by Peter Corris
There were two desks. Frost got up from behind one and came towards me with his hand out. We shook. His hand was hard and callused. Ray Frost might tread a fine line from a legal perspective as Inspector Rockwell had said, but at some time he’d done his share of the hard yakka.
I sat in the chair he indicated and he gave me a searching look.
‘What’s wrong with the back?’
‘Kidney punch from one of the people at Sterling.’
‘You get even?’
‘Not yet.’
He grinned as he sat. His jacket was hung on his chair. His arms in the black T-shirt were tanned and meaty. ‘You’ve been on the job, then?’
I told him how I’d come to focus on Sterling as the only likely candidate for what worried him and about the Sterling associates driving white Commodores. I outlined my encounter with them at their HQ. Then I told him about Anton Beaumont coming to see me, and what he’d said about the trouble at the senior level of the firm.
‘Sounds as if Phil could have a fight on his hands. Good. I’m relieved that you don’t think I brought it about. That helps a bit. But who killed him? I just don’t understand it.’
‘I haven’t come anywhere near earning the money you’ve paid me.’
He waved it away. ‘Doesn’t matter. It’s only fuckin’ money. I’d give every cent to. .’
‘I want to keep working on it. I’ve spoken to Jane Devereaux. She’s got a theory about what happened.
He opened a drawer in the desk and took out an envelope. He handled it as if it was something precious. ‘She wrote to me. Explained why she wasn’t at the funeral. I could see exactly what she meant. It’s like they say-I could feel her pain. She can put things into words. Made me cry. It seems to me she would’ve been a terrific woman for Bobby. It’s fuckin’ unfair. They deserved better.’
I nodded. ‘And there’s something else I want to follow up.’
‘You keep going, Hardy. Keep at it, and if you need more money just ask.’
‘I don’t want you to feel manipulated.’
‘Nobody manipulates me, mate. Nobody.’
We shook hands again.
‘And not just money,’ he said. ‘Any other kind of help you might need.’
I drove back to Pyrmont, still undecided about how to proceed. Jane Devereaux had been convincing, but tackling Michael Tennyson was a tall order. I’d have to do a lot of preliminary skirmishing to get a feel for the texture of his life and he obviously spent a lot of time in places I couldn’t go. How to uncover his dark side, if he had one as Jane alleged?
I was in the office and about to phone Harry Tickener to see if he could help and also to get his take on Jane, when the phone rang.
‘This is Cliff Hardy?’ A light voice, accented, female.
‘Yes.’
‘I saw you on television. I have information about the death of Bobby Forrest.’
That’s the trouble with television, you’re exposed-it allows people to think they know you or can approach you. Just opening the conversation that way made me sceptical.
‘What sort of information?’
‘I am very frightened.’
‘You should go to the police if you have information about a serious crime like that, and if you’ve been threatened.’
‘I cannot go to the police.’
‘Why not?’
‘I am illegally in this country. Also I am a prostitute.’
That made me sit up. ‘Things can be worked out for an illegal person who can help the authorities. And prostitution isn’t a crime, I’m happy to say.’
She made a sound that could have been a laugh; hard to tell. ‘Have you ever heard of honour killing, Mr Hardy?’
‘I have.’
‘If my family knew what I do I would be killed. I need money to get a very long way away from here and from them.’
I thought of Ray Frost’s offer and wondered how much he’d really be willing to cough up. ‘I’d have to be sure that your information was valuable before I could offer you any money.’
‘I know who killed him. I know the name.’
‘You know the killer?’
‘Not exactly. I know someone who does know him, that is how I know.’
It was getting woolly but there was something authentic-sounding in the voice. ‘Perhaps we could meet and discuss it.’
‘Yes, if you can bring some money.’
‘I guess I could bring five thousand dollars.’
A sigh. Disappointment?
‘That is not much.’
‘There could be more if I’m convinced by what you say, and I could possibly help you with your problem.’
‘Are you an honourable man, Mr Hardy?’
More honourable than a relative who’d kill you for being a prostitute , I thought. ‘I hope I am.’
‘Very well. I will meet you.’
‘Where? And what’s your name?’
She made that ambiguous sound again. ‘Names. You could call me Miranda.’
‘Are you Mary Oberon?’
‘No, but I know her. Enough. Come to my place, 12A Little Seldon Street in Paddington. When can you come?’
‘Give me three hours-say, four o’clock?’
‘Yes.’
She hung up. I checked my bank balance. With Frost’s deposit there was enough to draw out five grand and still continue to eat for a few days and meet the next mortgage payment. I wouldn’t need three hours to draw the money and get to Paddington, but I’d need plenty of time to look the place over thoroughly and watch for comings and goings. The police had checked the.38 after I’d reported Bobby’s death and returned it to me reluctantly. I took it with me but left it in the car-you don’t walk into a bank carrying a gun.
No problem with the bank. You can draw out, deposit or transfer any amount up to ten thousand without questions being asked. But it left me with an uncomfortable feeling. Peanuts to some people, not to me. In hundreds, five grand is a fair-sized wad. Carrying it justified the pistol, even if going to meet an unnamed prostitute with multiple and complex problems didn’t.
The mid-afternoon traffic was manageable. I was in Paddington with the better part of two hours to spare. I parked in a side street two blocks from Little Seldon and worked my way back. The only approach was along Oxford Street and then a few twists and turns down narrow streets. The area featured a mixture of big and medium-size houses, some terraces, some freestanding, mostly old, some new. There were several blocks of mid-size flats and the precinct was honeycombed with lanes.
Little Seldon Street was short and so narrow the footpaths were only wide enough for one person. No trees. From a lane on the opposite side of the street I had a clear view of the house. It was an old workman’s cottage, one of a pair, and couldn’t have been more than three metres wide. At a guess, two up and two down. The balcony overhung the street. The door had been recently painted; the rest of it could have done with a new coat. It was a ‘residents’ only’ parking set-up and most of the residents must have been off earning the mortgage repayments. Although all the houses were small they wouldn’t have come cheap. The handful of cars in the street were unremarkable.
I scouted the block. A lane ran beside number 12A and down behind the houses. Hard place to keep watch on. At four o’clock I used the door knocker-no response. I tried again with the same result. A curtain fluttered at the open full-length glass door leading to the balcony. I knocked again, stepped out onto the street and called. Nothing.
I went down the lane to the back fence of 12A. It had a gate that was standing open. The door at the back of the house was also open. I unshipped the.38, crossed a tiny bricked courtyard and went into the house. The kitchen wasn’t much more than a couple of cupboards and shelves and a sink. There was a toaster and a microwave. Then there was a small dining room and sitting room combined. The room was a shambles. The furniture, table, coffee table, TV and DVD set-up were almost miniature in size but they’d been smashed and the pieces di
stributed around the room. An aluminium rack that had held a set of pornographic magazines had been crushed underfoot and the magazines ripped to shreds. The DVDs were pornographic-huge-breasted women and men with giant penises on the covers. A lot of the discs were lying about, scratched and broken.
A photograph had been torn from its frame and torn to pieces so that it was impossible to tell what it had been. Someone had urinated on the pieces. Along with the smell of piss I could detect cigarette smoke, perfume and something else. I knew what it was.
The staircase was virtually a ladder-very narrow, very steep. I went up. The back room held a moveable clothes rack and a chest of drawers. Clothes were hanging out of the drawers and askew on the rack. A large suitcase lay open on the floor with clothes and shoes spilling from it.
She was in the front room on the queen-size bed that took up most of the space. She was naked under a white silk dressing gown, untied. Her skin was a deep brown and her tightly braided hair was black. The kind of scarf Muslim women wear was ripped and lying beside her. A dark stain spread from under her head across the white satin cover on the bed. Her head was turned and her dark eyes stared blindly at me.
PART TWO
11
I couldn’t afford to be the discoverer of a murdered person a second time in a matter of days. The police would tie me up in knots and the publicity would be disastrous. I gave myself five minutes to search the house for the identity of the dead woman. No sign of a handbag or a purse. I opened drawers using a tissue and probed using a ballpoint pen. No letters, no cards, no post-its, no mobile phone. Some of the clothes on the rack were professional-silk, satin and lace items-but the ones she’d been packing were practical.
I noticed something sticking a millimetre or so out of a pocket of the suitcase cover. I teased out a postcard-sized photograph. It showed three young women standing together in a linked, provocative pose wearing the appropriate clothing. One of them was the dead woman wearing a head scarf; one I didn’t recognise and the other was Mary Oberon. I took the photograph.
I left the way I’d come in except that I stayed in the network of back lanes until I emerged a few blocks from Little Seldon Street. I walked to my car and sat there for a couple of minutes. The dead woman looked to be in her twenties; she was beautiful with a fine body. From her hair and features I guessed she was African. From her voice she was educated, and she’d sounded rational and intelligent. I felt her loss, not just because of the information I’d never get from her, but because she was much too young to die and she’d died a long way from home.
I drove until I found a public phone. I rang the police number and said where to find a dead woman.
‘Sir, please give me your name and address.’
That ‘Sir’ at the start of the sentence. They pick it up from American television. It annoys me. I hung up.
Driving around with five thousand dollars in your pocket isn’t the most comfortable feeling, particularly when you’re heading where I was. The House of Ruby is a massage parlour and relaxation centre in Darlinghurst Road, Kings Cross. While being a hard-headed businesswoman, Ruby, the proprietor, is also something of a mother figure and mentor to Sydney sex workers. I’d done some work for her in the past, bodyguarding a couple of her employees and getting a threatening rival off her back. We’re friends.
Marcia, her well-constructed and immaculately groomed receptionist, raised an eyebrow as she buzzed me in.
‘Cliff Hardy, I heard you’d retired.’ Marcia had the voice all brothel receptionists have-smooth, reassuring, comforting, designed to put the punters at their ease.
‘I’m making a comeback. Is Ruby available?’
‘Upstairs, just follow your nose if that’s the only thing sticking out.’
The decor at Ruby’s is muted plush. The stairs are carpeted, the handrail is polished and the mirror at the first landing is set at a flattering angle. I went down a corridor to Ruby’s office. Music was playing inside-classical, which is as far as I could get to identifying it. I knocked and went in.
Ruby retired from active service years ago, but she has maintained her face and figure with a certain amount of surgical help. She was working at a computer and swung around on her chair.
‘Cliff, darling. It’s been a long time.’
She got up and came towards me, moving well, and elegant in a loose satin shirt and tight pants. In her heels she was almost as tall as me. She hugged me and stepped back.
‘Older,’ she said. ‘And wiser?’
‘Don’t know about that.’
She groped me gently. ‘Hornier? I live in hope.’
‘Couldn’t spoil a beautiful friendship.’
She sighed theatrically. ‘Business, as always. Have a seat.’ She turned a knob on the portable CD player beside the computer and the music subsided to a whisper. ‘Haydn,’ she said. ‘You look a bit grim, Cliff. At a guess you’ve just come away from something unpleasant. Drink?’
I nodded. She opened a bar fridge and made two stiff gins and tonic.
‘Lime or lemon?’
‘You choose.’
She chose lime. We clinked glasses. I handed her the photograph. ‘D’you know the girl in the middle, Ruby?’
‘I know one of them. First I have to know what trouble they’re in.’
‘The girl on the right’s not in any trouble as far as I know. The one on the left is dead. The one in the middle is my concern. Mary Oberon. She’s done some iffy things but nothing too serious, I don’t think. She’s involved in something I’m working on and she’s been threatened. I want to know who by because that might tell me who put her up to the things she’s done that have brought her to my attention. I don’t mean her any harm.’
‘You never do, but it goes along with the work you do, right?’
I didn’t respond. She had it exactly.
Ruby worked on her drink, still studying the photograph. ‘I’ve got it now. She’s involved in that Bobby Forrest thing that’s been all over the tabloids. So are you. You don’t think she killed him?’
‘She didn’t.’
‘But she knows who did?’
‘I think so. The African-looking girl said she knew. She implied Mary Oberon had told her. I went to see her and found her dead.’
Ruby raised her glass in a sort of salute. ‘I didn’t know her. The other one goes by the name of Isabella. She’s from the islands somewhere.’
‘Mary Oberon is a Fijian-Indian, I think.’
‘Yeah, partly anyway. You can’t find her?’
I took a good pull on the drink and shook my head. ‘I traced her to where some guy threatened her and that was it. Any idea where she might have gone?’
‘No. Back home?’
‘The African girl said she was illegally here. If Mary Oberon’s the same it’d be tricky to leave. The cops are looking for her, too. What about Isabella? She might be in danger as well if she knows what the African girl knew. Any ideas about her?’
Ruby finished her drink. She used a long fingernail to spike the slice of lime and ate it. ‘You wouldn’t dob them in to Immigration would you, Cliff?’
‘I might threaten to, but I wouldn’t do it.’
She laughed. ‘You’re an honest man, Cliff Hardy. Don’t meet many, especially in this game. All I can tell you is where Isabella works and probably these other girls as well. Place called Black Girls. It’s in Double Bay.’
‘Nice place?’
‘Not very, from what I hear.’
‘What else d’you hear?’
‘That it’s got high-level protection.’
‘Who from?’
She shrugged. ‘Hard to say, but you’d better be careful.’
I thanked her for the information and the drink and left. I heard the music surge up as I walked towards the stairs.
Black Girls had a website. It emphasised the exotic nature of its ‘ladies’ and promised luxurious and unusual settings as well as an outcall service. I waited until 9 pm before I
called.
‘Black Girls, good evening.’
‘Is Miranda available tonight?’
‘I’m afraid Miranda is no longer with us, sir.’
‘How about Isabella?’
‘I’m afraid Isabella has commitments tonight, but I’m sure we. .’
I hung up. I drove to Double Bay and located the place a block from New South Head Road. I circled the block. Black Girls occupied a freestanding terrace that had undergone a lot of renovation-high cement wall with a security gate, new-looking tiled roof, side and back balconies with views of the water. Whatever had stood next to it as a pair had gone and the space had become a private parking area with a boom gate. Space for several cars, two in position.
I parked on the opposite side of the street three houses away under a spreading plane tree. There was a street light and I had a good view of the establishment. Over the next few hours the operational pattern became clear. Cars pulled out of the parking area with a woman sitting in the back seat. I followed one trip. The driver deposited a tall, slender black woman at an address in Point Piper. He waited for a little over an hour and drove her drove back to Double Bay. Back at the brothel, I followed the next car to leave. It took its passenger, a woman with a more than passing resemblance to Naomi Campbell, to a house in Randwick. The driver settled himself behind the wheel and opened a magazine.
I waited until he seemed immersed. I approached, opened the front passenger door and sat with the.38 held low, pointing up at him. He yelped and dropped the magazine. It fell open in his lap showing a double-page picture of a naked woman with enormous breasts.
‘Hands on the wheel,’ I said. ‘Stay very still and very quiet and you won’t get hurt. Do anything else and you get hurt, so does the girl and I take her money and this car. Understand?’
He nodded.
‘You take the girls back to their places sometimes, right?’
‘S. . sometimes, yeah.’
‘Where do you keep the addresses?’
He gulped. ‘Glove box.’
