by Peter Corris
PETER CORRIS is known as the ‘godfather’ of Australian crime fiction through his Cliff Hardy detective stories. He has written in many other areas, including a co-authored autobiography of the late Professor Fred Hollows, a history of boxing in Australia, spy novels, historical novels and a collection of short stories about golf (see www.petercorris.net). In 2009, Peter Corris was awarded the Ned Kelly Award for Best Fiction by the Crime Writers Association of Australia. He is married to writer Jean Bedford and has lived in Sydney for most of his life. They have three daughters and six grandsons.
The Cliff Hardy collection
The Dying Trade (1980)
White Meat (1981)
The Marvellous Boy (1982)
The Empty Beach (1983)
Heroin Annie (1984)
Make Me Rich (1985)
The Big Drop (1985)
Deal Me Out (1986)
The Greenwich Apartments (1986)
The January Zone (1987)
Man in the Shadows (1988)
O’Fear (1990)
Wet Graves (1991)
Aftershock (1991)
Beware of the Dog (1992)
Burn, and Other Stories (1993)
Matrimonial Causes (1993)
Casino (1994)
The Washington Club (1997)
Forget Me If You Can (1997)
The Reward (1997)
The Black Prince (1998)
The Other Side of Sorrow (1999)
Lugarno (2001)
Salt and Blood (2002)
Master’s Mates (2003)
The Coast Road (2004)
Taking Care of Business (2004)
Saving Billie (2005)
The Undertow (2006)
Appeal Denied (2007)
The Big Score (2007)
Open File (2008)
Deep Water (2009)
Torn Apart (2010)
Follow the Money (2011)
Comeback (2012)
The Dunbar Case (2013)
Silent Kill (2014)
PETER
CORRIS
FORGET ME IF YOU CAN
This edition published by Allen & Unwin in 2014
First published by Bantam Books, a division of Transworld Publishers, in 1997
Copyright © Peter Corris 1997
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
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Contents
The Hearing
Copper
The Brothers
Lucky Jim
Forget Me If You Can
Close Enough
Archie’s Last Case
Gone Fishing
Cross My Heart
Christmas Visit
Meeting at Mascot
TV
Treasure Trove
In different versions and in some cases under different titles, eight of these stories were published between 1993 and 1996: ‘The Hearing’ in Books, Death and Taxes, edited by Dinny O’Hearn (Penguin, 1995); ‘TV’ in Moonlight Becomes You, edited by Jean Bedford (Allen & Unwin, 1995); ‘Copper’ in Playboy; ‘The Brothers’ in Penthouse; ‘Lucky Jim’ in Conquest (Journal of the Diabetic Association of NSW); ‘Close Enough’ and ‘Christmas Visit’ in the Sydney Morning Herald; ‘Gone Fishing’ in the Sun-Herald.
The Hearing
‘Would you care to introduce yourself to these ladies and gentlemen, Mr Hardy? As you know, they are charged with deciding whether or not you are a fit person to hold a private enquiry agent’s licence.’
‘And who are you?’
‘Dr Campbell. I’m the Chairperson. My speciality is the socio-psychological profile of applicants.’
‘Holder, in my case.’
‘Yes. Although suspended.’
‘Well, perhaps I could just give them my card, but that’d be assuming they’ve got time to read it. They’re busy people, I imagine.’
‘I can understand your resentment at these proceedings, but now you’re being insulting which won’t help your cause. I gather that you’re a rather aggressive individual.’
‘I don’t know. I was an amateur boxer as a kid, then I was in the army, then I was an insurance investigator. I’ve been a private detective for fifteen years. They’re pretty violent occupations at times, but whether I was aggressive to begin with or the jobs got me that way, I don’t know. Question of nature and nurture, I guess.’
‘An interesting observation. You’re an educated person?’
‘Not really. I did a year of Law at university, but I didn’t do well at it and dropped out.’
‘Why?’
‘I thought Law might be about law, which I was interested in. I found out it was about money.’
‘You’re not interested in money.’
‘My Irish gypsy grandmother told me I’d never have any.’
‘Irish gypsy. That’d account for your dark appearance and the beaky nose … I’m sorry to be personal … This is irrelevant.’
‘That’s okay. The nose has been broken a few times. I don’t recall my grandmother’s nose. She was five foot one and a hundred pounds, so I’ve got a bit more than a foot and sixty pounds on her.’
‘I notice you use the imperial measures rather than the metric. Isn’t that rather old-fashioned of you?’
‘Yes. I’m old-fashioned in some ways, but I wear a digital watch.’
‘So you do, and you’re looking at it. Are you an impatient man?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you an intelligent man, Mr Hardy?’
‘I don’t think there’s an intelligent answer to that question. My guess is that the thing you’re most likely to overestimate is your own intelligence.’
‘I see. I thought you were a little defensive about dropping out of university.’
‘Maybe. If I’ve got a reputation for anything it’s for seeing matters through. I like to finish things off, if I can. I feel bad if I can’t.’
‘That’s the first serious thing we’ve heard you say.’
‘You come to me with a serious problem and pay me serious money and you’ll see how serious I can get.’
‘Do you smoke and drink?’
‘Stopped smoking years ago. Sometimes I go a day without a drink if I’m too busy or I forget.’
‘Where do you do most of your work.’
‘In Sydney. All over the city. I’ll go to the bush if I have to, but I prefer pavements to paddocks.’
‘What sort of work do you prefer?’
‘I take what comes along. The client has to be at least as honest and ethical as me.’
‘How honest and ethical is that?’
‘Impossible to answer. As much as I can be while doing my job.’
‘Wh
at are you afraid of?’
‘Boredom, bureaucrats and bullshit.’
‘I was told by one of your referees that you were charming. We haven’t seen much of that in this interview.’
‘I’m sorry. You were right. I resent these proceedings and I’m a bit tense. The charm tends to drop away when I’m tense. When this is all over, I’ll be charming.’
‘How would you describe your relations with the police?’
‘I find it hard to be charming with the police.’
‘What about with other professionals you come in contact with?’
‘I try to avoid doctors and politicians. I deal with lawyers a lot. Some are okay. I don’t mind journalists. I like beekeepers.’
‘Really? Do you know many beekeepers?’
‘Not many.’
‘How do you feel about cars?’
‘They’re necessary.’
‘Guns?’
‘Useful—sometimes, rarely.’
‘What is the role of the private enquiry agent in the general scheme of law and order, in your opinion?’
‘Big question.’
‘You must have thought about it.’
‘Yeah. I’d say we’re at the end of a chain, a sort of last resort. People have been let down by ringing other numbers in the phone book.’
‘That sounds rather … negative.’
‘I don’t think so. It means the private detective can turn people away, exploit them or help them. His choice.’
‘And which do you do?’
‘Apparently, it’s not for me to say. It’s for your committee to decide.’
‘Mmm. You’re not married, Mr Hardy?’
‘Divorced.’
‘Children?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I think that’s all I need, Mr Hardy. Thank you. I’ll hand you over to the other members of the committee.’
‘Thank you, Dr Campbell and … uh, I like your dress.’
Copper
Senior Detective Sergeant Martin Oldcastle said, ‘I can’t tell you how much I hate doing this, Hardy.’
I looked at him—fifty-four and beginning to show it in face and body, hair retreating and almost completely grey, thick-lensed glasses. ‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘Really encourages me to take the job and give it my best.’
‘You know what I mean. Jesus. I’ve been in the force for nearly forty years. Loved it. Now I feel that every bloody copper in Australia’s out to get me, ’cept Mickey, of course.’
Oldcastle had blown the whistle on a clutch of policemen, a few senior, most junior, to himself. These officers were involved in extortion, covering up of crimes from murder on down, witness intimidation and the organising of armed robberies. Oldcastle’s story was that he’d stumbled across the skulduggery when he happened to be present at the death of ‘Irish’ Jack Murphy. Murphy was a long-time prison escapee, hit man and standover merchant who was shot by police in Coogee three years back. Oldcastle was only marginally involved with the task force that cornered Murphy, who had fired several shots but taken a great many more himself.
Oldcastle was concerned that the force had been excessive and, with no one else close by, he bent over the supposedly dead body to examine the wounds. Murphy told him with his dying breath the names of the corrupt police (several of whom had been in on the shooting) and some details of their activities.
‘I was shocked, I admit it,’ Oldcastle had told me at our first meeting a few weeks back. ‘I’d seen crims shot before. Our blokes, too. I wasn’t a cherry or anything like that. I’d wounded men myself. But there was something about this—Irish was practically blown to bits and still he was talking. That was what got to me. If he’d been stone dead, as he should’ve been … Okay, end of story. Or if he’d just been pinged and was talking. Right, I could’ve understood that. But the way it was, shit, I had to believe him. I had to! Didn’t want to, didn’t want to fuckin’ be there. But I was, and my life’s never been the same since.’
It was Oldcastle’s mate, Mick Gordon, who’d suggested that he come and see me. This was after Oldcastle had poked around, working on his own time, taking considerable risks, to accumulate evidence that indicated a number of police officers were far worse criminals than any they had put away or were ever likely to put away. I’d got to know Mick when he worked at the Kings Cross station. He was one of those men, and they’re not unknown in the police force, who you instinctively like. He told a good yarn and listened well; he smiled easily but took serious things seriously. He effaced himself in a curious way but remained a strong personality in your memory. We’d got on as well as a copper and a private investigator can. The time came when Martin Oldcastle felt ready to present his evidence and confided in Gordon, whom he’d known since school days in Darlinghurst.
‘I don’t mind telling you, Cliff,’ Gordon had said to me, ‘I advised Marty to forget the whole thing. To go for early retirement, take his package and get to buggery out with all his friendships intact and no bloody trouble.’
It was typical of Gordon that he would be frank in that way, both to Oldcastle at the time and to me later. But Oldcastle hadn’t taken Gordon’s advice. When, inevitably, yet another enquiry into police corruption was announced, Oldcastle submitted a sample of his material anonymously, was encouraged to supply more and eventually offered himself as a witness. His safeguard, supposedly, was that only the enquiring commissioners knew the areas and names his evidence covered, but it wasn’t long before that vessel leaked and Oldcastle got his first death threat. The first of many. The commissioners offered him protection, of course, but how safe does the fox feel when the huntsmen are offering him protection against the hounds? Mick Gordon had sent him to me after the death threats and here we were, discussing round-the-clock seclusion and protection for six days before his first appearance and for as long as he was singing.
One of my difficulties was that Oldcastle wasn’t very likeable. He appeared to lack a sense of humour, although stress might have blunted it—give him that. He was a driven type, by reputation a workaholic as a policeman. He had no family, a plus from my angle—no way to reach him through dependants; but he was a cold customer—not self-obsessed, which is uncongenial but human, but rather not concerned with other people, almost oblivious of them except as tokens in some bureaucratic, institutional game. Mick Gordon appeared to be his only close friend. That was understandable, Gordon had the touch to bring out the human characteristics, even in an automaton like Oldcastle.
He got up from his chair and stared out the window, adjusting his glasses, no doubt thinking about cleaning them, although any blurriness was certainly on my panes rather than on his lenses. ‘After the shooting,’ he said slowly, ‘they offered us all sorts of counselling—psychologists, trauma and guilt experts, hypnotists, relaxation advisers. All bullshit. No limit to the medical backup—leave, tranquillisers, sleeping pills. Union all over them. Some of the blokes took some of it on board as a bludge, you know? Even though they’d actually enjoyed blowing Murphy away. I understand that. I can’t say I ever felt upset about the couple I shot, and one of them wasn’t ever much good after that.’
‘What’s the point?’ I said.
‘The point is there’s bugger-all of that now, is there? I need tranquillisers, I need leave and counselling and how much d’you reckon I’d get if I was to explain what I’m doing and ask for it? You think the union rep’d be on the blower offering me support?’
I still hadn’t decided to take the job and the element of self-pity in this outburst didn’t make him any more appealing. But at least he was feeling something.
‘Just exactly what are you doing?’ I asked.
He left the window and sat down. He adjusted his glasses and squared his shoulders. He was clean-shaven, wore a neat blue suit, white shirt and dark tie; no rings, no lapel pins. His watch was stainless steel on a leather strap. He was a plain man who apparently had no need for the accessories a lot of cops these days trick themselves ou
t with—moustaches, bracelets, signet rings. ‘I’m trying to put a bunch of murdering, thieving, lying bastards in gaol where they belong,’ he said.
Of course there was a lot more to my question than that. I meant, among other things: Why are you going against the traditions of the institution you’ve spent your life in? But Martin Oldcastle wasn’t the sort of man to serve up easy answers to questions like that. Too honest. That honesty tipped the balance in his favour, but I had one more question.
‘If I take this on, it’s going to cost money. You’re looking at seven or eight thousand dollars.’
‘Not a problem.’ Flatly, like that.
‘Well …’
He leaned forward across the desk. ‘I’ve been a senior police officer for twenty years. I’ve got no family. I don’t drink much and I don’t gamble. I bought my flat back when a decent place to live in didn’t cost the bloody earth. I drive a 1988 Falcon. I play bowls at the weekend and I go on bus tours around Australia in my holidays. It’s my life we’re talking about and I can afford to pay you if you’ve got the guts to take it on.’
Maybe the choice of car swung it, maybe the bus tours. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’ll need two signatures—one on a contract and one on a cheque.’
What I was signing up for was personal protection of Oldcastle for every hour of every day I could manage. That’s somewhere well short of twenty-four. I had to sleep and I had to deal with other things from time to time. Luckily, if that’s the word, I wasn’t in any kind of relationship just then that required any attention. Still, thinking you can protect someone just by becoming their Siamese twin is a mistake. You lose perspective and flexibility. For example, it’s useful to walk around a subject’s neighbourhood a few times to get the feel of the place. You don’t want the subject there with you. You need to call on a few of the neighbours, lying your head off about why you’re ringing their bells, and you need to be alone when you do it. You need to drive the subject’s car to the supermarket and buy a frozen pizza and a bottle of wine and see if anyone takes an interest. Stuff like that, and you need trustworthy backup while you’re away and that costs money and makes you anxious. It isn’t my favourite kind of work …
