by Peter Corris
‘You say you don’t know who she’s been spending time with, Bruce, but you must have some idea—some names, some suggestions. Let’s get proactive here, as they say.’
He gave it some thought as he worked on his drink. Then he left the room for a few minutes, returning with a notepad and some cards. ‘I found these in the bedroom—a few places she seems to have gone to.’
He handed them to me while he scribbled on the notepad. The cards were for a Double Bay wine bar, a disco at the Cross and a Thai restaurant in Newtown. The woman got around. Haxton tore off the page and passed it over.
‘That’s a few of the people she used to hang with and she mentioned them casually when we were together here. She scribbled down some cell numbers by the phone that seem to relate to a couple of them. That’s the best I can do.’
I examined the list—two men and three women; mobile numbers for one of the men and two of the women.
‘These blokes—friends or lovers?’ I asked.
‘Don’t know, but don’t rule out the women—Cassie swings both ways.’
I put the cards and the sheet in my pocket. ‘It’s a place to start. What you have to do is keep your mobile charged. That’s how they’ll contact you. You have to play it as hard as you can. Just get a response and buy some time.’
He nodded. ‘So I … go about my business?’
‘That’s right. There could be someone watching you, so act the way you feel. Shouldn’t be too hard. I’ll have someone keep an eye on you. Might spot a watcher if there is one and that’d give us an edge.’
‘Right.’
‘Two more things. Try and confirm that they’ve got her. Has she got a birthmark or a mole or something distinctive? A tattoo?’
‘Several tattoos.’
‘Right. Then ask for confirmation that she’s alive. Ask to talk to her. They might not play. If they’ve got her she might be drugged.’
‘If?’
‘Wouldn’t be the first kidnap faked by the supposed victim. Does Cassie know you’re broke?’
He shook his head and I left him to his troubles.
I didn’t really intend to ring the people whose names I had. What would I say? ‘Hello, I’m a private detective looking for Cassie Haxton who’s been kidnapped. Please don’t tell the media.’ Getting the names was just a way of drawing a bit more out of Haxton, which had worked, and making me look efficient. I haven’t handled more than a couple of kidnapping cases and only one was a serious matter. But I’ve dealt with ransom demands for objects quite a few times, and I’ve come to the conclusion that they’re not always just about money. Putting the money angle aside, you have to ask yourself—who benefits?
Haxton had given me some clues and I phoned Ingrid Svensson who runs an agency for people in the film business—actors, producers, directors and all the rest. She was the one who got me the minding job on Haxton’s earlier effort and we’d shared some jokes about Lance Hartley and his little habits. I’d since done a few jobs for her, like running an actor through some of the things he needed to know to look and sound like a private detective, and locating a producer who’d skipped without paying a couple of her clients.
Ingrid was busy but she found some time for me. Her office was in Surry Hills near the park named after the politician Eddie Ward, ‘the firebrand of East Sydney’. My mother, an ALP groupie, had played the piano at his wake. I went up seven floors to Ingrid’s ‘suite’, which was festooned with photographs of film people, not all of them beautiful. Ingrid is sixty and looks forty—one of those. Olive complexion, white-blonde hair, dark eyes, sharp cheekbones. She sat me down at her desk in the open plan office and lifted her Scandinavian eyebrows.
‘Well, Cliff?’
‘All this is confidential.’
‘But of course.’
‘Who would stand to gain if Bruce Haxton’s film …’
‘The Golden Galaxy.’
‘… didn’t get off the ground?’
‘Not me, for one. A few people on my books are down to work on it. What have you heard?’
‘My lips are professionally sealed. All I can tell you, and I shouldn’t but I want to be as straight with you as I can, is that Haxton’s my client.’
‘Ah yes, I remember that you shared an interest in drinking and wrestling.’
‘Boxing.’
‘Disgusting; it’s been banned in civilised countries. But go on.’
‘That’s it. Are there rumours, doubts, fears, jealousies?’
‘This is the film business. All those things are a given.’
‘Anything specific? Come on, Ingrid, you know everything that’s going on.’
‘Well, I know they’re not quite there with the post-production budget. I hear they’re working on Henry Stawell to try to get it up to scratch.’
‘Him being?’
‘A lawyer, a stockbroker and a merchant banker, all done with flair.’
‘Is he likely to come through?’
‘Only if he’s sure the human structure is in place, the right people.’
‘Which brings me back to the original question.’
Ingrid doesn’t do things like scratch her head or fiddle with things on her desk. Her moments of hesitation are signalled by a slight tightening of her well-shaped lips. It came now. ‘There has been some talk about the script.’
‘I thought they just moved the actors around, lip-synced them and let the special effects people do all the work on films like this.’
‘It’s anachronistic to talk of films—there are no celluloid reels or sprockets anymore. It’s all digital.’
‘I’ll try to remember. The script?’
‘There’s a story that the script’s based on a book and that the writer’s been cut out of the action. In fact that his book’s not even acknowledged as a source, let alone earned him a payment.’
‘And who would that be? Not one of your clients?’
‘No, but as I told you, I’ve got a stake in this movie. Is what you’re investigating more or less likely to make it happen?’
Good question. Needed consideration. The light was dimming outside and at that elevation I could see a bank of fog moving in from the east. I quite like fog—the headlights, the honking at intersections, the lack of definition.
‘Cliff?’
‘It’s hard to say.’
Ingrid let out a sigh. ‘You’d never make it in this game. Too honest. The writer’s name is Tom Crabbe. He was on my books for a while as an actor until he punched a director and now no casting agency will look at him. He worked on one of Bruce Haxton’s films a while back. He turned to writing and had a few things published. I can give you his address and phone number. I know he’s still there because I phoned him about a residual payment.’
‘Thanks. A wild child, is he?’
She flicked open a teledex and scribbled something on the back of a card which she passed across. ‘You could put it so. Except that he’s ex-SAS, a black belt, and at least as big as you and younger. I’m not sure boxing with him would be a good idea.’
‘I think you’re right. Many thanks, Ingrid—keep me in mind for jobs, eh? Easy stunts, bit of driving. I’d be okay as an armourer.’
She smiled. ‘Perhaps you could shoot Tom Crabbe in the leg to subdue him. Or in both legs?’
Crabbe’s address was in Newtown in a street I knew running down towards the park in Church Street. I’d fancied buying around there when Cyn, a North Shore girl, and I got together. She resisted the inner west with all her might, but eventually gave in to me and agreed to Glebe. She said it would go ahead faster than Newtown and for a time she was right. Not now, though. I checked in the Gregory’s that I had the street right and was about to start the car when my mobile rang.
‘Cliff, he’s been in touch. Jesus, this is weird.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I should’ve said that it’s an electronically modified voice. He sounded very reasonable. I made the pitch like you said a
nd he listened and said he’d think about accepting two fifty. Made me repeat the figure. I said I’d need time to get close to that.’
‘Good. Did he offer any proof that he had her?’
‘He described some tattoos, but Cassie did a shoot for an article on body decoration for an art magazine a while back. He could’ve seen that.’
‘Nothing else from her—a voice, a recorded message?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t suppose you got the number he was ringing from?’
‘I tried that but it didn’t come up.’
‘It wouldn’t, probably a stolen phone ditched straight off anyway. How are you feeling—more alarmed or less?’
‘That’s a funny question.’
‘It’s a funny business.’
‘Okay, well less, I suppose, given his manner.’
‘He said he’d be back in contact?’
‘Sort of. Yeah.’
‘Sit tight. I’ve got something to check. What’re you doing tonight?’
‘Going to a fucking party thrown by one of the worst actors who ever drew breath. Naturally enough, he’s in my picture.’
‘Hard to crash? Black tie?’
‘Shit no, the more turn up, the more the ego gets fed.’
I got the address and told Haxton I’d get someone to keep an eye on him to see if there was anyone else doing the same. I knew Hank Bachelor wouldn’t be able to resist a celebrity bash. I phoned Hank and lined him up. I was working the case and free to try my luck with Tom Crabbe. From the sound of him, I’d need some.
The house was a single-fronted, one-storey terrace—the sort of place I should have instead of my crumbling pile. Night had fallen and the street was dark. A newish Toyota 4WD, black with tinted windows, was parked in a bay in the front yard. Someone, not an urban purist, had created the spot out of the limited space available, destroying the original look of the house. The vehicle was ideal for transporting a kidnap victim. What was left of the skimpy front garden was reasonably well cared for and, unlike a few others in the street, there were no sagging armchairs or bottle-filled milk crates in evidence. Tom Crabbe was keeping up appearances.
You don’t knock on the front door of a suspect, you scout about. A lane ran behind the terraces. Sometimes people put their house number on the back fence or gate, some deliberately don’t. I’ve known some whose house looks immaculate facing the street and scruffy behind a high fence at the back to deceive malefactors. Mind you, they have state-of-the-art alarm systems in their elegant back courtyards.
There were no numbers along the lane and I had to count rooftops and TV aerials to work out which was the house of interest. A few cats prowled the lane, but it’s no use asking a cat anything. They wouldn’t tell you if they could. I was fairly sure I’d spotted the right house and I craned up to look over the fence. Lights on, music playing, or perhaps the television.
I went around to the front again and tried to think of a strategy. Nothing came. I crossed to my car to sit while I thought. The door to the house opened and a man came out, used a remote to unlock the 4WD, and rummaged in the back. He left the door open, swearing as he failed to find what he wanted. A woman and a child came to the door. The child laughed and ran out to help. A girl of about ten. You don’t put a kidnap victim in a house with a woman and a child, but maybe you put her somewhere else. There was nothing for it but to front him.
I crossed the street and stood beside the car. ‘Mr Crabbe?’ I said.
‘That’s my daddy,’ the girl said.
Crabbe straightened up as he pulled away from the open door. He looked at me and didn’t like what he saw.
‘Who’re you?’
‘My name’s Cliff Hardy. I’m a private detective working for a man named Bruce Haxton. I’d like to talk to you.’
‘Go inside, Chloe,’ Crabbe said.
‘Did you find my book, Dad?’
‘In a minute, love. Hop inside and close the door. I have to talk to this man.’
The kid scampered away and Crabbe gave me his full attention. A well-trained man, he’d been giving me ninety-nine per cent of it while instructing the kid. He wore jeans, sneakers and a pullover. He was about my size, as Ingrid had said, and looked, from the way he held himself, ready for anything. So was I.
‘What about Haxton?’ he said.
‘What about his wife?’
‘Cassie? What about her?’
‘You know her?’
‘Knew her. Wish I didn’t. Goodnight.’
He half turned to dismiss me. That was a mistake, a small one but enough. I took advantage of the split second he was off balance to hit him with a shoulder, making him grab at the roof of the car for support. I stepped back.
‘Let’s not get off to a bad start.’
‘We already have. Gotta admit you’re quick, but I can hurt you.’
‘I believe you, but if you kidnapped Cassie Haxton you’re in enough trouble already.’
He dropped the hurting hands. ‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘Heard but don’t believe. Cassie’s been kidnapped? Christ help the poor bastard stupid enough to do that.’
This was a violent man who’d learned to control his violence. It’s impressive when you see it up close, especially if you’re the beneficiary. It was a snap judgement, but everything about Crabbe’s voice and manner told me he wasn’t the kidnapper.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We should talk. Hang on a minute while I find Chloe’s bloody book.’
We were both wary. I stepped away and Crabbe kept an eye on me as he resumed his search.
‘Got it,’ he said. ‘She can’t finish the day without it.’
‘What is it?’
‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.’
Inside the house and he introduced me to Wendy and Chloe. He gave Chloe the book and she took off with it. Wendy returned to the television and Crabbe and I went through to the kitchen. The house was in that pleasant state between renovated and left alone. It was tidy without being obsessively so. Crabbe opened the fridge and took out two stubbies.
‘Sit down.’
He gave orders to the manner born and I wondered what rank he’d held in the army. I took a few steps and looked at the row of cooking books before sitting down and accepting the beer—it never does to do what you’re told straightaway. We twisted off the tops and drank.
‘You really thought I’d kidnapped Cassie?’
I shrugged. ‘It was a line of enquiry. I was told you had a grievance.’
‘I did, but I’m over it. The thing about writing is that you can move on to another book and forget about the last one and any shit that might’ve gone down. The next one’s always going to be better.’
‘Okay. I’m in a spot here. I’ve told you something of what’s going on. Apparently the budget for Haxton’s picture isn’t quite settled. If news of this trouble got out it could be scuppered.’
Crabbe thought that over. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, maybe a bit older. Like me, he’d had his nose broken more than once, and there was a scar on his forehead not quite concealed by the dark hair falling near it. Ruggedly handsome was an apt description with an emphasis on the rugged. He drank as if he enjoyed the beer rather than needed it.
‘I couldn’t give a shit about Haxton’s crappy film,’ he said, ‘but I’m interested in anything to do with Cassie.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘It so happens that the book I’m writing uses her as a model for the main character. I’m thinking of having her kidnapped—art imitating life. Not that my work’s art exactly.’
My look must have been sceptical.
‘I’m told it happens from time to time to writers,’ he said. ‘This is the first time for me, but it’s kind of …’
‘An endorsement?’
He shook his head. ‘Come on, Hardy, what sort of a prick d’you think I am? The woman’s a bloody nightmare, but I don’t wish her any harm.’
He told me that he’d had a brief affair with Cassie when doing stunts for a Haxton movie and that she’d worked him over emotionally in ways he didn’t care to describe. He’d almost lost Wendy and Chloe due to the affair, and now, quite a few years later, he was projecting his feelings into his book.
He drained his stubbie. ‘So now I’ve told you things I shouldn’t and we’re even.’
‘Right. My feeling is that whoever has Cassie, or is pretending to have her, or is being put up to it by her—if you follow me—isn’t a hundred per cent serious. Has a grievance maybe, wants the money maybe, but isn’t quite fair dinkum.’
‘Fuck, I should make notes. I didn’t realise you investigators worked so much on instincts.’
‘Some do, some don’t. But from what I’ve told you about the state of the picture’s finances, can you think of anyone with anything to gain by sinking it?’
‘Take me through it again.’
I did, mentioning every name that had come up in my conversations with Haxton and Ingrid and showing him the names on Haxton’s list. The only thing I held back was Haxton’s financial plight.
‘You say he’s negotiating,’ Crabbe said. ‘Is he that mean?’
‘It’s a ploy to gain time and try to find some leverage.’
By this time Crabbe was taking notes, on the back of a magazine, as he listened. He put his finger on the spot. ‘This name’s interesting—Ben Corbett. He was a stuntman and an extra. I was in a few things with him then he went off the rails. He was caught trying to hold up a service station. He bashed the woman attendant and got a few years. I reckon he’d be out by now.’
‘Haxton didn’t mention anything like that.’
‘Directors live in a world of their own. He probably wasn’t in the country when it happened.’
‘Did he work on one of Haxton’s pictures?’
‘I think so. I could check.’
‘Did he have an affair with Cassie?’
