Comeback - [Cliff Hardy 37]

by Peter Corris

  ‘Ring her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  He fumbled the phone from his pocket, peered at it and slowly punched in the numbers. He held it to his ear and shook his head.

  ‘Disconnected.’

  ‘What sort of car does she drive?’

  ‘Volkswagen Beetle.’

  ‘Colour?’

  ‘Red.’

  ‘Rego?’

  ‘YZE something. Why d’ you...’

  ‘I might be able to talk some sense into her.’

  He laughed. ‘Forget it. She spotted you for what you are. Nothing but fucking trouble. Should’ve spotted it myself. Take your money and piss off.’

  I put one of my cards on top of the notes. ‘If she comes back or gets in touch tell her to ring me.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘I don’t want to cause her any trouble. I just want to know who killed Bobby Forrest.’

  ‘And then do what?’

  ‘I don’t know. It could’ve been an accident. It needs talking about.’

  He blinked, drunk but trying to get a grip on things.

  ‘I reckon you’re telling the truth.’

  ‘That’s right. If she’s in with Jason Clement and he killed Forrest, I’m her best chance.’

  ~ * ~

  21

  Angel Street wasn’t far from the office I used to have in Newtown. I’d handed it over to Hank Bachelor when I lost my licence. He still had it and I called in there before going to the acting school. It always pays to know what’s going on in the precinct you’re working in. As to the specific place you’re heading for, it’s useful to ask, as the cops do—anything known? Hank would have some idea.

  He was there working on a piece of electronic equipment I’d never heard of designed to do something I didn’t understand.

  ‘Angel Street acting joint,’ Hank said. ‘Yeah, I know it. Struggling, I’d say. It’s in an old warehouse, small one. Rent’d be high though and maintenance low. A couple of well-known actors have done stints there as teachers in its better days.’

  ‘Any trouble?’

  ‘There was something a while back. To do with firearms, I think, but I forget the details. And there was some sort of protest from parents about them trying to recruit directly from the Newtown Performing Arts High School in King Street. Fizzled out. What’s your business there, Cliff?’

  ‘Looking for a woman.’

  He grinned. ‘That’s what Megan says you should be doing.’

  ‘Is she still on about that?’

  ‘Yeah, but I guess that’s not what you have in mind. Do you need backup?’

  ‘No, but I’ll call you if I do.’

  Angel Street is a block away from the main drag. It bends in the middle and part of it is blocked off to control the traffic flow. There’s a playground-cum-park on one corner and on a couple of other corners there are houses that were once shops. Gentrification has gone a fair way but there are still some old houses in poor repair and buildings like the one the acting school occupied that have seen much better days. It was brick, two-storeyed, and rose directly up from the edge of the footpath.

  I parked opposite and went through a battered double doorway and up a short flight of steps. The interior was brightly lit by artificial light. The windows were so small and dirty it would otherwise have been in perpetual gloom. The ground floor was a small auditorium—a tiny stage and about a dozen rows of chairs that looked as if they’d seen a lot of service somewhere else. A flight of stairs led up to the second level, where I could hear voices and physical activity. I went up and found an area that resembled a gym with some exercise equipment and mats on the floor. A partitioned-off area was divided into small offices.

  About a dozen people were doing calisthenics guided by an instructor. There were five or six women but none of them was Chloe Monkhurst. I waited until the set of exercises was finished and the group was taking a break before approaching the instructor. I showed him my licence.

  He picked up a towel from the floor and wiped himself down. The exercises had been vigorous and he wasn’t young or in the very best physical condition.

  ‘What’s the trouble?’ he said.

  ‘No trouble. I’m looking for Chloe Monkhurst.’

  ‘Not here.’

  ‘I can see that. When is she here?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not that often.’

  ‘How about Jason Clement?’

  He shook his head and pointed to one of the offices. ‘You’d better talk to the director. She’s in there—Kylie March.’

  Director seemed a bit elevated as a title for the head of the operation, and it was interesting that the first thing he’d done was ask about trouble. The would-be actors were a mixed bunch—some very young, some older; some scruffy, some well turned out. A few watched me closely. I hoped I was giving a good performance as a private investigator looking for information. I knocked on the door and opened it as a woman’s voice invited me in.

  Kylie March looked the part. She was about forty, rail-thin in a figure-flattering black top with black pants. She was heavily made up and no Caucasian ever had hair that black naturally. She was sitting cross-legged and sideways at a desk studying a laptop computer screen she’d moved around to get the right illumination. She tapped a couple of keys before looking up at me. A performance.

  ‘Yes? Can I help you?’

  I showed her my licence and told her who I was looking for. She asked me to sit but there was no chair.

  ‘Silly me,’ she said. Her voice was low and breathy.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll stand. I know where Chloe lives but it’s Jason Clement I’m really looking for. I understand he works here.’

  ‘He did. No longer.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Is he in trouble?’

  ‘I believe so. How serious, is the question. That’s why I need to talk to him. Do you know where I can find him?’

  The screen went blank. She hit a key to bring it to life and then used the mouse to close it down.

  ‘You can Google me if you want to,’ I said, ‘see that I’m legitimate.’

  ‘Oh, I believe you’re legitimate. I’m just wondering whether I should help you or not.’

  ‘If you have Chloe and Jason’s interests at heart you should.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say I had their interests at heart particularly. My concern is the school and I’m wondering whether your investigation will do it good or harm. I have a big investment here, you see, and I have to protect it.’

  ‘That’s honest,’ I said, ‘so I’ll try to be equally honest. I can’t say how things will work out. At best I don’t think your school need come into it. If things go a different way it might, and I suppose it could come in for some... notoriety.’

  ‘Notoriety isn’t such a bad thing in this business, depending on how it’s handled. May I have some time to think about it?’

  ‘No. It’s urgent and if you don’t help me I’ll have to come at it another way and then I wouldn’t care much about the reputation of your school.’

  ‘What other way?’

  I took a punt. ‘I’m told there was an incident here some time back. Something to do with firearms. I could look into that for a start.’

  It hit the mark. She slammed the lid down on the computer, picked up its case from the floor and slid it in. She hooked a jacket and a shoulder bag from the back of her chair and stood.

  ‘Okay, I’ll talk to you. You can buy me a drink or a couple of drinks so I get something out of it at least.’

  ■ ■ ■

  We sat in the bar of the Bank Hotel with the windows open and the life of Newtown swirling around us. Kylie March ordered a martini, saying that was what people in films drank when they talked with private detectives. I had white wine.

  ‘How much do you know about Jason Clement?’ she asked.

  It’s not best practice to let an informant ask the first question, bu
t I had the feeling that Ms March would treat the interview like a performance and I might as well let her as long as I eventually got what I wanted. It was going to cost Ray Frost a bit—martinis don’t come cheap.

  ‘I know something,’ I said. ‘He was a promising actor and then something happened to him.’

  ‘He was brilliant. He was in a class I ran at NIDA and he was far and away the best. He had the poise, the timing, it. You know what I mean by that?’

  ‘I think so. A special quality. I’ve heard people say Cate Blanchett had it at NIDA.’

  She nodded. ‘She did, in spades. Jason had another aspect of the quality that’s very important—an ability, sort of subliminal, to appeal to both sexes. He wasn’t bisexual as far as I know, but there was something androgynous about him.’

  ‘Like Elvis.’

  ‘Before my time. Then he had an accident of some kind. He never said exactly what it was. I suspected a motorcycle accident.’

  ‘Like Bob Dylan.’

  She drained her glass and pushed it towards me. ‘I’m not sure you’re being serious.’

  I got up. ‘I am serious, Ms March, but I’m not much concerned about Clement’s history. I just want to find him and I’ll invest in another drink but my patience is running out.’

  She didn’t like it, but she didn’t gather her things and leave. Probably holding on for a good exit line. The bar was crowded and I had to wait to be served. I kept an eye on her. She took a mobile phone from her bag and made a call. Hard to interpret that. I returned with the drinks.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Take your time with the drink. I’m interested in why Clement left your school,’ I said. ‘I’d like to hear about the firearm incident.’

  She was mollified and gave me a practised smile. ‘Jason had all sorts of problems with his mobility and his appearance— even with his voice—but he was very brave about it. In his teaching he tended to take things to extremes.’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘He was a great one for things like Russian roulette. He pushed the students to the limits of their physical and emotional capacity. That was a good thing in a way, it sorted out the sheep from the goats.’

  ‘Chloe Monkhurst?’

  She worked on her drink, bleeding the moment for all it was worth. ‘She couldn’t stand the pace. She became a sort of acolyte, an assistant, rather than a student. Jason was a great one for reality and he went too far. He was demonstrating a shooting scene and he put live ammunition in the gun.’

  ‘Pistol or rifle or shotgun?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Pistol. A student was wounded. Only very slightly but he made a complaint. The police were involved.’

  ‘They would be. What happened?’

  ‘There were no charges laid. The student withdrew his complaint. I suspect Jason intimidated him. I haven’t seen Jason since then.’

  ‘It didn’t make the papers.’

  ‘We were lucky. A very big news story broke just at that time. I forget what it was, but it blotted out the ... incident.’

  ‘How long ago did all this happen?’

  She’d finished her drink. She didn’t eat the olives. She reached into her bag and took out a small notebook with a reproduction of the Penguin edition of Wuthering Heights as its cover and leafed through it.

  ‘A few months ago.’

  Around the time Bobby Forrest took up with Jane Devereaux and things began to look rosy.

  ‘Where is he?’

  She shrugged. ‘All I can tell you is where he was then.’

  ~ * ~

  22

  Kylie March told me that Clement had a farm at Picton.

  ‘A farm?’

  ‘Well, some land at least. I don’t know how much. He’s not poor, you know. He got a payout after his accident. I remember him saying that Mel Gibson and Russell Crowe had farms, so why shouldn’t he have one. He was being ironic, of course. He’s very bitter about what happened to him. He was only part-time with us, you understand. I don’t think he needed the money, which wasn’t much.’

  ‘What’s the address?’

  She consulted the notebook. ‘Lot 12, Salisbury Road, Picton, but, as I say, that was when he first came to me for a position. That was some time ago.’

  ‘It’s a starting point. Thank you. What kind of car does he drive?’

  ‘The questions you ask. I don’t know about cars. Quite a big one. I remember that he had it modified to enable him to cope with his disability.’

  ‘What colour?’

  ‘Let me think. I only saw it once or twice. It was white, I believe, and dusty, I assume from driving from Picton. You will consider the school, won’t you? I have been cooperative, haven’t I?’

  ■ ■ ■

  It was the middle of the afternoon but we were well into daylight saving and there’d be light for quite a few hours yet. I drove home, changed into my version of country clothes— jeans, T-shirt, boots, denim jacket—hunted out a map of the area to the west of Sydney and put the .38 in the pocket of the jacket. Picton was eighty kilometres away. It wasn’t going to be a comfortable drive—commuter traffic for most of the way and into the setting sun at the end.

  There wasn’t any concrete evidence against Clement but he had the motive, the means (he was evidently familiar with guns) and the opportunity. I was putting it together in my head as I drove. Chloe Monkhurst could have told Clement that her father was dealing with Bobby Forrest. Monkhurst told his daughter things he shouldn’t have about Forrest’s state of mind. Chloe passes these things on to Clement— details of the car, movements, habits. Embittered anyway, Clement sees Forrest pulling his life together and kills him. From tracking him in his last days, Clement knows that Forrest has hired me and sends me a text message after he’s killed Forrest.

  It hung together pretty well. Clement tells Chloe about me and she freaks when she sees that I’ve progressed to contacting her father. What’s her next move? Most likely to get this very bad news to Clement. What’s his likely reaction? Anybody’s guess.

  I stopped for petrol and was slowed down by a rainstorm that swept in to the south-west and made the road slippery so that traffic speed dropped to a crawl. A few kilometres of that and the rain eased off and most of the traffic took the road to Campbelltown. I activated the GPS and found my way to Salisbury Road. The lot numbers were clearly marked.

  I drove slowly with things to worry about. Chloe had had plenty of time to alert Clement. She’d have guessed that the old Falcon parked near her father’s place was mine. She’d have told Clement and he’d had time to do what? Run? Stand and fight? He was armed and he knew this territory the way I knew Glebe Point Road. Farmers have rifles and shotguns. I had a pistol with an effective range of not much more than fifteen metres.

  It always amazes me how few animals there are in Australian paddocks. The drought was well and truly over and the land was green but there still weren’t many sheep or cows in sight. But what do I know? Maybe they were off being shorn or slaughtered.

  The Salisbury Road blocks appeared to be large, ten hectares or so. Did that suggest they were hobby farms, genuine concerns or tax dodges? Again, I didn’t know. A few had no visible buildings, others had buildings at a distance from the road. Some of the buildings were screened off by trees.

  I was moving slowly past Lot 10 when I heard the roar of a powerful engine. A big, dirty 4WD with a massive bull bar came hurtling at me from a track on the right. I accelerated and swerved but it hit the rear passenger door and spun me around. The seatbelt saved me, but I was jerked this way and that before the car came to a halt.

  The 4WD was stopped where it had hit me. The driver’s door opened and a tallish, slim young man got out. Jason Clement limped badly and his body was oddly twisted. He stood staring at me before he approached cautiously. A pistol hung from a lanyard around his neck. I tried to release the seatbelt to reach the gun in the glove compartment but it had jamme
d and I was strapped in tight. He saw that and didn’t touch the pistol. He tried to open my door but it wouldn’t give.

  He made a winding motion and I lowered the window. It only came down halfway.

  His voice was pleasant. ‘You all right, Mr Hardy?’

  I nodded.

  He smiled. An actor’s smile—full of warmth and work with the eyes. ‘Good. I’ve got nothing against you.’