by Peter Corris
‘A down-in-the-dumps PI named Cliff Hardy,’ she whooped. ‘I’m drinkin’ for free tonight.’
She was right. We played for drinks and she won. I’ve beaten her on occasions, but only when I was up and being positive, as they say. Down and drinking, she whipped me. We ended up over brandies as the pub emptied. Daphne would be collecting her dogs from outside the pub.
‘Tough case, Cliff?’
‘Not so bad,’ I said. ‘I’m going off to New Caledonia in a couple of days.’
‘Fuck you,’ she said.
‘Not original, Daph, I heard that earlier today. Just can’t remember who from.’
The hangover was mild compared to some, but enough to need dealing with. I drove to the Redgum Gymnasium and Fitness Centre in Leichhardt and did a moderately hard workout on the treadmill and the machines. Then into the sauna to sweat out the toxins. Feeling a bit light-headed but better, I came out to find Peter Lo doing curls with impossibly heavy free weights. Peter is Balinese and built low to the ground. I’d say that he’s all bone and muscle except that would suggest he hasn’t got a brain. In fact he has an excellent one. After climbing to a senior rank in the police force working in the forensic branch he’s recently taken leave to do a doctorate in criminology. His thesis was something to do with justice and society.
‘Hi, Dr Lo,’ I said as he paused between curls.
He sighed and flexed his fingers inside his sweat-soaked mittens. ‘If I had a dollar for everyone who’s said that.’
‘Sorry, Peter, I’m not at my best this morning.’
‘Yeah, I saw you head for the sauna. Heavy night?’
‘Not so bad. Can I buy you breakfast?’
‘You mean, “I need your help”, right?’
I nodded.
‘Bar Napoli. Twenty minutes.’ He sucked in air and his chest expanded like a balloon. He reached for a heavier weight. I couldn’t bear to watch and went off to shower and dress.
Meeting Peter was no coincidence. Where I make it to the gym three times in a good week, he’s there five mornings a week. They say that’s too often but it’d be a brave man who’d tell Peter Lo that. I was sitting down with a black coffee and two plain croissants when he strode in. I signalled to Luigi, who brought Peter his standard order—black coffee and raisin toast, no butter.
‘Let’s dispense with the prelims, Cliff. The thesis is going okay, the wife and kids are fine, I bench-pressed a hundred and twenty-five kays this morning. Personal best.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. How are your relations with your former colleagues?’
He took a bite of toast and appeared to chew it the prescribed number of times, whatever that is. He washed it down with some coffee. ‘No problems.’
‘Not afraid you’re stealing a march on them, you being a slope and all?’
He laughed. ‘Every one of them’s just as competitive as me.’
‘How about Karl Knopf?’
‘What about him?’
‘Your assessment.’
‘Eat your breakfast. First class.’
I ate and drank. ‘Would he talk to me if you asked him to?’
‘What about?’
With Peter I was always upfront and honest. He was too intelligent and experienced to deal with in any other way. He saw through evasions and half truths immediately and responded appropriately. I told him about the Master trial and its peculiar tidiness.
‘Karl’s straight, he wouldn’t be in anything dodgy.’
‘Good. I’d just like to get his impression of the way things went down.’
‘It is strange, the prosecutor shooting through like that. How about the customs guys?’
I shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
‘I’ll ask Karl to give you a call and I’ll see if I can find out anything about the customs men.’
‘Thanks, Peter. I’ll owe you. Again.’
He smiled. ‘Never know, you could have given me a footnote.’
. . .
Worked out, saunaed, breakfasted and feeling pretty good, I phoned Lorraine Master at her office and Fiona put me through.
‘Anything to report, Mr Hardy?’
‘Not really. Nothing solid but I’m following up on a few things. I’m booked for tomorrow.’
‘The money’s there. I’m faxing you the PIN. Present ID at the bank and you’ll be able to draw on the full amount.’
‘You’re sure I won’t take off for Tahiti?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘What gym did Stewart go to?’
‘Why?’
‘Might be useful to ask around. See if anyone else has been asking around. See if anyone’s interested that I ’m asking around. It’s a technique of the profession. It’s called stirring the possum.’
‘I see. Quaint. The Atlas, in Watsons Bay. I go there myself. You could ask about me.’
I let that go by. ‘Why there?’
‘It’s a good gym. Plus it’s close to the marina and the yacht club.’
‘Stewart has a yacht?’
‘No, Mr Hardy. I do, the Merlot, and Stewart doesn’t know about it. It’s that kind of a marriage. Is that all?’
More than enough, I thought. All I could say was, ‘Thank you.’
The Atlas was located in a small street on the eastern edge of Watsons Bay. Unlike a lot of gyms—the Redgum, for instance, which has had earlier lives as a factory, a warehouse and dirty movie house—it didn’t bear the signs of having once been something else. The cement block building with the landscaping and tiling and tinted glass couldn’t have been more than a few years old and the discreet neon sign and name etched into the glass door were fresh and sparkling.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
The young woman behind the desk was wearing a top that stopped just below her breasts and well above her track pants, revealing a perfect midriff. She was fined down and buffed up and jumping out of her skin to be helpful. Even after my workout and clean-out I suppose I still wore my look of an approaching use-by date. She arranged her sharp, low-body-fat features sympathetically.
‘I’d just like to look around,’ I said. ‘Thinking of joining a gym, you know.’
‘Sure. New to Sydney?’
Felt like an insult, but I took it. ‘Up from Melbourne.’
The sympathy increased. ‘Look, by all means, Mr . . .?’
‘Master.’
‘Mr Master. Everything’s clearly signposted—weights room, machines, aerobics, sauna, pool.’
‘Pool,’ I said. ‘That’s nice.’
Her phone rang and she picked it up. ‘Heated,’ she said and her smile dismissed me.
It was mid-morning, and the place was busy. The free weights and machines sections were well patronised, mostly by yuppies but with a few oldies thrown in. Lines and wrinkles moving substantial weights, good to see. One sauna is much like another; the pool was a twenty-five metre job and would be very inviting at almost any time. I could see Lorraine Master here in her spandex with her personal trainer. What about Stewart?
At a gym there’s always someone as interested in talking as working out, sometimes more interested. I spotted him in the weights room. He took every opportunity to chat to the other people there, worked the weights reluctantly and put them down gladly. A class started up on the aerobics floor and that took most of his attention. Well-toned women moving rhythmically will do that. I watched the whip-thin instructor bounce and strut and most of the class stay in sync. I felt my age and caught his eye as he towelled off unnecessarily. He wandered over.
‘Gidday. Lookin’ the joint over?’
‘That’s right. Not that aerobics stuff, though it’s nice to look at.’
‘Tried it once. Fuckin’ near killed me.’
I gave him a conspiratorial nod. ‘My brother comes here and I thought I’d take a look. Stewart Master, know him?’
He was a big bloke, fiftyish, balding, overweight but not too bad. Nothing he couldn’t lose if he treadmilled, lifted more and talked les
s. ‘Yeah, I know him. Knew him anyway. Bad luck, that.’
‘Right, well I don’t make a song and dance about it. I’m up from Melbourne to help his wife straighten things up a bit. It rocked the family. I mean, we knew Stewie was no angel, but drugs . . . not like him. Did you see much of him?’
He was cooling down and had to make a decision now whether to go on talking or go back to the weights. The talking won. He swigged from his water bottle and wrapped his towel around his shoulders.
‘We chatted a bit, yeah. Not much. Nice enough bloke, Stewie. I’m Les, by the way.’
I played safe. ‘Bob.’ Forgettable.
We shook. ‘Yeah, he mentioned he was from Melbourne. Talked about the AFL. Meant bugger-all to me. I’m a League man. Broncos. Ex-Queenslander. He put in serious time here. Going for tone rather than bulk, you know? But he was bloody strong. You’d be a fair bit older than him, eh?’
I grinned. ‘I’ve lived hard. I’m not as old as I look. Still, I should’ve kept an eye on him.’
‘Right, I know what you mean, but you can only do so much with a goer like Stewie. Still, it’s going to be a blow to the people here.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Stewie put in a bid to buy the place. Big, big bucks. Didn’t you know? I thought . . . ’
I clapped him on his beefy shoulder. ‘It’s all right, mate. Just playing it a bit close to the chest. Melbourne boy being cautious in the big smoke. Well, you never know. It could all work out okay. See you.’
Time to go. I didn’t know whether I’d got away with it or not and wasn’t going to hang around to answer questions. It was something to show for the visit. Hard to interpret. There’d been no reaction to the surname from the receptionist but it’s not an uncommon name, and chances were she didn’t know anything about the business side.
I walked away and looked back at the building. Freehold, very big bucks indeed, and even the price of the lease and the business goodwill would be heavy. I drove back to Darlinghurst and went to the office. Lorraine Master’s fax with the PIN for an account with the Banque de France had come through. The card would be with me tomorrow, she said. I folded the sheet and put it in my wallet after writing the number in my notebook. Under the number I jotted two questions: did Stewart Master have that sort of money? Did Lorraine know about his interest in buying the gym?
I went out for a sandwich and when I got back there was a message from Peter Lo. I made instant coffee and rang him, talking between bites.
‘Karl Knopf says he’ll talk to you, Cliff. He’s stationed in Darlinghurst so you could drop in and see him. Here’s his number.’
‘Thanks, Peter. He sounded interested, did he?’
‘He did when I told him about the customs guys.’
I was about to take a bite but I dropped the sandwich on the desk. ‘What?’
‘Verdi was posted to Brisbane and Baxter to Perth.’
‘Soon after the trial?’
‘Right.’
‘Something’s going on.’
‘Looks like it. Be careful, Cliff.’
‘Why d’you say that?’
‘Customs is federal. Don’t get caught in the middle of a state and federal fuck-up. It’s not a good place to be.’
I thanked him again and hung up. I finished the sandwich and the coffee without tasting them. Then I wet my finger and picked up the crumbs I’d dropped on the desk as I thought. In the old days I’d have smoked but now crumb-picking would have to do.
I dropped the sandwich wrapper in the bin and wandered to the window. St Peters Lane isn’t much to look out on unless you happen to like the feel of old Sydney, which I do. It’s narrow, trapped between the buildings that front onto William Street and the weathered sandstone of the church. It’s a sun-starved stretch, cold and windy in winter and shadowy in summer. There’s no parking and it’s never become a shooting gallery. It’s not a place to linger in, so why was a man standing down there, staring up at my window and ducking out of sight when he saw me?
I’m mates with Stephanie Geller, aka Madame Stephanie, who runs a mail order, and these days online, astrological business in the office adjacent to mine. I have her key and occasionally let people into her waiting room when she’s late.
‘Zay like to be kept waiting, Cliff,’ she once told me. ‘So zay can feel zee vibes.’
She wasn’t around, so I let myself into her office, which commanded a longer view of the lane than mine, and peeked out. No watcher. Had he followed me from Watsons Bay? Through all that traffic that’s slowly strangling Sydney? No way to tell.
6
I PHONED Knopf but he wasn’t interested in having me visit him at his place of business.
I‘I’d say it’s time for a drink, wouldn’t you?’
‘Sure.’
‘Know a place where there’s never any cops?’
‘Never? No.’
‘I do.’ He named a pub in Oxford Street with an almost exclusively gay clientele and said he’d be there in an hour.
‘How will I know you?’
‘I know you, Hardy. I was a shit-kicking constable when you used to hang around with Frank Parker. I was his driver for a while.’
‘Sorry, I don’t remember you.’
‘Why would you? One hour.’
I put the phone down and tried to remember when Frank had a driver. He’d risen to Deputy Commissioner and had certainly had a driver then, but before that, as a chief inspector and a super? There must have been a few of them and they all blurred into one. Knopf sounded resentful and almost hostile, and nominating a gay bar? Looked like I was in for an interesting interview.
Years on the job should equip you to know if you’re being watched or followed and to some extent that’s true, but if the watcher or follower is good enough, and has enough cutouts, it can be tough. I walked to where I’d parked the car, as alert as I could be for the false moves, the little slips, but there was nothing apparent. I started the engine and let the old Falcon warm up after sitting for a while on a cool day and busied myself with the choke while I looked around. I drove to within a couple of blocks of the hotel by a route that should have been tricky to track. Still nothing. Either not there or very, very good.
Friday night, early, but the buzz was starting to build. The difference in behaviour between gays and straights I reckon is not that much. Quiet straights and quiet gays go out early, drink and eat and go home. Party types go out late and drink, eat or don’t eat, and stay out. The Beaumont Bar in the Prince Regent Hotel was dark and sedate, with k d lang playing softly in the background and a few pokies whirring quietly.
A couple of dozen people were scattered around, some at tables, some at the bar, some playing the pokies. Men and women, couples and singles, one group of three. All quiet. The barman, a handsome Polynesian wearing makeup and a pearl necklace, was the only person advertising. I ordered a beer and took a stool at the bar. The barman served it with a small bowl of nuts.
‘You sure you’re in the right place, brother?’
I lifted my glass. ‘Sydney, Australia. You bet.’
He laughed. ‘You’re right there.’
A very tall, very slim man had walked in. Suede jacket, black T-shirt, earring. He nodded to a couple of people and to the barman. He shot out a hand that was thin and hard with rings on three fingers. ‘Karl Knopf.’
I nodded. ‘Cliff Hardy. I remember you now. You drove for Frank when he was a super. Too tall for the job, really.’
‘That’s right. He was a good bloke, Parker.’
‘The best. What’re you drinking?’
‘What d’you expect, crème de menthe?’
‘Let’s get this straight—no, bad choice of words. You’re gay and I couldn’t care less. Okay?’
He smiled. ‘Just having fun in a grey old world on a grey old day. Glass of red, Timmy, please. Bottle, not cask. Mr Hardy will pay. He’s on expenses from a rich client.’
The barman uncorked a bottle and poured. ‘Why can
’t I meet someone like that?’
‘You mean Mr Hardy?’
‘Shit, no, I mean his client.’
Knopf tilted his head to the left and we went across to a table at a distance from the other patrons. I took the nuts with me. We sat and we both had a drink and ate some nuts.
‘So,’ Knopf said. ‘What d’you want to know?’
‘Your impressions about the evidence presented in the Stewart Master case.’
‘Four kilos of top grade heroin.’
‘Handled by?’
‘Master and Master alone.’
‘Was that unusual?’
‘No. The supplier usually wipes it clean.’
‘Why didn’t Master wipe it?’
Knopf shrugged. ‘Didn’t expect to be caught.’
‘Careless.’
‘Very.’
‘I feel we’re fencing, Senior. Did anything strike you as unusual about the evidence?’
‘Like?’
‘Christ, I don’t know. Is it possible for someone’s fingerprints to get on that sort of packaging without them ever having touched it?’
‘You should’ve been his lawyer. It’s possible. Prints can be transferred with the right technology. Highly unlikely though.’
‘You weren’t asked that?’
‘No.’
‘And you didn’t volunteer it?’
‘I was a witness for the prosecution.’
‘Looking back?’
He shrugged and drank some wine. I’d finished my beer and a few of the salty nuts and was ready for a refill.
‘Senior?’
‘Don’t call me that. It’s Karl. It’s impossible to say. It didn’t come up at the time and I’d have to look at the stuff all over again from that perspective. And that’s impossible.’
‘Why?’
‘Why d’you think? The stuff ’s been destroyed.’ He finished his wine and got smoothly to his feet. ‘My buy. Old, is it?’
I nodded. The place was filling up and the noise level was rising. Something louder was playing on the sound system and the pokies were buzzing along with the conversations. In days gone by the atmosphere would have been smoky. Not now. Knopf came back with the drinks and slid into his seat.
