by Peter Corris
Barry was on the second step down. He swung around to look at me and lost his balance. I reached for him but he fell, bouncing off the wall, feet scrabbling uselessly at the stairs and hitting the bottom with a hundred-kilogram thud. I scooted down after him and found him lying flat on his back, one leg cocked under him. His lips were white and he was breathing in short, shallow gasps.
The door to the closest flat opened and a man in a silk dressing gown stood there, posed in the half-light like the ghost of Noël Coward.
‘What is going on here?’
‘Call an ambulance,’ I shouted. ‘I think he’s had a heart attack.’
The man from flat one came back dressed in a white tracksuit and white sneakers. He had a pillow and I put it under Barry’s head.
‘Ambos are on the way.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘This is your landlord, did you know?’
‘He still deserves help.’
I looked at him.
Barry’s breath was still coming in short gasps and his eyes flickered open and then closed as if he didn’t like what he saw. His colour was bad, greyish, and his mouth had an odd twist to it. Could you have a heart attack and a stroke at the same time? I didn’t know.
The ambulance arrived and the paramedics made a quick examination.
‘Stroke, I’d say,’ one muttered as he helped his mate load Barry onto a stretcher.
Another tenant and his companion had appeared and someone who’d come to make a delivery was hanging around, making five of us.
‘Who’s going in with him?’ the paramedic asked.
‘Me,’ I said.
They carried the stretcher out to where the ambulance stood and ran it into the attachments. Everyone followed. ‘You a relation?’ the paramedic said as he locked the stretcher down.
‘No, a friend.’
‘Ride in there with him. Keep him awake if you can.’
I nodded thanks to the helpful tenant and climbed into the ambulance, which took off at speed. I sat on a hard seat close to the stretcher while the other paramedic monitored Barry’s blood pressure and other vital signs.
‘How’s he doing?’ I said.
The paramedic shook his head and didn’t answer. Barry twitched and muttered and then seemed to calm down. He tried to lift his right arm but couldn’t. He curled the fingers.
‘He wants to say something to you,’ the paramedic said.
I bent my head down close to where Barry’s lips, flecked with saliva, were moving.
‘Find my boy,’ he whispered.
part two
9
Barry was taken straight to Intensive Care at St Vincent’s. I gave the hospital what details I could, which wasn’t a lot; I could only guess at Barry’s age. I knew his address but not the name of his doctor. I knew he was on some kind of medication for his high blood pressure but didn’t know what.
‘I’ll ring his company and see what else I can find out.’
The admissions clerk pushed the phone and the directory towards me. I looked up BBE and rang, asking to speak urgently to someone in Personnel about the CEO.
A familiar voice came on the line. ‘Hardy, what the hell’s going on?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘It’s Keith Mountjoy. What . . . ?’
‘How come you’re there?’
‘I’m Barry’s partner. When he didn’t show up for an important meeting this morning they called me in.’
I explained what had happened.
‘Is he alive?’
‘Only just, I think.’
‘Personnel’ll have those details. I’ll get someone to phone them through to the hospital. Stay where you are and I’ll meet you there and you can tell me what the hell you and Barry have been up to.’
‘And you can find out how he’s doing, too.’
‘You’ll be a smartarse once too often,’ he said and hung up.
I sat in the standard kind of hospital waiting room with the old magazines, the anxious people and the annoying daytime TV. After half an hour Keith Mountjoy appeared at the door accompanied by a white-coat-clad doctor and beckoned to me. He must have made some calls before he arrived at another entrance. A knighthood carried weight and Sir Keith had Dr de Sousa, who he introduced, well under control. We went down the corridor to the room the doctor shared with two others, not then present.
Mountjoy was all authority. ‘I want you to hear this, Hardy. Go on, Doctor.’
De Sousa consulted sheets on his clipboard. ‘Mr Bartlett has suffered a seizure . . . a series of seizures.’
Mountjoy’s voice dropped in volume the way voices do when death is in the air. ‘What’re his chances, Doctor?’
It was de Sousa’s turn to shrug, having apparently regained some of his doctoral authority in the face of Mountjoy’s uncertainty. ‘Without knowing the cause, treatment is very difficult. All his signs are weak. In normal circumstances my advice would be to alert family members. You’ll have to excuse me. I have other patients to attend to.’
Mountjoy slumped into a chair behind one of the low tables. I leaned against the wall while he took out his cigar case and a big gas lighter.
‘The sprinklers might come on if you ignite that,’ I said.
He put the case and lighter away. ‘You’re a smartarse.’
‘You said that before.’
‘Where’s Ronald?’
‘I told you. He’s missing. Does it matter to you?’
‘Bloody oath it does. Barry told me he was changing his will. Ronald’s going to inherit Barry’s share of BBE. Fifty-one bloody percent.’
‘And yours is?’
He took the cigar from his pocket and fiddled with it. ‘Less.’
‘When did Barry tell you this?’
‘A week ago, maybe ten days. Plenty of time for him to have actually done it.’
‘Lucky Ronny, if he did.’
Mountjoy’s grunt was noncommittal. ‘And now you tell me the kid’s missing. Why?’
‘All I know is that Barry said they had a knock-down, drag-out row last night.’
‘About what?’
‘About me, partly.’
I couldn’t see any harm in telling him why Barry had engaged me and how things had worked out, although I gave him an edited version. He listened without interrupting. When I’d finished he heaved his bulk up out of the chair.
‘Let’s go somewhere I can smoke. Can’t think without smoking.’
‘Must’ve been tough at the investiture. Those things take a while, I understand.’
He snorted as we walked to the designated smoking area near a lift, where a pot plant struggled in a mulch of butts. ‘Why you haven’t been dumped in the harbour years ago I’ll never understand.’
Mountjoy lit his cigar and puffed luxuriantly.
‘What do you think’s happened to the kid?’
I was reminded of Barry’s remark about ‘some people’. ‘Happened? Why should anything happen?’
‘Who else would know about the changed will?’
‘Search me,’ I said. ‘He told you, could’ve told a few people. He didn’t tell me.’
‘Did he tell you anything about the . . . current business climate?’
‘No. Just that it was volatile, whatever that means.’
He inhaled the cigar smoke deeply and released it in little puffs as he spoke. ‘Yes, it’s very volatile. BBE can’t be without direction. There’ll have to be a meeting to set things straight. Ronald’ll have to be consulted at least.’
‘Only if Barry dies and if his will’s been changed.’
‘That’s right, but at the very least he’s going to be laid up for a while and it’d be good for him to see his boy and know that things are all right, wouldn’t you think?’
I nodded. ‘If you say so. I don’t know anything about the paternal impulse.’
His deep draws had reduced the cigar considerably. ‘I’ll take care of the administrative side of things and make sure Barry’s
getting the best. Might have to move him to a private place. Now, you were on the job for how long?’
‘Not long.’
‘Found out a few things about Ronald?’
‘I found out he’s a very accomplished boxer.’
‘Really? Afraid I don’t see the relevance of that. Look, I’ll issue a press release on Barry and it’ll make the papers and maybe even the radio and TV news. That should send Ronald running back from wherever he’s gone.’
‘You’d think so.’
‘But if it doesn’t, for whatever reason, would you undertake to look for him?’
Sir Keith Mountjoy wasn’t a man to like and he certainly wasn’t a man to trust.
‘Let’s wait and see,’ I said.
The news went out in brief reports on afternoon radio and the evening news on TV. No details, just a report that Barry was in Intensive Care and that his condition was of concern to his family and friends.
Mountjoy rang me early the following morning.
‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘That’s a worry.’
‘And Barry’s showing no signs of improvement as far as I can work out—still in Intensive Care, anyway. I tried to ask for more information and got nowhere. Apparently they’ll only talk to next of kin and other medical people.’
‘Who’s Barry’s doctor?’
‘Apparently he’s got a mob of them. I didn’t know he had so much wrong with him. His GP and his heart specialist are in Randwick: Doctor Simon Abrahams and Mister Paul Templeton. They’re in the same building, a medical centre across from the Prince of Wales. I don’t think they’d talk to you or me either. I hate doctors—never go near them.’
You should, I thought, from the look of you.
‘Is that right,’ he said, ‘that you can’t post someone as missing for forty-eight hours?’
‘More or less. It’s flexible.’
‘I don’t want to do that unless it’s absolutely necessary. By now, from what you said about seeing him boxing, you must know Ronald better than anyone else. I want you to look for him. I’ll pay you.’
‘I’ve still got some of Barry’s retainer to work through. Are you willing to let the chips fall where they will?’
‘What d’you mean?’ The words came out slightly choked, as if smoke had got in their way.
‘I think you know what I mean.’
‘Do it, and stay in touch.’
He rattled off three numbers—for his office, his home and his car. Sir Keith was a worried man.
I caught a taxi back to Paddington and my car. I’d been too tired the night before to do anything but climb into a cab. I made a mental note to call someone at BBE to reclaim Barry’s Merc. Then I went to my office and hit the telephone. My first call was to Sally Brewer. In the movies, Ronny would have turned up at the gym with his overnight bag and announced his intention of taking up a boxing career. Then he’d go on to win . . . But Sally hadn’t seen him.
The next call was to my doctor, Ian Sangster. Ian is president of some doctors’ organisation and well respected in the profession. I asked if he could clear the way for me to make contact with medicos Templeton and Abrahams. I needed to know what Barry’s chances were.
Then I called Frank Parker.
‘I thought I’d be hearing from you when I heard about Barry Bartlett,’ he said.
‘Yeah, well the boy’s missing and hasn’t been in touch even when the news on Barry went out. People are worried.’
‘So instead of watching him you’re looking for him?’
‘Right, and I’ve seen him in the company of the policewoman we spoke about.’
‘You spoke about. I didn’t say anything about her.’
‘Fair enough, but you said you’d ask around. There’s something going on with Barry’s business. I don’t know what it is but people are jumpy, especially if Barry croaks, because the son comes into the picture then.’
‘What people?’
‘Sir Keith Mountjoy, for one.’
‘Jesus Christ, talk about corruption. You’ve got yourself in the shit here, Cliff.’
‘I get that feeling. But the kid’s okay, I think, and I need to know what side your admirer . . . sorry, that woman is on. What was the date of that siege?’
He sighed and gave it to me. ‘All I can tell you,’ he said, ‘is that she’s still a member of the police service.’
‘So she’s undercover?’
‘No comment, sorry.’
‘That’s okay. I’m going to have to tackle this another way.’
‘I know. Be careful, Cliff.’
I collected the prints of the photographs I’d taken of Ronny and the woman at the restaurant and went by bus to the State Library where they had the Sydney Morning Herald on microfilm. I compared the photo I had with the one in the paper showing the uniformed policewoman in consultation with plain-clothed Frank. The photographer had got a good clear shot in favourable light. There was no doubt. With her hair concealed by her cap, her strong, high cheekbones and thin-lipped mouth were unmistakable. Senior Constable Bronwen Marr, who’d be going by another name now that she was undercover.
I sat outside the library and tried to replay the scene at the restaurant in my head. Ronny had arrived first and he’d looked a bit uncertain about where to put himself. Bronwen, or whoever she was now, had marched up confidently, familiar with the place. When Ronny had gone inside to pay she’d chatted with a bald-headed waiter.
I took a cab to Riley Street and arrived at the Bistro Beirut in time for a late lunch. I ordered felafel and dips and a chicken kebab with chilli sauce and rice. They served wine by the glass, so why not? A healthy glass of the house white. The bald waiter was there but not serving me. I ate quickly and as the other customers drifted away back to work I ordered coffee from Baldy. He looked irritated to be interrupted in his clearing away of plates and glasses. The restaurant closed for a couple of hours in the afternoon. When he delivered the coffee I thanked him and gave him a twenty-dollar note.
‘I want to have a word with you,’ I said, ‘for fifty more.’
Waiters at places like that work for tips. He nodded and got back to his clearing up. I finished my coffee, paid the bill and left, taking the waiting spot I’d used before across the street. After twenty minutes he joined me.
‘Are you the police?’ he said.
I was wearing jeans, an open-necked blue shirt and a leather jacket. ‘Sort of,’ I said. ‘Do I look like the police?’
‘Sort of.’
I jerked my head to the left and we strolled along to where there was a postage-stamp sized park with a couple of seats. He lit a cigarette as we walked. We sat down and the first thing I showed him was a fifty; the next was my photo of Ronny and his friend.
‘You know this woman?’
‘I might.’
I gave him the fifty.
‘What’s her name?’
‘Tania, I think.’
‘You think?’
‘Tania.’
‘Other name?’
‘Don’t know.’ He dropped his cigarette butt to the ground where it joined a lot of others. He stood on the butt, then felt in his pocket for his packet and I stopped him.
‘Does she come here regularly?’
He was a small man, weak-chinned and nervous as well as bald. I was bullying him the way I guessed a lot of people had bullied him in the past and would in the future.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘regularly.’
‘She wasn’t there today. What does regularly mean?’
He sucked in a breath, avoided the pressure of my arm and got his cigarettes from his pocket. I didn’t stop him. He lit up and blew the smoke away. The action seemed to lend him confidence.
‘She’s a nice woman,’ he said.
‘Is she?’
‘Yes, and I don’t think you’re a nice man.’
‘There’s worse,’ I said, ‘and she could be in danger from them. I’m not interested in her except to find the
young man she was with the other day. I’m what you might call their protector.’
‘What was your question?’
I took out another twenty and added a five. Precise amounts sometimes have a telling effect.
‘When will she be there next?’
After a pause he took the money. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘I’ll be there, too. I’ll just talk to her. You can trust me.’
He got up, blowing smoke. ‘I’m from Lebanon, Mister Whoever-you-are, via several refugee camps. I don’t trust anyone.’
10
The set of keys Barry had used to get into the building and Ronny’s flat had fallen free when he’d hit the ground and I’d picked them up and put them in my pocket as a reflex action. With time on my hands and needing the exercise, I walked back to the office, collected my car and drove to Paddington. The Mercedes was still there under a paperbark tree, accumulating leaves and dust and grime. I’d alerted BBE but they hadn’t picked it up yet, maybe had trouble finding a key.
I used Barry’s keys and let myself into the flat. There was no sign that anyone had been there since our visit. I did a thorough search of the kitchen, living room and bathroom, examining things in the waste bins, delving into the upholstery of the chairs and couch, checking all drawers, all cupboards, all jars, the fridge, the freezer, the oven. I riffled through the couple of magazines lying about—the Bulletin, Sports Illustrated. Nothing.
That left the bedroom, where secrets are often kept and revealed. The bedside chests and the wardrobe yielded nothing. The bed base sat flat on the floor, saving me from having to crawl under the bed, and there was no headboard. I stripped the bed linen—sheets, one blanket—and removed the pillowslips. I shook out the sheets and an earring dropped to the floor. It was a gold clip-on with a small, dangling star. Not much, but something.
Back to the phone. I called BBE and told someone again about Barry’s car. I phoned Dr Abrahams’ rooms, choosing him because in my experience specialists are harder to get hold of and tougher to deal with than GPs, and was put through to him after a long wait.
‘Mr Hardy,’ he said in a sandpaper voice, ‘that ratbag Sangster said you’d be in touch about Barry.’
