by Peter Corris
‘I know I’m skinny,’ she said. She felt the flesh at my waist. ‘Not bad for your age. No love handles to speak of. Do you go to the gym?’
‘Not as often as I should.’ I traced the lines of her shoulder bones. ‘I’m guessing you’re a runner.’
‘Hurdler,’ she said.
I kissed her. ‘A veritable gazelle.’
‘More poetry. I can’t work you out, Cliff.’
The bed had been unmade when we hit it, with a wrinkled bottom sheet now slipping towards the floor. Without too much disturbance I pulled up the top sheet and blanket and adjusted us so we were as comfortable as if we’d done this a hundred times before. Comfortable physically, but with everything else up for grabs.
‘I’m going to have to sleep for a while,’ she said. ‘Have you got another rubber?’
‘Mmm.’
‘In the morning.’
Eight am found us sexually satisfied, her in my kimono which was a present from a lover of some time back and me in a towelling bathrobe that had somehow got into my luggage after a hotel stay. We were drinking coffee, eating toast and marmalade and not looking our best. I was heavily stubbled and Bron’s face and other parts of her were roughened from my bristles.
She smeared marmalade on a third piece of toast, ate it and sipped coffee. ‘You fuck better than you make coffee.’
‘I hope so. My coffee always turns out bitter.’
She looked at me before she took a bite. ‘Is that supposed to mean something?’
‘Not at all. I’m not that metaphorical.’
She nodded and drank some coffee. ‘It’s not that bad anyway. Are you going to help me find Ronald or . . . ?’
‘Find whatever happened to him.’
‘I was going to say find out what he might have done.’
She’d had the same thought as me. Without any real reason to think so, it had crossed both our minds that Ronny might have killed Sir Keith. It wasn’t a strong suspicion for me. The garage attendant had described the shooter as big, but he was a weedy little number who might see all average-sized people as big. But the thought was there, and we still didn’t really know who Ronny was or what his agenda might be.
‘Can you tell me what it is your intelligence unit is looking into with BBE?’
‘I can’t, Cliff. I just can’t. I’m more or less on probation in the unit as it is. If I told you and it came out, that’d be the finish for me. I’d be back in uniform at least, if not off the force.’
‘O’Connor asked me who I was with at lunch yesterday. I didn’t tell him. Doesn’t that count for anything?’
She reached out and touched my hand. ‘Thank you, but no.’
‘I see.’
‘So you won’t help.’
‘I didn’t say that, but we’ll have to strike a deal. If we find Ronny you have to agree to let me talk to him first.’
‘So you’ve got an idea.’
‘Just one, a long shot.’
The kimono had fallen open and I could see her breasts. She saw me looking and covered herself. ‘Okay, it’s a deal. What’s the idea?’
‘The last person we know of who saw Ronny was a woman who left her earring in his bed.’
Bron nodded. ‘A hooker. Just how many are there in Sydney, would you say?’
‘He’s disappointed that you’ve gone and he’s randy. He’s had an argument with his father later in the day. He wants female company. What’s he likely to do?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Get someone local who’d be there quickly. He’d be eager, and after missing out on you he wouldn’t go looking in the street. He’d want something classier.’
‘Thanks. How many brothels in Paddo?’
‘A few, probably, but maybe we can narrow it down if there’s a redial function on his phone. I’ve still got the keys.’
We went in two cars, hers a newish-looking Audi. People had left for work and we were able to park reasonably close and not too far apart.
‘The rent’d be steep,’ Bron said as we went up the stairs.
‘Barry owns the block.’
‘The wages of sin.’
The place was exactly as it had been when I’d last inspected it. Bron eyed the empty Great Western champagne bottle and the plastic glasses.
‘Funny,’ she said, ‘it feels like a crime scene but it isn’t, is it?’
‘Hope not.’ I took out a notebook and a pen and sat down by the phone.
‘Hold on,’ Bron said. ‘It’s not even ten o’clock. Would they be answering?’
‘Depends on their MO. Some places are round-the-clock, but if they aren’t they have an answering machine.’
‘Hit it,’ she said.
I pressed redial and poised my pen. The voice that came on the line had the breathy, fruity tones of the profession, the vowels overproduced and the pitch low: You have called the Paddington Pussies but we’re afraid you’ll have to wait. We know you will. Please call back after six for what will be an evening to remember.
Bron was already leafing through the Yellow Pages. She held out the open page—a big spread extolling the qualities of young, exotic escorts. ‘This is it, Raleigh Crescent, off Oxford Street. What now?’
We were both on our feet, me putting away my notebook and her letting go of the directory. I reached out for her but she held me back. ‘What now?’ she repeated.
The tension between us was palpable. ‘This is my territory, not yours,’ I said. ‘You tell your people, whoever they are, you have a line of enquiry. I’ll contact you when I learn anything.’
‘What do you mean by “whoever they are”?’
‘I’ve had a lot of experience with police, Bron. There’s good and bad among them; there’s certainly discreet and indiscreet.’
‘You don’t trust me.’
‘I want to trust you.’
‘That’s all?’
‘For now.’
‘I’m glad we came in our own cars.’ She turned abruptly and walked out.
I found a plastic bag in a kitchen drawer and put the smeared glass in it.
The tenant in flat one opened the door as I was leaving the building. He was back in his dressing gown. A gentleman of leisure.
‘How is he, our lord and master?’
‘He’s in a coma.’
‘God, and this used to be such a quiet building.’
‘And not now?’
‘Well, not after that drama and the kerfuffle the night before.’
‘What was that?’
He told me that he’d been aware of strange noises on the stairs late on that evening and that when he’d looked out his window he saw two men escorting the young man who’d not long moved in upstairs out to a car.
‘I assumed, you know, police, drugs. I kept my head down I can tell you.’
I showed him my PEA licence and said I was working for his landlord and asked if he could describe the men.
‘Oh, I only saw their backs, actually. One was big, I mean really big, the way some of them are. Then the . . . young woman left a little later.’
‘And she was . . . ?’
He shrugged elegantly. ‘A professional, I’d say. Not that I have any experience in that particular field.’
I went back to the office to find a message on the answering machine.
‘Mr Hardy, this is Simon Abrahams. I’ve had a message from the hospital that Barry Bartlett is awake and communicating. I’m tied up for the morning but if you’re going to see him you might tell him I’ll come in as soon as possible. I left the message, but some personal reinforcement would help.’
I was pleased on a number of counts. I had some time for Barry despite his chequered past and the signs that he was currently involved in something problematical. And because I had a client again. St Vincent’s was a walk away and I didn’t stop for flowers or grapes.
Barry had been moved out of Intensive Care into a private room. I asked if anyone else had been to see him and was told Mr
Templeton had just left. I was advised to make my visit short and not to upset the patient.
‘You tough old bastard,’ I said as I walked in and found Barry propped up against a heap of pillows. ‘You should be dead.’
‘Look who’s talking,’ he said. ‘Gidday, Cliff, they tell me I was lucky to have someone with a cool head on the spot. Thanks.’
‘The guy in number one helped. You might let him off a month’s rent, or two months.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll do that.’
‘Well, they’ve kept you alive until you decided not to throw in the towel. You boxed on, Barry. Doc Abrahams asked me to tell you he’ll be in as soon as he can.’
Barry was newly pale and his face had become drawn. His expression was hard to interpret with the new appearance. He smiled but the smile was slightly crooked. Looked as though the seizure had left some telltale traces.
‘Cy Abrahams! You’ve seen him?’
‘Wanted to know whether to write you off as a client or not.’
‘Fuck you. What did he tell you?’
A moment of truth, but I dodged it. ‘Medical stuff. Didn’t understand half of it. You’re going to have to make some changes . . .’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know. What about Ronny? Have you found him?’
I had plenty of material to upset him with: his non-paternity, Ronny’s abduction, Keith Mountjoy—but, in the hospital gown with the pale blue pillows supporting him, he seemed fragile.
‘Still looking,’ I said. ‘But I’ve got a lead.’
15
Paddington Pussies was open for business when I arrived at 7 pm. The wide three-storey terrace had a high front wall and a security gate. A low hum told me pressing the buzzer had activated a camera. I was wearing the suit I’d worn to Barry’s party and was freshly shaved and barbered. I had the jacket unbuttoned so the bagged glass in the pocket didn’t make an unsightly bulge. Evidently I passed muster because the heavy gate swung open. I went up a well-maintained tiled path to an equally neatly tiled porch. A door painted bright red stood open.
I went in. There was a carpeted central lobby with an ornate desk in the middle and behind that a wide staircase. The woman behind the desk was an impeccably made-up blonde in her forties showing three inches of deep cleavage. There was a white telephone on the desk, an ashtray with a gold packet of Benson & Hedges cigarettes and a gold lighter. Also a switch with a cable leading from it. Muted concealed strip lighting was kind to her.
‘Good evening, sir. How may we help you?’
It was the sculptured voice I’d heard on the answering machine. I showed her my licence. ‘You can help me with some information.’
She raised one plucked eyebrow. ‘Oh?’
‘About who serviced a client who phoned a few nights ago from an address in Paddington.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I’m pretty sure I could find some drugs in this establishment and I wouldn’t be surprised to turn up an under-age girl or two.’
Her manicured hand with long, scarlet fingernails moved to the switch.
‘Go ahead. Call him. We’ll have a chat.’
She pressed the switch and after a couple of minutes a man came down the stairs. He wore a suit over a rollneck skivvy. He was about my size, perhaps a bit bigger. He had a shaven head and wore a silver earring. He moved to the side of the desk.
‘Trouble, Hannah?’
I showed him the licence. ‘Shouldn’t be. I want to talk to one of your girls.’ I put my hand in my pocket and produced the earring. ‘She left this behind. I want to return it.’
‘Said he wanted information, Luke,’ Hannah said, her voice now not so modulated.
Luke shook his head. ‘Piss off,’ he said.
‘We can do this the quiet way or the noisy way,’ I said. ‘But it’s going to be done. Be smart and no one gets hurt. Business as usual.’
He took a brass knuckle-duster from his pocket, slipped it onto his left hand and came around the desk. I had two advantages—I knew what his first punch would be like and anyone moving sideways and forward is momentarily off balance.
My straight left came before he was properly set. As Sally Brewer said, fighting a southpaw starts with the footwork. I had my feet in the right position and my weight properly distributed. I ducked under the punch and hooked hard to his ribcage. He sagged against the desk and I hit him again, lower. The wind went out of him and he held onto the desk with both hands. The knuckle-duster fell into Hannah’s lap. I took hold of his earring, twisted it and he yelped.
‘Give me any trouble and I’ll rip it out. Okay, now that’s all the rough stuff there needs to be. Hannah—Carstairs Street in Paddington on Monday night.’
I’d thought about Ronny’s movements that night. It was about eight o’clock when he left the pub. Give him time to get to Barry’s, have an argument and go home again and think about being lonely and randy.
‘Some time around ten,’ I said, ‘name of Ronny. Who?’
It had all happened very quickly. Hannah was still staring at big Luke gasping for breath and squirming with my hand to his ear.
‘C . . . Cindy.’
‘I want her down here now! Just for a few words. Then I’m off and there’s no blood spilt. Right, Luke?’
He was game enough to take the chance as I knew he would be. He pulled free and swung but I was ready and I drove my knee into his groin and he went down screaming, catching the side of his naked head on the edge of the desk as he fell. I pointed to a couch by the wall a few yards to the side.
Hannah punched buttons on the phone. ‘Cindy, down to the desk, darling. Right now.’
‘Listen, Hannah, Cindy and I’ll be over there. You and Luke stay here.’
She looked down at the man with the bleeding head. He was clutching his crotch.
‘We thought he was tough,’ she said.
‘He might be, but he doesn’t get enough practice. With me, it’s a full-time job.’
Cindy came down the stairs—high heels, short skirt, long legs, tight top, big hair. She stopped a few steps up.
‘It’s okay, darling,’ Hannah said. ‘No problems. This . . . gentleman wants a word.’
Cindy’s voice was high-pitched and frightened. ‘What’s wrong with Luke?’
I beckoned for her to come down. ‘He tripped and fell. Don’t worry, I’ll keep my distance. Just a few questions.’
Her kohl-rimmed eyes widened and she looked at Hannah, who nodded. She came down and I ushered her across to the couch. She sat and I stood. She was in her early twenties, quite pretty but vacant-eyed. She summoned up a professional smile.
‘Have you got a cigarette?’
‘No, and you wouldn’t have time to smoke it. You went to Paddington on Monday night. Saw a guy named Ronny. You left this behind.’
I produced the earring. She nodded and looked very worried. She shot a glance at Hannah.
‘I know what happened,’ I said. ‘Two men came and took him away.’
‘Yes, I was bloody scared, like now.’
‘No need to be scared now, Cindy,’ I said in what I hoped was a reassuring voice. ‘All I want to know is how Ronny was, how the men got in, what they said and what they looked like. I know a bit about it so don’t lie to me.’
My attempt to be soothing hadn’t worked in my favour. Instead, she’d found a new level of confidence.
‘Fuck you! I’m not telling you anythink.’
I took the bagged glass from my pocket and showed it to her. ‘Cindy, this isn’t a police matter yet but it might be. That flat could be a crime scene, an abduction. This has your fingerprints on it. And puts you there. How would you feel about talking to the cops?’
The bravado left her. ‘I didn’t do nothink,’ she said.
‘I know you didn’t. Answer my questions and you can take this and throw it away.’
She reached for the bag but I moved it. She glanced across at the desk. Luke had gone.
‘What were the quest
ions again? I’ve forgotten.’
‘How was Ronny before the men came in?’
She couldn’t help herself, grinned. ‘He was horny.’
‘He paid you?’
‘Course he did. Up front. What d’you think? He was a good fuck, too.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Now, how did the men get in?’
Cindy wasn’t the brightest or her wits had been dulled by something. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Did they knock at the door?’
‘They just walked in.’
‘So they had a key?’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose.’
‘Okay, what did they say?’
‘I forget. Not much.’
‘Did Ronny resist? I mean fight them? Were you up and dressed by then?’
‘Yeah, he wanted to go out somewhere. He’d put his coat and scarf and that on, but I told him I had to get back to work.’
I waited for her to go on. She clearly had difficulty holding two thoughts in her head at the same time. ‘What did you ask again?’
‘Did he resist?’
‘Shit, he tried. He stepped in front of me like, and he pushed the little guy away but the big one hit him and he fell over. Then they sort of picked him up and took him out.’
‘You can’t remember anything they said?’
She shook her head.
‘What did they call him?’
She thought. ‘Ronny.’
‘What did they call each other?’
‘Huh?’
‘Did the big one call the smaller one anything or viceversa?’
‘Yeah, the big one said, “You’re a weak prick, Titch,” after Ronny pushed him away. He called him Titch. Titch got real angry. I was fuckin’ scared. Gimme the glass.’
‘In a minute. This is important. Describe them. The little one first.’
‘Like a fuckin’ jockey. Real little with a big nose. Never seen him before but I know the type. Some of them have big pricks.’
‘The big one?’
She put her hand to her face. ‘He had one of them . . . what’re they called? Sort of blotches.’
‘Birthmarks.’
‘Yeah. Red. Real ugly.’
I handed her the glass and the earring.
