by Peter Corris
‘Like what?’
‘Friends.’
She snorted. ‘Wouldn’t call them friends. All blokes.’
‘Do you mean what I think you mean?’
‘Sure do.’
I thanked her again and left.
The guy in the estate agency was far less forthcoming. He was young, wore a dark suit and had gelled hair.
‘I’m afraid I can’t give you any information at all,’ he said.
‘I’m sure you can. For example, what’s the rent of apartment twelve? No harm in telling me that, surely.’
‘Two thousand two hundred dollars a month.’
‘Is it occupied now? I might want to rent it.’
As urged by Megan, I’d invested in some new clothes and I was wearing a lightweight grey suit and a blue shirt. No tie, but the shirt was tucked in.
A pause, and then he said, ‘It’s empty.’
‘Things are slow?’
He didn’t reply. I thought about mentioning the purpose to which Miranda appeared to have put the apartment but decided not to because it might cost the young concierge her job.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to make things difficult for you but I’ve got a client with a very serious complaint against the woman who rented that place. He’s an important person and he doesn’t want to involve the police. That’s why he’s employing me. But if I don’t make progress it’ll bring the police in eventually. Give me her name and forwarding address and that’s the last you’ll hear of it.’
He wasn’t happy. He looked across at the empty desk in the office as if hoping someone would materialise there. No such luck. He tapped on his keyboard.
‘Mary Oberon.’
‘Forwarding address?’
‘Twenty-six Hood Street, Burwood.’
‘I’m guessing she paid a substantial amount up front.’
He nodded.
‘Phone?’
He read off a mobile number and I wrote it in my notebook. Second bit of paper in the case. ‘You sighted the ID?’
‘Not me, but somebody must have. That’s all . . . please.’
I could have pressed him for bank details and other things but I took pity on him. Suspicious sceptic that I am, I had doubts that the information was genuine. Perhaps the name, if I was lucky, but false ID isn’t hard to get.
I had a track of Springsteen’s Nebraska playing when my mobile rang. Hank Bachelor had equipped me with a hands-free hookup and I kept driving instead of pulling over as I used to have to do.
‘Hardy.’
‘Cliff, it’s Bobby. You were right. There’s a white Commodore following me.’
‘For how long?’
‘I don’t know. I just picked it up. But I’m pretty sure.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Strathfield.’
‘How many in the car?’
‘One, two—I’m not sure.’
‘On the highway?’
‘No, I was heading for the golf course. I wanted to take a look at it. I’m going to play there next . . . Jesus Christ!’
‘What?’
‘He’s crowding me off the road. I have to stop. Shit, oh shit . . .’
I heard two sharp reports and then nothing except the buzz of an open connection.
‘Bobby! Bobby!’
The buzz stopped.
I had no idea where the Strathfield golf course was, or how many ways there were to get to it. He said he’d been out to Parramatta, which gave me some indication, but apart from that I’d have to rely on the Gregory’s and luck.
Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty
And meet me tonight in Atlantic City.
I cut Springsteen off and headed for Strathfield. When I reached the outskirts I stopped and checked for the golf course, then plotted a way to it as if I’d been coming from Parramatta. That took me through a grid of suburban streets until I saw a cyclone fence at the end of a road that looked like the sort of thing golf clubs use to keep people out. The area looked pretty affluent and the houses had the appearance of places occupied by families with both parents working to make the mortgage. I drove down the road towards a wide stretch of parkland bordering the fence. I made the turn to follow the fence and saw a red car a couple of hundred metres away. It had pulled a short way off the road and was slewed slightly to the left. As I approached I could see a skid mark on the road. I pulled up behind the Alfa.
An arm was hanging loosely outside the driver’s window. I sucked in a deep breath, got out and approached the car. A long scrape indicated where the Alfa had been swiped by another car. Bobby Forrest was slumped forward, anchored by his seatbelt. There were two dark holes a few centimtres from his right ear. Blood had clotted around them and seeped out and matted his fair hair.
I stood and looked at him for a minute or two before I called the police. One meeting and a phone call didn’t amount to much of a contact. But he’d told me things he’d only told one other person—his father. Somehow that mattered. The older I get the younger the young seem, and Bobby Forrest had seemed very young. I felt a mixture of emotions—pity, anger, guilt—as I keyed in the numbers.
Over the next few hours I told the story four times—to the uniformed cops at the scene, to the detectives there, again at Strathfield police station and again at the central police complex at Surry Hills. That took us well into the afternoon. I was tired, hungry and strung out. I’d had too much dispenser coffee; the taste in my mouth was foul and my mood was worse. My hands were dirty. I’d been tested for gunfire residue and the tissues I’d been given to wipe the testing solution away hadn’t done the job. They’d taken the SIM card from my phone.
Detective Inspector Sean Rockwell’s mood wasn’t much better than mine.
‘How long have you been back in business, Hardy? A month?’
‘Bit more.’
‘And this happens.’
He consulted a sheaf of computer printout. As well as telling the police what had happened I’d given them the memory stick and they’d printed out the Forrest file. Nothing else I could’ve done. They’d have seized the computer in any case and I already had a conviction for withholding evidence. A private inquiry agent has no privilege of confidentiality, especially when no lawyer has been involved in the case contract. Rockwell’s look of disgust snapped my fragile control.
‘Do you know why this bloke came to me? I’ll tell you. Because he was worried about a serious relationship he was in and, quite reasonably, he knew that if he went to you lot the story would leak out to the media within the hour and he’d be fucked. That’s why. He wanted me to handle it . . . discreetly. It all went wrong and I’m sorry about it, but don’t come all high and mighty with me. I’ve said all I’m going to say and stayed long enough. Charge me with something or let me go.’
‘I’d love to,’ Rockwell said, ‘charge you, that is.’
‘I bet you would, but you’ve got nothing on me. You know everything about it I know. His mobile’ll confirm he rang me just before he was shot.’
‘No sign of his mobile.’
I shrugged. ‘The killer must have taken it.’
‘Or you did.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Who knows what a loser like you would do? Anyway, we don’t quite know everything. We don’t know what you found out when you checked on this . . .’ he looked down at some notes he’d made, ‘Miranda’s address.’
‘Dead end, I told you. Short-term rental. She was on the game. Your blokes there must know about it, probably got freebies.’
He slammed his fist on the desk and some of the sheets of paper slipped to the floor. ‘Piss off, Hardy. And stay right away from this fucking mess you’ve created.’
‘Where’s my car?’
‘Impounded for further investigation.’
That meant they’d take it apart carefully and just stick it back together any old how or not touch it and just hang on to it to punish me.
‘My house
keys?’
‘Collect them on your way out.’
I was escorted from the interview room to the front desk where I picked up my keys. They kept my sim card and I was issued with a receipt for it and my car. As soon as I got outside I was bailed up by a clutch of reporters—cameras, microphones, tape recorders, the works.
‘Mr Hardy, was Bobby Forrest on drugs?’
‘Why did Bobby hire you?’
‘Was it suicide?’
‘No comment.’
I pushed through them and hailed a taxi. They persisted while I got in, still filming and firing questions. They’d be at my house for sure. I gave the driver Megan’s address in Newtown and he had the sense not to say a word for the whole trip. Perhaps he was a central police station specialist.
Megan took one look at me and stood aside. She was holding Ben and he reached out to grab my hair. It was better than being asked questions.
‘I need a drink,’ I said. ‘A big one.’
Megan had seen me stressed quite a few times before. She just nodded. ‘You know where it is.’
I made a large scotch and ice and took a big pull on it before sitting down. Megan put Ben on the floor and he surprised me by tottering across to a shelf of toys and pulling some out.
‘He’s only ten months old.’
‘Nearly eleven. He’s early at everything. Be careful what you say. He understands a lot. What’s happened, Cliff? You look a wreck.’
It was close to six o’ clock and I asked her to turn on the television news. The death of Bobby Forrest and my encounter with the media was the lead item.
The body of actor Bobby Forrest, star of several television series and recently cast in the lead role for a major film, was found at Strathfield today. It is understood that the body was discovered by private investigator Cliff Hardy who, it is assumed, was working for Bobby Forrest. It is not known what Mr Hardy was employed to do or exactly how Bobby Forrest died except that a gunshot was involved. Speculation that Hardy was acting as a bodyguard has not been confirmed. He was interviewed by police for several hours this afternoon but would make no comment. Bobby Forrest . . .
The report went on to give more details about Bobby’s career and included several clips from his television appearances. I worked on the drink and let it all wash over me. Megan turned the set off at the end of the item. Ben was building a tower of cardboard blocks. He had it up nearly as tall as himself and when he put the last one in place he gave a whoop and knocked it down.
‘I hope you weren’t his bodyguard,’ Megan said.
‘I wasn’t.’
I sketched in some of the details while I helped Ben rebuild his tower a few times.
‘The police don’t really suspect you, do they?’
‘No. But they’ve warned me off having anything more to do with it.’
‘If I know you . . .’
‘He gave me a solid retainer. I’m honour-bound to work it off.’
‘Yeah, yeah. You can’t afford to step too far out of line.’
‘Never could.’
‘And it never stopped you. Do you have any idea who killed him?’
‘No. It was a nasty, tricky business, but I had no idea it was this serious. Have to think about it.’
We dropped the subject, picked it up again for a while when Hank came home. These days he’s mainly doing electronic security work, and when I told him the police had taken my SIM card he looked worried.
‘Means they’ve got all your contact details and data.’
I shrugged. ‘No data to speak of, not at this stage, and I’ve nothing to hide, really. But does that mean I’ve lost all that stuff?’
‘No, dummy. When I set up your phone I fixed it so your contacts would be stored in the phone itself. Let’s have a look.’
I handed him the phone, he fiddled with it and nodded. ‘Yep, all there. I’ll put in a new SIM card and you’re up and running.’
Ben went to bed. Megan made dinner. I cleaned up. I slept on the couch, soundly, with two solid scotches and half a big glass of white wine inside me. I distracted Ben for a while in the early morning while Megan got things done and then walked home. No media, but cigarette butts, a couple of crumpled tissues and the open lid of my letter box showed that they’d been there.
I reviewed what I had on the computer file and added the one thing I hadn’t told the police—that I had a forwarding address and a name for ‘Miranda’ from the serviced apartments’ concierge. If they followed up my interview with her they’d find that out, probably, but it might take them some time. I could see if there was anything to be learned at 26 Hood Street, Burwood, just to feel that I was still earning Bobby’s money. And because I don’t like being told what and what not to do. If I found out anything useful I’d probably tell the police. Not necessarily. A one-man, unpaid hunt for a murderer still held an attraction for me, at least theoretically.
Before shutting down the computer I tried again to mentally recreate the driver of the white Commodore. I’d told the police I’d only registered that it was a male—from the build, the set of the head on the shoulders. Now I pushed myself to see if there was more. I’d mostly seen him from the back, only fleetingly from the side when he jerked his head sideways as he jumped lanes. There was something. But what? I couldn’t dredge it up. Something.
I showered, shaved and took my medications plus some of those I’d missed the day before. Not recommended, but medicos who lay out rules for you don’t anticipate things like being hauled in by the cops. Ben had spilled ice cream on the suit trousers. I changed into drill trousers, a casual shirt and a leather jacket. I hadn’t told Megan and Hank about Bobby’s mobile being missing. That meant the killer knew about me. Might care, might not. But I felt better with my new Smith & Wesson .38 in my armpit.
I walked to the ATM in Glebe Point Road, drew out a few hundred dollars and caught a taxi to a car hire place in Leichhardt. I opted for a blue Holden Astra which looked like about a hundred thousand others. It had the hands-free mobile phone attachment and GPS. After consulting the manual and getting it all wrong a couple of times, I got it to function with a pleasant female Australian voice. I entered the Burwood address and resolved to follow the instructions even if I thought I knew a better way.
I didn’t know much about Burwood. I had an impression there were sets of medical clinics in the main drag and I seemed to remember something about citizens protesting against plans to open a brothel. I had a vague recollection that the argument was the brothel was too close to a church and a school. Can’t remember how it came out, but to my mind churchgoers should be able to resist temptation or try to redeem sinners, and no brothel owner I knew would ever admit a schoolchild. They might have employees dressed up as schoolchildren but that was between them and their clients.
The GPS instructions got me to Hood Street more efficiently than I could have done. Spent almost no time on Parramatta Road. The house was a big Federation job on a corner. Biggish block, neat front garden, car access at the side. The area was quiet with an almost oppressive feeling of respectability. I parked outside, opened the low gate and walked up a tiled path to the front porch. The porch was tiled as well and the house carried a brass plate with the name ‘Sherwood’ in elaborate script. Some kind of joke. The brass was polished to a high shine.
I rang the bell. Footsteps sounded on a wooden floor. I had my licence and the photo of Mary Oberon or ‘Miranda’ at the ready. The woman who opened the door checked that the screen door was locked before she looked at me.
‘Yes?’ she said.
She was middle-aged, dumpy, overdressed in expensive matronly clothes. I showed her the licence and told her I wanted information about the woman in the photograph. Her heavily ringed hand flew up to her mouth.
‘Oh my God, is she dead?’
‘Why would you think that?’
She shook her head. ‘Please go away, I don’t want to have anything more to do with her.’
‘This is impo
rtant. I gather she’s not here. Can I come in and talk to you?’
‘No. Go away.’
‘This could be a police matter.’
Her hand against the screen door trembled and I took a punt.
‘Or a tax matter.’
The trembling increased.
‘I don’t want to make trouble for you,’ I said. ‘I don’t even need to know your name. I just need to know everything you can tell me about this woman.’
‘You’d better come in.’
She unlocked the screen door and I followed her a few steps inside and then into the front room on the right. It was a big room, overfurnished, with a bay window. The shelf in the bay window was covered with knick-knacks.
‘Do you want to sit down?’ she said.
The big armchairs would have swallowed me. ‘No thanks.’
She subsided into one of the chairs. ‘I should never have taken her in. She was unsuitable.’
‘What name did she give you?’
‘Mary Oberon.’
‘Do you know what job she had?’
‘She didn’t seem to have one. She slept most of the day. She didn’t have breakfast or lunch as far as I could see. I asked her if she was dieting and she laughed. She went out for a little while in the evening, to get something to eat, I suppose. Then she stayed in her room playing dreadful music.’
‘She was hiding?’
‘Hiding? I don’t know. She seemed nice at first but she wasn’t. Wouldn’t give me the time of day.’
‘How long was she here?’
‘A few weeks.’
‘She paid her rent?’
Tricky territory for her. There were, at a guess, four or five bedrooms in the house. She could be raking it in. She nodded.
‘Why did you think she might be dead?’
She began to twist one of the rings on her finger. The sort of fidgeting that usually precedes a lie. My guess was that she’d poked into Mary Oberon’s belongings or overheard something and didn’t want to admit it. She looked around the room and didn’t speak.
I shrugged. ‘Okay, well I’ll have to take it further, Mrs . . . ?’
