by Peter Corris
She became flustered at my sharpness. ‘He wasn’t on duty. There was nothing I could do, Mr Hardy. Mr Saunders was a voluntary patient and the account had been settled by a man who said he was his father. Mr Saunders had showed great improvement after . . .’
‘Yes, yes. It’s not your fault.’
She scrabbled on her desk and came up with an envelope. ‘This was left for you. I thought everything was a bit abrupt and I wondered about the medications but . . .’
I almost snatched the envelope from her and turned away. Bron watched me tear it open and we reached a moment of truth. I read the message and handed the sheet of paper to her. Block capitals read: GO TO YOUR OFFICE CHECK FAX.
‘Better do it,’ Bron said. ‘Am I in this with you or not?’
I nodded to the receptionist, took Bron’s arm and we hurried out. We moved quickly to the Audi, got in and Bron started the motor.
‘What do you think?’ she said.
‘I’m trying to work it out. St Peters Lane, Darlinghurst. Fast as you can.’
‘Who was this guard?’
‘Barry assigned a guard. I don’t know who he used for a job of this kind but I’ve got a horrible feeling I’m about to find out.’
‘This is something you haven’t told us about.’
‘Sorry. I think it’s to do with my informant. It should become clearer when I’ve read the fax.’
The silence on this drive was of a different order. My mind was buzzing with possibilities, none of which had any real substance. But a gut feeling can overrun substance. After a while I abandoned all thought apart from a concern for Ronny, who could never have imagined the things that were in store for him when he left the Old Dart.
Bron parked in my space and we went up to the office. She wasn’t impressed by the surroundings and sneezed as some of the disturbed age-old dust hit her. I was used to it. I opened the door and went straight to the fax machine. A sheet had spilled out and fallen into the tray. It was a dark, blotchy photograph of a hooded man tied to a chair. A sleeve of his shirt had been ripped away to expose a tattoo.
Ronny.
Bron looked enquiringly at me and I nodded. At the bottom of the photo a phone number was written in thick black ink. I took out Keppler’s card and showed it to Bron.
‘This is your source?’
I nodded.
‘And you let him grab Ronald.’
‘Not exactly. Hold on.’
The light on my answering machine was blinking and I hit the play button. Barry’s voice, strangled, agitated, crackled.
‘Cliff, what the fuck’s going on? I got a call telling me to settle Ronny’s bill or he’d be dead. Whoever it was put Ronny on and he said he had a knife at his throat, so I did it. Where the fuck are you? What’re you doing?’
I rang Barry’s number and put the phone on broadcast. Barry answered and shouted abuse.
‘Shut up, Barry. Who did you use to provide guards for Ronny?’
‘What? Shit, that Botany Security mob. I . . .’
‘Okay, take it easy. They won’t kill him. They want to bargain.’
‘Who? I don’t fuckin’ understand.’
‘You will. Take it easy. Take a pill. I’ve gotta go.’
I hung up. I sat in my chair behind the desk and pulled the phone towards me. Bron perched on the edge of the desk and lit a cigarette, the first I’d ever seen her smoke. I felt like one myself, but after several smoke-free years I fought the urge.
She smoked and tapped ash into the waste-paper bin. ‘So?’ I told her about Keppler and him undertaking to help the investigation of the Mogul scam in return for immunity. I said he’d told me he had names and I said that I thought a meeting between him and her Commander Black and Barry might help resolve things to everyone’s satisfaction.
‘You took a lot on yourself,’ she said.
‘Too much.’ I dialled the number on the fax sheet. As expected, after a few bleeps—Keppler.
‘Hardy, it’s time for you to take stock.’
‘How’s that?’
‘You’ve been talking to the Federal Police.’
‘That was the arrangement.’
‘The arrangement has changed. I’m no longer seeking immunity for supposed crimes. In fact, I never was. Just wanted to see how much you wanted the information. Surprised you fell for it, Hardy—thought you’d be more suspicious.’
‘Actual crimes,’ I said. ‘Not “supposed”.’ I was trying to get the upper hand—he was right. I should have been more suspicious.
‘As you wish. You’re going to call the Federal Police off. You’re going to tell them you were bluffing, or lying about having information. I don’t care which.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘You’ve seen the photograph. That young man is our bargaining chip.’
‘It’s too late, Keppler. I’ve already told them about my conversation with you.’
‘No you haven’t.’
Bron’s eyebrows shot up when she heard that. I put my finger to my lips.
‘There’s no hurry,’ Keppler said. ‘We’ll hold our young hostage to ensure Mr Bartlett’s silence while you persuade your girlfriend to . . . let us say, divert the investigation. Point it in another direction.’
‘I’m not sure I can do that.’
‘You must.’
‘Or what?’
‘Or young Mr Saunders dies and in such a way that it appears you’ve killed him.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘It’s not nonsense, chommie. We have the resources to do it. I’ll leave you to think it over.’
‘Let me speak to him.’
‘No.’
He hung up. I replaced the receiver, pulled out the deep bottom drawer and fished out the bottle of scotch, half full; or half empty, depending on your mood. Paper cups from another drawer, ice from the bar fridge. I looked at Bron, who’d moved from the desk to the client chair. She stubbed her cigarette in the waste-paper bin and was lighting another.
‘Is that your solution?’ she said.
I fanned smoke away, although there really wasn’t much. ‘Is that yours?’
I made two strong drinks and pushed one towards her.
‘This is a mess,’ she said.
‘It’s a cock-up, is what it is,’ I said. ‘Partly theirs—’ I pointed to the fax sheet—‘partly mine, partly yours.’
We each had a drink. She snuffed out the barely smoked cigarette. ‘How do you figure that?’
‘I should’ve checked on the guard, found out who he worked for. I shouldn’t have taken so much of what Keppler said at face value.’
‘Okay. I can see that. What mistake has he made?’
I had another drink and re-ran Keppler’s words in my mind. ‘The stakes have gone up. He’s talked to someone he’s working with.’
‘Who?’
‘I’d be guessing.’
‘So, guess.’
‘He’s more involved in the fuel scam than I thought. That was dumb of me. That’s one thing. I think he might also be more involved in the Keith Mountjoy hit.’
‘You didn’t say much about that to Commander Black.’
I shrugged. ‘It was all paper-thin at that point, but I wondered if Lady Mountjoy had two commissions for O’Malley.’
‘So what are you wondering now?’
‘I’m wondering if the dragon lady is also right in the middle of the fuel scam, up to her neck in it, and Keppler is providing big-time protection.’
Bron swilled her drink. ‘I met her briefly at the BBE bash.’
‘How did she strike you?’
‘As expensive and . . . influential.’
I nodded and we both drank slowly. Some of the tension went out of her as the liquor worked. She slumped a little in the chair. ‘You don’t need to spell it out.’
‘Spell what out?’
‘Your suspicions as far as our unit is concerned,’ she said. ‘The way we haven’t made much progress. The feeling that we’re off the pace
somehow. Some of us believe we’ve got a leak.’
I shook my head. ‘You haven’t got a leak, love, I think you’ve got a mole.’
28
Bron said there were six members of the special unit, including herself. I asked her if there was anyone she thought could be a candidate.
‘That’s hard,’ she said. ‘It’s hard to make a difference between dislike and distrust.’
‘Black?’
‘No, he’s a straight arrow, I’m sure.’
‘If you had to guess.’
She finished her drink and crushed the paper cup. ‘Courtney Beal,’ she said in a perfect harsh Boston accent. Very Katharine Hepburn.
‘American?’
‘Very. I’ll bet her underwear has stars and stripes on it. She was seconded from FBI, part of our suck-up to our nearest and dearest ally program. She’s a creep.’
‘Glad to see you’re not differentiating between dislike and distrust.’
‘You asked. She comes on to all the men, never does anything really, but never puts a foot wrong.’
‘Do you know anything else about her?’
‘Only that she’s got all the tickets. Degree from Duke, MBA from Harvard.’
‘How old is she?’
Bron caught the sudden rise in the level of my interest. ‘Late thirties. Why?’
‘Lady Betty Lee Mountjoy did her MBA at Harvard.’
‘That’s thin.’
‘Let’s try and thicken it up. Let’s say Lady Betty Lee is the money and the brains behind the whole thing and Keppler is in it with her and your Courtney Beal is their mole.’
‘That’s a massive set of assumptions.’
‘It fits certain facts.’ I gestured for her to come and sit in my chair with the phone to hand. I got up and took Keppler’s card from my wallet.
‘That’s your bit of evidence,’ Bron said.
‘Right. You ring him and use that voice you do so well. Just say who you are. If he recognises the voice and reacts, he’ll be angry because presumably they’d have a different way of communicating, certainly not the number on his card.’
She cleared her throat. ‘Okay, then what?’
‘You just sound agitated, apologise, and say you’ll call again later and hang up.’
‘If you’re right about this he’ll contact her.’
‘Yes, and she’ll deny calling him and . . .’
‘He won’t believe her and he’ll be worried.’
‘I would be,’ I said. ‘Shit!’
‘What?’
‘Nearly a fatal mistake. He’ll have caller ID and he knows my number. We’ll have to do it from a public phone. Better in a way—traffic noise’ll help. Are you sure you can do it, Bron?’
‘You’re a bit of a mimic yourself, aren’t you?’
‘Whitlam of course, Burton, Bogart, Michael Caine, that’s about it.’
‘I’m a bit more versatile than that and I’ve got that bitch down pat.’
We left the office and found a phone just inside a shop in William Street. The traffic was loud but not thunderous. I gave Bron the card and she dialled the number. I couldn’t hear Keppler’s response but she went through the routine pretty much as I’d suggested it. She kissed the card before handing it back to me.
‘Like clockwork. He’ll be a worried man. What now?’
‘You convince Commander Black that we’re on to something and bring him in with all the resources he can muster.’
We walked back to St Peters Lane and her car. She jiggled her keys and let out a sigh.
I took her arm. ‘What?’
‘I forgot all about Ronald.’
‘I didn’t. We have no idea where he is and this is the only way I can think of to find him.’
We went to Bron’s flat and she phoned Commander Black. I went out onto the balcony to let her talk in private. I had a sense that she needed to demonstrate some independence and I was happy to give her room for that.
She came out and stood beside me as a nippy wind buffeted the city. Spring in Sydney, before global warming started to bite. I put my arm around her shoulders. She didn’t resist but she didn’t draw any closer.
‘He’s coming,’ she said.
‘You must have been convincing.’
‘I think he dislikes Ms Beal as much as I do. All we can do is lay it out for him and see what action he’s prepared to take.’
When I didn’t reply she dug an elbow into my ribs.
‘What’re you thinking, Cliff?’
‘I’m wondering whether it wouldn’t be better for me just to get to Keppler and apply the blowtorch.’
‘I don’t think so. I think we have to bargain with him to save Ronald. I feel sort of responsible for him.’
We went inside when rain slanted into the balcony. Still standing close beside me, Bron asked me if I wanted a drink.
‘What’ve you got?’
‘Beer and scotch.’
‘I’ll have a little of both. Does the Commander like a drink?’
‘I don’t know. We’ve never socialised.’
‘Doesn’t sound like a cosy operational unit.’
‘It isn’t. It never jelled. Always full of tension. The original idea was that Beal would go after Ronald but she somehow managed to hive it off to me. It was a shitty assignment; that’s why I feel responsible for him.’
Ronny had been drawn into the trouble by other forces, but the sentiment did her credit. She produced a bottle of Bell’s and a long-neck Resch’s pilsener and put them on the coffee table with glasses and a bowl of ice cubes.
‘Go for your life,’ she said.
The doorbell rang. Bron answered it and ushered Black, shrugging out of his coat, into the room. He saw the bottles on the table and nodded to Bron.
‘A large scotch and water please, Bronwen. Evening, Hardy. I’m gritting my teeth to try not to call you a fucking cowboy.’
‘Call me what you like, but your little mob got nowhere at all and now we at least have some idea of who’s involved in this thing.’
He nodded his thanks to Bron for the drink and took a long pull on it. ‘Bronwen told me just enough to get me here. I want the two of you to go over it all in detail and convince me that I did the right thing.’
Bron and I talked for some time, interrupting and glossing each other, and spelling out our slender evidence and strong suspicions. Black sipped his drink and remained silent. The rain drummed on the glass doors to the balcony. Relaxed by the whisky, Black and I took off our jackets. Bron looked cool and collected in her silk blouse but she toyed with the tie at the neck and I knew she desperately wanted a cigarette.
When we’d finished, Black drained his glass, reached out and made himself a weaker drink.
‘It might surprise you to know, Hardy, that we had suspicions of Lady Mountjoy.’
‘But not of Richard Keppler or Courtney Beal,’ I said.
‘No. Assuming you’re right, we have two targets. I’m empowered to arrest them both.’
‘Better do it quickly, sir,’ Bron said. ‘Otherwise Cliff is proposing to act . . . unilaterally.’
Black sipped at his diluted scotch. ‘Is he really? That raises interesting possibilities.’
29
Never underestimate a bureaucrat. The smart ones have a thousand ways to shift the blame to someone else and claim any credit that’s going. They may seem to have all their energies concentrated on the job at hand, but they have their own agendas, which only become apparent later.
Black was one of those people who could turn on the charm when he wanted to and make you feel he was doing you a favour when he proposed something. He outlined a strategy that involved me confronting Keppler and offering him a deal—no prosecution in return for everything he knew about the fuel operation including names and documentation, plus the release of Ronald Saunders unharmed. It was more or less the arrangement I thought I’d worked out with Keppler, with one difference. Black would move against Lady Betty Lee Mou
ntjoy with all the resources at his command but delay just long enough for Keppler to agree to the terms.
‘It’s a tried and tested method,’ Black said. ‘It’s called leverage.’ He pronounced it the American way. ‘Keppler knows that Lady Mountjoy would drop everyone in the shit to save her own skin. He has to take the deal before she can do that.’
It sounded as though Black had bought our story lock, stock and barrel but I wasn’t convinced.
‘Would that be a bluff on your part about Lady Betty Lee?’
‘It would be up to you to convince Keppler that it isn’t.’
That wasn’t an answer but it was clearly all I was going to get. Black said he’d have a team to back me up when I made my run at Keppler.
‘What about Beal?’ Bron said.
Black smiled and finished his drink. ‘Leave her to me,’ he said.
The arrangement was for me to present myself at Botany Security at 4 pm the following day and demand to see Keppler in private. Black would arrange for an interruption to the office’s electricity supply and put two of his people, acting as technicians, inside the building.
‘We’ll have studied the floor plans and put them as close to you as possible,’ Black said. ‘How personally dangerous is Keppler, would you say?’
I thought about that solid build, the calm, the steely eyes. ‘Very.’ I didn’t mention I’d already seen the floor plans.
‘You’ll be armed, I take it?’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘I would.’
We left it there. Black said he’d organise a meeting with all parties for 2 pm the next day at his hotel in Bondi. He had a brief private conversation with Bron in the hall before he left. When she came back she looked anxious.
‘Are you worried or just hungry?’ I said.
‘Fuck you, this is no joke. What do you think about this plan?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s full of holes, but I can’t think of anything better. Can you?’
‘No. I just wish there was some way we could find out where Ronald is. Some other way, I mean.’
‘We got lucky last time, now it’s different. Keppler could have him stashed anywhere.’
She paced the room. ‘I know. I studied that fax. There’s absolutely no hint as to where the picture was taken.’
