That Empty Feeling

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That Empty Feeling Page 14

by Peter Corris


  ‘Jesus, so he really went rogue. I thought I was treating him okay.’

  ‘She must’ve made him an offer he couldn’t refuse, at least about grabbing Ronny. Whether she put a contract on Sir Keith’s still up in the air.’

  ‘Wouldn’t put it past her. She’s a right bitch. Ever met her?’

  ‘No. Spoke to her on the phone once.’

  ‘Keep it like that. She’s poison.’

  I explained my plan to use Keppler to get information about the Mogul insider or insiders and to do a deal with the Feds that’d involve immunity for him.

  ‘Pretty neat,’ he said. ‘You’re a cunning bastard.’

  ‘But it hinges on her; Bronwen with the look,’ I said.

  Barry, seeming better still but tiring now, heaved himself up for more comfort against the pillows. ‘She’ll be back,’ he said.

  Ronny wasn’t recovering as well as Barry; he’d apparently had a relapse since I’d last visited. The doctor told me he was suffering from shock as much as from the combined effects of drugs and alcohol.

  ‘There’s sexual trauma as well,’ he said.

  ‘Sexual trauma?’

  ‘I gather he was subjected to some pretty extreme sadomasochistic procedures that have left a mark on him. He has nightmares about this, and we’ve got him sedated on Valium.’

  ‘But he’ll be okay?’

  ‘Yes, with time and care and . . . I hesitate to say it, positive experiences.’

  Didn’t sound like the time to tell Ronny that Barry wasn’t his dad, or that the Federal Police had tried to lay a honey trap for him. I went into his room and found him staring at the TV with the sound muted.

  ‘What’s on?’

  ‘Dunno. Some dumb movie.’ He clicked the remote device and turned the set off. He rubbed at the chafe marks on his wrists, now scabbing over nicely and probably itchy as hell. I’d thought they were from O’Malley’s restraints and maybe they were, but, from what the doctor had said, something else as well. He reached down to the floor and pulled up a tabloid newspaper.

  ‘You live in Glebe, don’t you?’

  I nodded.

  ‘That shooting. Was it you?’

  I shook my head. ‘A cop shot Des O’Malley. He was after me for knocking him about when I rescued you. As they say, he’s helping them with their enquiries.’

  ‘Into what?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘There’s a hell of a lot you’re not telling me.’

  ‘You have to concentrate on getting better. Barry’s going to need you.’

  ‘I’m no fucking good to him as I am. Cliff, do you remember that woman who picked me up at the drinks party?’

  Careful now, I thought. He seemed to have forgotten about her helping in Glebe and getting him to the rest home. Was he that scrambled? ‘I’m not sure . . .’

  ‘I saw you pointing me out to her.’

  ‘Oh, yeah—tall, glasses.’

  ‘That’s right. Do you know who she is?’

  I shook my head. ‘Who did she say she was?’

  ‘That’s the bugger of it. I can’t remember after all that’s happened. I really liked her and I was shitty to her, I remember that. I’d like to see her again and apologise. You’re a detective. There must be a list of people invited to the party. Do you think you could find her?’

  Great, I thought, just what the doctor ordered, but tricky as hell. ‘I could try.’

  He looked more alert. ‘Would you? I’d be bloody grateful. I can’t pay you though, and after all you’ve done, I . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I’m still working for your dad.’

  And, I thought, digging myself a deeper and deeper emotional hole.

  He pulled himself more upright in the bed. ‘Tell you what, there’s a gym here. How about we put the gloves on and have a spar?’

  ‘Jesus, Ronny, you must be joking!’

  ‘You look pretty fit to me and you’ve got a stone and a half advantage. A middleweight against the light-heavy. Come on, just a spar. I’d go easy.’

  ‘What about your ribs?’

  ‘Feeling better and I’ll pad up. You avoid body shots and I’ll stay away from that black eye.’

  ‘Some spar that’d be. I wouldn’t want anyone to see it.’

  He was lively, jumping out of his skin. The Valium didn’t seem to be doing much for his jitters. ‘It’ll be fun. Maybe you could find that . . . whatever her name is and bring her along.’

  ‘When you’re better,’ I said. ‘When you’re out of here.’

  ‘You’re on!’ he shouted.

  At home I put together a rather wilted salad, grilled some chops and boiled some new potatoes that weren’t really new anymore. I put Dylan’s Desire on the stereo and ate while listening to ‘Hurricane’. Great song, great album. I was down to the last few chords and mouthfuls when the phone rang. I gulped, swilled and answered.

  ‘Hardy, I think you know who this is.’

  Keppler. I resisted the mischievous impulse to imitate his accent.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I may have some names for you,’ Keppler said.

  ‘That’s interesting. You’ll have to give me some time to make arrangements.’

  ‘There’s no hurry. I see your adversary O’Malley is in hospital. Under guard, would you say?’

  ‘I imagine so.’

  ‘Lucky for him, however it turns out. There’s no hurry but don’t leave it too long before contacting me.’

  ‘What’s too long?’

  ‘I’ll leave that to your imagination.’

  He hung up. He was no fool, Keppler. I was left in no doubt about his potential for ruthless action and the essential vulnerability of my position. But it cut both ways; he would be equally edgy, and I calculated I had time to figure out how to contact Bron and the Federales.

  26

  As it turned out I didn’t have to bother. When I checked the answering machine there was a message, in a muffled voice that might or might not have been Bron’s. ‘Call BM,’ followed by a phone number. The big question was whether this was a private message or Bronwen contacting me in her official police capacity. I found myself hoping it was both, although I was unsure how that would work. I rang the number.

  ‘Yes?’ Her voice.

  ‘Bron, it’s Cliff.’

  ‘Good. We have to talk.’

  ‘What about?’

  She ignored that. ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘Just now? Sparring with Ronny Saunders about not sparring with him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You asked, I told you.’

  ‘You’re an infuriating man. I mean . . .’

  ‘I know what you mean and I need to talk to you, but I have to know who I’m talking to, a private person or a member of the Federal Police. I’ll talk to either but I need to know first.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve made some progress and I need official help. If they’ve kicked you out of the force, well, we can go out for a meal and see what happens. If you’re still working I need to see you urgently. That is, after I see some evidence that you’re still on the job.’

  ‘What kind of evidence?’

  ‘A colleague with credentials.’

  There was a long pause while she digested this. Eventually I heard an exasperated sigh. ‘That can be arranged,’ she said. ‘Be at my flat at 10 am tomorrow.’

  ‘Please,’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘Cliff . . .’

  ‘Do I bring a plate?’

  ‘Bring whatever you like, just be there. How’s Ronald?’

  ‘Getting better. He wants to see you to apologise for his bad behaviour the night he wanted to fuck you.’

  ‘Does he know that you and I . . . ?’

  ‘No. He doesn’t even remember that you were there to clean him up and help get him to the rest home. That’s how out of it he was.’

  ‘Is he part of this progress you say you’ve made?’ I could hear the
reluctance to ask in her voice but her need to do it. I thought that was enough for now.

  ‘No, it’s something else,’ I said. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  I hung up and thought things over. Barry and Ronny were safe; Des O’Malley was out of the way; Keppler was being cooperative and it looked as if I had made contact with the Federal Police. Bronwen had laughed. Why didn’t I feel better?

  I caught sight of my reflection in the heavy glass door to Bronwen’s block of flats. I looked tired. The door clicked open in response to the buzzer and I went up to her floor. I knocked and Bronwen let me in. No hug, no kiss.

  She wore a stylish grey blouse with a loose tie at the neck, a just-below-the-knee black skirt and medium heels. She escorted me into the living area where a man in a suit was standing looking out the window.

  ‘Cliff, this is Commander Simon Black of the Federal Police. Sir, this is Cliff Hardy.’

  We shook hands. Black was a medium-sized man in every sense—height, breadth, weight. He was in his mid-forties, greying at the temples, with a world-weary look. Dark suit, white shirt, blue tie. I’d dressed down—leather jacket, navy open-necked shirt, jeans, Blundstones. He didn’t like the look of me and didn’t like being shorter, lighter and, at a guess, having no desk to sit behind. I sat in an armchair. I might have made the move with more familiarity than I’d intended and he didn’t like that either. He remained standing.

  ‘Coffee?’ Bronwen said.

  Black nodded.

  ‘Thanks, Bron,’ I said, ‘black no sugar.’

  She went out of the room and Black took a notebook from his pocket and turned over a few leaves. ‘Sergeant Marr has you saying you’ve made progress. I assume that means in relation to the investigation she’s told you about.’

  His tone betrayed his intense unhappiness that she’d told me anything. I shifted for more comfort in the chair and looked past him out at the grey sky.

  ‘Did she also tell you that I want to see solid evidence that you are who you are and hold the rank she says you do?’

  ‘You don’t trust her?’

  ‘Jesse James trusted Bob Ford, and look what happened there.’

  His dislike of me intensified but he took out his wallet and passed me an embossed photo ID card and a letter from the head of the Federal Police Force advising him of his promotion to his present rank. I handed the documents back.

  ‘Do you expect me to call you Commander?’

  He unbuttoned his jacket and dropped into the chair opposite me. ‘Hardy, you can call me whatever the fuck you like as long as you stop playing games and get serious.’

  ‘You’re right, Simon,’ I said. ‘I was just sizing you up. Serious it is, but I think Sergeant Marr should be present.’

  Bron came in with a tray, a coffee pot, three mugs, milk and sugar. She sat on the sofa, served herself and left us to do the same.

  I told them about my suspicions that Betty Lee Mountjoy had hired O’Malley to snatch Ronny to use against his father. The look they exchanged indicated that they registered the irony of this. It had been their own plan, minus the kidnap, I assumed. I said it was possible that O’Malley had killed Sir Keith but that I had no solid evidence of that. I said that O’Malley’s attempt to kill me was a private matter between us and that Sergeant Marr had saved my life. I added that I had a possible source who might confirm what I thought.

  ‘A source?’ Black said. ‘You’re talking like a bloody journalist.’

  ‘Worst enemy of you covert types,’ I said. ‘A go-between, then—a player—the person who says he has some names to give us. People inside the Mogul refinery who could be the operators of the scam you’re investigating.’

  That got their attention. Black had been sipping his coffee and not displaying a lot of interest until this point. He put his mug down as I picked mine up for dramatic effect.

  ‘You say you have a . . . source inside Mogul?’ Black said.

  ‘Not inside, but close, very close. He’s willing to meet you and give you the names and his evidence of their . . . complicity.’

  ’Who is this?’

  I finished my coffee and sat back. I shot a look at Bronwen, who was studying her hands.

  ‘There’s some dealing to be done before we get to that,’ I said. ‘I’m hoping you have the authority to make these deals.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘No.’

  I told them about the need for immunity from prosecution for Barry Bartlett and my source.

  Black shook his head. ‘Bartlett’s a major target.’

  ‘He’s not the major target and you’re getting nowhere. You don’t know who the major target is.’

  ‘And you do?’

  ‘I think so. It all needs a bit more work and that can only be done if you agree to my terms.’

  ‘What’s to stop us arresting you and charging you with obstruction and possibly a few other things?’

  ‘You’ll never get close to the heart of it if you do.’

  ‘This . . . informant of yours, what crimes of his have to be overlooked?’

  ‘Just involvement in the kidnapping of Ronald Saunders, as far as I know. I should have said that Bartlett will cooperate with you in return for immunity.’

  Black twisted his wedding ring several times. ‘That does put a different light on it. I think I can ensure the immunities if the information leads to a prosecution.’

  I shook my head. ‘Too many legal and political slip-ups possible in that. I need something more solid up-front.’

  Black got up, stretched and stood staring out of the window. I looked at Bronwen. She shrugged, and I had no idea what that meant.

  Eventually Black turned around to face me.

  ‘Under certain circumstances the Attorney-General can give a written guarantee of immunity as long as the testimony of the person concerned is utterly truthful.’

  ‘That sounds very legalistic. Are you a lawyer?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘That’d be okay for Barry but . . . my source won’t be testifying at all and he’s the one with the crucial information.’

  ‘If I understand you,’ Bronwen spoke slowly and deliberately as if distilling everything she’d heard so far, ‘his crime is just to do with the . . . abduction of Ronald. Arranging, not actually conducting it.’

  I nodded.

  ‘His evidence could be given in camera and taped and we could give an undertaking that would also be taped. Perhaps a transcript of that could even be signed and lodged somewhere mutually agreeable.’

  ‘That’d do it,’ I said.

  ‘Of course,’ Black said, ‘alternatively we could subpoena your telephone records and find out who you’ve been talking to.’

  I smiled at him. ‘That wouldn’t help you. But if you’ve got CCTV cameras installed in Jubilee Park, Glebe . . .’

  Bronwen’s grin was cut off by a glance from Black. ‘It was just a thought,’ Black said. ‘Sergeant, would you be so kind as to get my coat? I’ve got a lot to do.’

  Bronwen came back with a dark coat and a blue scarf. Black shrugged into the coat and arranged the scarf fussily.

  ‘I’ll be in touch through Sergeant Marr,’ he said. ‘There’ll have to be a number of meetings, you understand.’

  I was on my feet, politely. ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘meetings to arrange meetings.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  He gave me a curt nod and Bronwen escorted him out. I moved quickly across to the door to listen for any conversation between them in the hallway outside but if there was one, it was too brief and quiet for me to hear. I was taking off my jacket in the now overheated room when Bronwen came back. She stood, fiddling with the tie at the neck of her blouse.

  ‘He didn’t ask for any evidence that I actually have a source,’ I said.

  ‘Do you have evidence?’

  ‘Just a scrap.’

  ‘He’s not dumb, Cliff. If you were bluffing you’re the greatest actor since Olivier.’

  I trie
d for the Welsh plus Oxford voice: ‘Burton, for mine, darling.’

  We moved simultaneously, wrapped our arms around each other and kissed fiercely.

  *

  Later, between the sheets, I asked her what had happened after she’d shot O’Malley. She said she’d been taken to Canberra and thoroughly grilled over everything that had gone on since her assignment to contact Ronny.

  ‘And you told them everything?’

  ‘Yes, my career was on the line.’

  It was warm in the bed and we’d both had big slugs of brandy in fresh coffees. I liked the long length of her next to me. I stroked her bare shoulders. She kissed me and let her hand slide up my leg to my crotch.

  ‘Go ahead, ask questions. I won’t be offended.’

  ‘I don’t want to ask questions.’

  ‘Yes you do.’

  ‘All right, did they . . . exonerate you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what’s your assignment now?’

  She laughed. ‘To keep an eye on you and get as much out of you as I can.’

  ‘Well, you’ve done that.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘For now.’

  She kissed me again. ‘I’m glad I didn’t fuck Ronald.’

  ‘So am I,’ I said. ‘But quite a few others did.’

  27

  We decided to visit Ronny. I told Bron again that he wanted to apologise to her.

  ‘That’d be nice,’ she said, ‘I can’t remember when I last had an apology.’

  ‘Don’t get a lot of that in our game,’ I said.

  ‘Our game? I like that.’

  We took the Audi and didn’t speak much on the drive, didn’t need to; we’d reached that point of companionship that feels good but which I’d learned to mistrust. When we arrived at the rest home the receptionist looked at me with a puzzled frown.

  ‘We’d like to see Mr Saunders,’ I said.

  ‘He’s gone, Mr Hardy.’

  ‘He’s what?’

  ‘He left this morning with the man who was guarding him. Let me see, a Mr Bartlett rang and settled the bill by credit card. The . . . guard had clothes for Mr Saunders.’

  ‘What did Dr Richardson say?’

 

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