by Peter Corris
Felicia sipped her coffee. ‘There was an American business type Barnes had some dealings with. It was last year. Constable or Sheriff or some name like that … I forget. Michael Hickie’d have the details.’
I took out my notebook, wrote ‘Constable?/Sheriff?’ and sighed.
‘Is this getting you down already, Cliff? I thought you were Mr Stick-at-it.’
I laughed. She had that effect on me. ‘Sounds Yugoslav.’
‘And in fact you are …?’
‘English and Irish. What about you?’
‘The same,’ she said.
The waiter had left the brass coffee pot on the table. I poured some more for both of us. ‘No, I’m not disheartened. I was just wondering where O’Fear fitted into all this.’
‘Ah, yes. O’Fear. Maybe he doesn’t fit.’
‘I’ve got a feeling he does. There’s no problem seeing him in the context of Barnes’ business activities. I’d be willing to bet he’s driven a truck at some stage, and I’m pretty sure he was in Korea.’
She raised her eyebrows at the disliked word. ‘What about art and such?’
I had good reasons for not wanting to go to Long Bay but I must have sounded surly when I spoke. ‘I don’t know. He was a folk singer and a Celtic revival nut. He might have done watercolours of Galway Bay for all I know.’
‘You’re a strange man, Cliff Hardy,’ Felicia said. ‘You’re half charm and half ill-temper. Just like …’
She didn’t finish but I had a fair idea what name she had in mind. It was a moderately awkward moment. We finished our coffee. I paid the bill and we left. It was a nice, mild night, perfect for a stroll around the park or a quiet drink on the balcony in Chalmers Street or a number of other things. But we weren’t going to do any of them. Barriers of guilt and repression were going up fast: the English and the Irish.
As we turned for home I asked her where the paintings and photographs were.
‘Safe,’ she said.
‘I hope they’re not at Thirroul. That’s …’
‘The first place anyone would look. I know. What if I told you they’re scattered around? Here and there?’
‘That’d be smart.’
She nodded and lengthened her stride to keep up with me. I hadn’t realised that I’d increased my speed. ‘What’s your next move?’
‘I’ll see O’Fear tomorrow. That reminds me, I should talk to Barnes’ doctor.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s standard.’
‘What are you implying? He was in the peak of health.’
Things were getting sticky. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘If you say so. Now I’m going to Coogee.’
‘Why?’
‘To see if that car’s anywhere near your house.’ She didn’t say anything more as we walked at a slower pace. The park was across the road, dark but not threatening. The lights that marked the paths gleamed through the trees. The leaves were moving in the light breeze. We stopped outside number 505.
‘How long d’you think I should stay here?’ she said.
I shrugged. ‘Depends. A couple of nights.’
‘I’d like to go to the coast.’
‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Might know something more by then.’
She clinked her keys in her pocket and I thought she was leaving, but she put her arm half around me, reached up and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Be careful,’ she said.
I did the slow circuit of the streets around the park again with the same result. Then I headed for Coogee. It was a high-mileage day. One of the penalties of the job. The meat and bread had soaked up the wine and the strong coffee was doing its job. Metabolically I was in good shape; emotionally not so good. Something was happening between me and Felicia Todd and I had the uncomfortable feeling that neither of us was in control of it.
It was a magic night in Coogee. The waves were curling up and lying down quietly, hitting the beach like a soft drumbeat, and the sky was clear out over the sea. Above the land were light, high clouds, the kind that obscure the moon for a few minutes and then move on. No sign of the car in question. I parked a hundred metres from the Todd house and walked along the quiet street. You don’t have to be in a car to watch a place. I’ve watched from roofs in my time, even from trees. The wild, scarcely tended front garden was ideal for watching. A couple of lights were on inside, but I expected that. I didn’t expect the shadow that moved, low and fast, in the front room.
I didn’t have a gun; I didn’t have any weapon except my ill-humour. I pushed open the gate and began to move towards the house, keeping to the cover provided by the shrubs and bushes. I searched with one hand for something to throw or hit with, but found nothing. I reached the side of the big front porch, which was high above ground level. The set of steps leading directly up to the porch and front door was bathed in moonlight. I swore under my breath, slipped out of my jacket and stuck my foot in the latticework under the porch. With a bit of a jump and grab I could pull myself up over the rail. I jumped and grabbed and pulled.
My shirt ripped, but that was the only sound I made. I tested the boards on the porch and found them solid. The front door was standing slightly open. I took two cautious steps towards it. A car horn honked twice loudly and I heard a squeal of tyres. I looked in the direction of the sounds and saw a car accelerate past the house and skid around the side street. I jumped forward, shoved the door open and ran into the house. I was halfway down the passage when I heard glass breaking at the back. The dog next door howled. I dashed through to the kitchen. The glass door that led to the terrace was wide open with one of its panes smashed. Glass crunched under my feet as I looked out at the yard; the fence was low and the drop to the street wasn’t much. You’d be unlucky to hurt yourself getting over it. No blood on the floor. A clean getaway.
The dog stopped howling and no lights came on in the house or the flats around. So much for neighbourliness. I went through the house, which had been thoroughly and messily searched. The alarm had been professionally short-circuited at one of the windows. I turned off the television set, which was showing a state government advertisement about how good things were and how they were going to get better. I cut the palm of my right hand cleaning up the glass and ran water on the cut. The water turned red as it flowed out of the sink. First blood to the other side—whoever they were.
The shirt was a write-off. I ripped the sleeve out and used it to tie up the cut, which was bleeding freely. I locked the back door and pulled the front door shut. Anyone watching would have seen a man with a bleeding hand, dirty pants and a torn shirt rummaging in the shrubbery for his jacket. But I could probably have dug a grave or danced the carioca—no one was looking.
On the drive home to Glebe I tried to figure it out. I concluded that someone knew Felicia Todd wasn’t at home. Did that mean they knew where she was now? Probably. I could imagine a watcher phoning through the message to the searcher that Mrs Todd was going to be busy for the night. But the night had ended abruptly. Was she in danger? Probably not. These people seemed to avoid confrontation. Some comfort in that. Not much. The cut hand throbbed and the rough bandage made driving difficult. I made the turn into my street clumsily and rammed the gutter with my tyres when I stopped.
My house smelled of damp. At least it didn’t smell of cat. I was in a foul mood. I cleaned the cut, put a dressing on it and went to bed. I was almost asleep when the thought came. Two honks probably meant trouble at the front, three meant the back. Smarter than me. I shouldn’t have looked at the street. As soon as I heard the noise, I should have gone straight in.
11
As it happened, I knew Kevin O’Fearna’s solicitor slightly. Brian Dolan was one of the old school of city lawyers, slightly tarnished by long association with politicians but never mentioned in an enquiry, never newsworthy. I phoned him and confirmed that O’Fear was still on remand.
‘When does his case come up?’ I asked.
‘The police are having trouble with the witnesses. What’s y
our interest, Mr Hardy?’
Dolan was a man you instinctively lied to. ‘A non-legal matter. Just out of curiosity, what would his bail be?’
‘It’s ten thousand dollars, which is a bloody scandal.’
I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. ‘Wouldn’t his mates be able to put that up?’
‘Kevin doesn’t exactly have any mates just now.’
O’Fear had once told me that only lawyers and priests called him Kevin. I hoped I wouldn’t be talking to any priests. I cut off Dolan’s next question, thanked him and hung up. A call to Long Bay got me a tedious wait on the line and then a 10.45 a.m. visiting slot. I told them I was working for Cy Sackville, which was a lie, but they’re used to lies at Long Bay.
Visiting a prisoner is taking a punt. He can always change his mind and refuse to see you, which is his right. It’s not a bad trick for a bored inmate to play on an outsider. Luckily, O’Fear wasn’t much given to boredom. He was a regular gaolhouse lawyer by all accounts and, when he wasn’t giving advice, he was probably gambling, or talking or singing. I turned off Anzac Parade, parked in a side street and walked back. It was a sunny morning with a light breeze, but neither that nor the flower beds beside the long, grey concrete ramp to the barrier could make the place cheerful. The guy in the glasshouse checked me over and waved me through to the entrance. I filled in my slip, writing clumsily with the bandaged hand, gave it to one of the beefy Ulstermen who run the place, and sat down on the wooden bench next to the rubber tree plant and the other visitors.
Over the years I’ve visited a good many men in Long Bay. Those visits tend to blur into one mostly depressing memory. Much sharper is the recollection of the time I spent here on remand myself. The second case I handled as a private detective involved a runaway girl. I found the girl and I also found that her father had been committing incest with her since she was ten. I wasn’t tactful or understanding. I put the father in hospital and the girl and the mother told the police that I had assaulted and robbed him. I was new at the game and out of my territory in Parramatta. I was wary of the cops, and my lawyer knew less law than I did. I was only at the Bay for ten days, but that was bad enough. In gaol you get more insults and abuse in a day than in ten years on the outside. Since then, they tell me, it’s got worse. If the screws have become a bit more careful in dealing out abuse, the crims have got more reckless. In my time sex was mostly in the prisoners’ heads; now it’s on the floor and in the toilets and no pleases and thankyous.
When you visit a convicted prisoner you have to submit to a thorough search and deposit most of your belongings in a locker. Visitors to people on remand get a less rigorous going-over. Still, the guard prodded at my bandage and snarled back at me when I swore. He let me into the visiting room and told me to sit and wait.
‘How long?’ I said.
‘Long as it takes,’ the guard said. From the look on his hard, pale face, the only thing that’d make him smile would be the sound of bone breaking.
I took a deep breath and sat in the chair facing the door. It was a small room with lino tiles on the floor and a dusty window set too high up to reach. The pale yellow light indicated reinforced glass. The table and two chairs were bolted to the floor. The ashtray was plastic and deeply scarred by crushed-out butts. I recalled that I crushed out a few hundred in my ten days. Prison air has a nasty smell; it feels bad for your lungs. Maybe that’s why everyone smokes so much—the smoke can’t be worse for you than the air.
The door opened and O’Fear came in. He stopped for dramatic effect and to make a pretence of tipping the guard. He stood about five foot eight and had a wrestler’s build—huge shoulders and a barrel chest. His waistline expanded and contracted according to his circumstances. Just now, he was trim.
‘Cliff, boy,’ he bellowed. ‘Long time no seizure.’ He roared with laughter at his own joke and rushed across towards me. I stood and he put a bear hug on me. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and he was in prison, but he still smelled of whisky.
‘Hello, O’Fear. How are they keeping you?’ He gave my joke a smaller laugh and reached for my hand. I pulled it away and showed him the dressing.
‘What’ve you been doing to yourself, Cliff?’
‘Just a scratch.’
‘It’ll play hell with your sex life.’ He laughed again and took the other chair. He looked the picture of wellbeing; his red hair was streaked with grey but thick; his skin was lightly tanned and clear, and his eyes and teeth shone. He looked as if he’d been spending time at a flash health farm. ‘There’s no one I’d rather see, Cliff, ’cept me dear mother, and she passed away ten year ago, God rest her soul.’
‘Cut it out, O’Fear,’ I said. ‘Could we have a small ban on the phoney Irish stuff?’
‘You’re in a bad mood, I see. How Irish are yez again? I forget.’
‘Two grandmothers. They gave their husbands hell.’
‘Ah yes, they would. Irishwomen are the devil—they either love God or themselves and no man at all.’ He examined his hands, which were small and clean. It was a long time since O’Fear had pushed a wheelbarrow. When he spoke again, it was in ordinary, inner-Sydney Australian. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘How d’you like it here?’
‘It’s a shit hole. The ignorance in here is shocking.’
‘What’re your chances?’
‘It’s hard to say. It’s a conspiracy, of course. That’s what the police are best at. You haven’t come here to discuss my case, Hardy, or to have me sing you a song. What’s on your mind?’
‘Barnes Todd.’
‘Ah. Poor man.’
I watched his reaction very closely, but O’Fear was an experienced performer and I couldn’t read anything in his clear blue eyes or the set of his curling Irish mouth. ‘I’m enquiring into his death.’
‘On whose behalf? The widow’s?’
I nodded. This was a tricky course to steer. I wanted O’Fear to do the talking, to learn as much as I could from him before having to offer him anything in return. But O’Fear knew when to talk and when to shut up. He said nothing.
‘I understand you might have some information for me.’
He let a bit of the Irish lilt back into his voice. ‘Now, how would you be reachin’ an understandin’ like that?’
‘I thought we were going to do without the blarney?’
‘Okay.’ That was the first sign I had, that quick compliance. He wanted out. I had to follow up the advantage.
‘How well did you know Todd?’
‘If I tell you that, will you tell me how my name came up?’
The points on that exchange would probably go to him, but I didn’t have much choice. ‘Yes.’
‘I knew Barnes a long time. More than thirty years. I met him in Korea and I worked for him at various times—borrowed money, this and that.’
‘Ever do anything dodgy?’
‘Who? Me?’
‘I’m told there was a time when he sailed a bit close to the wind. Moved things that perhaps should’ve stayed where they were.’
He grinned the way a man with good teeth can. ‘I neither confirm nor deny, and I don’t have any details.’
‘D’you know anything about his painting?’
He held up his hand. ‘You’ve had your whack, Cliff. Give a little.’
I told him that his name was on Barnes Todd’s lips when he died. O’Fear was no hypocrite; he took the information as an interesting fact, not an occasion for sentiment. He nodded but said nothing.
‘Do you know what that might mean?’ I said. ‘You think he was murdered, do you?’
‘Why d’you say that?’
‘I’m guessing.’ He sat back in his chair and showed the million-dollar teeth in his ten-dollar Irish mug. ‘I think I can help you,’ he said.
My cut hand was throbbing. I rubbed it lightly and looked up at the dirty window. ‘If?’
‘If you get me out of here.’
‘I suppose I could have a w
ord with Dolan.’
‘Bugger Dolan. Irish prick. Who’s your lawyer?’
‘Cy Sackville, as you very well know.’
‘What sort of money d’you make these days, Cliff boy?’ He reached over and took the lapel of my jacket between his thumb and forefinger. ‘You never put it on your back, but you look prosperous enough.’ He ducked his head under the table. ‘And you’re wearing shoes!’
I sighed. ‘I’m on a flat ten thousand fee for this job.’
His toothy grin became a broad smile. It was the sort of smile he used to flash in the smoky folk clubs before he broke into ‘The shoals of herring’. He held out his left hand for me to shake. ‘There you are, now. Sure it must be part of a grand plan.’
We shook, left-handedly, which is probably bad luck or something. Anyone watching might have thought we were members of a secret society. Perhaps we were—the friends of Barnes Todd.
12
‘Why don’t you get Sackville to do it?’ Michael Hickie said.
I juggled the coffee Jenny had brought me on my knee. ‘It’s good experience for you, Mike. You don’t want to become a grey corporate lawyer, do you? All balance sheets and no balls? This is where the action is—posting bail, “on his own recognisances” and all that.’
‘What happened to your hand?’
‘I cut it cleaning up the glass the burglar broke in Felicia Todd’s kitchen. See what I mean? That’s the workface.’ I was in a good mood and I knew why. The prospect of visiting Long Bay had been depressing me and I felt the load float away after I’d done the job and left. Also, I was glad to be putting one over on O’Fear. He thought he was getting Sackville and he was getting Hickie instead. Tough luck. You had to keep your guard up with O’Fear; he tended to favour the steamroller approach.
Hickie grinned. ‘I could feel patronised, but I don’t. I’ll get onto it straight away. Shouldn’t take more than a day or two.’ He squinted down at the notes he had taken from me about O’Fear. ‘You said there was something else?’
