by Peter Corris
Pollock’s place was on the fringes in a street that featured large houses on big blocks with lightly timbered scrubland not far away. It was a short street and every house had a driveway but there were three cars in some places that looked to have two-car garages and a couple had a car in the driveway and another out on the street. Kids still living at home. One extra car wouldn’t stand out too much. I parked on the opposite side of the street and about fifty metres away so that I’d get a clear view of Pollock as he backed out and swung around to face me before driving off.
The house was a two-storey job with white pillars, liver-coloured bricks and no eaves. Freezing in winter and stinking hot in summer, but presumably air-conditioned with a heavy carbon footprint. At 6.30 a roller door slid up and a white Commodore backed out. The driver obliged me by stopping before he reached the street, getting out and collecting the newspaper from the cylindrical holder beside the letterbox. He was small to medium sized with fair, thinning hair. No jutting jaw, no beard. He tossed the paper onto the passenger seat, got in and drove off without looking at me.
One down and four to go. I drove into the Blacktown CBD, found an early opening cafe and treated myself to a decent breakfast. I washed down my morning heart medications with some very passable coffee. Blacktown woke up around me. It appeared to be a busy, bustling kind of place with something of the feel of a country town as well as the big city.
The weekend interrupted the work. People follow different schedules, sleep in, go away and, anyway, a stakeout can look obvious. Monday was the day of Bobby Forrest’s funeral. As Frost had anticipated, it was a big event attended by a lot of people from the entertainment industry, friends and the media. The ceremony was secular, at the Rookwood chapel. I’d been there too many times over the years and too recently.
The modern style is to ‘celebrate the life’ rather than ‘lament the passing’, but it’s hard to do with someone so young. Frost did his best. He was impressive in his dark clothes.
‘My son Robert was the best thing in my life. He’s gone but all my memories of him are good. He never once disappointed me or let me down and I tried not to ever let him down. That’s what I mean by him being the best thing. He made me better than I really am and I’m grateful to him for that. I’ll always be grateful for that.’
Pretty good. He echoed the words Bobby had used in explaining his relationship with Jane Devereaux. I suppose Bobby had said the same to him and he’d picked up on it. It was appropriate, and I thought Jane Devereaux would probably appreciate it.
A few others, including Sophie Marjoram and people from the entertainment business, spoke briefly. Bobby had been an organ donor and what was left of him was cremated. Among those attending there was a clutch of young people-goths and emos and the like-who stood apart. At one point I thought I could sense someone looking at me. I glanced at the young group and saw a woman in semi-goth clothes fixing me with a malevolent stare.
There was a wake, which they called a wrap party, at a restaurant in Surry Hills. I stayed long enough for a drink and to recognise a couple of the stars and semi-stars, some looking better than on screen and some not so good. I didn’t get a chance to talk to Frost.
Over the next few days I went through the same surveillance procedure with Charles in Randwick and Salter in Clovelly with the same negative result. Neither man fitted the physical description of the one who’d followed Bobby and threatened Mary Oberon, though both were more impressive physically than Pollock. Hank was out of town on a job, which stymied me on Beaumont so I turned my attention to Ralph Cochrane. With no address available, the simplest way to get a look at him was to make an appointment to see him so that’s what I did. It was a strategy I could use only once without raising questions and now seemed like the right time. Wouldn’t hurt to get a close look at the Sterling set-up anyway.
Cochrane was described on the website as the ‘Personnel and Training’ manager. The obvious ploy was to inquire about the possibility of employment. The big security firms were swallowing the small ones continually and there was every reason for a senior personnel guy at Sterling to believe I was looking for a lifeline. I’d been head-hunted a few times in the past and had declined offers. That would have been known around the traps.
Sterling’s HQ was in Rosebery, fairly close to the airport. Handy enough for the eastern suburbs dwellers, long drive from Blacktown. The building was an example of 1950s brutalism-a three-storey red cube set on a major road with no landscaping or trimmings-just a large bitumen parking area, a high cyclone fence and a manned security gate.
I drove up to the gate and told the guard my business. He consulted a sheet of paper on a clipboard, presented me with a visitor’s pass on a lanyard and directed me to a parking slot. I parked, slung the lanyard round my neck and followed white arrows painted on the blacktop to a set of double glass doors. The doors slid open, admitting me to a foyer. A woman sat behind a desk working at a computer. She was young and good-looking. Her long nails clattered on the keys.
She looked up. ‘Mr Hardy?’
‘Right,’ I said, ‘to see Ralph Cochrane.’
She pointed to an elevator. ‘Second floor, room twelve.’
I thanked her and waited for the lift. The decor was functional-a few generic posters, a couple of citations for Sterling’s creditable performance as an employer, a scale model of a projected new HQ. I rode the lift to the second floor and followed a corridor to room twelve. I could hear activity behind the closed doors-telephones ringing, machines humming. There were noticeboards along the wall bristling with pinned paper. Cochrane’s name was on the door. I knocked.
‘Come.’
I’ve never liked that response. Bad start and it got worse. There were three men in the room-one sitting behind a desk and two flanking it. As I entered one of the men moved behind me, closed the door and stayed there. The other standing man sat in the only other chair in the room apart from the one behind the desk. Not a friendly reception. The man sitting was Arthur Pollock of Blacktown, the smallish guy with the wispy hair. I didn’t think I’d have too much trouble with him. I turned and looked at the man at the door. Much bigger, much younger. It’s hard to judge the size of a man behind a desk but this one didn’t look puny. He was in his thirties, dark and tanned. Maybe just back from his holidays, maybe a spray job. None of the men was bearded.
‘I’m Ralph Cochrane, Hardy,’ the man behind the desk said. He pronounced it ‘Rafe’. ‘This is Arthur Pollock and Louis Salter you know.’
‘Do I?’
‘Well, not exactly, but you saw him when you staked him out in Clovelly a few days ago. More to the point, he’s seen you. Arthur seems to think there might have been a crappy blue Falcon like the one you drive outside his house, too.’
‘Arthur’s right,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think he’d noticed.’
Pollock smiled. ‘Subliminally,’ he said.
‘So you’ve shown a very great interest in us and we’re wondering if we should be flattered or worried.’
‘Flattered,’ I said. ‘I was considering trying to join your organisation and I was just checking a few of you senior people out before making an approach. That’s why I made this appointment. I have to say I’m having second thoughts.’
I heard a movement behind me but I was too slow. A punch hit me hard in the kidneys, drove the wind out of me and buckled my knees. I had to grab at the desk to keep my feet. Salter looked pleased with his result as he should have. The punch was expert, placed in just the right spot and with just the right force. Deep bruise but no rupture, probably. I fought for breath and almost gagged at the foul taste filling my mouth.
‘Let the man sit down, Arthur,’ Cochrane said. ‘He needs the chair more than you do.’
Pollock stood and I collapsed into the chair and concentrated on sucking in air. It felt thin and insubstantial and as if it wasn’t going to last.
‘You’ve got a reputation as a tough guy, Hardy,’ Salter said. ‘I thought you’
d be able to take it a bit better than that.’
My voice was a thin wheeze. ‘We’ll see how it goes next time, when we’re face to face.’
‘I’m off,’ Pollock said. ‘You can handle it from here. Let me know what he tells you.’
Cochrane nodded. Pollock took a step and I stuck out my foot. He stumbled and fell flat on his face. Pretty pathetic taking on the little guy but I had to do something. Salter stepped forward but Cochrane stopped him.
‘Cool it, Louis. You okay, Arthur?’
Pollock got up, straightened his clothes and gave me a look meant to be venomous but it’s hard to be venomous when your tie’s crooked and your comb-over’s been disturbed. He pushed past Salter and left the room.
‘Let’s start over again. Why’re you so interested in us?’
I’d recovered my breath and straightened myself up in the chair. My kidneys had the ache that suggests blood in the urine. I’d been there before in my boxing days. My brain was working well enough though.
‘I’ve got a question first,’ I said. ‘Your reaction is way over the top for spotting a little surveillance. What’s got you so upset, Ralph?’
Cochrane and Salter exchanged glances and Cochrane nodded.
‘You were seen having lunch with that fat aresehole O’Grady the other day,’ Salter said. ‘Someone passing by your table caught the name Sterling. You weren’t discussing the fucking swordfish and O’Grady wouldn’t be advising you to join this firm.’
‘You’re right there,’ I said. ‘He told me not to have anything to do with you but I decided to go ahead and see for myself. And I’ve seen all I want to see.’
‘And what have you seen?’ Cochrane said.
Something interesting that I’ll keep to myself , I thought. I said, ‘I’ve seen a couple of stupid guys worried about a fat man.’
‘He’s a journalist and he’s never forgiven Phil for sacking him. You’re snooping on his behalf.’
I tried to force a laugh but the action hurt too much. ‘You’re wrong. He says he never had it so good. He’s enjoying what he does now. He reckons he owes Phil.’
They exchanged glances again.
‘I suppose we could be wrong,’ Cochrane said slowly.
I levered myself out of the chair suppressing a groan. ‘Is that an apology?’
‘Fuck you,’ Salter said.
‘You’ll keep,’ I said. ‘I wonder if Phil knows how you’re handling this?’
Salter looked worried; Cochrane didn’t. He said, ‘Phil’s much too busy to worry about a nobody like you.’
Cochrane stood and put his hands on the desk. He leaned forward, so close I could smell his aftershave. ‘You’ve wasted some of our valuable time, Hardy. You’re a loser from way back and now you’re scratching around trying to make a living. Well, don’t scratch around here. Now piss off!’
He pressed a buzzer on his desk and an answering knock came on the door within seconds.
‘Come,’ I said.
Cochrane growled. The door opened and a woman stood there with an inquiring look on her face.
‘Show Mr Hardy out,’ Cochrane said.
I followed the woman down the corridor, into the lift and we went down to the foyer without a word being spoken. The glass doors slid open.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
She pointed to my chest. ‘The pass, please.’
‘I’ll hang on to it as a keepsake.’
I glanced back at the building as I opened the car door. I thought I could see a figure standing at a window on the second floor about where room twelve would have been. I put the pass in my pocket and drove to the gate. The guard stopped me.
‘Where’s the pass?’
‘I gave it to a woman inside.’
‘No you didn’t. She just called me.’
I nodded. ‘Good security.’
I tossed him the pass and drove out.
I stopped at the first set of shops I came to and bought some painkillers. My back was aching and sending shooting pains up to my shoulders. I took three pills and sat on a bus stop seat drinking a takeaway coffee waiting for them to work. I stamped the image of Louis Salter on my brain-about my height and a bit heavier, maybe fifteen years younger. He had ginger hair and a long chin. The expertise of his punch suggested some kind of combat training, maybe military.
There was a reasonable chance of meeting up with him again. For one thing I still hadn’t sighted Anton Beaumont, but there had been something distinctly conspiratorial about the behaviour of the three senior associates. I had no idea what it was about but they were overanxious about something. Salter had reacted oddly when I mentioned Phil Tyson. I wondered whether Phil knew how his minions handled apparently minor matters.
8
There was no blood in my urine and I bounced back pretty quickly from the kidney punch. My doctor, Ian Sangster, whistled when he saw the bruise.
‘One of your best,’ he said.
‘Well placed,’ I said. ‘On the button. You can really deliver a whack there without fear of hurting your hand.’
‘You’d know. Just watch yourself for a few days. There could be some collateral damage.’
‘Like what?’
‘Don’t ask. I must say, apart from this you’re in better shape than you were a while ago. Getting back to work’s obviously good for you if you can just avoid the heavy stuff. How’s your sex life?’
‘On hold. . wrong expression. In abeyance.’
He laughed. ‘Use it or lose it.’
I thought about it as I walked down Glebe Point Road to get a coffee and do some thinking. I’d underestimated the Sterling guys and knew I’d have to rethink my strategy to get a look at Anton Beaumont. Or maybe not. I’d rattled the other three; so perhaps it was time to keep on rattling.
I sat in the sun and ordered a long black and flicked through the paper. The minority government was still being cautious, the opposition was still being aggressive and the independents were still being as independent as they could. It wasn’t very interesting but the opinion polls showed the voters were happy. Australians like a quiet life.
I rang Frost. I didn’t have much to report but I wanted to ask him about the Sterling associates I’d met. Before I could do that he thanked me for going to the funeral.
‘Sorry I didn’t get a chance to talk to you,’ he said. ‘It was good of you to come.’
‘It was a big turn-out,’ I said. ‘He was popular. I didn’t see the girlfriend there-Jane Devereaux.’
‘I asked her, left a message. I suppose she had her reasons.’
I asked him about the Sterling men.
‘I know Cochrane. He’s a tough prick. Don’t know much about the others. Do you reckon Cochrane could have had a hand in it?’
‘I don’t know, but there’s something going on there. The blokes I saw are up to something.’
‘You mean a few of them could be involved in killing Bobby?’
‘No, I’ve got the feeling it could be something in the future, but I suppose it could be connected.’
‘Well, stick with it, Hardy. With you on the job at least I feel like I’m doing something.’
It wasn’t a ringing endorsement but it was all I could expect. I finished the call and my mobile rang straight away. An unfamiliar female voice.
‘Mr Hardy, this is Jane Devereaux, Robert Forrest’s friend. I wonder if it’d be possible for me to see you.’
Robert? I thought. ‘Yes, Ms Devereaux. How would you like to arrange it?’
‘I’ve taken some leave. I’m quite free. I could come to your office. Would later this morning suit you?’
‘That’d be fine. Do you know where my office is?’
‘Yes, I have the card you gave Robert. That’s how I know your mobile number.’
She was on time. She knocked confidently and walked in the same way. She was medium-size in height and build, looking taller in very high heels. She wore a dark skirt with an ice-blue silk blouse and carried a sub
stantial briefcase. Her fair hair was curly and short. The photo I’d seen hadn’t done her justice; she had fine-grained skin and though none of her features was striking taken separately, in combination her face became interesting and drew my attention. Her manner was assertive but her smile was shy. I stood and we shook hands.
‘Thank you for seeing me, Mr Hardy.’
She had a slight countrified drawl. I asked her to sit down and watched as she lowered the briefcase to the floor. She sat straight; her skirt rode up exposing slightly heavy legs, flattered by the high heels. She wore light makeup, no jewellery other than small silver earrings.
‘I’m sorry about Bobby,’ I said. ‘I liked him.’
‘People did,’ she said. ‘I hesitated about coming to see you because I thought you might have given all those sordid details to the press.’
I shook my head but she went on before I could say anything.
‘But I asked around and I was told it’s not the sort of thing you’d do.’
‘That’s right. Do you mind my asking who told you that?’
‘Harry Tickener. We’re doing a book for him-a collection of pieces from his newsletter.’
‘He’s an old friend.’
‘So I gathered. He encouraged me to come and see you.’
‘What about?’
‘I believe I know who killed Robert.’
I studied her for a second before replying. She seemed to be in command of herself, not showing signs of outward grief but carrying some kind of burden.
‘Have you spoken to the police?’
She smiled. ‘They interviewed me after Robert died. Not very thoroughly. I didn’t tell them what I’m about to tell you. Did you read those tabloid articles about Robert and me? All that “plain Jane” and “brains before beauty” stuff?’
‘No. I was aware of it though.’
‘It was very hurtful and humiliating. I haven’t got over Robert’s death. I’m trying to, but it’s hard. And I haven’t got over that humiliation. I couldn’t go to the funeral. I’ve written a note to Robert’s father. It has affected almost everything I’ve done since. I’ve been made a figure of fun. The police wouldn’t take me seriously. And I have no proof.’
