by Peter Corris
‘You don’t trust them.’
‘You could say that.’
‘You reckon you’ve got candidates—people who might’ve wanted to hurt you this badly?’
‘Yeah, a few. I don’t know. It could still be connected to that fucking online dating shit. I wish he’d never…’
He broke off and looked at me, his eyes shrewd. ‘You’ve got some ideas of your own, haven’t you?’
I told him Bobby had paid me some money and that I’d followed up a couple of leads out of obligation. I said I had some more questions and some ideas about how to ask them.
‘You mean who to ask them.’
‘No, I mean how to find out who to ask.’
‘You’ve lost me, but that’s what I want to hear. Will you do it, Hardy? I’ll pay whatever it takes.’
I wanted to do it and I had to do it. I had no other client and the publicity I’d got wasn’t likely to bring people running. I felt the obligation to Bobby and an obligation to myself to follow up the leads I’d uncovered, and I’ve never liked leaving unfinished business.
I keep a few contracts in the house from the time when I worked at home. My contracts are about as bland and nonspecific as the law allows. They simply state that the undersigned has agreed to commission my services as a private inquiry agent and agrees to the following terms and conditions. These relate to the schedule of fees, my responsibility to report findings and termination arrangements. Frost read it through very carefully. The space for the amount of the retainer was blank. He put a big, blunt, nicotine-stained finger on it and looked at me.
‘Negotiable,’ I said.
He nodded, took out his wallet and peeled off ten hundred-dollar notes.
‘Give me your bank details,’ he said. ‘I’ll transfer five grand today. Will that do?’
I filled the amount in on the form. He nodded, took a silver ballpoint pen from his breast pocket and signed both copies. I signed and gave him one copy. I wrote the bank account information on the back of one of my cards.
‘I’ll need names and any relevant information about the people you suspect,’ I said.
He flicked the card before tucking it away with his Ray-Bans. ‘I’ll put it all in an email.’
‘Just a few more things. Bobby’s mother?’
‘Died ten years ago. The usual, breast cancer. We were separated.’
‘Have you met Bobby’s girlfriend, Jane Devereaux?’
‘Once. Nice girl.’
‘That’s all?’
‘It was a very brief meeting. I’ve got to go. Arrangements to make when they release Bobby’s body. Shit, have you got any kids?’
‘One, a daughter.’
‘Try not to outlive her.’
‘Let me know the arrangements,’ I said. ‘I’d like to be there.’
‘I will. Thanks, Hardy.’
We shook hands and I saw him out.
■ ■ ■
I phoned Frank Parker. He was in the city and we arranged to meet for a drink at a pub in The Rocks. I walked. I had two solid measures of brandy inside me on an empty stomach and the last thing I needed was a DUI problem. I enjoyed the walk through Walsh Bay and the sound and sight of the harbour always gives me a lift. The pub had a colonial theme but it’s not overdone—no leg irons, no cat o’ nine tails. I got there first and settled inside with a middy of light. In fact the theme was more nautical than correctional and I studied the paintings of tall ships as I waited.
Frank appeared carrying a stubbie. ‘Got any convict ancestors, Cliff?’
‘A couple, I believe.’
‘Me, too. Cheers. Okay, exploit me.’
‘Ray Frost, what do you know?’
Frank almost choked on his drink. ‘Ray Frost—you’re not in trouble with him, are you?’
‘No, he’s a client.’
Frank shook his head, took a drink and cleared his throat. ‘I thought you’d have more sense.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s a crook. He’s also a ruthless bastard.’
‘He said he hasn’t been in trouble for years.’
‘All that means is that he hasn’t been caught. He’s seen off a few people who got in his way. Not that they didn’t deserve it.’
I remembered Frost’s phrase, I’m not asking you to drop him in a hole. I said, ‘He’s Bobby Forrest’s father. He wants me to help find out who killed his son.’
‘Don’t touch it.’
‘He thinks it could be something to do with his business. Some kind of payback.’
‘I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. He’s bad news, Cliff. He’s a standover merchant. He puts pressure on people to accept his bids for jobs. Not only on the construction people, on the contractors and sub-contractors as well.’
‘What kind of pressure?’
‘Every bloody kind—financial, political, physical.’
‘Wouldn’t it be standard practice in that kind of game?’
‘Frost took it to a new level. He’s been up before a few Royal Commissions.’
‘When?’
‘The last one was only a couple of years ago.’
I drank some beer and wished I’d bought it full strength. ‘I must’ve been overseas. When before that?’
‘Back a bit. He’s cunning and he’s got some protection. What has he told you?’
‘Not much. He says there’s a few people who’d be capable of hurting him in that way. He’s sending me the names.’
Frank finished his beer. ‘I’m driving, that’s all I can have. Don’t take him on, mate. You’d be out of your depth. He’ll be using you for sure. That’s what he’s good at.’
‘He seemed genuine.’
‘He would. Well, that’s my advice. You’d be smart to take it.’
He patted me on the shoulder and left. I drank the rest of my beer and resented its thin taste. I bought a scotch and a sandwich. Graham Greene said the main function of food was to blot up alcohol. He had a point.
Frank’s advice was usually good, but he shouldn’t have said I’d be out of my depth. I was already wondering whether I was too old for the business and I didn’t need my best friend to be expressing the same doubts. It made me determined to find out who killed Bobby Forrest and why.
On the walk back I thought about the lines of inquiry available to me. There was the matter of Mary Oberon and the bearded man in the white Commodore, and the payback possibility relating to Ray Frost. That seemed like the most promising order to tackle them in but there were two problems. The money said the last possibility was the one to work on, but was it the most likely? And who was to say that all three matters weren’t related in some way?
It was dark when I got to Pyrmont. I was under the limit by then and could have driven but I decided to go up to the office and do some thinking. I turned on the computer and found I had three emails. Two offered me things I didn’t want, the third was from Ray Frost. He was nothing if not succinct. All the message contained was three names: Charlie Long, Allied Trades Union; Ben Costello, MacMillan Bank; Philip Tyson, Sterling Security Inc. Tyson was the only one I’d heard of. He ran a service that provided armoured security vans with armed guards, bodyguards and nightwatchmen. He also provided training for these occupations and for staff for privately run prisons. He had a reputation for being a hands-on boss, possibly just the type to be in a conflict with Frost.
It would have helped to have some idea of what their disagreements with Frost involved, but he’d elected not to tell me. Anyway, I’d find that out when I probed into their affairs. I knew unionists, clients, at least, of bankers and I even knew of one of Tyson’s former employees. There were things I could do to earn Frosts money.
The phone rang.
‘Hardy.’
‘Sean Rockwell. You can collect your car.’
That was a surprise. I’d been expecting a longer wait and an official letter. He told me it was in a police yard at Botany and that I could collect it there at 10 am the next day.
‘Don’t be late,’ he added.
‘How’s that?’
‘I’ll see you there. We have things to talk about, like Mary Oberon and a house in Hood Street, Burwood.’
~ * ~
6
In the morning I took the hire car back to Leichhardt and caught a taxi to Botany. The police yard was a large bitumen expanse overlooking one of the container terminals. A chill wind was coming off the water and it looked and felt like just the right place for confiscated, neglected or abandoned vehicles. I showed ID and my receipt at the gate and walked across to where Rockwell was standing next to my Falcon. He tossed me the keys; I caught them, just, opened the car and looked inside. It was pretty much as I’d left it—that is, fairly clean.
‘Let’s get out of the wind,’ Rockwell said.
I followed him across to a prefab office in one corner of the yard. We went in and a uniformed officer sitting at a desk stood up.
‘Borrowing your office for a bit, constable,’ Rockwell said. ‘Go and have a chat to your mate.’
The officer nodded and went out. Rockwell pointed to a chair by the wall and sat on a corner of the desk. Dominant position.
‘You must think we’re stupid, Hardy. Or slack. Didn’t you think we’d follow up on the address you gave us for the woman?’
‘I thought you might, but I knew I’d do it quicker.’
‘Despite being told to leave it alone?’
‘Forrest gave me a retainer. I felt I owed him a day’s work.’
‘Bullshit. You could be facing an obstruction charge, like the one you served time for.’
‘It was for withholding evidence.’
‘That, too.’
I was puzzled. He was being too mild about it all. Why hadn’t they just hauled me in to Surry Hills? The obvious answer was that they weren’t making any progress, which was bad news in a high-profile case. It suggested they hadn’t learned much at Hood Street. The obvious conclusion to draw was that the woman I’d spoken to wasn’t there. They needed me.
‘I want to know what you heard from the woman you spoke to at Hood Street—Mrs Thelma Harding.’
‘Was that her name? She never said. Tell me what she told you and let’s see how the stories match.’
Rockwell was an experienced cop, trained and practised at not displaying his feelings, but he looked embarrassed. ‘She wasn’t there. We found three Chinese students who’d overstayed their visas. You scared the shit out of the one who was there when you called. He thought you were from Immigration. Maybe you said you were.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘This bloke said you talked to Mrs Harding for a while and really put the wind up her. She packed a bag and pissed off, they don’t know where. She told them to leave as soon as they could. Poor buggers didn’t know what to do. Immigration’s got them now.’
It’s an old habit I’m unable to break—telling the police partial truths. They’d leaked the details of the Bobby Forrest murder to the media and would go on leaking. They suited themselves and my inclination was always to do the same. I told Rockwell about Mary Oberon being frightened of the bearded man in the white car. I told him about the attempt, real or not, to run her over. I didn’t tell him about the fifty-dollar Fijian note.
‘Is that it?’ he said.
‘That’s it.’
‘Not much.’
‘No.’
‘There must be thousands of guys with beards driving around in white cars.’
‘Thousands.’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’
I didn’t answer. Rockwell had to decide and I wasn’t going to make it any easier for him. He had to warn me off again or ask me to help. He wasn’t dumb; he’d dealt with people like me before and suspected that I still hadn’t told him everything I knew. He looked tired; he’d been working the case and getting nowhere. He eased off the desk.
‘They tell me you’re a mate of old Frank Parker.’
‘Less of the old. He’s only got a year or two on me.’
‘He was a good copper. He gave a lecture once at the Academy. Impressed me.’
‘He’ll be glad to hear it.’
‘You talk things over with him?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘I’m sure he’d advise you to cooperate with us.’
‘Usually, yes.’
He couldn’t quite bring himself to ask; that was as far as he’d go, but his meaning was clear.
He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. ‘A few things you’d better fix on the Falcon if you don’t want an unroadworthy certificate. We’ll be in touch, Hardy. Make sure you’re available for the inquest.’
■ ■ ■
I drove out of the yard and noticed that the petrol tank needle was on empty. I was pretty sure the tank had been at least a quarter full when I’d last looked. I spent an anxious ten minutes driving around looking for a service station and found one when the tank must have been close to bone dry. It looked like a spot of petty punishment and Rockwell’s last comment about the car sounded more like a threat than a friendly gesture. After filling the tank I looked at the document I’d been given. The car had a cracked rear tail-light cover and a loose rear vision mirror on the passenger side. Hardly reasons to be taken off the road.
■ ■ ■
I spent the next two days at the computer, on the telephone and in pubs, offices and cafes, teasing out all the information I could about Frost’s three names. It felt like old times and brought back to me why I enjoyed the work so much— the movement, the variety in the characters and situations and the way in which one piece of information led to another, or didn’t. I felt alive.
Charlie Long of the Allied Trades Union didn’t shape up as a likely candidate. He’d had run-ins with various people in the construction game, including Frost, but for some years he’d been keeping his nose clean. He was on track for an Upper House parliamentary seat and a likely ministry and was being scrupulously careful of his associates and his image.
Ben Costello, the merchant banker, had refused Frost a loan he’d badly needed a few years back and had financed one of Frost’s competitors. Frost had struck back by buying a company Costello was in negotiation with on a financing deal that would have netted him a massive commission. Costello had a reputation as a vicious and vindictive operator who’d been mentioned in several ICAC inquiries although no action had ever been taken against him.
The shares in Costello’s holding company had suddenly gone down, I was told by Tony Hunt, a blogger who specialised in inside information on the big players. That information cost Ray Frost some of his money.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Silly question,’ Tony said.
‘Doesn’t there have to be a reason?’
‘Not really. The whole thing is a pack of cards house built on sand, to mix metaphors. A fantasy. That’s what makes it so enjoyable to watch.’
‘Could it be that ICAC is closing in on him?’
‘You’re no fun, Hardy. I like to think of it all as beyond reason and rationality.’
‘That’s not what you say when it comes down to paying you for information.’
‘Sad, but true. You want me to find out what’s scaring the market about Ben? It’ll cost you.’
‘Do it. Please.’
It sounded promising but it fizzled.
‘Sorry,’ Tony said when he rang back two days later.
‘About what?’
‘That I couldn’t bleed you for more money. The cat’s out of the bag.’
‘I don’t like paying for metaphors.’
‘Like I said, you’re no fun. Ben’s got leukemia and is on the way out. It was supposed to be a secret while he shifted the money around but it leaked out. Would you mind telling me why you’re interested, Hardy? Information is a two-way street, you know.’
I declined.
I met Dominic O’Grady at the Botte D’oro restaurant in Leichhardt. O’Grady was a former privat
e inquiry agent who’d turned to journalism. He’d worked for Sterling Security Inc and now wrote for the online investigative newsletter The Sentinel, run by my old friend Harry Tickener. O’Grady was a gourmand who’d undoubtedly order a massive and expensive lunch. I put in a long workout session at the gym in preparation for the meal and the wine that were bound to tempt me.
