by Peter Corris
‘Never met anyone in your profession before,’ he said as he sat. ‘I imagine you’re the sorts of fellows who can handle their own problems. Would you say?’
‘Possibly. In my case, so far.’
‘Good. Now I don’t have a lot of time. How can I be of help? I have to warn you, the constraints on what I can say about a client are severe.’
‘Even if he’s dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell me, in very general terms, what problem Bobby Forrest came to you with?’
‘No.’
‘I know he had sexual problems. He told me about them. I’m not interested in that. I’m wondering if he had. . fears.’
He smiled. ‘Sexual problems generate possibly the worst fears of all.’
‘Okay. I’ll be direct. I’m trying to find out who killed him. I’ve got a possible candidate but not much information on the circumstances. I’ve been told there was a person who threatened him. I’d like to know whether Bobby took the threat seriously.’
‘I’ve never had a client murdered before. It’s left me with a very uneasy feeling. I’m wondering whether I could have done more for him. Perhaps prevented this from happening.’
‘You know, doctor, you’re the fourth person to have that feeling.’
This didn’t please him. His eyebrows shot up. ‘Really, who?’
‘His father, his girlfriend and me.’
‘You’ve met her, the girlfriend?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Very impressive, mature, intelligent. .’
‘Yes, I imagine so.’
He nodded as if he were talking to himself. He swivelled half away in his chair and seemed to be carrying on a silent dialogue with his eyes half closed and his hand stroking his beard. The silence didn’t bother him. Eventually he swung back and faced me.
‘I’m going to break some rules and be as frank with you as I can. Robert came to me with a troubling doubt about his sexuality. He had problems with impotence and wondered if he were homosexual. Obviously I can’t tell you about the experiences he’d had that gave rise to this doubt. We talked about it of course, and also about other matters. To answer your question, yes, he was worried about the threat and took it very seriously.’
‘Thank you. Why did you decide to be frank?’
‘Your interesting description of the girlfriend. She must be a remarkable person. Robert was a different man after he met her. He acquired sexual confidence and this threat you’ve mentioned didn’t seem to trouble him as much as it had. The change in him was extraordinary and I’m honest enough to admit it was more due to her than to me.’
I nodded.
‘I can tell you a little more. Robert said he’d tried to make amends to the man who threatened him but didn’t succeed. The man said he would kill him.’
19
Waiting for Timpani Stafford to return from wherever she was tried my patience. I hadn’t got around to watching the DVDs of Bobby’s films. Now I did, with a lot of fast forwarding. Bobby had style. The bonus was that Jason Clement had small parts, playing the sidekick to someone else in two of them. He didn’t have a lot to do or much to say but he appeared to be perfectly competent. He also looked big and strong and moved like an athlete. They can’t teach that at NIDA; it’s a kind of gracefulness that some men have naturally, like Ali, like Carl Lewis, like Roger Federer. There was no interaction between Clement and Bobby in the films but I thought back to the driver Bobby had challenged at the lights. Like that guy, Clement was bigger than Bobby but I could see Bobby taking him on if his blood was up.
I arranged to have lunch with Jane Devereaux. She was getting on with her life as I was pretty sure she would. I’d checked with her a couple of times before and she’d said there’d been no approach of any kind from Michael Tennyson. But she had no interest in simply ‘moving on’ as the expression goes. She was anxious about the progress of my investigation, disappointed when there wasn’t any, and keen to hear what I had to say now. We met in the Surry Hills wine bar again. The weather was warmer than before; she wore trousers, a sleeveless top and flat heels. Salads and garlic bread; white wine for me, mineral water for her.
‘How’s the book on the police chief going?’ I asked.
‘Just about ready. He was an interesting man. He had a network of informers, some of them quite as bad as the people they were informing on.’
‘That’d be right.’
‘D’you want to come to the launch?’
I said I would and then asked her if the name Jason Clement meant anything to her.
‘Yes, Robert talked about him.’
‘What did he say?’
She worked on her salad before answering. I knew what was going on. She’d compartmentalised her memories of Bobby and put them aside to allow her to function. Now she was opening the door. I ate and drank and gave her time.
‘He told me he was his enemy. No, I haven’t made that clear. He meant that Jason Clement regarded Robert as his enemy, but that Robert didn’t regard him as an enemy. Do you follow? Why? What’s happening?’
‘Just a minute. Did he say why Clement felt like that?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t you ask him?’
‘No. When it came up he seemed very disturbed about it. He changed the subject quickly and I could see it wasn’t something he wanted to talk about. Do you know?’
I told her they’d had a fight but didn’t go into the details. I said there was a possibility Clement was responsible for Bobby’s death and that I was trying to find him. I wanted to know how seriously Bobby took the threat.
‘I think he took it seriously. Did you know he was seeing a therapist?’
I nodded. ‘Kinsolving.’
‘No, just a therapist. He was helping him with anger management. Robert said he had a fierce temper but was learning to control it.’
‘Do you know who this anger management therapist was?’
‘No, he didn’t say. I think he was a little ashamed of needing that kind of help. It just slipped out somehow when he was talking about golf. All I remember is that he said he mostly had the problem on the golf course. Can you find Clement, Cliff?’
I’d given up my ‘no paper’ policy and was scribbling some notes. ‘I’ll find him.’
‘There’s one thing I can tell you. It came up again briefly, and Robert said he’d seen Clement recently, but things were still the same.’
‘How recently?’
She hadn’t finished but she pushed the plate away, all appetite gone. ‘Just before he died,’ she said.
Clement had been locatable not so very long ago. I was encouraged, but the feeling didn’t last long. I called Timpani Stafford and told her I was anxious to contact Jason Clement.
‘So are we,’ she said. ‘We’re holding some fees for residuals for him.’
‘Money he’s owed?’
‘That’s right. He’s not at his last address and his mobile’s been disconnected. His email bounces back. What’s your interest?’
‘Something the same. When was your last contact with him?’
‘A couple of years ago.’
‘How hard did you try?’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘I’m sorry, it just seems strange that you wouldn’t persist.’
‘It was a small amount of money.’
‘And Jason had got a big payout, right?’
‘That’s not something I’m prepared to discuss. If you find Jason, tell him we’re anxious to hear from him.’
She hung up. Dead end. I was in my office with the copies of the documents I’d made in Sophie’s office in front of me. I went over them again looking for leads but nothing emerged. The names of several lawyers who’d been involved in the negotiations and settlement were on record but the confidentiality provision would gag them forever.
I looked over the notes I’d written and saw Jane Devereaux’s mention of Bobby’s ange
r on the golf course. I’d heard enough about golf to know that anger is a problem for players at all levels. Maybe Bobby had mentioned his fight with Clement to his anger management guru. It was worth a try. I drove to the Anzac Park golf club and followed the sign to the pro shop. It was a quiet time and the guy in the shop looked bored as he rearranged packets of tees and boxes of balls on the counter. A golf tournament was playing on a TV set mounted on a wall where the pro could see it but he didn’t seem very interested. I’d read that interest in golf had fallen away dramatically since the downfall of Tiger Woods.
‘Afternoon,’ I said.
‘Gidday.’
I showed him my licence and told him I was working for Bobby Forrest’s father, investigating Bobby’s murder. That got his attention.
‘Terrible thing,’ he said.
‘You knew Bobby?’
‘Sure, he was a member here. Nice bloke, good player.’
‘I believe he had some problems with anger while playing.’
‘Yeah. You play?’
‘No.’
‘It gets to some blokes. Doesn’t seem to happen to the women, but. Happens when blokes can’t play as well as they think they should. We all feel like that really, but some people just can’t cope with it.’
I nodded. ‘I believe he was seeing a therapist to help with that.’
He laughed. ‘I wouldn’t call him a therapist. Calls himself an anger management consultant. I put Bobby on to him.’
‘I’d like to talk to him. Can you give me his name?’
‘Do better than that.’ He rummaged under the counter and came up with a box of business cards. He flicked through and selected one. ‘Here you go.’
The card read: Barrie Monkhurst, Anger Management Consultant. Control your anger, improve your life . It carried an address in Kogarah and a mobile phone number. I reached for my notebook and pen. Monkhurst, I thought. Chloe’s name. Not a common one. A coincidence or were connections starting?
‘You can keep the card, mate. I’ve got a few of them. Planning to see Barrie?’
‘Yes, what can you tell me about him?’
‘Well, he used to be a tour player but he wasn’t quite good enough. Had a few pro jobs around the place but they never seemed to work out.’
‘Why not?’
He laughed. ‘Anger, why else? Barrie tells me he did a course in anger management that helped him and so now he helps others. Charges ’em pretty steep, but I reckoned Bobby could afford it.’
‘Did it help Bobby?’
He shrugged. ‘His handicap didn’t come down.’
That’s the trouble with golfers-they only have one way of measuring things. ‘I meant did it help him with his temper?’
‘Dunno. Didn’t hear any complaints about him and our members are right down on that sort of stuff. One thrown club can bring on a suspension.’
My lawyer Viv Garner was a keen golfer who played to a low handicap in club competition until heart trouble reduced him to playing socially and using a cart, all of which he resented. I knew he kept up a keen interest in the sport. I rang him and asked if he’d ever heard of Barrie Monkhurst.
‘Heard of him? I acted for him.’
‘What was the charge?’
‘Insurance fraud leading to assault. He was a pro at a golf club. He’d cooked the books to claim insurance money. When the assessor picked the dodge up Monkhurst bashed him. Put him in hospital.’
‘What happened?’
‘I got him a good barrister and he went to work. No one likes insurance companies and he got some juice out of that. He argued Monkhurst had anger management issues and was receiving counselling for it. A sympathetic magistrate let him off with a fairly hefty restitution order and a suspended sentence. He lost the job, of course, and they took that into consideration. But I’d be surprised if he ever made the restitution in full.’
‘Why?’
‘Monkhurst hired a member of my profession who’s notorious for delaying settlements and restitution payments. He strings things out until all the other parties lose interest or settle for token amounts. He’s a genius at it.’
‘I’m shocked.’
‘No you’re not.’
‘Did Monkhurst pay you?’
‘After a time. I’m a persistent bugger and I had a good collector.’
‘When was this?’
‘Ten years ago. About then. Monkhurst’s a dodgy character. I hope you’re not relying on him for anything.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Good, because I can tell you that whatever he’s doing now it won’t be on the up and up.’
20
From the sound of things, it was smart to play it cagey with Monkhurst. I rang him.
‘This is Barrie.’
‘Mr Monkhurst, I’ve been referred to you by the pro at Anzac Park.’
‘Steve, okay. Are you a golfer?’
‘No. I was referred to Steve by someone else.’
‘I get it. You have a problem with anger, ah, what’s your name?’
‘Cliff.’
‘Problem with anger, Cliff?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Is it to do with a sport or more generally?’
‘Bit of both really.’
‘Explain.’
‘I do my block at squash sometimes and I experience road rage.’
‘That’s serious. That can get you into real trouble.’
‘It already has.’
‘I’m sure I can help you. I charge a hundred and twenty dollars for the initial consultation and there’s a sliding scale of fees after that depending on how we attack the problem. You’ll notice I say attack. That’s an aggressive word. Does it surprise you that I use an aggressive word like that?’
‘Um, well, yeah, a bit.’
‘Don’t let it worry you. Anger has to be beaten.’
‘Right. The fees don’t bother me.’
‘What I like to hear. You know there’s no Medicare rebate or anything like that?’
‘I’m not worried. If I don’t do something about this, my life’s going down the toilet.’
‘Can’t let that happen, Cliff. When can you come and see me?’
‘What’s wrong with now?’
He laughed. ‘That eager? All right, say in ninety minutes. I suppose Steve gave you my card so you know where I am.’
‘Yeah, Kogarah. Ninety minutes is fine. Cash?’
‘You bet. I’ll be very angry if you haven’t got it. That’s a joke, Cliff.’
I laughed politely.
All I knew about Kogarah was that Clive James used to live there and run his billy cart down a hill. My business had never taken me there before and the closest I’d been was to Brighton-le-Sands to the east. Monkhurst’s street ran parallel to the railway line and the house was closer to the tracks than I’d have wanted. Train noise in the middle distance is okay but you don’t want it drowning out the television. The house was a cream-brick semi, neither shabby nor well looked after; the gate hinges needed oiling and the weeds were winning a battle against the grass.
I’d rehearsed my story. The only way to deal with a con man is to con him. I used the door knocker, hitting harder than I needed to. I heard footsteps inside and the door was opened by a man wearing a tracksuit and carrying a can of beer in his left hand.
He said, ‘Cliff?’
I said, ‘Right. Barrie?’
‘That’s me, come on in and have a beer. I hope you drink beer.’
We shook hands. He had big, golfer’s hands, very strong.
‘I drink some beers,’ I said. ‘Not all.’
‘I’ve got Toohey’s Old.’
‘That’ll do.’
I followed him down a narrow passage past a couple of rooms, through an eat-in kitchen and out to a built-in sunroom at the back. Sea grass matting, cane furniture. The yard beyond it was completely concreted with a Hill’s hoist sitting in the middle. Monkhurst had taken a can of beer from the fridge as we went
through the kitchen, and now he threw it to me in a hard, underarm toss. I caught it, just. It jarred my hand and I glared at him.
‘You’ve got the look all right. Sit down, let’s have a chinwag.’
He was about fifty, middle-size, not fat but getting there with flesh under his chin and soft bulk to his upper body. I sat, opened the can, took a swig and pulled out my wallet. I put a hundred and twenty dollars of Ray Frost’s money on the table beside my chair.
He touched his eyebrows. ‘You’ve done some boxing.’
I nodded. ‘Amateur.’
He drank some beer. ‘Ex-cop?’
‘No. .’
‘Ex-something.’
‘Army.’
‘You don’t say much.’
‘I thought I was here to listen.’
‘Right. Listen and learn. I used to be like you. Thought I was a hard case with the world against me.’
‘Maybe it was.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I was wrong. The world doesn’t give a fuck, one way or the other. Understand that and you’ve made a start.’
It went on like that for a while. Monkhurst was glib, parroting things he’d probably picked up from self-help books. Some of it made sense, some didn’t. When he started mentioning group sessions and role playing I began to detect a move towards his sliding scale of fees. I continued to keep my responses to a minimum, wondering how I could introduce the subject of Bobby Forrest.
Eventually I said, ‘Any notable successes, Barrie? People I might have heard of?’
His eyes went shrewd and he hesitated. ‘Well, I don’t like to. .’
Before he could finish the sentence the front door banged. A young woman came bustling into the house and headed down to the sunroom.
‘Dad, I. .’
She looked at me and her hand flew up to her mouth. She almost sagged against the door frame. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘Don’t talk like that, Chloe. Sorry, Cliff, this is my daughter, Chloe. She’s not usually so bloody rude. Chloe, this is a client, you shouldn’t-’
‘He’s not a client, you idiot. He’s that fucking private detective.’
She bore an unfortunate, heavy-featured resemblance to her father. Not drunk now, she was just as aggressive as at the Balmain party. She wore a tank top, jeans and boots. Her left arm was tattooed from the shoulder to the wrist. Her face was set in an angry scowl as she kicked one of Monkhurst’s empty cans across the floor.
