by Peter Corris
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 private 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.
O’Grady was there before me, sitting massively in his chair by the window. He’d taken his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves, preparing for some serious eating. His belly kept him back from the table a fair way, but he was a big man with long arms. He was working his way through a bowl of olives and one of nuts. There was a bottle of white wine in the ice bucket and his glass was half full. The table napkin was tucked into his shirt below the first button and spread down towards, but not quite reaching, his gut. He looked up from the menu he was studying with the intensity of a stamp collector inspecting a penny black.
‘Hardy, you bastard,’ he rumbled. ‘Good to see you. You did say you were paying, didn’t you?’
‘Gidday, Dom. My client is.’
We shook hands and I sat. He poured me a glass. I almost winced when I saw the bottle-French, of course.
‘Ah, they were the days. Expense account lunches, padded out to buggery.’
‘You don’t look as though you’re wasting away.’
He patted his stomach affectionately.
‘Now, why I wanted to see you-’
‘No, no, you philistine. First things first.’ He smiled at the waitress who approached with another menu. She was dark and attractive, spike heels, tight skirt, lacy top. O’Grady emptied his glass. The waitress filled it and the bottle was empty.
‘Antipasto, large,’ O’Grady said. ‘I think then the swordfish. I’ll cogitate on the dessert.’
‘Chips and salad or vegetables, Dominic?’
‘The former and another bottle of course. Hardy?’
‘Swordfish good here, is it?’
‘Everything is good, but the swordfish is superb.’
I ordered the swordfish with vegetables. The wine was cold, dry and fresh tasting-about as much appraisal as I can give the stuff.
‘I understood Bobby Forrest was your client, but I hardly think he’s paying for our lunch.’
‘Another client.’
‘Just back in business and two well-heeled clients already. I’d offer congratulations, but. . Ah. Here we are.’
The waitress put a large platter of antipasto on the table in front of O’Grady. She showed him the wine bottle and opened it expertly on his nod. She produced a fresh glass; he tasted the wine and nodded again. He scooped up the few remaining nuts and olives and ate them before using a small fork to spear pieces of meat and cheese which he gobbled. He dived in again.
‘Won’t you spoil your appetite?’
‘Age shall not weary it nor the years condemn. Just let me savour this for a few minutes before getting down to the no doubt distasteful business you have in mind. Do you want to share?’
I shook my head.
‘Good.’
‘Can we get started?’
‘Always in a hurry, that’s you, Hardy. Wait until I’ve had my first bite of fish. Have some more of this fine wine. Relax a little.’
With someone like O’Grady there’s nothing else to do. It was late in the week, a popular time for lunching, and the restaurant was filling up. We were at a table for two with no other table really close. Ideal for a private talk. O’Grady was an old hand. I drank some wine and ate some bread. The fish came.
‘Cracked pepper, Mr Hardy?’
I looked at her in surprise. I hadn’t been in the place for years and had never seen her before. O’Grady chuckled.
‘Fame, Cliff, fame. She saw you on television. It’s the only thing that matters these days, unfortunately.’
I accepted cracked pepper and ate fish. It was good. O’Grady took some time with the dressing on his salad. He started on his fish.
‘Phil Tyson,’ I said. ‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘Nothing good. A thug. You know he sacked me.’
I nodded. ‘But I want you to be objective.’
‘Hard to be objective about Phil.’ He ate a couple of large mouthfuls of the fish followed by a considerable number of chips and some salad in rapid succession. He chewed slowly and bowed his head reverently. ‘Beautiful food, don’t you agree?’
‘It’s fine. Thuggish how?’
‘In every way-the people he hires, the pressure he exerts, especially on his clients.’
I stopped eating. ‘On his clients?’
‘I assume you’re working for one of them. Not surprising. You should never tell your secrets to Phil. He’ll handle your problem all right, but then he owns you and you have to dance to his tune.’
‘Blackmail?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Do you happen to know whether he did any work for a bloke named Ray Frost?’
O’Grady ate and drank in his measured, appreciative way. He dabbed at his mouth with the napkin. ‘I believe he did, yes.’
‘Do you know what it was?’
He poured more wine and inspected the level in the bottle. ‘Another, d’you think?’
‘No. Tyson and Frost?’
‘Sounds like a comedy team but I doubt there was anything funny about it. I don’t know the details; it was after my time, but I imagine Phil straightened out Frost’s problem in his usual direct manner and then extracted his pound of flesh.’
He compiled a forkful of food. ‘Poor choice of words.’
‘Direct manner?’
‘Phil has a phalanx of heavies and they run about in a fleet of cars. I once saw the entire executive fleet turn up at the one place at the same time. Very intimidating. You’re not eating.’
The fish was succulent and the vegetables were crisp but I was losing interest in the food. Something about O’Grady’s rapid consumption and absolute enjoyment put me off. I toyed with what was on my plate for a while before putting my knife and fork down and taking a decent swig of wine.
‘Disgusting,’ O’Grady said. ‘Sip it, man, sip it.’
‘Why did you leave Sterling Security, Dom?’
‘I blew the whistle on Tyson in 2003. I’ve got a flexible conscience but enough was enough. I thought everyone knew that. You disappoint me.’
I’d been in a fugue state for some time after my partner Lily Truscott had been killed, and then I’d gone overseas for a year or so. I’d missed a lot.
‘And were there reprisals?’
‘Oh, yes. Physical at first, now more or less just harassment. Unsettling. Tiresome.’
His plate was clean and he poured the last of the wine into his own glass.
‘Doesn’t put you off your food.’
‘It did for a time, I can assure you. But it’s an ill wind. I’ve got a comfortable spot now with Harry’s rag. Will there be anything for me in this matter you’re pursuing?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Thought so. Oh well, better make the most of this. Now I wonder what’s best for dessert.’
I thought over what he’d told me as a way of fixing the information in my memory- thug. . heavies. . pound of flesh. . pressure. . fleet of cars. .
‘How many cars in the executive fleet?’
‘Six.’
‘What kind of cars, Dom?’
‘White Commodores. Phil never uses anything else. Creme caramel, I think.’
7
Sterling Security Inc’s website listed six senior associates: five men and one woman. No photographs. I thought it unlikely a woman would drive around disguised as a bearded man. I faced the prospect of getting a look at the five men to see if one was bearded. Not a strong line of investigation, beards come and go, but it was the best I could come up with.
I was back in the office. Frost’s money had been deposited so that the balance in my account that took a heavy hit from the cost of the restaurant lunch was nicely topped up. I wrote down the five names and did the routine checks to find out more about them, particularly their addresses. No luck with the telephone directory; they were just the kind to have silent landline numbers if they had landlines at all. Mobile phone types for sure. But there are other
ways. I’d lost my valuable RTA contact, which isn’t much use for checking on people driving leased company cars anyway, but I still had one in a big credit checking outfit. The information was costly but reliable.
A phone call got me addresses for three of the names: Arthur Pollock, Blacktown; Stephen Charles, Randwick; and Louis Salter, Clovelly. Anton Beaumont and Ralph Cochrane were proving more elusive. But persistence paid off. Beaumont turned up in a newspaper report on a traffic accident in which he was involved and his address was given as Alexandria. He’d been taken to the Royal Prince Alfred Hospital for observation. I was pretty sure Hank could be persuaded to hack into the hospital records.
They say that there’s nowhere to hide these days, but Ralph Cochrane was doing a pretty good job of it. He didn’t appear on any of the databases I had access to and some discreet inquiries among people I thought might know yielded nothing. I could give him some thought. The procedure was going to mean a lot of driving around and trying not to be seen by people who presumably were good at not being snooped on.
There are people who do the easy stuff first. I understand the impulse but I’m the reverse. Get the hard stuff out of the way first. I’d always been like that-at school, in the army and in the profession I’d followed for so long. In the army it passed for keenness and efficiency. My reports spoke of ‘diligence’ and ‘initiative’. It wasn’t really, it was more a matter of doing the hard stuff while my energy level was high. I was easily bored and could get sloppy when I lost interest. As a detective the habit sometimes had benefits and sometimes not. Sometimes hard turned out to be easy and hard. You could never tell.
I wasn’t sleeping well. A matter of loneliness and a feeling that I wasn’t accomplishing as much as I should. So I was happy about making an early start. They say everyone is working longer hours these days and I assumed it applied to people in the security business, especially senior people if they wanted to stay senior. And why not me as well? I drove to Blacktown, setting off at 5 am, picking up the Great Western Highway at Five Dock and cruising through light traffic to arrive at the address a bit before 6 am.
