by Peter Corris
‘He is a ratbag, but a terrific bloke as well. Thanks for taking the call. Have you seen Barry?’
‘No point. He’s in a coma but I’ve spoken to the doctors there. He’s in a very bad way.’
‘Have they got the pathology report?’
‘A preliminary. Inconclusive.’
‘What medications was he on?’
‘A bloody battery of them—for blood pressure, type 2 diabetes, arrhythmia, thyroid . . .’
‘So he could’ve dropped from any one of those causes?’
‘Yeah. What, precisely, is your interest, Mr Hardy?’
I explained it to him, with no more details than he needed to know. He didn’t say anything and for a moment I thought the line had gone dead.
‘Doctor? Still there? I want to know what his chances are. It matters in what I’m doing.’
‘I’m here,’ he said. ‘I think we’d better meet. I don’t want to talk about this on the phone.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You will. Can you be here this evening, say around seven o’clock?’
‘Yes. I have to ring Mister Templeton and—’
His laugh was like a rasp on hardwood. ‘Don’t bother. He’s on the other side in medical politics. Won’t give you the time of day. I’m surprised Ian . . . no I’m not, he’d have enjoyed the thought of you having a go at him.’
‘You’re sure you can’t tell me now what you know?’
‘Oh, I suppose I could, but I want to get a look at you first.’
I was parked half a mile down the street from the Prince of Wales Hospital at 6.30, hoping to get a bit closer as the staff went off shift and the visitors went home. Didn’t happen and I walked. Dr Abrahams was obviously an admirer of Ian Sangster and I guessed that, unlike many highly qualified professionals, he put no store in a person’s wardrobe. Sangster, like me, was averse to neckties. I was still in the clothes I’d worn all day and my heavy beard was breaking through this late in the day.
Quite a few lights were still on in the medical centre and I went up the well-lit stairs to the second floor and along to Dr Abrahams’ rooms. The reception area stood open. I went in and rapped on the counter. The door to the inner sanctum opened and a man came bustling out. He was below medium height, dressed in a dark shirt and trousers. No tie, no white coat.
‘Mr Hardy?’ An abrasive voice, but welcoming.
‘Yes.’
We shook hands. His was hard and dry. He had a full head of wiry dark hair, a roundish face and a bristling moustache.
‘Come in, come in,’ he said, ‘Cliff, isn’t it? I’m Simon—Cy to my friends and enemies. Sit down, sit down.’
I sat in a comfortable chair in a comfortable room and before I could say anything he was talking again.
‘Bloody Barry,’ he said. ‘I always thought I’d be talking to the cops one day or treating the poor bastard in a prison hospital. Well, it’s not quite that. I expect you want me to get to the point.’
I expect you will, I thought. I nodded. That seemed to be enough response for him. He’d been searching through a filing cabinet while he was talking. He pulled out a file, slipped into his chair behind a cluttered desk and started leafing through it as though I wasn’t there.
It gave me time to look around the room. There were a number of framed documents on the walls—degrees and memberships of professional bodies, awards received. The guy had the tickets.
He slammed the file shut. ‘How long have you known Barry?’
‘About ten years, maybe twelve.’
‘What’s the connection?’
Unusually for me, I didn’t resent being interrogated. There was something direct and forthright about him that inspired respect.
‘Boxing,’ I said.
He touched his eyebrows. ‘I can see the scars.’
‘Don’t let that fool you,’ I said. ‘I was just an amateur.’
He put his open hands up on either side of his head. ‘I thought amateurs wore protective headgear.’
‘We did, but sometimes things got personal and it was open slather. I cut easily. One reason why I never seriously considered being a professional.’
‘Very wise. Okay, here’s the thing you need to know and that will make two of us. I could be disciplined for telling you this but I reckon you’re . . . what’s the expression? . . . in Barry’s corner.’
‘I am.’
‘Barry Bartlett can’t be the father of the young man you spoke of. Barry’s been sterile since birth.’
11
Dr Abrahams had had Barry as a patient around the time I had met him. He explained that Barry had so many endocrinal disturbances and malfunctions that he’d arranged a full hormonal screening.
‘He was a mess,’ Abrahams said. ‘At first I thought it was just a lifestyle thing with some genetic factors thrown in, but it proved to be that in spades.’
He went on to explain that Barry had a hypothyroid condition that would have rendered him sterile but not impotent. He said that the condition could be controlled by drugs if it developed post-puberty but that its presence from birth ruled out any chance that Barry’s sperm could have been fertile.
‘I didn’t tell him,’ he said. ‘What would have been the point? He was middle-aged with a lot of things to get under control. While the thyroid condition wouldn’t have made him impotent the uncontrolled diabetes probably had, or near enough. He admitted to erectile problems and I didn’t pursue it.’
Digesting this, I nodded.
‘Do you have any children, Cliff?’
I shook my head.
‘Any reason?’
‘It was never an option.’
‘I assumed it was the same with Barry. I knew a bit about him, of course. I knew he was a rascal, but I liked him. I assume you feel the same.’
‘He has his good points.’
‘I’ve broken some rules telling you this, but I respect Ian Sangster’s judgement about a man and he rates you highly. You seem to be involved in a very delicate situation. I’ll be frank with you. I don’t think Barry has much of a chance. He’s pretty much artificially maintained by medications as it is and every hour he spends in a coma will take a toll.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘He did well to get this far. I can’t control how you use this information, but I’m trusting you in two ways: one, not to reveal where you got it and two, to use it responsibly. As I say, I don’t think it’ll matter to Barry one way or the other.’
We shook hands again and I left. Doctors can disappoint or inspire. You’re lucky if you’re surprised in a good way.
*
Back at my office I called the hospital but there was no news on Barry. I tried Mountjoy’s car and office numbers with no success, then on the home one I got his wife. Her strong American accent surprised me. She said she didn’t know where her husband was. She hadn’t heard from him since the morning. She asked me who I was and what my business was with Sir Keith. Her tone was unfriendly. I told her I was a private investigator making some enquiries for Sir Keith and BBE.
‘That amateur bunch,’ she said, ‘I wish we’d never got involved with them. It wasn’t necessary. What sort of enquiries?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.’
‘Oh, sure, how stupid of me. Private means private. Well, give me your name and number and I’ll tell him you called.’
‘Cliff Hardy. He has the number.’
‘But you’re the one who was involved in that disgusting greyhound business. I might have known he couldn’t leave all that low-life crap alone. I suppose it’s to do with a woman, or women. I have nothing more to say to you. Goodbye. Don’t call here again.’
I made and ate a grilled ham and cheese sandwich and drank two glasses of cut-price red wine. In all probability Ronny wasn’t Barry’s son, but did Ronny know that? My guess was that he didn’t. What did that imply for Ronny’s future? Did Barry’s will—if there was a new one—simply na
me Ronny as his beneficiary or stipulate that his paternity had to be established before any legacy could take effect? With Barry in a coma, Ronny missing and Keith Mountjoy off somewhere unknown, my only way forward was through Senior Constable Bronwen Marr, aka Tania.
I took the earring from my pocket and laid it in my palm. It was a very small thing to rely on for progress in something growing ever more complicated.
I went to the gym in the morning and, to make the right impression on Ian Sangster, I was still in my gym gear when I caught him at his regular coffee break in Glebe Point Road. Coffee and cigarette break. Ian smoked twenty a day and ran marathons, arguing the one cancelled out the other. He looked me up and down.
‘Commendable. Treadmill?’
‘And weights. I just wanted to thank you for the introduction to Simon Abrahams.’
Ian was on his second long black with three sugars. He stirred the coffee. ‘Don’t know how you can stand the boredom of gym workouts. Helpful, was he?’
‘Very. He’s a credit to your profession.’
‘Meaning he told you a whole lot of stuff he shouldn’t have. I don’t know how you manage to worm things out of people the way you do, Cliff.’
‘Must be charm.’
He mimed looking around, up and down. ‘I don’t see it. Where d’you keep it?’
I thanked him again and watched him light a cigarette.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Nothing.’
‘I should think so. By the way, how is Barry Bartlett?’
‘Crook, very crook.’
‘A poor choice of words, mate. In my experience types like him get a few more years after the big scare. Just a few. I don’t know why, it’s another mystery to add to all the others. Like your survival. Take care, Cliff.’
There was no sign of the untrusting Lebanese waiter when, shaved, showered and hungry after the exercise, I got to the Bistro Beirut. I was wearing a white shirt, a navy sports coat and dark trousers. Slip-on Italian shoes, very old, very comfortable. I followed Ronny’s example by ordering a beer and I surveyed the menu with genuine interest. All work and no play. Never an adventurous eater, I ordered the same meal as before. I poured and sipped the beer and watched as people tossed up whether go inside the restaurant or stay outside. The day was mild but the wind had an edge and the customers split about fifty-fifty.
She came just after my food arrived. She was wearing trousers, a rollneck sweater and a light jacket. Plenty of protection against the cool breeze and she didn’t hesitate in taking an outside seat facing away from me. Her dark hair was medium length, brushed back at the sides, loose. She was taller than I’d first thought and more slender looking without the shoulder-padded suits. A waiter scurried eagerly towards her; a regular customer, possibly a good tipper. She placed her order and a glass of wine arrived inside a minute. I took the earring from my pocket, got up, took two steps and put it down beside her glass.
‘Join me,’ I said and resumed my seat.
She sat stock still for a moment, then turned to look at me. Recognition dawned. She took her shoulder bag from where she’d hooked it over the back of her seat, picked up her glass—and the earring—and sat at my table.
‘Do I call you Bronwen or Tania?’
Her voice was husky, as I remembered. ‘Don’t call me anything. Just tell me who you are and what you want.’
The waiter arrived with her food. He hesitated, then brought it to my table, where I’d made sure there was space for it. She had a dish of olives, flat bread and felafel with baba ganoush.
‘Light lunch,’ I said and took in a solid forkful of chicken, hummus and tabouli.
She drank some wine and fiddled with the earring. Today she wasn’t wearing earrings or any other kind of adornment. No makeup, flatties. She wasn’t dressed for business or to seduce but there was something compelling about her strong features, hard mouth and calculating, green-eyed gaze. It wasn’t something that happened to me often but now it did. I was suddenly intensely and disconcertingly attracted to her. I put the fork down and took a swallow of beer to cover my confusion.
‘You haven’t come here to discuss my lunch choice and it looks as though you aren’t that interested in yours. What’s this about?’
I didn’t want the food or the beer, I just wanted to keep her there to look at her and hear her Lauren Bacall voice. All I wanted to do was hold her interest.
‘Ronny Saunders,’ I said. ‘Aka Ronny Bartlett, except that he isn’t.’
She was too well trained to be impressed or to react too obviously. She pursed her lips and took a bite of flat bread and a sip of wine.
‘And who’re you?’
I opened my wallet and showed her the PEA licence.
‘Jesus, that’s all I need. A dumb private eye.’
‘Dumb?’
She picked up the earring and pushed back her hair. There were tiny, almost invisible studs in her ear lobes.
‘My ears are pierced. This thing isn’t mine.’
I sat back, looking, I’m sure, as dumb as I felt and as she thought me. She took pity on me.
‘You’re looking for him?’ she said.
I nodded.
‘Who for?’
I was so on the back foot in all ways that I couldn’t do anything but answer honestly.
‘Initially for Barry Bartlett and still for him while he’s alive, but also for Sir Keith Mountjoy.’
She covered her face with her hands briefly and then removed them and looked around. She forked up some felafel, dabbled it in the dip and drank some wine. I finished my beer and gestured to the waiter to bring two more glasses of wine. I pushed the food around my plate and ate a little. The wine arrived. She finished her first glass and sipped the second.
‘I admit I’ve made a mistake,’ I said, ‘but I had a reason. We have to exchange information. You know who I am. Who’re you?’
She shook her head.
‘I think you’re an undercover policewoman investigating BBE and . . . its affiliates . . . for their involvement in something very important. Tell me I’m wrong.’
She drank some more wine. ‘You’re not so dumb after all,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’
‘Go on with your guesswork.’
‘You were instructed to get close to Ronald Saunders, aka Bartlett, in order to find out more about this big whatever-it-is. I saw you go about it very directly. Now Barry’s in a coma and Ronny’s in the wind, as the Yanks say. Your investigation’s as stalled in its way as mine.’
‘Are you suggesting we should be allies?’
I’d ally with you any day of the week, I thought. I loaded my fork with meat and hummus. ‘Frank Parker’s my oldest and closest friend,’ I said. ‘You could ring him and ask about me.’ ‘I can’t go ringing up senior police officers to check on some roughneck private eye,’ she said.
‘Not so much of the roughneck. I introduced Frank to his wife, Hilde. They were there when he got the medal and so was I. So were you, looking at Parker as if he was the man of your dreams.’
‘Was it that obvious?’
‘Sorry, but yes, if you were sitting where I was.’
‘Fuck,’ she said.
12
She wanted to ask more questions but I insisted on some information first.
‘Did I get it right about you?’
‘Sort of. There’s a new unit, small, a kind of offshoot, focused on corporate crime.’
‘And you were detailed to get close to Ronny.’
She nodded.
‘Did your lot plant him?’
Her eyes opened in surprise and I could see her remembering what I’d said about Ronny not being who she thought he was.
‘Plant him? No, we’d had Bartlett in our sights for a while but he kept all his cards close to his chest. He didn’t . . . provide any openings. Then the son turned up.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what sort of business you believe he’s involved in?’
<
br /> ‘No, but it’s not a belief, it’s certain knowledge.’
‘Isn’t it a nuisance when you have to provide proof? The things you have to do . . .’
‘Bugger you. How can anyone in your sleazy game be so high and mighty? Anyway, let’s stop insulting each other and see if we can be mutually useful instead. You say he’s not Bartlett’s son.’
I told her what Dr Abrahams had told me without revealing the source of the information.
‘That was pretty good investigative work,’ she said, ‘if it’s true. If it is, who is he?’
‘I don’t know. The physical resemblance isn’t there now but I dug up some photos of Barry when young and it’s very strong when you take away the years.’
She finished her wine and looked at me. ‘When you take away the years . . . that’s an interesting thing to say. I’ve underestimated you, Mr Hardy. They must be related, surely. This is confusing. Ron believes he’s Bartlett’s son, I think.’
‘I agree with you. If he was just a doppelganger trying to hoodwink a wealthy man . . .’
‘Or planted by someone, to use your expression.’
I nodded. ‘He wouldn’t be so convincing.’
We’d ignored the food and finished the wine and a waiter was lurking. She nodded at him and he cleared the table. That left us without any props or any real reason to stay where we were but it seemed neither of us wanted to move.
‘Coffee?’ I said.
‘I don’t like the coffee here. Let’s go somewhere else. You can pay. I like the thought of Barry Bartlett or Keith Mountjoy paying for my lunch.’
She wasn’t far short of my height in her flatties and she moved with a long, athletic stride. It was odd to be feeling such a strong attraction to someone about whom I knew almost nothing, not even what name she was currently using. Someone who’d sized me up as a dumb roughneck but now seemed to be having second thoughts. I was attracted but wary—an intense combination.
We went to a small café up the street and sat inside because a light rain had started to fall.
‘You know this area, don’t you?’ I said. ‘You live around here.’
She smiled. It was the first time I’d seen her smile and when she did the lips didn’t seem so thin and her mouth looked more generous. ‘You’re detecting,’ she said.
