by Peter Corris
White didnt change expression. I didnt expect you to understand right off the bat. I know youve got no time for me, but this is serious. Ive paid Hardy a five hundred dollar retainer and hes on two hundred a day and expensesthats how serious it is.
Grogan raised an eyebrow at me and I nodded. I didnt think you had a pot to piss in, Barry, he said harshly. Didnt your missus take you for every fucking cent?
She did, the bitch. But Ive got a backer. White nodded as the barman looked inquiringly at the money pile. More drinks appeared and the pile shrunk to almost nothing. Thats why I say your end is twenty-five per cent.
Grogan started on his next drink. I wouldnt back you if you were the only horse in the race. When the pressure came on, you were ready to put every other bastard in to save your skin. Probably did just that.
White shook his head. Ancient history, Leo. Ive had my troubles just like you. Hardy did a short stretch for frigging around with evidence. Were none of us cleanskins, but this is a chance to get our hands on some real money. He smiled and the old, booze-eroded charm was in his face. And to bring a criminal or criminals to justice.
Christ, youre a wanker, Grogan said.
Hardy doesnt think so. Hes got the contacts, Leo. Frank Parkers a mate of his; he knows journos and lawyers. He can front the family. He knew the woman.
Hes hardly said a fucking thing, Grogan said.
I bought you a drink.
Grogan laughed. So you did. So you did. Fuck it, Ill play along. But Ill tell you something, Barry boy. If this comes to anything and you dont play straight with me, Ill see you get hurt.
White butted his cigarette and reached for his fresh glass which he hadnt touched. Understood.
OK. Thiss what I know. Johnno Hawkins headed up the team that looked into the disappearance. I was in on it, but I was just a shit-kickerdriving, picking up the beer and pies and that. The case got a hell of a lot of publicity so Johnno was told to get busy and to come up with something quick. Well, he got busy all right, interviewed every bastard in sight and came up with sweet fuck-all.
Things died down, the case went on the back burner. One night I was out on the piss with this sheila I had then and Johnno and his wife, Peg. Did you ever meet her, Peggy Hawkins?
White shook his head and drank. He was looking decidedly unhappy.
Fucking good-looker, Grogan said. Sharp features, skinny, but with tits out to here. They reckon she could… never mind. Anyway, Johnno and Peg got into a fight, a real screaming match. This is back at their flat in Rose Bay. They were both pissed and Id gone off with my tart for a root in one of the bedrooms. I reckon theyd forgotten about us. I heard Peg say to Johnno something like, You wouldnt be able to afford her if you hadnt got all that money for keeping quiet about that ransom note. Johnno told her to shut up and he hit her. He resigned from the force soon after that and went up to the Gold Coast.
White looked increasingly unhappy as Grogans story unfolded. When it was finished he loosened his tie and slid the knot down. Johnno Hawkins is dead, White said. Had a heart attack out fishing a year or so ago.
Grogan took up his glass and raised it like a toast. Thats right. But Peggys still alive and fucking, last I heard.
Where? I said. Still on the Gold Coast?
Yeah. Shell either be doing it for money or getting the money off the girls whore doing it for her.
White smiled again and looked first at Grogan, then at me. Were away, he said, as if he knew everything would come right in the end.
4
White pleaded with Grogan not to mention the matter to another living soul. Grogan sneered and agreed. He gave me his address and a telephone number where he could sometimes be reached, sank another schooner, and went off, not visibly excited.
Hes not a lot of laughs, is he? I said to White.
Hes a shit. He wouldnt look pleased if his prick grew longer, but hell play ball. Unlike me, hes got a pension, but he drinks most of it. Speaking of which
Whites little stash had almost gone. I didnt want another drink but I ordered a round because we needed to talk some more.
You started lying to Grogan right from the jump, I said.
Ive played straight with you, thats all you need to worry about.
Maybe. He was threatening to kneecap you if you scammed him.
Hes all piss and wind, always was. Sixty grandll keep him sweet.
I thought that was probably true, and it seemed only fair that I should come out well ahead of Grogan for all the work I seemed likely to have to do. Suddenly, I realised that I was taking the thing seriously. I tried to pull back from that, but I couldnt help having the sort of feeling I had when I occasionally bought a lottery ticketanticipation of a win is part of the pleasure and, most times, all of the pleasure. Still, I had to keep in mind that I was running a business.
If I have to fly to the Gold Coast itll cost a bit. How flush is this backer of yours?
White looked doubtful. Havent you got enough confidence in me yet to finance it yourself for a bit?
Perhaps. If Grogans story is right, the question is, who was willing to shell out to suppress the note?
White was fairly drunk, and it required an effort for him to assume a serious, investigative expression. Thats right. A family member for sure. Didnt want her found. Bigger cut of the cake for him.
Or her. Do you know anything about Ramonas family set-up?
Shit, let me think. Like I say, I wasnt doing very much in there. A sister, maybe two sisters, and a brother. Might have been some half-brothers and sisters as well. Old Beckett had been married before.
Big help. Whats in the will?
How the fuck would I know?
You know about the interest on the reward. Or is all that bullshit, too? Im not getting any happier about paying my own way to the Gold Coast.
No, no, thats kosher about the reward. I got that from this accountant.
Go on.
Well, hes bent, you know. I got in touch with him over my fucking divorce settlement. Tried to get him to cook the books a bit in my favour. He wouldve, too, but Brendas bloke was smarter. Anyway, he started talking about accountancy which I always reckoned must be the most boring fucking subject of the lot. Worse than… what was that crap I did at Uni? Torts, yeah, torts. Shit, that was dull.
Stick to the point, Barry, if you can.
He pulled himself together again and I speculated on how many times he was capable of it in a day. This bloke had worked for the firm that handled the Beckett family finances. He told me the reward money was on the books. A million plus and counting. This was just a couple of days before I ran into Leo. Seren-fuckin-dipity.
The word brought me up short. It had been one of Glen Withers favourites. It was partly the beer, partly keeping company with ex-policemen, partly who-knows-what, but I suddenly missed her terribly and the easy, comfortable time we had had together. Like some of the other women Id loved and lost, shed told me what was wrong with me when it came to the crunchtoo changeable, too moody, too easily bored. I wasnt convinced. I always thought I was too soft on people, too ready to give the benefit of the doubt. I took another hard look at Barry White and saw the devious slackness under the charm, the mental sloppiness under the educated veneer. Fuck him, I thought. If I can cut myself a bigger slice of this I will. But Barry Whites not getting the benefit of any of my many doubts.
I arranged to meet White again in two days time. I stipulated that as a kind of a test and he passed it. He wanted to ask me what Id be doing and probably suggest other things, but he managed to prevent himself.
By then I should know whether Im up to flying to the Gold Coast or whether Ill just go to Bondi instead and forget the whole thing.
That sense of humour again. OK, Hardy. Spend my time well. Ill sniff around a bit myself, but dont worry, we wont cross wires.
We skipped the handshake. I left the pub and stationed myself out of sight in a laneway. My car was a hundred metres away in a two-hour zone and the clock
was ticking. About five minutes later, White emerged, brushing cigarette ash from his clothes. He cleared his throat and spat into the gutter. Then he took a comb out the top pocket of the blazer and ran it through his hair. Next came one of those pressurised gadgets that squirt breath-freshener into your mouth. He used it and spat again. He reached into his pants pocket and took out a slip of paper that could have been anythinga cheque, a dry cleaning receipt, a newspaper cutting. He looked at it and tucked it away with the comb. Then he prowled up and down the pavement impatiently, looking at his watch and staring at the nearest intersection. I headed for my car. You dont need to be Sherlock Holmes to tell when a man with a Cabcharge docket is waiting for a taxi.
I felt like a true professional jotting down the number of the cab as I waited behind it, two cars back, at the Abercrombie Street lights. Cabcharge dockets carry the name of the account on them and are carefully computer-processed. With a bit of luck, I should be able to find out who was paying for Barrys ride. We went up Cleveland Street and swung left beside the railway line. The taxi driver was fast and good, exploiting every gap he found, and it was tricky staying with him unobtrusively. Up Elizabeth Street past the golf shop, where at night the neon golfer hits neon balls into a neon hole, and a turn to the right up Wentworth Avenue. The taxi stopped beside the Connaught building and I caused irritation behind me by pulling in and waiting while Barry did his paperwork. He left the cab and I kerb-crawled after him. He was trying to fasten his jacket, forgetting that he was lacking the crucial button, as he went up the ramp, punched in a number on a keypad and entered the building. Interesting.
Harry Tickener runs his independent newspaper, The Challenger, out of an office in Surry Hills. The place smells of nothing but the very best coffee since Harry gave up chain-smoking Camels and drinking bourbon. Concerned about his figure, Harry replaced his other habits with a devotion to coffee that might ream out his stomach lining in the end but will leave him a thin corpse. I hope its a long time coming.
After the beer in the Cleveland it was good to sit over one of his massive flat whites and do exactly what Barry White had begged Leo Grogan not to dotalk openly to someone about the matter in hand. Harrys discretion is legendary; Ive never known him to betray a confidence or to back away from naming the guilty men if he could possibly do it and stay out of gaol. Weve given each other a hand in many ways over the years since he was a young, go-getting reporter and I was new in the private detective business. Once, not long after he took a golden handshake from the News Corporation and started up The Challenger, he asked me if I wanted a tag like with the assistance of Cliff Hardy to appear with the journalists by-line on a story Id helped with. I used an obscenity and told him Id sue if it happened.
Ramona Beckett, Harry said, propping his Nikes on the desk in front of him and wrapping his pale, freckled hands around a coffee mug. Sure, I remember. I was still at The News then, protecting incompetent arses. Didnt work on it myself.
Were there any whispers?
Like what?
Barry White has suggested that perhaps not all the cops were playing with straight bats.
You shock me. Dealing with Barry White. No, not that I remember. Wasnt she some kind of blackmailer?
Allegedly. Yes, she was.
Harry shrugged. How hard would anyone try to find her then?
Dont forget the reward. Id like to know what was in her dads will
Would you now? Well, it wouldve been filed for probate. Youd have your ways of getting a squiz at that, wouldnt you, son?
Yeah, Ill take a look, but Id also like to talk to the lawyer, get the flavour of the thing as it were. Thats why Im here taking up your time. I thought that if you were to ask nicely, that librarian in at The News who used to fancy you would probably look up the cuttings and get the lawyers name.
Seventeen years. Chances are hes dead.
Youre not, Im not.
True, surprisingly. Harry punched buttons on a phone. I drank some more coffee and got, or thought I got, a lift from it. I wandered around the suite of small offices. The Challenger does well and is always threatening to grow. When this happens, Harry does what he calls a pruning. He wants it to stay on a scale he can control. Also he hates sacking people, so he keeps the staff at the same size. Their loyalty is fierce. I knew all of them slightly and exchanged a few words as I made my tour. Maddy Allbright, Harrys chief assistant, was chuckling over a piece of copy.
What? I said.
Heres a six-foot four-inch lesbian who wants to be a priest. She claims shes being discriminated against on grounds of sex, sexuality and height.
Thats a tall order.
Go away.
Harry waved at me. Got it, he said. It seems old Beckett married a younger woman and he took her lawyer on. Not a wise move to my mind, but there you are. Names Wallace Cavendish. Ive written it all out on a Post-it so you can stick it somewhere.
I put the mug on the desk where the ring it would make would join a thousand others. Thanks, Harry.
I also asked Marjorie for copies of the main cuts on the Beckett case. Ill fax them to you if you like.
Forever in your debt. I must make sure theres some paper in the machine. Its all been a bit slow lately.
If you turn up anything interesting
It goes without saying, I said.
I walked out into the early-afternoon sunshine, completely sober, my mood much improved by the meeting with Harry, but very hungry. My first stop was a sandwich bar much patronised by Harrys people, where they build elegant structures that somehow hold together and dont drip on you. I ate the sandwich sitting on a bench in one of the little paved squares that have been carved out in the middle of the residential and industrial busyness. I shared the space but not the sandwich with some disappointed pigeons and seagulls. The weather had improved as the day went on and, professionally, the outlook wasnt too bad either. I had a police consultant to consult, a lawyer to meet, newspaper cuttings to read and a widow to visit at the Gold Coast. Ive had much worse starts.
5
I drove the short hop to Darlinghurst, parked in my usual spot, and headed for my office. The way Harry Tickener worked, the faxed cuttings could be spewing out of the machine right now. The area around St Peters Lane has changed a hell of a lot since I first lobbed there, but the change seems to have stalled, which suits me. I used to like the accretion of posters on the wallsrock gigs, religious meetings, political ralliesdating back years. The bill posters tended not to overlay them exactly, or they peeled off and you could trace history on the walls the way archaeologists read stratified deposits. Nowadays, the council employs someone to strip them off. Sad.
I went up the stairs humming some Sinatra song or other and was embarrassed when I saw a man waiting outside my door. Im not a tuneful hummer, as several women have told me. At least I have the sense not to sing. The man looked unthreateninglate middle-aged or more, stocky with thinning grey hair, a slightly rumpled lightweight suit to match, briefcase. Still, nothing to say there wasnt a pair of brass knucks in the briefcase at his feet. I slowed down to give him time to make the first move. Someone pretending to be passive, but intending to be active, sometimes betrays the intention by body language. Sometimes. This guy was harmless stillness itself.
Mr Hardy? he said loudly, taking a step away from the wall and leaving the briefcase where it was.
I stopped humming. Thats right.
He stuck out a surprisingly big, meaty paw. Glad to meet you. Im Max Savage.
The name registeredFrank Parkers consultantbut this was all very disconcertingly premature. I shook the hand and dug for my keys. Youve jumped the gun, I muttered.
What was that?
The volume of his voice forced me to look at him. I said youve jumped the gun.
He nodded. Jumped the gun, thats right. Im afraid I have. Ill explain when we get inside.
The light wasnt good in the corridor, a matter of dirty windows and low wattage in the bulbs, which was why I hadnt no
ticed the small hearing aids in both ears. I unlocked the door and ushered him in. He bent easily to pick up the briefcase and stepped smartly past me. For a mature-age citizen he moved pretty smoothly. The office has a tiny vestibule, about big enough to hold a bicycle, and then the room itself. Max Savage went in, put his briefcase down and stood by the client chair. I had the odd feeling that he was directing the traffic, willing me to get behind the desk to my allotted place. Instead I went over to the fax machine and examined the long roll of paper that had come through. Good old Harry.
I looked straight at him. Sit down, Mr Savage, I said.
Thank you. He sat, and the contrast with the last man whod sat there couldnt have been more extreme. Whereas Barry White had been a mass of tics and fidgets and habitual gestures, Savage was a model of harmony and control. He waited for me to sit down and looked as if it wouldnt worry him if he had to wait an hour or so. I tore off the fax paper and let the roll settle. Then I sat down.
I dont want to be rude, but Frank Parker was going to give me some time to get back to him, I said. This is all a bit premature, isnt it?
It is and Im sorry. But as you can imagine, the telephone is a difficult instrument for me. I have to use a relay service or get someone to interpret, as it were, for me. Thats cumbersome and people tend not to want to go through the rigmarole. I find face-to-face meetings much more productive. As to the rush, Ill be frank with you, Mr Hardy. The police service takes a dim view of me on the whole. Frank is one of my few supporters. Ive had bugger-all to do since I was approached and this is the first chance for me to get my teeth into something. Im excited by it. So, as you say, I jumped the gun.
I realised that I liked him. He was direct and honest, not common characteristics in the people I meet, and he seemed to treat his disability matter-of-factly, so that I felt comfortable with it. Still, you have to know exactly who youre dealing with.
