rejecting the aggressive male role. We’re impersonating women for a time, getting a little relief from the pressure to be male, up-front, thrusting. See how easily the language veers towards the sexual?’

I felt out of my depth. ‘Look, Ms Cato. I sympathise. I read the papers. I know things are changing and… kind of swirling about in these matters. But I’m not sure why you can’t cope, or what you want from me.’

‘I’m glad we’ve got this far. I was afraid you’d throw me straight out. Look, I’m fit and quick. And strong. I go to a gym. I can fight. So can a couple of my friends, but when we’re dressed as women the fighting impulse goes out of us. We don’t want to fight. In a way, we can’t. To fight would be to shatter the illusion, do you see? It’s a very precious illusion to us, weird though it may seem to you.’

I was losing confidence in this fee by the minute. I fidgeted with a pen. ‘I think you should talk to the police, Ms Cato. They have gay liaison officers now… ‘

‘None of us is gay,’ she said evenly. ‘I’m bisexual myself. Some of my friends are as heterosexual as it’s possible to be. The Glebe police are not equipped to cope with this. We’d get smirks from the men and sneers from the women. Bet on it.’

I thought of the personnel at the St Johns Road station who seemed to get younger every year. There were good men and women among them, but Ms Cato was probably right. This was territory they wouldn’t have covered at the Academy. New to me, too. I must have looked as I felt-uncomfortable, sceptical.

She leaned forward and tapped on my desk with her index finger, the nail of which was Iongish, shaped, pink-tinted. ‘If that bastard scares my friends away or provokes one of us into throwing a punch, he’s won! Do you understand? He’s proved that we can’t be like this. That there’s no place for us. Have you ever felt that there was no place for you, Mr Hardy? Not that you were in the wrong place or in an uncomfortable place, but that there was no fucking place on earth for you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I haven’t felt that.’

‘Right. Now you live in Glebe. You must have seen old Dot, the woman who goes up and down the street haranguing people for money? You’ve seen the winos and the deadbeats and the male and female executives in their suits and those beautiful people from the Aboriginal and Islander Dance Theatre. Glebe’s tolerant, Glebe’s for diversity. I was hoping you might appreciate that.’

‘I do,’ I said. I opened a drawer and took out a contract form. ‘Let’s get a few details down.’

This time I got the smile and the laugh. ‘Right. I bet you want to know whether I piss standing up or sitting down.’

‘It crossed my mind.’

‘Sitting down when I’m tired and standing up when I’m not-just like you, mate. Just like you.’

She lived in a terrace that left mine for dead. Two storeys, deep front garden, fresh paint. Encouraging, and her cheque had cleared. I parked in the wide street on the night of the next meeting and watched the guests arrive just as it was getting dark. The moon came up. Ms Cato had told me that she and her friends liked moonlit nights particularly, found it flattering.

Five of the guests drove themselves in middle-of-the-range cars and two arrived by taxi. A green Honda Accord carried two people who were obviously more confident than the rest. Ms Cato’s guests were taller than a random selection of seven women would be and, with the exception of the pair in the Honda, they moved with a kind of caution that visibly slackened as they opened the gate and went up the path. Definitely some hip sway then. There was nothing remarkable about them apart from an excessive smartness. Their suits and dresses and shoes almost had a shine, as if they were kept in layers of tissue. No motorcyclist appeared.

‘It was a comfort knowing you were there,’ my client told me later when I phoned to report. ‘We had a good meeting and a lovely time.’

‘If you had any idea who this character is I could perhaps do something to make sure he doesn’t show up again.’

‘You’re talking yourself out of a job. I want you there again next week. Sorry, I really don’t have a clue.’

I wasn’t sure whether to believe her or not so I pressed. ‘No-one got the licence number of the bike I suppose?’

‘No.’

‘No angry authors? No rejected boyfriends?’

‘No. I haven’t an enemy in the world that I’m aware of.’

I could have told her that it’s not always enemies you have to watch out for, it’s friends. But that would have got me nowhere. I agreed to be on watch the next week and I turned up on time and parked in the same spot. Daylight saving had come in that week but the time of the meeting hadn’t changed, so it was much lighter when the guests were due. A person wearing a blue silk dress with white spots arrived in a red Commodore. She looked jaunty as she locked the car, dropped the keys into her handbag and hefted the bottle of champagne. It was a fair bet not to be a six dollar special. Just before she opened the gate she looked across at me and winked.

The motorcycle rounded the corner at low revs and pulled up behind the Commodore. The rider dismounted and stood in the gutter near the gate to Ms Cato’s house. Short and stocky. Helmet, leather jackets, jeans, boots. I checked my watch. The others would be arriving in a cluster soon. Sure enough, the green Honda came into view. The biker pulled off his helmet. He wore a black balaclava. He reached into his pocket and took out a cylindrical object I recognised as a paint spray can. Any private enquiry agent knows that there is a fine line between assault and legitimate defence. The spray can and the balaclava were triggers. I jumped out of my car as the Honda stopped and the two guests alighted. I caught a glimpse of them as I moved forward-loose sleeves, long skirts, spike heels, silk scarves.

The biker pointed the can and began to shout. I caught the shrill tones, the hysterical high pitch.

‘Fucking perverts! Fucking poofters! Dirty, bum-fucking…’

The guests stopped, bottles in hand, skirts swirling, suddenly unbalanced and vulnerable on their high heels. I jumped at him as he thrust the can forward. He saw me at the last minute but shot a spray out at the nearest target-a beige silk blouse. I chopped down on the arm and the can went flying into the road. The biker was floundering and I was set, steady. I threw a short left into his ribs that drove the breath from him and clipped him with a right as his head came up, exposing his chin. I connected, not quite solidly, but he went down in a heap as if I had a punch like Mike Tyson. The guest who’d been sprayed let go with a full-bodied masculine yell.

‘Shut up,’ I snarled. Shouldn’t have gone down like that, I was thinking. Something’s wrong here.

Ms Cato and the first arrival came running down the path, heels clattering on the cement. They and the others bent over me as I unzipped the leather jacket and removed the balaclava from the stunned biker. Long, grey-streaked hair fell free and her breasts rose under the T-shirt as she sucked in air. Flesh bulged at her waist and a trickle of blood ran down from her mouth to the soft folds of her double chin.

‘My god,’ Ms Cato said. ‘It’s Brenda. My wife!’

I’d never hit a woman before and I felt sick to my stomach. ‘You told me

‘I didn’t know! I swear I didn’t know!’

Treasure Trove

‘What you need is a lawyer, Bert,’ I said, ‘not a detective.’

Bert Russell shook his big bald head and grinned. ‘No fear, I read up on this sort of thing a bit. I need an investigation to see how the land lies. Then, and only then, I make an anonymous phone call or I hire a lawyer. Shit, if it all works out well I might need a couple of bloody lawyers.’

His enthusiasm and good humour were infectious.

‘And an accountant.’

‘Too right.’

Bert was the manager and part-owner of a liquor store in Glebe Point Road and over the years I had put a certain amount of business his way. He’d tried to get me to invest in good wine and, failing that, to drink it. No go. I was a weekly specials buyer at best, and not averse to the better brands in a cask. We’d struck up a kind of bantering friendship and when, after getting a good cheque, I occasionally did buy an expensive bottle his recommendation was always sound. Now we were in my place of business, the very pre-loved office I have in Darlinghurst, and he’d told me about what he’d found buried on his land at Dugong Beach on the Central Coast, where he had a weekender- a metal strongbox, wrapped in oilskin, containing 60 kilos of gold bars.

‘That’s well over a million bucks’ worth, Cliff,’ Bert had said. ‘Give or take.’

‘Read up on that too, did you?’

‘I didn’t need to. They give you the price of gold on the radio every day. Haven’t you ever heard it?’

I shook my head. ‘Most days I’d have to say it doesn’t concern me. Come to think of it, it’s never concerned me.’

Bert had gone on to explain how it concerned me now. Along with the gold, the strongbox contained a pistol, a Colt. 45 automatic, and a photograph of a woman. He wanted me to establish, one way or the other, whether he’d be in any trouble if he claimed the money.

‘I don’t know how old it is, or the bloody gun or the picture. If it’s some drug thing, real recent like, I don’t want to know about it. If it’s old, say twenty-five years or more, I’m going to claim it. I’ll pay you your normal rates to look into it, and if I strike it lucky you’re on a percentage.’

‘How much of a percentage?’

‘I’d lose a certain amount to the government and I’ve got Tom and my two girls to think of. How about 5 per cent of what I clear?’

I did the calculation in my head. Geometry, algebra and trigonometry were all a mystery to me at school, but I was sharp enough at arithmetic and this was dead easy. If he kept half himself and came out with 500,000 dollars, I was looking at twenty-five grand. I reached into the top drawer, took out a contract form and filled it in. It was the first contingency fee I’d negotiated and made me feel as if I was moving towards the twenty-first century. Twenty-five thousand dollars would help me nicely along the way. Bert signed and I pointed out to him that he was up for a five hundred dollar retainer fee there and then.

‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I’m in the wrong game.’ He wrote a cheque and handed it over.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a sample with you, or the gun or the snap?’

‘No chance. I put it all right back where I found it. If I go to look for it and it’s gone, stiff shit. My question’s answered.’

‘So only you and I know about it?’

‘Right. I told my boy Tom I was thinking of diving off the point, salvage and that. Do you dive, Cliff?’

‘Snorkel only. When do I come up to take a look?’

‘What about tomorrow, Saturday?’ He looked out of the window and would have seen a clear blue late-afternoon sky if the pane hadn’t been coated with grime on the outside and dusty inside. ‘Bring your togs anyway. Be right for a swim. Do you play golf?’

I was thinking about what I had on hand, nothing that couldn’t be delayed in favour of a trip to the Central Coast on a fine February day. ‘Golf? No, why?’

‘I’m just across the way from the course. Good layout. Never mind. I’ll give you the address. I’m going up later tonight. Come as early as you like. I’m always up at sparrow fart.’

‘How long have you had the place?’

He blinked. ‘It was my wife Jessie’s place. It’d been in her family for a while. Dunno how long.’

Jessie Russell, a plump warm-hearted woman, had died of cancer three years ago. Bert had never recovered from the loss and I had to go quietly at that point.

‘I see. Have you got any papers on it?’

‘Nah. Wasn’t worth anything in those days. No mortgage or that. Jessie’s old mum left it to her and her brother and he died a good while back. We just paid the bloody rates. I suppose it’s worth a bit now, but I couldn’t sell it, like. You know

I didn’t know but I made the noises that suggested I did. He left and I poked around the office cleaning things up to allow for a couple of days absence. My mind was already working on the job. Local council records to trace previous owners of the property, neighbours, real estate agents, maybe. The items in the strongbox were another matter, but it looked as if I could count on a couple of days in the sun. I left the office and drove to the central branch of the Leichhardt library to do some reading up myself-on guns and gold and women’s fashions.

After the library, I stopped by the liquor store, not because I needed grog, but to take another look at Tom, who I assumed would be minding the shop. Tom was a skinny man in his middle twenties with pale hair, eyes and eyebrow, nothing like his burly father in appearance. He was stacking bottles into a fridge when I entered and the bottles rattled loudly when he saw me, but it’s a tricky job and that can happen. Didn’t mean he was nervous, although I could tell he didn’t like me. He was smooth enough with the transaction when I bought a bottle of Houghton’s White Burgundy.

‘Bob Menzies’ favourite drop,’ I said.

‘Whose?’

Tom would’ve been four or five when Pig-iron Bob died so you can’t blame him. Still, they should teach them better at school about the heroes and villains. ‘Never mind,’ I said. ‘How’s your dad?’

Not a flicker of the colourless lashes. ‘Okay. Gone up the coast for the weekend.’

‘Oh, yeah. Where’s that again?’

‘Dugong Beach.’

‘Right. You get up there much?’

‘Nah. Dead place. Good golf course, but. I bloody near parred it once.’

‘Good on you. Thanks.’

I went home and made an omelette to blot up the Houghton’s. The Leichhardt library hadn’t had anything on the law relating to treasure trove and there was nothing useful on my shelves. A year ago I could’ve phone up Cy Sackville, my lawyer and friend, and asked him to look it up for me. He’d have abused me and given me a brilliant summary of the matter at the same time. But Cy had been shot dead a year ago. I missed him and felt depressed when I thought about him. These days I try to keep my wine consumption down to less than a bottle a day, but the Houghton’s was a dead soldier by the time I went to bed.

I was on the road by eight and reached Dugong Beach about eleven. Most of the vehicles that held me up seemed to be towing boats or carrying surfboards-it was that sort of a morning. At least I had swimming togs, snorkel and flippers in the boot and sunblock in my bag. I was part of the great tribe of Sydneysiders that heads for near and distant beaches when the sun shines, as if drawn by some kind of ritual or ceremony. If I knew Bert Russell, there’d be a barbie and some wine that slid down your throat like a perfect oyster. Ceremony.

After getting off the highway past Newcastle I went north on the old coast road and eventually hit the hamlet of Dugong Beach. I followed the sign to the golf course and wound down an unmade road with sandy edges towards the water. The fairly substantial houses up near the road started to give way to fibro and weatherboard places as the street narrowed, swung left in line with the coast, and petered out at a solitary stand of mangroves. Bert’s house was opposite the mangroves behind a thick screen of casuarinas, but I got a glimpse of a tin roof and a galvanised iron water tank.

I bounced down a rough track, brushing the trees on both sides and then drove up a slope to the house. It was a double-fronted weatherboard with a verandah running along the front and one side. A section of the verandah was protected by shadecloth and that’s where Bert was sitting in a deckchair, reading the paper.

I got my bag and took a look around before approaching the house. Bert’s 4WD Land Cruiser with trailer and dinghy attached was parked under a tree. I could see a shack of some kind, almost hidden in the bush a good hundred metres from Bert’s house and another building away to the right behind more she-oaks-a pole house with a flat roof. Newish.

‘Gidday, Bert. Thought you’d be fishing.’

Bert carefully folded the business section of the Herald. I wondered if he’d been checking the price of gold. ‘Cliff. Been out, hours ago. Got a few flathead. We’ll have ‘em for lunch. Good for the heart, or so they reckon.’

‘Heart?’

‘Yah. They say I’ve got a crook ticker. Feel all right, but.’

I mounted the steps and moved out of the sun behind the shadecloth. The temperature dropped immediately. ‘How much land’ve you got here?’

‘About three acres, give or take a few rods and perches. That dump back there went up in the Depression.’

I jerked my thumb to the right. ‘What about the house on stilts?’

Bert laughed. ‘They reckoned they’d be able to see the water if they went up like that. Might be able to see it from the roof.’

‘No other close neighbours?’

‘Yeah, there’s another place like this further back. Can’t see it from here, but. Jeez, my manners’re ratshit since Jessie died. Have a seat.’

I dropped into a deckchair and heard the sand crunch under it as the legs moved. Great sound.

‘Not too early for a beer, is it, Cliff?’

‘Got a light?’

‘Coopers, only one I’ll drink.’

He went into the house, heavy-footed and slightly bandy in thongs and flapping grey shorts, and returned with two stubbies. We uncapped them and drank, toasting the Australian way of life for those who were lucky enough to get a piece of it.

‘How’d you come to be digging holes?’

‘Planting a few vegetables. Jessie used to do it and I just thought I’d… Anyway, I hoed up a patch and started to turn it over. Not too sandy just there. Shovel went in and hit the box. I cleared the dirt off and opened it. Then I put everything back and finished making the vegetable patch. Want to take a look?’

‘No time like the present. But I’ll have to take a sample of the gold and get a good look at the gun and the photo. I can’t do it crouching in the dirt.’

Bert rubbed the grey bristles on his chin. ‘The box can stay put though?’

‘For the time being, yes.’

‘That’s all right, then.’

‘Sure no-one’s around?’

‘Stan, the derro in the shack, sleeps it off till noon. He’s a useless bastard. I don’t have anything to do with him, but Jessie said he had some kind of a right to the place. The yuppies in the stilt house’ll be staring out to sea. Can’t see the spot real well from the other place. Oh, there’s some boatsheds on the beach and a couple of blokes live in them sometimes. Dunno what you could see from there, but they sometimes wander through a corner of the place to get down there. ‘S all right by me as long as they don’t drop their rubbish.’

I was wearing a T-shirt, shorts, sport socks and sneakers, good digging clothes. I followed Bert around the back of the house and waited while he reached under the back porch for a shovel. I took it from him and checked the shaft for splinters. ‘Let me start earning your money.’

He laughed. ‘Tell you the truth, I’m glad of your company. Tom never comes up here when I’m around. Brings, his mates from time to time. Here we go.’

The area behind the house was thick with kikuyu grass that needed slashing. There were a few shrubs and flower beds that had become weed-choked. Jessie, the gardener, was sorely missed. The vegetable patch was in full sunlight near the stump of a wattle. Bert pointed to the left.

‘Jessie grew the vegetables over there, see. But those bloody wattles grew up and the place doesn’t get much sun now.’ He kicked the stump. ‘This bugger rotted out and blew down and I reckoned that was the spot. Lucky, eh?’

‘We’ll see.’

Bert had cleared away a few square metres of matted grass and turned the loamy soil. He had tomatoes and beans on stakes. That is, the packets were thumbtacked to the wood. No sign of the vegetables. The pumpkins were doing well though, the vines snaking over the cleared spot and off into the kikuyu.

‘Right in the bloody middle,’ Bert said.

As a reflex action, God knows why, I spat on my hands before I wielded the shovel. The earth had been recently disturbed and after taking out one big shovelful, the blade hit the box on the next thrust. I worked for ten minutes shovelling it to the sides and scraping it away until the oilcloth came in view. I scraped away the earth and pulled at the wrapping until the lid was clear. It was a medium-sized sea chest that had once had a thin leather veneer over the metal. Moisture had got in under the oilcloth and this had long since rotted away, leaving a pitted, rusty surface beneath. That was encouraging; it looked as if the box had been in the ground a fair while. Two heavy clasps held the lid down. I cleared the dirt from around them and prized them open without much effort, using the screwdriver attachment on my Swiss Army knife.

‘When did you find this thing, Bert?’

He removed the old hat he had put on and scratched his head where hair hadn’t grown for many a long day. ‘I dunno. Couple of weeks ago?’

The lid opened easily and there they were- bars of dull, yellowish metal the size of cigarette cartons. They were irregular in shape and it was no use looking for serial numbers-this wasn’t bullion in the accepted sense. I hefted a bar and couldn’t guess at the weight.

‘You didn’t take them out to weigh them, did you?’

‘No fear. I know weights, but. It’s like I said, round about 60 kilos. Take a look at the other stuff.’

What I took to be the Colt was wrapped in chamois. The photograph was in a plastic sleeve of the kind used to hold bank passbooks back when people used such things. I took both items out of the box and handed them up to Bert. ‘Got a tarp or something? Wouldn’t want all this to get wet.’

Bert looked up at the cloudless sky, laughed, and tramped off towards his storage area under the porch. I opened the sharpest blade on the knife and took a long, thick paring from one of the gold bars. I wrapped it in a tissue and put it in my pocket. Then I closed the chest after moving several of the bars and feeling around to make sure there was nothing else inside. Bert came back and we threw a tarpaulin over the whole patch and weighted it down at the corners with chunks of firewood.

‘You’re a trusting soul,’ I said to Bert as we moved back towards the house.

‘How’s that?’

‘What’s to stop me bashing you and taking off with the lot?’

He grunted. ‘If I was that bad a judge of character I’d bloody deserve it.’

Good point, I thought.

We went into the house through the back door to the cool, dark kitchen. Bert lifted two holland blinds, turned on an overhead light and put the pistol and photo under it on the kitchen table. He opened the fridge and took out two more light beers. I was sweating after the exertion and swigged the drink gratefully. We sat down and I unwrapped the pistol. It was the standard, slide-action model and still had a very slight oil sheen. The magazine and breech were empty.

‘Old?’ Bert said hopefully.

‘Can’t tell.’ I picked the gun up and looked it over. ‘Serial number’s gone, of course. That’s the best way to tell. The thing is, a well-maintained weapon like this can be quite old and a neglected one can be new but look like shit. An expert’d be able to tell, maybe.’

‘What about the picture?’

I slid it out of the sleeve. Again, it had been carefully looked after. There was nothing written on the reverse. The photo showed a youngish woman, dark with big eyes and bold, handsome features. My research into female fashion had done no good at all. The hairstyle was a short crop and there was no way to date her clothes because she wasn’t wearing any. She was quite naked apart from a wide black ribbon with a pearl set in it around her neck.

Her figure was good, neither trained-down thin in the modern manner nor robust as in days gone by. Her expression was amused and there was something about the pose and attitude that was hard to grasp. There was something sexually ambiguous about it-or was there? Who or what was she looking at? I tried to imagine the photographer and couldn’t. I sucked down the rest of the beer.

‘How old?’ Bert said. ‘The photo, not the girl.’

‘Jesus, Bert, how can you tell? She’s not holding up a copy of the Telegraph.’

‘Good-looking sheila.’

‘Right. Someone must know who she is, or was. That’s a start.’

‘Reckon she’s a pro?’

‘Could be.’

Pros, guns and gold. Doesn’t look good, does it?’

I knew what he was thinking but my mind wasn’t running on the same track. I’m as keen on money as the next man and always in need of it, but this matter was intriguing me in an almost disinterested or theoretical way. Who was she and why did she matter so much to someone? And who was that someone? The beer suddenly had a sour taste in my throat as I considered the possibility that the woman could also be buried out in Bert’s backyard. I rejected the idea, but it nagged at me.

‘What d’you reckon, Cliff?’

I rewrapped the pistol and put the photo back in its sleeve. ‘I reckon I’ll have a swim, do some thinking and then start work, probably after those flathead.’

In the afternoon, I strolled around the locality, checking on the other residents who had a view of, or were likely to have spent any time close to, Bert’s place. Apart from anyone staying in the boatsheds, they all had their own tracks to the beach and the trees very deliberately gave each block a good deal of privacy. I told the young couple in the pole house that I was looking for a property to buy in the area. They had sussed the place very thoroughly before making their own purchase, and they were happy to pass their information on. This block was swampy, that had a dodgy title, another had been the site of a council rubbish tip in the Fifties. Bert’s block was the best of the lot.

‘We’d have bought it if we could, wouldn’t we, darling?’ Greg said to Fiona.

‘Oh, yes. But Mr Russell didn’t want to sell.’

I told them I was staying with Mr Russell. I didn’t tell them what he thought about their pole house.

The house behind Bert’s was unoccupied and had a ‘For Sale’ sign with a ‘Sold’ sticker across it. The place wore an air of neglect and disappointment and I went along with Greg and Fiona’s suspicion that the sale had fallen through. Bert was right about the increase in value. This house, not as big or as well-placed as Bert’s, had fetched two hundred and twenty thousand, theoretically.

The boatsheds were set into the rock behind the dunes and comprised every kind of building material known to Australian man-galvanised iron, weatherboard, flattened kerosene tins, masonite and malthoid. They had the look of structures built during the Great Depression when people found and made shelters wherever they could. These were classics, with slipways down to the water made from railway sleepers and hooks cemented into the rocks that had evidently supported blocks and tackle.

Two men were sitting on the rocks in the thin shade provided by a spindly banksia. They wore singlets, baggy shorts and grey stubble. One of the men was scrubbing at a pair of once-white, now-grey sandshoes with a piece of soap-impregnated steel wool; the other was smoking and looking at the water.

‘Gidday,’ I said.

‘Gidday, mate,’ the smoker said. ‘Want a beer?’

‘No, thanks.’ I squatted down, took off my Sydney Swans cap and used it to dry the sweat on my face. ‘Mind answering a few questions?’

‘Shit,’ the smoker said. ‘You from the Council?’

‘Private detective. No trouble for you and your mate.’ I took out two twenty-dollar notes and fanned myself with them. ‘You blokes been coming down here long?’

The scrubber looked at the money and put his ratty bit of steel wool down on a rock, anxious to please. ‘Fuckin’ years, mate. In the nice weather. Mind you, it’s good weather here most of the time.’

I pointed back behind the rocks. ‘You come through Bert Russell’s place to get here?’

The smoker butted his rollie, got out his tin and prepared to make what was probably his millionth cigarette. He coughed cavernously as he did it, but his fingers were rock steady. ‘That’s right. Good bloke, Bert. He doesn’t mind. Slings us the odd can.’

‘Did you ever see anything unusual going on up at Bert’s place when he wasn’t there?’

‘Whaddya mean, unusual?’ the scrubber said.

I shrugged. ‘People around. Cars you hadn’t seen before. Anyone scratching about.’

The smoker shook his head. “The young bloke comes up with his mates and gets pissed. That’s about all.’

‘I mean further back than that. Years ago.’

I was banking on the fact that elderly people have sharper memories of the distant past than last week or the week before. The scrubber seemed interested all of a sudden. He took two cans from the esky and tossed one to his mate, who caught it deftly.

‘Hang on, Merv.’ The scrubber stuck out his hand. ‘I’m Clarrie an’ this is Merv, by the way.’

I shook both hands. ‘Cliff.’

“There was this one time,’ Clarrie said. ‘There was a flash car and that woman, you remember Merv.’

Merv grunted, lit his cigarette and blew smoke.

Clarrie opened his can. ‘His memory’s not as good as mine, ‘specially for women. Can’t get it up any more, can you mate.’

‘Get fucked,’ Merv said, popping his can.

Clarrie cackled. ‘Wish I could. Anyway, I’m a bit forgetful about yesterday and the day before, like, but I can remember things real clear back a bit. We were coming down here from the pub, real late. Fuckin’ hot night and we saw this car parked near Bert’s place. Big, flash car. And there was a woman in it. She opened the door and I seen her in the light. A bloody good-looker. Not Bert’s missus. She was a good sort, mind, that Jessie when she was young, but this was a real looker.’

‘Bullshit,’ Merv said and drank at least half of his can.

Clarrie was trying hard not to look at the money but he wanted it badly, and that made it hard to judge his story. ‘When was this?’ I said.

‘Now I can tell you that, sort of. It was the night that Gough Whitlam beat that little bat-eared cunt. What was his name? What year was that?’

‘McMahon,’ I said. ‘1972.’ Good news, Bert, I thought. Near enough to twenty-five years.

‘That’s right.’

‘What kind of a car?’

‘Jeez, what was it, Merv?’

‘A Merc. White Merc’

‘I thought you didn’t see it,’ I said.

‘I remember now.’ Merv drained his can and made as if to throw it into the scrub. He remembered I was there and just crushed it in his hard hands.

‘Good on you, mate,’ Clarrie said.

It was impossible to tell now what weight to give to the story. I questioned them about what the occupants of the car were doing but Clarrie admitted that he didn’t know. There was a man around but he thought he might have just been taking a piss in the bushes.

Merv laughed. ‘ You were taking a few pisses in the bush that night. Shit, we were shickered after winnin’ the fuckin’ election.’

Which might have been a confirmation of a kind, but didn’t really increase my confidence in the information. I took the photograph out of the plastic sleeve and showed it to Clarrie, keeping my hand across the woman’s body and showing only her face. ‘Could this be the woman you saw, Clarrie?’

He rubbed his eyes and tried to blink away the effect of decades of sun, salt, sand and booze. Merv reached into the esky for another can but Clarrie seemed to have forgotten his.

‘Yeah,’ he said, drawing the word out. ‘Yeah.’

‘Yeah, what?’

‘The woman I saw looked like this one. She had on this tight dress. Great tits. Let’s see her tits.’

I put the picture away, gave them the money and took a can of beer from the esky. I plodded away along the dunes to the track that led up to the shack on Bert’s block. I’d have bet any money that Merv’s can went into the ti-tree as soon as my back was turned.

It was hot, even in the shade, and there was no breeze to speak of. The shack was more solidly built than the boatsheds and had been less exposed to the weather, but it was still a crumbling ruin with cracked and broken window panes, a sagging roof and a list to the right where some hardy vine was trying to pull it down.

There was only one door and it opened as I put my foot on the plastic milk crate that served as a doorstep. The man who stood there had once been an athlete; you could tell from the set of his shoulders and the lines of his body inside a gaping, buttonless pair of pyjamas. But that was a long time and many bottles ago. He was a once-sound but now battered and faded ruin, like his house.

‘Who’re you?’

‘Name’s Cliff Hardy. I’m doing a job of work for Bert Russell.’ I stuck out my right hand to be shaken and held the can of beer close by in the left. If you wanted the one you had to take the other. ‘Merv and Clarrie sent this up for you.’

We shook hands. The bones stuck out through the thin, dry skin. He dropped my hand, grabbed the can and popped the top immediately. He slightly tilted his grey, grizzled head; the faded pale blue eyes slid back as he raised the can to a mouth that was just a space, the lips having sunk into the toothless hole. He sucked the beer down in three long gulps, barely pausing to take in two wheezy breaths. I produced another twenty-dollar note.

‘I need to talk to you, Stan.’

He wiped his mouth and looked at me as if he’d been waiting for me to arrive. ‘It’s happened, has it?’

‘What?’

The pale, red-rimmed eyes went shrewd. ‘You first. Better sit down.’

I thought he meant we should go inside but he merely kicked the milk crate away from the door with his bare foot and squatted down in the doorway with his feet dangling. I sat on the milk crate while he took a last, pessimistic suck on the can.

‘How long have you lived here?’

‘Forever.’

‘How come?’

‘You know Jessie, Russell’s wife?’

‘I knew her, yes.’

‘I’m her stepbrother. Her mother married my father, poor bitch. Jessie said I could stay here after I had my breakdown. I was in the war. Vietnam. Got shell-shocked. You wouldn’t understand.’

‘I fought in Malaya,’ I said. ‘Different kind of war, but I’ve got some idea. Bert told me Jessie’s brother had died.’

‘That was her real brother.’

‘Does Bert know you’re his brother-in-law, sort of?’

He laughed, a surprisingly rich sound out of that ruined mouth. ‘No. She didn’t tell him anything about our fucked-up family or much about Gerry, I suspect.’

‘Gerry?’

‘Are you offering me that money?’

‘For information, yes.’

‘We’ll swap, then. You look like an insurance man or a lawyer who’s gone a few rounds. My guess is something’s been found?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ah. What? Where?’

‘You haven’t given me anything, Stan.’

‘All right. Try this. Young Tom Russell’s not Bert’s son. Did you know that?’

‘No, and it’s not worth twenty dollars.’

‘How about this then? Tom’s been asking me for years about something hidden here someplace. What’s that worth?’

I gave him the money. He folded the note carefully and tucked it into the pocket of his pyjamas. Once he started talking it was hard to stop him. He paused once, remembering that he was being paid, and I gladly forked over another twenty. He told me that Jessie Russell had been married to a man named Gerry Slim, known as Slim Gerry, who was a tall, pale skinny man. He was Tom’s real father. The boy was about six or seven, Stan calculated, when Gerry Slim was shot dead in his white Mercedes. Slim was a drug dealer and conman who’d formed a close association with some high-ranking American army officers who were stealing everything they could lay their hands on in Vietnam. Something went wrong and Slim paid the top price.

‘Would Bert know anything about this?’

‘Not a thing. She met Bert about a year later and grabbed him. Jessie wouldn’t have said a word. Too much to be ashamed of.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Jesus, I’m really emptying out the family skeletons. I wish I had a drink.’

I gave him another twenty. ‘You can buy something that won’t rot your guts.’

He gave the rich laugh again and put the money in the pocket along with the other notes. ‘Rotted away long ago. Christ, I’m glad to let it all out at last. The money’s a bonus.’

He told me that he had a sister named Vi who went to bed with Gerry Slim two days after they met at Slim’s wedding to Jessie. I produced the photograph and showed it to him in the way I had to Clarrie and Merv. He cleared his throat and spat over my shoulder. I was distracted and he snatched the photo from my hand.

‘No need to cover it up. I’ve seen it all before. Handled it, too. Told you we were a fucked-up family, didn’t I? Jessie was the only decent one among us. Just doesn’t make sense that she should go before me.’

I took the photo back. ‘This is Vi?’

‘That’s her. She was a great root, anyone’ll tell you. Except Jessie. Vi had a go at her, but Jessie wouldn’t be in it.’

There wasn’t a lot more to it. As I brushed away the flies, he told me that Jessie had agonised over her half-sister’s affair with Slim, but she was in love with him, bore his child and couldn’t break away. When Slim was killed she distanced herself from Vi and swore Stan to secrecy about it all in return for letting him live in the shack. About five years back, Tom had been up at the house with a couple of his mates getting drunk. For fun they had supplied Stan with all he could drink and he and Tom had had a drunken conversation in which a lot of what Stan was now telling me had come out. Tom had revealed that his father had told him before he was killed that there was something hidden at Dugong Beach, but he hadn’t said what or where.

‘Tom kept at me about it but I mostly said I knew bugger-all, which was true. I might have hinted around a bit sometimes, because he was free with the grog when I did. He searched the place inch by inch over the years, but he never found anything. Got a bit excited a few weeks ago and came up late one night. Bottle of Johnny Walker that time, but I didn’t know anything.’

‘Excited how?’

‘I don’t know. As if something had happened. He’s got bad blood in him, that boy.’

‘What happened to Vi?’

‘Drug overdose not long after Slim Gerry got shot. She had some money. Had a flat in Vaucluse, flash car, the works. She bought some heroin that was way better than the stuff she was used to and… pfft! Out she went. That’s one thing about the grog, it’s hard to kill yourself with it in one session. ‘Course, a couple of million sessions, that’s a different thing.’

I left him with his sixty dollars and flies and made way through the scrub to the house. My shirt was sticking to my back and I was looking forward to one of Bert’s beers. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself for having sorted the whole thing out quickly and at very little expense. There’d be a few legal tangles to work through, but I thought I also stood a good chance of the twenty-five thousand. I noticed that my car was in the sun so I skirted around the house and put it under a tree. Bert’s 4WD where it had been but there was another car in the yard-a yellow Monaro with a black racing stripe. I’d seen the car before, parked outside the liquor store in Glebe.

I went into the house through the shaded porch and was about to call out to Bert when something told me not to. I stopped, listened and sniffed the air. Previously, the house had smelled of disinfectant and I hadn’t noticed any flies. Now there was another smell, urine, and flies were buzzing strongly. I rushed through to the kitchen and found Bert on the floor. The back door stood open. His trousers were stained and soiled and the flies were swarming. He lay on his back with his eyes closed and his mouth open. The room was disarranged, with a chair turned over and plates and saucepans and a frying pan that had been neatly stacked on the sink lying on the floor. I knelt down and felt for Bert’s pulse but it was a waste of time. He was well and truly dead and had been for a while. The open mouth was twisted in a grimace; some kind of froth had dried on his chin and there was a bruise on the right side of his face.

I stood up and looked out the back window. Tom Russell was squatting in the vegetable patch. I watched as he lifted a couple of the gold bars out of the strongbox and put them in a backpack. He tested the weight, added another bar and lifted the bag. I waited until he’d straightened up before I went through the door, jumped down the steps and moved quickly across to block his path.

‘You can put that down, right now.’

‘Get fucked. It’s mine.’

‘Your father’s in there dead and you’re out here robbing him, you little shit.’

‘He’s not my father.’

‘He’s been like a father to you. Better than you deserve. Put the bag down.’

I was only a few metres away and very angry. He looked scared. Suddenly, he swung the bag up and heaved it at me. It would have done some damage if it’d hit but I sidestepped and it sailed over my shoulder. Tom grabbed a shovel and made a wild swipe at me, missing by centimetres. I lost balance and fell. He came at me bellowing and wielding the shovel like a battleaxe. I rolled out of the way and it dug into the earth. He reached for it but he was watching me at the same time and he fumbled long enough for me to get to my feet. He got hold of the handle but he had to change his grip to do anything useful with it and I hit him with a short right to the ribs. He let go of the shovel and flailed, gasping for air. I hit him again in the pit of the stomach and he collapsed, spewing beer and whatever fast food junk he’d eaten out over the grass.

‘You hit him and killed him,’ I said.

Tom was sitting on a chair in the kitchen. His face was chalk white and his pleated drill trousers and smart white cotton shirt had dirt and vomit on them. I was having trouble stopping myself from hitting him again.

‘Bullshit,’ he said. ‘He fell over and hit his head on the table. The old bugger had a weak heart. He died of a heart attack.’

I’d covered Bert with a sheet, but his shirt had been buttoned to the neck. ‘I bet you did a lot to help him.’

He shrugged.

‘I had a look at that bruise. I reckon you clocked him with the frying pan when he tried to stop you getting the gold.’

He was rapidly regaining his cool. ‘You’d have a fuckin’ hard time proving that.’

He was right but I had to push him a little more.

‘The way you came at me, that was because you knew you’d killed him.’

‘Crap. That was because you were going to stop me from taking what’s mine.’

I had the solution right then and I smiled. He didn’t like the smile much. ‘You think it’s yours, do you?’

‘I know it is. My dad, my real dad told me about it. It was his, now it’s mine. Even if it was his,’ he looked down at Bert, ‘it’s still mine. I’m his heir.’

‘Your father was a conman and a pimp and a thief and probably worse. If you think you’re going to get anything out of this you’d better think again.’

He summoned up enough courage for a sneer and felt in the pocket of his shirt for his cigarettes. He got them out and I knocked them flying across the room. I put my hands around his thin neck and pulled him to his feet. I gripped beside the carotid arteries. ‘A good squeeze and you go out for twenty minutes. That’s long enough for me to take you down to the water and drown you.’

‘You wouldn’t.’

I increased the pressure. ‘You’re a worthless piece of shit. It wouldn’t worry me one bit.’

‘It’ll leave marks, like…’

‘The frying pan? Maybe, if they found you. But that wouldn’t do you much good, would it.’ I squeezed almost enough to cut off the blood supply, enough to give him a taste of it.

‘Don’t. Please, please, Mr Hardy.’

I eased up a fraction. ‘The alternative is you do everything I say. One refusal and I swear I’ll drown you and anchor you to the bottom. And I’ll wait until you’re awake to do it.’

‘Okay. I’ll do what you say. Okay.’

I had him load all the gold into the back of Bert’s 4WD, including the ones he’d already put in his Monaro. Then he drove the vehicle down to the boat ramp and got the dinghy into the water. By the time he’d loaded the gold into the dinghy he was almost too tired to row but he was too scared not to. When he was utterly exhausted I got him to lie face down in the boat. He blubbered but he did it. I started the outboard and took the dinghy well offshore. Then I made Tom take off his shirt while keeping his head down. I made a solid blindfold from the shirt and tied it hard around his head.

‘Sit up!’

He groped and shuffled onto the seat. I took an oar and jabbed it gently into his crotch. He winced and I left it there. ‘Now, one by one, you take up those bits of metal and you drop them over the side.’

It took a while and the sun was fierce in the sky. By the time he’d finished his neck and shoulders were bright red from sunburn and his tears had soaked through the blindfold.

Content

Peter Corris
Forget Me If You Can

The Hearing

Copper

The Brothers

Lucky Jim

Forget Me if You Can

Close Enough

Archie’s Last Case

Gone Fishing

Cross My Heart

Christmas Visit

Meeting at Mascot

TV

Treasure Trove