by Peter Corris
‘I thought you and her might be . . .’
‘No. Let’s hear it, Sharon. What’s happened?’
She told me that Billie had come out of the coma and that the doctors had pronounced her well enough to be moved to a private hospital for detoxification and treatment for depression. McGuinness had got in touch with Sharon, told her Billie would be moved to the Charlton Private Hospital in Artarmon if she signed a release form he’d fax to her, and that the money would be paid to her directly.
‘Dumb little westie me, I didn’t question him and I thought, North Shore, fine. When I tried to check on the visiting hours I found that there was no record of Billie being admitted. Sarah’s upset and I don’t like seeing my kid upset.’
‘What sort of a place is it?’
‘Oh, it’s the real McCoy—big, hot and cold running doctors and nurses. I can’t see it being involved in anything fishy.’
‘You never know.’
I told her about Barclay Greaves being behind Lou Kramer’s book and my suspicion that there was more to his interest than just getting the dirt on Jonas Clement. ‘He’s rich with lots of different interests. Could be he’s got a piece of this hospital and could . . . arrange something.’
‘Well, that’s something for you to look into. It’d be a start at least.’
‘What about the police? Abduction’s a serious crime.’
She shook her head. ‘No way. There’re all sorts of warrants out on Billie—for drugs, using and supplying, probably old non-appearance in court things as well. They’d say good riddance.’
‘Okay, I’ll see what I can find out. But I have to tell you, big money can do all sorts of shitty stuff, cut corners, smooth things out.’
‘Yeah, I know. Somehow she got in real deep this time. I’m facing never seeing her again, I know that. But I feel guilty about what’s happened. She was better off with those Polynesians . . .’
‘No. She’d have been dead by now.’
‘She might be anyway. I feel as if I’ve been bought off with this money. How the fuck did they know my bank details?’
‘As I said, they can do things. But so can I, sometimes.’
She insisted on signing a contract and writing a cheque. I said I’d keep her in the picture if I got anywhere but she shouldn’t get her hopes too high.
She left and I reached for the phone. It hadn’t seemed diplomatic to mention it to Sharon, but my first port of call was Louise Kramer. I rang the numbers I had for her and got the answer machine at the home number and a not available for the mobile. I found the number for the Sydney News in the phone book and rang it.
‘News.’
‘Louise Kramer, please.’
There was a long pause and then the female voice said, ‘Are you trying to be funny?’
‘I’m sorry, what . . . ?’
‘Haven’t you seen today’s paper? Louise is dead. She committed suicide the day before yesterday.’
I almost dropped the phone. I don’t get the papers delivered because I never know when I’m going to be away or for how long and nothing marks a house out as unoccupied more than a pile of plastic-wrapped papers. I went down to King Street and bought the Sydney Morning Herald. The report was on page four. It said that journalist Louise Kramer, thirty-six, had been found dead by the cleaner who arrived on schedule to clean her apartment. Ms Kramer had been found in bed with a bottle of vodka on the bedside table and an empty vial of sleeping tablets. The police were reported as saying that Ms Kramer had a history of drug abuse and depression, and that the circumstances of her death were not being regarded as suspicious.
Like hell, I thought. I went back to the office and made a succession of phone calls, trading on past favours and associations, until I got on to the detective who’d filed the initial report on Lou’s death. His name was Hamilton and he wasn’t happy.
‘I’m told I should talk to you,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘Louise Kramer.’
‘Suicide, open and shut.’
‘Did you know she was working on an exposé of a certain very important person?’
‘Hardy, I know blokes like you think you can run rings round blokes like me, but you can stick it up your arse. I talked to the publisher who advanced her twelve grand. She said Kramer was way behind schedule, hadn’t met a deadline to turn in a few chapters, and they were just about to write her off. Probably contributed to her depression, which, by the way, I checked with her quack. On and off the pills, self-medicating with booze; classic case. Okay?’
I didn’t know him, but I could picture him—cynical, probably misogynistic and homophobic, happy not to have to deal with yet another piece of human misery. Couldn’t blame him, they see so much of it. I let him have the last word and hung up. Looking back, I’d seen something of that fragility in Lou, but it hadn’t registered strongly. Should have. I’d congratulated myself on finding her association with Barclay Greaves and let it go at that.
I should have probed her professional life more closely. Check out the client, I’d told the students, but I’d only done half the job. As I sat with the Newtown traffic humming under the window and a hot Sydney day developing, I gave Louise Kramer a respectful nod. She was like a lot of people who get out of their depth in the world where money and power rule—game to the last, but I’d be prepared to bet that the Stoli and those pills had been forced down her unwilling throat.
The two obvious candidates were Clement and Greaves, or rather their muscle men. If what Hamilton had said about Lou’s progress with the book was right, she seemed to be less of a threat to Clement than it first appeared. But Clement might not know that. In any case, my brief was to locate Billie and that meant focusing on Greaves. I did a web check on the Charlton Private Hospital but learned nothing useful. As Sharon had said, it looked established and respectable. It’d be difficult to contrive a secret admission and cover-up in such a place. Difficult, but not impossible.
I had Greaves’s Manly address, but didn’t for a moment imagine he’d have Billie tucked away there. The web told me that Oceania Securities’ office was in St Leonards. I drove there, parked, and looked the place over. The company occupied the whole of a narrow, four storey freestanding building in a quiet street a few blocks away from the Royal North Shore Hospital. There were getting to be too many hospitals in the case for my liking. There was a small, three-level car park within a hundred metres of the Oceania building and I saw a number of people come out of the offices, head to the car park and emerge behind the wheel. Client parking. Employee parking, too? It seemed likely.
I fed coins into the parking meter and waited. In my game you have to have the bladder control of the royals and an equal capacity to withstand boredom. Prostate trouble would put you out of business. After a couple of hours my patience was rewarded when McGuinness, wearing a smart tan suit, left the building and walked to the car park. A few minutes later, a silver BMW, the mate to the one I’d seen Greaves driving, rolled out. Had to be him.
I couldn’t decide whether McGuinness was ex-army or ex-cop—maybe both; a military policeman? In any case, I knew I’d have to exercise great care in following him. I’d given talks on the subject to the TAFE students, but there aren’t really any rules beyond the obvious one of not following too closely as if hooked on to the back bumper. Change lanes if possible, lift and lower the sun visors to effect a minimal change in the look of the car, don’t get caught by red lights but don’t run them either.
As I drove I reflected that the last tailing job I’d done had been following Sharon to Picton. That was a piece of cake compared to this. McGuinness was a bit of a lead foot, pushing the Beemer up past the speed limit whenever possible, and braking hard when he had to. Wouldn’t do the car any good, but then it wasn’t his car. We headed west briefly, then north, over the Roseville Bridge and on to Frenchs Forest. I hadn’t been up that way for some time and the area had undergone a lot of change with high-price housing estates taking up more space. People have to
live somewhere and developers have to make millions.
The traffic thinned and the tailing job got harder and then harder still, threading through the labyrinth of streets. I couldn’t afford to stay near enough to keep McGuinness closely in sight all the way and had to rely on catching glimpses as he signalled and turned. Stressful work with the dipping sun reflecting off metal and glass surfaces but I managed it. I just caught the signal as the BMW slid up the driveway to a sprawling two storey house. I stopped within a hundred metres and saw the garage door slide open in response to the remote control. No home should be without one.
There was access to the house through the garage because McGuinness didn’t appear again. I sat in the Falcon with its engine ticking as it cooled down and considered my options. There was really only one. I crossed the street, opened the low gate and walked up to the front porch. The house was brick and fairly newly occupied to judge by the state of the garden, struggling to get established in poor soil under the water regulations. The screen door was a semisecurity job but not much use since it was unlocked. I swung it open and pressed the buzzer.
Chimes sounded inside and a woman came to the door. She opened it, probably expecting the screen to be between her and anyone calling, but she didn’t seem too worried about it.
‘Mrs McGuinness?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is your husband at home? I’d like a word with him.’
She was attractive in a well-worn and slightly brittle way, and, at a guess, ten years younger than McGuinness, who I took to be about forty. She wore beige cargo pants and a black shirt with three strands of gold chain around her neck. My bruises and wounds had pretty much healed up and I was looking respectable enough in drill pants and a blue business shirt. I gave her one of my most reassuring smiles.
‘The security door was unlocked,’ I said. ‘Tch, tch.’
She returned the smile, but only just. ‘My fault. Don’t tell Clive. He’s out by the pool having a drink. Would you like to come through?’
I followed her down the passage, walking on a thick carpet runner over polished boards, past a living room and a couple of bedrooms. We went through the well-appointed kitchen to a door leading to a deck. I could see the evening light glinting on bright blue water. She paused at the door. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Thank you. I’ll have whatever Clive’s having.’
There were lights on in the big yard and by the pool. McGuinness was on a chaise beside the pool, talking on his mobile. He was wearing a T-shirt, swimming trunks and was barefooted. The gate was open. I went through without him hearing me, put two hands under the side of the recliner and flipped him into the water. He shouted and came up spluttering, standing in the shallow end. He recognised me and opened his mouth to shout something but I put my finger to my lips and pointed to where his wife was coming from the house. He began feeling in the water for his phone.
‘Clive! What on earth are you doing?’
‘It’s all right, Dottie. I just overbalanced. Dropped my phone.’
‘It’ll be ruined. Oh, here’s your drink, Mr . . . ?’
‘Cliff,’ I said. ‘Thanks. Why don’t you get Clive a robe or something, Mrs Mac. I’m afraid we have to talk in private.’
She was suspicious. My manner and tone told her that I wasn’t the innocent caller she’d taken me for. She glanced at McGuinness, who nodded, and she went back to the house. McGuinness located the phone, put it on the side of the pool and used the ladder to climb out. Wringing wet, with his hair in his eyes, he’d lost all his poise and smooth competence. He was well built, or had been, but there was a soft look about him—too much sitting down, too many working breakfasts and lunches—and he didn’t fancy his chances against me.
Dottie came down the path and tossed a towelling robe to McGuinness, who only just managed to stop it falling into the pool. She turned on her heel and went back to the house. McGuinness took off his T-shirt and pulled on the robe, righted the chaise and sat down. His drink was on the tiles and he picked it up, fighting for composure.
I took a pull on the glass I’d been given. Gin and tonic, a bit weak but very acceptable. ‘That’s better now, Clive, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Let’s cut to the chase. Where’s Billie Marchant?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Either you tell me or I toss you in again and hold you under until you do. I might even hold you there a bit too long.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
I kicked the phone back into the pool. ‘I’ve seen it done by a master. If you judge it right you promote just that little bit of brain damage. Can lead to a stroke later on.’
‘Jesus, Hardy.’
‘Your choice. That woman was sort of under my protection and I feel bad about her going missing. So do a few other people.’
He finished his drink and maybe thought briefly about throwing the glass at me, but it wasn’t really glass, just some kind of heavy plastic, appropriate to poolside drinking. I sipped my drink, smiled and shook my head. That gesture seemed to take a toll of him and I realised that he was very frightened, more frightened than he should have been by my actions and threats.
‘I had nothing to do with it,’ he said.
It was almost as if he was taking a polygraph test and confident of giving a right answer, but there was still that fear.
I knew the reason. ‘What about Louise Kramer’s suicide?’
‘Oh, God.’
He ran his hands over his head and the water dripped into his eyes. He scrubbed at them, making himself a picture of misery. This was a man with things on his mind. He lifted his head. ‘I saved you from being bashed by that big—’
‘That was then, this is now. Since then you’ve been an accessory to murder and abduction. Things’ve changed a bit. Of course Greaves could get you a lawyer and he could get you bail and all, but d’you want to take that chance?’
He shook his head.
‘Didn’t think so. Don’t worry, Clive. I’m sure we can do a deal here.’
16
Does your wife know about the sorts of things you do for Greaves?’
‘Leave her out of it.’
‘I just want to be sure she doesn’t run off and phone up your little mate.’
‘She won’t.’
‘Trouble in Paradise?’
‘We’re not as close as we were.’
‘Too bad. I’m pretty sure I can convince the police Louise Kramer didn’t suicide. I can get them to investigate things—phone calls, sightings of cars, purchase of vodka . . .’
He started to speak but I stopped him.
‘I don’t want to know what you did or didn’t do personally. I know you were involved,’ I said. ‘She lied to me and used me and I don’t owe her anything. What I’m interested in is the whereabouts of Billie Marchant.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m working for her sister now.’
‘You’re a leech.’
‘Poetic. Listen, you’ll like this—she’s fixing to pay me with the money you gave her to go away.’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘She thinks it was and she’s not happy about it.’
In the not-so-far distance I heard a car door slam and a metal gate slide open, grinding a little. I looked at McGuinness, who shrugged.
‘Dottie’s taken herself off somewhere.’
‘Like?’
‘Don’t know, don’t care.’
‘That’s not a good attitude.’
‘I knew you were trouble the minute I set eyes on you and I told Barclay so. Get on with it, Hardy. I’m cold and I need another drink.’
‘Best to keep you that way. What has Greaves got against Jonas Clement?’
He gave me a shrewd look. ‘Don’t know everything, do you?’
‘I know enough to put you in prison for conspiracy to commit murder and abduction.’
‘I could charge you with assault.’
‘You fell in, told your wife so.’
He shook his hair and water dripped down into his eyes again. He rubbed them red. ‘Shit, this was getting too heavy for me anyway. Will you give me some time to get clear?’
‘If I like what you say.’
‘I don’t suppose you listen to Clement’s radio spot?’
‘Why would I? Why would anyone?’
‘Right, well, about five or six years ago, no, maybe four years, Clement blew the gaff on a deal Barclay was trying to put through. It was a loans thing to some Pacific country, I forget the name. Essentially it was a money laundering operation. Clement had the inside story and exposed it on the air. It didn’t make a big splash; his audience wasn’t that big then, but it stopped the deal dead. Barclay arranged a quick retreat and cover-up but he lost a lot of money and face.’
‘Why’d Clement do that?’
‘Because Barclay was screwing his wife.’
I cast my mind back to the party, an event that was starting to seem like a long time ago. ‘That’d be . . . Patty.’
‘No, Tara, the one before Patty.’
‘Jesus, d’you mean this whole thing’s about a couple of rich bastards competing over models?’
‘Yeah, and over money. They can scarcely tell the difference between sex and money. In my experience they get equally excited about both.’
Two things troubled me. I’d thought McGuinness had an active background of some kind, but the way he spoke suggested something else. If I was going to strike a deal with him I needed to size him up better.
‘What’s your history, Clive? How did you get involved with nasties like Greaves and Clement?’
‘Why?’
‘Just tell me. Your future depends on it.’
‘I was a statistician. I worked with Barclay in the tax office. We were both into that Iron John shit back then. You know, weekend bivouacs and paint guns. Kids’ stuff, but it gives you some moves and some sort of confidence, I suppose. Barclay persuaded me I could do better by working for him in the private sector. I have. Until now.’
‘Okay, what about this? Greaves was at Clement’s party a while back. He was putting shit on him, but how come he was there if there’s so much bad blood between them?’
