by Peter Corris
I shrugged. ‘Habit.’
‘You have to go to the counter to order and pay here. Mine’s a latte, yours is a long back.’
She went to a red phone in the corner and made a call. Someone at the counter was chatting, forcing me to wait to order and pay, and I watched her at the phone as I waited. The call was brief and she went back to her seat.
I ordered, paid, came back and sat down at the small table. Our knees touched. The place was narrow, everything tightly packed. It was quiet in the early afternoon with only half a dozen other customers. Some vaguely Italian-sounding music was playing softly.
‘Cards on the table,’ she said. ‘I didn’t call Superintendent Parker, but someone else vouched for you. I’m sorry I insulted you.’
‘It’s all right. I’m sorry I assumed you slept with Ronny but it seemed logical at the time. I followed you back to his flat.’
‘I see. Well, I didn’t. He wanted to but I wasn’t up for it . . . not then, anyway. We had an argument. He must have found other female company. It hardly matters.’
‘No, the big question now is why he hasn’t surfaced on hearing that Barry’s so sick.’
She nodded. ‘If he’s heard. If he hasn’t, that’s a worry. We both have an interest in finding him.’
The coffee arrived. She ate the froth from her spoon; mine was too hot to sip.
‘Not quite the same interest, though,’ I said.
‘No, that’s a pity.’
‘It’s a question of how far apart they are,’ I said. ‘I was initially contracted to make sure Ronny wasn’t a threat to Barry, now simply to find him. If Barry’s involved in something very big and very criminal I’d be surprised but not too concerned. And the way things are it might not matter to him anyway. But you know the way things are, don’t you?’
‘Why do you say that?’
I drank some coffee. ‘I’m sure you have access to the latest information from the hospital.’
‘It comes by fax.’
‘Is that right?’
She stirred her coffee, drank some and then pushed it away.
‘Not as good as usual?’ I said. ‘Mine’s okay.’
She’d dipped her head; now she lifted it and there were strain lines around her eyes that aged her. I’d judged her to be in her early thirties but she looked younger when relaxed. ‘I’ve fucked this assignment up.’
‘Is it your first undercover job?’
‘It’s that obvious?’ She grimaced, then said, ‘Can you find him?’
‘Maybe, I have a few ideas. Look, I don’t know what to call you. It’s like talking to a shadow.’
She smiled and the strain lines disappeared. ‘Poetic again. Bronwen, Bron.’
I put my hand across the table. ‘Cliff.’
We shook. We were touching at two points, hands and knees.
‘Okay, Cliff, the fax’ll come through to my place, which is just around the corner, as you guessed. You’d follow me there anyway to find where I lived, wouldn’t you?’
‘A professional duty.’
‘Let’s go then.’
*
Her flat was in a large, high-security block in Lansdowne Street. We didn’t speak on the short walk, both preoccupied with our thoughts. We took the lift to the fifth floor and went in to an open-plan studio flat with the sleeping, living, eating and working arrangements all on display—a single bed in a corner, a medium-sized pine table with four chairs, a coffee table with two saucer chairs and a large desk. Bookshelves had been arranged to give the desk something of a separate office feel. The kitchenette was partly partitioned off from the living space by a waist-high wall. There were large windows on two sides and a small balcony.
She shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on a hook near the door.
‘Compact,’ I said.
She nodded. ‘Affordable.’
She moved to the working area, which consisted of a telephone with a fax and an answering machine. I went to where the windows gave a view towards Oxford Street and a slice of Hyde Park. If you liked looking down on an active business and residential part of your city, this was a good place to be. There were pot plants on the balcony that would catch the morning sun. One was a mandarin tree and the other was a flowering shrub of some kind.
I heard her tear the fax sheet loose. She came up behind me. It was cold in the room and I could feel the warmth of her body.
‘Like the view, Cliff?’ she said.
‘I do.’
‘Got one at your place?’
‘Glimpse of Blackwattle Bay, between two blocks of flats.’
She laughed. ‘Here’s the news from the hospital. No change.’
‘That’s bad. The doctors tell me the longer he’s in a coma the worse the likely result.’
The phone rang and she moved quickly away and picked up.
‘God,’ she said. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll be there.’
She stood, apparently shocked, still holding the receiver. I went to her, took it and replaced it.
‘What is it?’ I said.
‘I have to go.’
‘Was it Ronny?’
‘No.’
‘Bron, we’re in this together in some sense. Tell me. What’s happened?’
‘Sir Keith Mountjoy’s been found shot dead.’
13
Bron said she had a meeting with other members of the police intelligence team. I gave her my card and after some hesitation she gave me her telephone number at home and one where she could be contacted at what she called ‘the unit’. We left the flat together and shook hands in the street.
‘What’re you driving?’ I said.
She smiled. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’
I walked back to where I’d left the Falcon and drove to my office. A police car stood in St Peters Lane in violation of the parking rules. I eased mine into my private space. A plain-clothes cop and a uniform got out of the car and approached me.
‘Cliff Hardy,’ Plain-clothes said.
‘The same.’ Sometimes I just can’t help myself with cops. This one looked suitably annoyed as he produced his warrant card.
‘Detective-Sergeant Bruce O’Connor. I’d like to ask you a few questions.’
‘In connection with what?’
‘That can wait until we’re somewhere we can talk.’
I looked up and down the lane and then up at the church wall that flanked it. ‘I can talk here. There’s no one listening.’
The uniform backed away, sensibly not wanting to be too close a witness to this byplay with his superior. O’Connor was tall and strongly built with a squarish Celtic face now flushing a little.
He sighed. ‘I was warned you liked to play games, Hardy. Okay, here’s a game for you: we go up to your office to talk or we take you to you-know-where.’
You have to know when to fold ’em. I jiggled my keys. ‘The office it is. You’d better have the constable move the car or you’ll get a ticket. The bulldogs are savage around here.’
O’Connor jerked his head at the uniform and followed me into the building and up the two flights of stairs to my office. The stairwell smelled of its age and the deterioration of the materials it was made of. I resisted the urge to test his wind on the stairs. I had my name and PRIVATE ENQUIRIES stencilled on the door and I was still unsure about the italics, and whether ENQUIRIES or INQUIRIES was better.
I unlocked the door and ushered O’Connor in to the one biggish room with its functional well-tested fittings, grimy windows and an untidiness suggestive, I claimed, of work being done rather than neglect. The truth was, I spent as little time in the office as possible. I pointed to the client chair and settled myself behind the desk.
‘Now, where were we?’ I said.
‘Why are you determined to piss me off?’
‘It’s a habit I’ve fallen into after some bad experiences with some of your colleagues.’
‘It’s a bloody bad habit.’ He took out a notebook. ‘I want you to account for
your movements over the past eight hours.’
‘I’ll try to do that when you tell me what this is about. Otherwise I phone my lawyer and we all do the old foxtrot.’
He didn’t want to do it but he wasn’t a natural born bully like some of them. ‘It’s about the death of Sir Keith Mountjoy.’
‘Ah.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means you or someone else has been talking to Lady Mountjoy and learned that I phoned her yesterday trying to contact her husband.’
He nodded. ‘You’re not her favourite person. Did you contact him?’
‘No.’
‘I know how tricky you are—did he contact you?’
‘No.’
‘All right. Back to the question of your whereabouts.’
‘We’re talking about, say, seven in the morning until now, right? Well, I went to the gym early, about eight, then I had a talk to my doctor in Glebe about this and that and went home for a shower and a shave and to put on the clothes you see me in now.’
He made a note. ‘You’re at it again. I don’t give a shit about what you’re wearing.’
‘It’s relevant; I could’ve changed out of the blood-spattered clothes.’
‘Hardy . . .’
‘I’m sorry. Then I had lunch with someone in Surry Hills. Lebanese place in Riley Street. You could check with the waiters.’
‘Who did you lunch with?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
What was he thinking? That I’d lunched with the killer and congratulated him, or paid him? Any speculation was possible for a policeman this early in an investigation. It didn’t matter. I couldn’t tell him about Bronwen for her sake and, I realised, for my own.
He made a note and looked around the room.
‘D’you want to see my pistol? It’s not here. It’s at home under lock and key as required.’
‘Not necessary. Mountjoy was killed by a sawn-off shotgun at close range.’
‘Haven’t used a shottie in years.’
With an effort he relaxed his hard, serious face into something like a smile. ‘Any ideas about who might have had it in for Mountjoy?’
I shrugged. ‘He wasn’t the most popular guy in town. I had the impression his wife didn’t like him all that much.’
‘There’s that,’ he said. ‘And what can you tell me about your asking where he was?’
As cops go, O’Connor wasn’t terrible and I didn’t feel like baiting him anymore. ‘I’m conducting an investigation for Barry Bartlett. Barry’s out of action, as you might have heard. Mountjoy was sort of filling in for him and I was . . . liaising with him.’
‘Nice company you keep.’
‘There’s worse.’
‘That’s true.’ He put the notebook away and stood. ‘You’re what we call a person of interest.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘Don’t be. We might have to dance that foxtrot some time.’
He left, closing the door quietly. I hadn’t made a friend, but I wouldn’t have counted him as one of my enemies. I didn’t know much about Mountjoy other than his earlier involvement in the greyhound business and what I’d learned lately, but he had a rough diamond look about him. The shotgun suggested criminal involvement of a rougher brand than those usually associated with corporate crime. My problem with this case now was, with Barry out of action and Mountjoy dead, I didn’t have a client.
*
But I did have another case, and another client, and I set off for Little Bay. It went down pretty much as Zac had predicted at Botany Security. I got through the gate, trying to give the guard a good look at the pass but he was focused on a big woman in high heels and a red power suit approaching behind me. Zac, waiting at a vantage point, made his call and as I waited at the steps leading up to the office block an executive type came out looking flustered. We didn’t speak; he just eyeballed me, took the pass and returned inside. I walked back through the gate and this time I did see alarm on the face of the guard.
Zac’s van was parked beside my Falcon and I joined him there.
‘Sweet,’ Zac said.
‘I suppose so.’
‘What’s wrong? The cheque’ll be in the mail this arvo.’
‘I dunno. Just a feeling.’
‘You just don’t like big business.’
‘True. Are they big business?’
Zac rubbed his hands. ‘Getting bigger, they tell me.’
The evening TV news bulletins carried the details of Mountjoy’s murder. He’d been shot in his car when it was drawn up at a petrol station in Randwick in the mid-morning. It was a self-serve place and, according to the attendant who was inside the station paying-point and shop at the time, someone had walked up, fired and walked away.
Visuals showed that the attendant would have been at least thirty metres away from the event and with a view partly obscured by Mountjoy’s car, a sleek convertible I couldn’t identify. His description of the shooter amounted to no more than ‘a big ordinary-looking guy. Not black or Asian.’
As I switched off the television I remembered a story I’d heard years before about a woman who’d fallen onto the tracks at Central Station with a train approaching. Someone had jumped down, lifted her back to the platform and disappeared into the crowd. When interviewed later about the identity of her rescuer she could only describe him as ‘Some wog.’
We’re multicultural now but some are more multicultural than others.
I was thinking about food without much enthusiasm when the phone rang.
‘Hardy at home.’
‘This is Bron, out in the fucking world. I have to talk to someone. Can I come and see you?’
‘Sure you can.’
‘Are you alone?’
Very much so, I thought. ‘Yes.’
‘I know you said Glebe. What’s the address?’
I told her and she said she’d be with me in under half an hour. I hung up and thought about tidying the living room and didn’t, remembering the state of her own place. I rinsed a few dishes and stacked them in the drainer.
I had half a dozen eggs, a couple of onions, a wilted capsicum and a tomato. I could make one of my specialties—a chilli omelette. I had an unopened bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin and some tonic water. No lemon. Two bottles of generic white.
The doorbell rang. She stood in the dim porch light still in the clothes she’d been wearing earlier, with a scarf for a bit of extra warmth. No glasses.
‘Hi,’ she said.
‘Come in.’
‘A house. All yours?’
‘Mostly. The bank has a bit of it. Come through. Would you like a drink? I’ve got gin, whisky and wine.’
‘A G&T would be great.’
‘No lemon.’
‘I wouldn’t mind if there was no tonic even.’
We went through to the kitchen where you could sit in reasonable comfort around a benchtop. She hung her bag on a door handle, her jacket and scarf on the back of a chair and sat while I prepared the drinks.
‘A single man in a place this size,’ she said. ‘I’m guessing you weren’t always single.’
‘That’s right. Have been for a while though. Just can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.’
I made two strong drinks and sat down opposite her. She touched glasses and took a long swallow.
‘That hits the spot.’
‘Tough meeting?’
‘As always. I’m the only woman. What’ve you been doing since we were together?’
‘I was interviewed by the police about Mountjoy’s murder.’
‘Why?’
I explained the background and she listened intently. We worked on our drinks. She’d seemed to be trying to relax and wasn’t doing very well at it until the gin started to help. She drank quickly and rattled the ice cubes.
‘Refill?’
‘Better not. Got anything to eat? I’m starving.’
I made the omelette, halved it and served it
with toast then poured the cheap wine. She ate and drank quickly, nervous again. She finished and wiped her mouth with a tissue from a box on the table.
‘I needed that.’
I laughed. ‘Well, you didn’t have much lunch.’
She smiled. ‘I’m nervous.’
‘I noticed. More wine?’
‘Just a touch. How did things go with the police?’
‘I convinced Detective O’Connor I hadn’t killed Sir Keith Mountjoy with a shotgun. What happened at your meeting to upset you?’
‘They told me I had to find Ronald Saunders and I said I would although I had no fucking idea how to do it except one—through you.’
‘So that’s why you’re here?’
‘Not entirely.’
We stood and moved together. I put my arms around her and felt her hands on my shoulders, drawing me closer. We kissed tentatively and then again, harder. She tasted of wine and chilli and her lips didn’t feel thin. Her body felt strong and eager and my response was immediate. She spoke in her husky voice close to my ear.
‘I had a feeling that you liked me.’
‘What gave you that idea?’
‘Little things and one big thing—you were glad I hadn’t fucked Ronald.’
‘You’re right,’ I said.
14
Upstairs she peeled off her sweater and undid her bra to reveal very small, very firm breasts. She took my hands and placed them so that they covered her breasts completely.
‘Are you a tit man?’ She pressed against me. ‘Oh, I see that you are.’
After that it was frantic—a tugging at zips, a scramble for a condom—and physical, our teeth clashing, our knees giving way. She was thin; her hip bones dug into me as we locked together. I didn’t care. She whispered things I couldn’t hear for the roaring in my ears. I came too quickly despite trying not to and she thrust up hard, gripping and grinding until she let out a series of groans and fell back.
Somehow we ended up side by side still joined.
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I was too quick. It’d been a while.’
She eased away and we separated. ‘Didn’t matter. I got there.’ I ran my hands down her body.
