by Peter Corris
The waiter returned with a medical bag. He opened it, took out alcohol swabs and cleaned the wound.
‘No nerve damage, I think, but stitching will be necessary.’
‘I’d better get to a hospital then.’
He exchanged alarmed looks with the woman.
‘Dr Oberoi could do it,’ she said.
She sounded very nervous. Advantage Hardy.
‘You seem to have some problems,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘This is a serious assault.’
‘Yes.’
‘A . . . hysterical daughter and a brother practising medicine without a licence.’
‘Do you want me to stitch this wound or not?’
‘Just a minute, doctor. I’m willing to allow you to stitch and I won’t report the assault on one condition.’
The woman clasped her heavily ringed hands together. ‘What is that?’
‘You have to make Mary talk to me. I just want information from her. It’s not information she’ll want to give but I have to have it. If you can make that clear to her and she’ll tell me what I need to know, none of this has to cause you any trouble. I don’t think anyone in the restaurant noticed anything.’
‘Very well. I will see to it.’
‘Stitch away, doctor,’ I said.
Various members of the family lived in three flats above the restaurant. They took me up there and into a small room which Ahmed Oberoi obviously used as a surgery when he wasn’t cooking curries. He stitched me up, applied some cream and bandaged my shoulder. As he worked he told me he’d fully qualified as a doctor in India but hadn’t been able to satisfy the Australian medical authorities.
‘It was when there was all the fuss about Dr Haneef,’ he said. ‘There was a lot of prejudice.’
I nodded. Kevin Andrews had a lot to answer for.
He seemed perfectly competent to me. He disapproved when I asked for whisky and painkillers but his sister obliged. She apologised profusely for what had happened and expressed her undying gratitude to me for not reporting the incident.
‘It would be a disaster for the business,’ she said. ‘There is a lot of competition and a lot of prejudice as Ahmed says.’
‘We have an arrangement,’ I said.
‘I have sent someone to bring her here. It will not take long. You will be gentle with her.’
‘Yes. Has she . . . behaved violently like this before?’
She shook her head. ‘Not in such a way, no. But she was very distressed when she came from Sydney. She seems to be under great pressure but she will not say why.’
‘You asked her why?’
‘Of course, but she will say nothing. We have been very worried. In a way perhaps it is good that you are here. Perhaps we will learn something.’
Mrs Oberoi checked my name. She took me into a sitting room and offered tea which I refused in favour of more whisky. They brought Mary in about an hour later. The sari, headband, nose jewel and caste mark were gone. She wore boots, jeans and a sweater and her hair was tied up in a knot. No makeup. Her mother spoke to her in what I took to be Hindi. Mary nodded and her mother left.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I panicked.’
‘I’ll mend. Your uncle did a great job. I know you’ve been scared. I know about the man who tried to run you down in Burwood.’
‘Then you know all about . . . what do you know?’
Mrs Oberoi had brought my jacket to the room. I reached into the pocket with my right hand without thinking and grimaced at the pain. I used my left hand and took out the photograph of her that Bobby had given me and the one I’d found in Simisola’s house.
‘You know a lot,’ she said. ‘How much have you told my mother?’
‘Nothing and I’ve got no reason to. What I don’t know is who put you up to contacting Bobby and harassing him when he didn’t respond.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘You have to. Otherwise I report this,’ I touched my shoulder, ‘to the police. You’re in trouble and your uncle is in trouble.’
‘You’re a bastard. If you found me, they can find me.’
‘Your choice. How did you keep your family from knowing what you did in Sydney?’
‘They don’t read the papers or watch television. They just work, night and day.’
She reached for the whisky bottle, uncapped it and took a swig. The hard shell she’d needed in Sydney was forming again.
‘You know Simisola’s dead. Did that have anything to do with you?’
‘No. How did you find me?’
‘Isabella.’
She laughed. ‘How much?’
‘Seven fifty.’
‘Cheap. How much are you offering me?’
‘I’m offering you my silence.’
‘They’re good people, my family.’
‘They seem to be.’
‘I’m the black sheep.’
‘So was I.’
‘There’s a difference. I was born in Fiji and brought up more strictly than you can believe. The only thing on the minds of my mother and father was to save money and get to Australia. They moved heaven and earth to do it. And I had to be good at all times. There couldn’t be the slightest thing the immigration Nazis could object to. They applied and waited and waited until the day came.’
I let her tell it her way. I had the feeling she’d give me what I wanted but she had to talk herself into it first.
‘My uncle had applied from India and he got here, too. Eventually. But he couldn’t practise. That was a blow. The strictness towards me continued but, hey, this is Australia. I wouldn’t wear it. I went to Sydney, tried to break into acting, but . . . couldn’t. Have you got a cigarette?’
‘Sorry, no.’
‘Bugger.’
Hard to see why she didn’t make it as an actress. She was pretty good. The performance as a demure, exotic Asian restaurant host had been convincing and now she was a convincing tough chick.
‘One thing led to another,’ she said, ‘and I ended up at Black Girls. It wasn’t so bad—mostly call-outs to nice places. They keep too much of the money and they watch you like hawks but . . . Anyway, there was this guy who was something to do with the management. He came to me with a proposition.’
‘To entrap Bobby Forrest.’
‘Yeah. It was a good deal. He bought me a computer and showed me the ropes. It wasn’t hard to get under Bobby’s skin, believe me.’
‘At first.’
‘Right, at first. He was very cute and I didn’t mind that much that he couldn’t get it up. A lot of men can’t. There’s other ways if they’ve got any imagination.’
‘But Bobby didn’t have any imagination.’
‘No, he agonised and carried on. I only saw him twice.’
Bobby said once, I thought. They never give you the whole story.
Mrs Oberoi opened the door. ‘Is everything all right?’
Mary looked ready to shout at her but she fought the impulse down.
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
Mary rubbed her forehead where the red spot had been. ‘Then Bobby met that woman and didn’t want to have anything to do with me. So I had to keep the pressure on. You know about all that?’
‘Yes. Who was this man?’
‘I’m afraid to tell you.’
‘Why did he want you to do all this?’
‘It wasn’t for him, it was for his boss. The boss owns the brothel.’
‘Why did you go to Burwood?’
‘After Bobby got killed and that media stuff about Miranda appeared I panicked. I wiped all the emails and the stuff on the site. He wanted them to send to the bitch Bobby took up with but I was scared to have them on my computer so I wiped them. That freaked this guy. He wanted me to get right away, go to Melbourne. To a brothel down there. I didn’t want to go. I hate Melbourne. It’s cold and wet and flat and bad things happen there.’
‘Bad things
happen everywhere. Why Burwood?’
‘Burwood was as boring a place as I’d ever been to. I thought I could hide there. But he found me.’
‘And threatened you?’
‘Big time. I think he would’ve really hurt me but there was someone watching from across the street.’
‘What’s his name, Mary? You have to tell me.’
‘You’ll go away if I do? You won’t say anything about this,’ she pointed to my shoulder, ‘or say that I gave you his name?’
‘Right. You have my word.’
‘Piss on your word. His name is Alex Mountjoy.’
‘You know him,’ she said.
‘I know of him. So he’s the one who drove the car at you—bearded, drives a white Commodore?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think he killed Bobby?’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘No, why would he do that?’
‘His boss seems to have had it in for Bobby.’
She shook her head. ‘I think he wanted to make Bobby suffer, not to kill him. Is that what you’re on about—finding out who killed Bobby?’
I nodded.
‘But you’re not a cop.’
Using my left hand again I fished in my jacket for my wallet. Gave her a card.
‘Are you working for that woman—the one with the brains? It really pissed me off, that newspaper stuff. I’ve got brains, too.’
‘It annoyed her as well. It doesn’t matter who I’m working for. Do you know where Mountjoy lives?’
‘Of course I do. I fucked him there enough times, didn’t I?’
‘Where?’
She smiled. ‘This is extra.’
‘It’s in your interest for me to deal with him.’
‘How do I know you can? All I’ve seen you do is threaten people.’
‘I’ll pay you what I paid Isabella, not a cent more.’
‘Okay, let’s see it.’
I’d anticipated something like this and brought a chunk of Ray Frost’s money with me. I selected the right notes and held them just out of her reach.
‘He lives directly across the street from Black Girls, so he can keep an eye on things and doesn’t have to go far for a fuck.’
I handed the money to her. She tucked it into the pocket of her jeans.
‘He’s a kick-boxer,’ she said. ‘I hope he kicks your fucking head in.’
Mrs Oberoi provided me with a T-shirt and offered to call me a cab. I thanked her and told her I could walk and the incident was closed.
‘Can you tell me anything about what happened to her in Sydney?’ she asked.
How to answer that? How to tell a mother that her daughter was a prostitute and an associate of low-lifes who’d lead her deeper and deeper into trouble unless she was lucky? I realised that people like the Oberois were cut off from many of the realities of Australian life. They worked hard and prospered, they adapted as best they could and sometimes cut corners—as the qualified but unregistered doctor was doing—but they remained innocents in some ways, and vulnerable.
Mary had made a break from ‘the life’ and had been scared. It was possible that the fear would put her on another path. She knew she faced danger from several quarters. I knew only too well how being linked to a violent death could affect your judgement, your decisions, your future. She’d made the right move in getting clear, and she had a veil of sorts to hide behind. The odds might just be with her. But only just. I couldn’t offer the woman much.
‘No,’ I said, ‘but I think she’ll get over it.’
Back at the motel I took stock. Now I had a clear suspect for Bobby’s murderer and, with Jane Devereaux’s information, a background to how and why it might have happened. It had cost me a sore, stiff shoulder but I’d recover. The problem was, it had run me up against a formidable antagonist in Michael Tennyson. There was also no answer to Mary Oberon’s question: Why would he do that? If it was Mountjoy who caught up with Bobby in Strathfield, perhaps he only meant to scare him. Maybe the death was an accident.
Another couple of painkillers and another whisky saw me off to sleep. I rolled onto the shoulder a few times in the night and woke up swearing. It was one of those nights when dawn couldn’t come quickly enough. Washing and dressing were difficult. I envied my grandson Ben, who appeared to be completely ambidextrous, the way my mother had been. I drank instant coffee and waited until it was time to get a taxi to the station.
I bought the papers and settled down with them and C.J. Sansom. Mary Oberon was right—the news was mostly bad unless you owned a lot of mining shares and didn’t care about pedophile priests, abusive parents and lying politicians. I read a hundred pages about the machinations in the court of Henry VIII and reflected that things were pretty much the same back then, but with a lot of religious camouflages and stiffer penalties when the truth was revealed. I tried to keep the arm and shoulder moving and it responded pretty well. Not that I was too worried about going up against a kick-boxer even if I wasn’t fully fit—a kick-boxer stands no chance against a street fighter. It’s the same with karatists.
Train travel aids reflection and recollection. I remember a drinking session I once had with the actor Bill Hunter. I was working as a bodyguard for one of the actors on a film he had a major role in. He was sober for his scenes, but liked to drink afterwards. He’d boxed a bit, sparred with professionals. We had things in common. I drank a fair amount in those days.
‘It’s a matter of being willing, Cliff,’ he said. ‘You have to be willing.’
‘Willing to do what, Bill?’
‘You don’t even ask what. Willing to do anything.’
He’d named a couple of actors he knew with the quality, and some London and Sydney crims, most of them dead by that time, and I knew what he meant. It’s something that comes over you—a capacity for violence without limit but still with some control. I’d felt it a few times.
I turned my mind to more cerebral matters. I had no evidence and no prospect of getting any that would stand up in a court of law. But if I could prove to my own satisfaction and that of Ray Frost that Mountjoy and Michael Tennyson were involved in Bobby’s death, steps could be taken. Frost had offered help and, judging by his background and things he’d said, strict legality wasn’t his main priority. Reprisal would appeal to him more.
The key was Jane Devereaux. I’d asked her to contact me if Tennyson had been in touch directly and she hadn’t. I got a taxi from Central to Pyrmont and called her business number from the office.
‘I’m glad you called,’ she said. ‘I’ve been wondering what to do.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing really. Nothing direct, but the gifts have kept coming. Not as extravagant, but disturbing.’
‘In what way?’
‘I’ll have to call you back. I can’t talk freely in the office. I’ll call in ten minutes.’
I dealt with some emails and bills of no importance while I waited. It was closer to twenty minutes before she rang.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I was held up, we’re very busy just now.’
I was encouraged by how calm she sounded because she’d need to be to agree to the suggestion I was planning to make.
‘The gifts,’ she said. ‘Lingerie, magazines and DVDs. All very suggestive—pornographic, really, and I’m not easily shocked. In fact I’m not shocked, just . . . disturbed.’
‘I understand. How were these things delivered?’
‘Not posted, by hand into my box at the flat.’
‘Did you do anything about the security?’
‘I did and my neighbour told me she thought someone tried to get in one day. And I have a feeling I’m being followed. I’m worried, Mr Hardy, and I don’t have anyone else . . .’
‘It’s all right, I’ll help you. We’d better meet and talk things over.’
‘Have you made any progress?’
‘I think so. Your office is in Surry Hills, isn’t it? Can we meet around there after you finish wo
rk?’
She named a wine bar in Crown Street within walking distance of her office and we arranged to meet at 6 pm. I planned to be in Riley Street across from her office a good bit earlier. If she was being followed things could take an interesting turn.
I parked behind the library in Crown Street, took up a position and watched. She wasn’t followed. She walked briskly in her high heels, wearing a dark suit and carrying the usual briefcase. I caught up with her at the door to the wine bar.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘You’ll be glad to hear you weren’t followed. What can I get you?’
‘A glass of red, please.’
Good choice after a hard day’s work. I got two glasses of the house red and we sat where I could keep an eye on whoever came in. She looked tired, as though she was lacking sleep, but perhaps it was just long hours at the desk late in the week. The wine was smooth and she drank half the glass in a couple of quick pulls.
I told her what Bobby had said about her making him feel better than he was, and how Ray Frost had echoed the words in his eulogy. She smiled and had some more wine. ‘I’m drinking more than I did,’ she said.
‘Understandable.’
She didn’t turn heads, but there was something about her manner, the way she sat, her composure, that drew attention. I told her about my meeting with Mary Oberon without mentioning the knife.
‘How did you get her to tell you that?’
‘I applied moral pressure.’
She smiled and some of the tired look fell away. ‘I’ve no idea what you mean, but do you think now that Alexander Mountjoy killed Bobby?’
‘I’m not sure, but he’s the prime candidate.’
‘Can you go to the police?’
‘No, there’s no proof. I want to ask you to do something, if you’re willing.’
‘That sounds ominous.’ She emptied her glass and got up. ‘I’m going to need another drink. How about you?’
I nodded.
‘Watch my briefcase, please.’
The place had filled up and she had to wait to be served. She spoke to a couple of people. It was obviously the watering hole for publishers. One of the men tried to engage her but she smiled and shook her head. He looked disappointed. She returned with two glasses and a small carafe. She poured.
