by Peter Corris
‘You can keep the card, mate. I’ve got a few of them. Planning to see Barrie?’
‘Yes, what can you tell me about him?’
‘Well, he used to be a tour player but he wasn’t quite good enough. Had a few pro jobs around the place but they never seemed to work out.’
‘Why not?’
He laughed. ‘Anger, why else? Barrie tells me he did a course in anger management that helped him and so now he helps others. Charges ‘em pretty steep, but I reckoned Bobby could afford it.’
‘Did it help Bobby?’
He shrugged. ‘His handicap didn’t come down.’
That’s the trouble with golfers—they only have one way of measuring things. ‘I meant did it help him with his temper?’
‘Dunno. Didn’t hear any complaints about him and our members are right down on that sort of stuff. One thrown club can bring on a suspension.’
My lawyer Viv Garner was a keen golfer who played to a low handicap in club competition until heart trouble reduced him to playing socially and using a cart, all of which he resented. I knew he kept up a keen interest in the sport. I rang him and asked if he’d ever heard of Barrie Monkhurst.
‘Heard of him? I acted for him.’
‘What was the charge?’
‘Insurance fraud leading to assault. He was a pro at a golf club. He’d cooked the books to claim insurance money. When the assessor picked the dodge up Monkhurst bashed him. Put him in hospital.’
‘What happened?’
‘I got him a good barrister and he went to work. No one likes insurance companies and he got some juice out of that. He argued Monkhurst had anger management issues and was receiving counselling for it. A sympathetic magistrate let him off with a fairly hefty restitution order and a suspended sentence. He lost the job, of course, and they took that into consideration. But I’d be surprised if he ever made the restitution in full.’
‘Why?’
‘Monkhurst hired a member of my profession who’s notorious for delaying settlements and restitution payments. He strings things out until all the other parties lose interest or settle for token amounts. He’s a genius at it.’
‘I’m shocked.’
‘No you’re not.’
‘Did Monkhurst pay you?’
‘After a time. I’m a persistent bugger and I had a good collector.’
‘When was this?’
‘Ten years ago. About then. Monkhurst’s a dodgy character. I hope you’re not relying on him for anything.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Good, because I can tell you that whatever he’s doing now it won’t be on the up and up.’
~ * ~
20
From the sound of things, it was smart to play it cagey with Monkhurst. I rang him.
‘This is Barrie.’
‘Mr Monkhurst, I’ve been referred to you by the pro at Anzac Park.’
‘Steve, okay. Are you a golfer?’
‘No. I was referred to Steve by someone else.’
‘I get it. You have a problem with anger, ah, what’s your name?’
‘Cliff.’
‘Problem with anger, Cliff?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Is it to do with a sport or more generally?’
‘Bit of both really.’
‘Explain.’
‘I do my block at squash sometimes and I experience road rage.’
‘That’s serious. That can get you into real trouble.’
‘It already has.’
‘I’m sure I can help you. I charge a hundred and twenty dollars for the initial consultation and there’s a sliding scale of fees after that depending on how we attack the problem. You’ll notice I say attack. That’s an aggressive word. Does it surprise you that I use an aggressive word like that?’
‘Um, well, yeah, a bit.’
‘Don’t let it worry you. Anger has to be beaten.’
‘Right. The fees don’t bother me.’
‘What I like to hear. You know there’s no Medicare rebate or anything like that?’
‘I’m not worried. If I don’t do something about this, my life’s going down the toilet.’
‘Can’t let that happen, Cliff. When can you come and see me?’
‘What’s wrong with now?’
He laughed. ‘That eager? All right, say in ninety minutes. I suppose Steve gave you my card so you know where I am.’
‘Yeah, Kogarah. Ninety minutes is fine. Cash?’
‘You bet. I’ll be very angry if you haven’t got it. That’s a joke, Cliff.’
I laughed politely.
■ ■ ■
All I knew about Kogarah was that Clive James used to live there and run his billy cart down a hill. My business had never taken me there before and the closest I’d been was to Brighton-le-Sands to the east. Monkhurst’s street ran parallel to the railway line and the house was closer to the tracks than I’d have wanted. Train noise in the middle distance is okay but you don’t want it drowning out the television. The house was a cream-brick semi, neither shabby nor well looked after; the gate hinges needed oiling and the weeds were winning a battle against the grass.
I’d rehearsed my story. The only way to deal with a con man is to con him. I used the door knocker, hitting harder than I needed to. I heard footsteps inside and the door was opened by a man wearing a tracksuit and carrying a can of beer in his left hand.
He said, ‘Cliff?’
I said, ‘Right. Barrie?’
‘That’s me, come on in and have a beer. I hope you drink beer.’
We shook hands. He had big, golfer’s hands, very strong.
‘I drink some beers,’ I said. ‘Not all.’
‘I’ve got Toohey’s Old.’
‘That’ll do.’
I followed him down a narrow passage past a couple of rooms, through an eat-in kitchen and out to a built-in sunroom at the back. Sea grass matting, cane furniture. The yard beyond it was completely concreted with a Hill’s hoist sitting in the middle. Monkhurst had taken a can of beer from the fridge as we went through the kitchen, and now he threw it to me in a hard, underarm toss. I caught it, just. It jarred my hand and I glared at him.
‘You’ve got the look all right. Sit down, let’s have a chinwag.’
He was about fifty, middle-size, not fat but getting there with flesh under his chin and soft bulk to his upper body. I sat, opened the can, took a swig and pulled out my wallet. I put a hundred and twenty dollars of Ray Frost’s money on the table beside my chair.
He touched his eyebrows. ‘You’ve done some boxing.’
I nodded. ‘Amateur.’
He drank some beer. ‘Ex-cop?’
‘No ...’
‘Ex-something.’
‘Army.’
‘You don’t say much.’
‘I thought I was here to listen.’
‘Right. Listen and learn. I used to be like you. Thought I was a hard case with the world against me.’
‘Maybe it was.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I was wrong. The world doesn’t give a fuck, one way or the other. Understand that and you’ve made a start.’
It went on like that for a while. Monkhurst was glib, parroting things he’d probably picked up from self-help books. Some of it made sense, some didn’t. When he started mentioning group sessions and role playing I began to detect a move towards his sliding scale of fees. I continued to keep my responses to a minimum, wondering how I could introduce the subject of Bobby Forrest.
Eventually I said, ‘Any notable successes, Barrie? People I might have heard of?’
His eyes went shrewd and he hesitated. ‘Well, I don’t like to...’
Before he could finish the sentence the front door banged. A young woman came bustling into the house and headed down to the sunroom.
‘Dad, I...’
She looked at me and her hand flew up to her mouth. She almost sagged against the door frame. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘Don’t talk like that, Chloe. Sorry, Cliff, this is my daughter, Chloe. She’s not usually so bloody rude. Chloe, this is a client, you shouldn’t—’
‘He’s not a client, you idiot. He’s that fucking private detective.’
She bore an unfortunate, heavy-featured resemblance to her father. Not drunk now, she was just as aggressive as at the Balmain party. She wore a tank top, jeans and boots. Her left arm was tattooed from the shoulder to the wrist. Her face was set in an angry scowl as she kicked one of Monkhurst’s empty cans across the floor.
Monkhurst stared at me. ‘Private detective? What...?’
‘He’s the one that was on TV when Bobby Forrest got killed. Don’t talk to him, you dumb pisspot.’
Disrespect for a parent isn’t uncommon but this was something much more than that. She was close to hysterical.
‘That’s me,’ I said quietly. ‘Why’re you so upset?’
She glared at me and clenched her fist. ‘You know, don’t you, you fucker? You know!’
‘Know what?’ Monkhurst barked. ‘What’re you talking about?’
She glared at me as she pulled a mobile phone from her pocket. ‘You’ll never find him.’
‘I’ll find him.’
Monkhurst shook his empty can. ‘Find who?’
‘Make it easy on him, Chloe,’ I said. ‘Tell me where he is.’
‘Easy! Nothing’s easy. Fuck you!’
She ran from the room, down the passage. The door banged again. An engine started up and there was a roar as a car took off at speed.
Monkhurst crushed his beer can in those big hands. He glared at me.
‘Private detective?’
‘That’s right.’ I showed him my licence, taking care to keep out of his reach. Anger was building in him slowly but surely. His face was turning red and a vein in his forehead was throbbing.
‘Calm down, Barrie. Your blood pressure’s rising. I’m looking into the death of Bobby Forrest. He was my client like he was yours.’
‘I ought to…’
‘You shouldn’t. I was punching people while you were practising your putting. You’d get hurt. Try some of your own medicine.’
‘Fucking get out.’
‘No chance. That daughter of yours is in trouble and you’ve got some explaining to do if you want me to keep the cops out of this.’
He went to the fridge and got himself another beer. He applied the cold can to his flushed face. He hadn’t mentioned that particular anger management strategy. He threw himself down in the chair, opened the can and took a long pull.
‘That girl’ll be the death of me.’
He realised what he’d said and suddenly looked more worried than angry.
‘I was leading up to asking you about Bobby.’
He shrugged. ‘Poor bugger. What did Chloe mean by saying you know something? What d’you fucking know? I don’t understand any of this.’
‘I think she meant I know who killed Bobby. I don’t. That’s why you’re going to talk to me about you and Bobby and everything about him you told Chloe.’
■ ■ ■
It took a while and more beer before I finally got it all from him. He’d gone through his usual routines with Bobby and claimed to have had some success.
‘He was in a bad way with it. Hair-trigger temper, know what I mean? Like I used to have. He’d had this fight and hurt a bloke. Felt real guilty about it. Then he got better.’
‘When?’
‘Few months back.’
‘You kept seeing him, though.’
‘Yeah, I persuaded him he needed reinforcement sessions.’
‘You’re a con artist, Barrie.’
‘It’s legal.’
I was willing to bet that Bobby’s improvement had more to do with Jane Devereaux than Monkhurst’s games but I didn’t say so. I didn’t want to antagonise him any more than I had to.
‘Okay, now how much about Bobby did you pass on to Chloe?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you tell her about this business he felt guilty about?’
‘Well, yeah, I suppose. We talked about it a bit. I mean, it’s fucking hard to find anything to talk about with kids these days. They don’t seem interested in sports or nothing. Chloe reckoned she was a fan of Bobby’s. Watched him on telly and that.’
‘Did he tell you who the fight was with?’
‘Yeah, Clement somebody. He was real sorry about it. Came close to crying. Bit of a wuss.’
‘Did you tell Chloe about Clement?’
‘Yeah, she said she knew him. I told Bobby that and he wanted to talk to Chloe to see if she could get him together with Clement. But Chloe wouldn’t even listen. Just laughed.’
‘Did you tell Chloe where Bobby lived?’
‘Dunno. I made some notes. She could’ve looked at them.’
‘She saw his car?’
‘Course she did. What’s going on?’
‘Here’s the big question—do you know where Clement lives?’
‘Wouldn’t have a clue. Jesus, I get it. You reckon this Clement killed Bobby?’
‘Could be. He was very badly hurt. It finished his acting career.’
‘Fuckin’ actors. Wankers. I remember now. That’s where Chloe met Clement. She wants to be an actor. She goes to some acting classes and Clement’s one of the teachers.’
‘What classes? Where?’
‘Don’t know. I wasn’t that interested.’
‘Does Chloe have an address book?’
‘Carries it around with her all the time. I think she’s got most of that stuff in her phone anyway.’
‘Does she keep a diary?’
‘Not that I know of. Do people still do that?’
‘I want to look in her room.’
‘I’m not sure about that.’
‘Look, if she passed on information to Clement and he killed Bobby, she’s an accessory.’
‘Shit.’
‘I could try to keep her out of it.’
He nodded wearily. ‘Second door. It’ll be a mess.’
A mess was right. Chloe Monkhurst looked to be about twenty—if she hadn’t decided to live tidily by now it was unlikely she ever would. She’d been wearing jeans and a tank top and there were similar items of clothing spread over the bed, the chest of drawers and lying on the floor. Shoes, too, and jackets. There was a snowstorm of used tissues and layers of magazines and CDs—some in their cases, some not.
A small table by the bed held a TV set with a DVD player and the discs were stacked beside it, like the CDs, in and out of their cases. No books. Would someone who lived in such chaos keep a diary? Hard to say.
We stood in the doorway. Monkhurst shook his head. ‘Rather you than me.’
‘What does she do?’
‘Search me.’
‘You must have some idea.’
‘She sleeps and eats here, some of the time.’
I searched the room. I found condoms and roaches, unidentifiable pills and cards for a variety of businesses— body waxers, eyelash tinters, body piercers and a tanning studio. Under the bed was a Sargasso Sea of tights, socks, more tissues and underwear. There was no diary, but tucked in among the CD cases I found a brochure for the Newtown School of Acting.
YOU CAN ACT
LET US BRING OUT THE
CATE BLANCHETT &
HUGH JACKMAN IN YOU
The brochure advertised different kinds of classes for different levels, times and the qualifications of some of the teachers—their roles and brief notices on their performances. Jason Clement wasn’t listed. The address was Angel Street, Newtown.
I took the brochure out to where Monkhurst was sitting with another can. I was thinking of taking him with me but he was too drunk.
‘I want to ring her,’ I said. ‘What’s her number?’
‘Dunno. It’s on my phone.’
