Corris, Peter

by [Cliff Hardy 32] The Big Score [v1. 0]

  ‘Confidence should be his middle name.’

  She smiled. ‘Right. Have a seat. Coffee or a drink?’

  Her living room was nicely furnished with leather or pseudo-leather armchairs, a coffee table, a dresser holding books and CDs and a unit with a wide-screen TV and everything that goes with it. There was a drinks tray on the sideboard—gin, several whiskies, brandy. I pointed to tray. ‘How about an Irish coffee?’

  ‘Done.’

  She went back to the kitchen and I wandered around the room looking at the books and CDs and the magazines in a rack. The music ranged from classical through to hard rock, stopping short of punk and rap. The book collection was eclectic—some classics, reference stuff, popular fiction, biographies. One section took my interest—a clutch of criminal biographies and autobiographies—Reggie Kray, Ronnie Biggs and Buster Edwards, the Great Train robbers, Neddy Smith, Roger Rogerson, ‘Chopper’ Read. Teamed up with them were Richo’s Whatever It Takes and books on Bond, Skase and Packer.

  She came back with two mugs of coffee and a jug of cream. Set them on the table and brought over the bottle of Jameson’s. I turned away from the bookshelf.

  ‘Theo did his research,’ I said.

  ‘Before he went away and since. Put your own spike in, Cliff, and let’s get down to business.’

  She told me that she was a partner in an importation business and that she’d been in a relationship with Theo for about a year before he had what she called ‘his mishap’. She had a strong belief in his book, which she thought would expose corruption in high places, and she was happy to finance my efforts to get it in the right hands.

  ‘You haven’t read it,’ I said. ‘How can you tell what it’s like?’

  ‘Theo’s told me about it in some detail.’

  Theo had made a career out of telling people things in detail, most of which turned out not to be true. I asked a few questions designed to find out just how much he’d drawn her into his web. Subtly. The Irish coffee was going down well.

  ‘Mr Hardy, Cliff, in my business I hear all sorts of stories from all sorts of people. Many of them are trying to take advantage of me. That’s all right, sometimes I’m trying to take advantage of them. Do you follow me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘More coffee?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She signed a contract. I stressed the retainer clause and she wrote me a cheque. She told me to invoice her for my expenses and daily rates by email.

  ‘You’re not set up for BPAY?’ she said.

  ‘No. Just post the cheques to my business address.’

  ‘Very old-fashioned. Clearance times and all that. What’s wrong with electronic deposit?’

  She’d snookered me before and I felt I had to stay in the game. ‘I don’t have your level of trust.’

  I finished off the second coffee which I’d spiked pretty heavily. I’d need a long walk around Alexandria and Zetland before I could drive. Always wondered about Zetland and how it came to be called that.

  * * * *

  In my game you need connections and I had one in the Correctional Services Division. She sold information to journalists and people like me, charging according to the importance of the data. The address of a serving officer was sensitive and pricey, and the seller was taking a big risk. Rosemary Kingston’s account was up and running.

  The guard, Colin McCafferty, lived in Homebush, not far from the gaol. Nice to be close to your place of work. I drove past the house, a semi with an overgrown front garden and a brick fence that looked as if a truck had ploughed into it at some time and minimum repairs had been made. The front porch held a sagging couch and a stack of broken Kmart plastic chairs. But there was no mail sprouting from the letterbox and no collection of free newspapers and advertising bumpf. Somebody was at home or had been very recently.

  I went up the path and knocked at the door. No security here—a tattered flywire door, a window open ten centimetres at the bottom. I knocked again, louder, but got no response. A head poked around the brick divide between the two houses.

  ‘Are you looking for Col?’

  The speaker was a shrunken, elderly type in a cardigan. He had bright, inquisitive eyes and his hands, supporting him on the brickwork, were trembling. Maybe, I thought, with excitement at something actually happening in his life. But not so.

  I told him I was looking for Mr McCafferty—an administrative matter, I said.

  ‘You’ll find him at the Parramatta District Hospital, poor bugger. He got broken into and attacked right here— what’s the expression the telly uses?’

  ‘Home invasion,’ I said.

  ‘That’s it. I didn’t hear anything—pretty deaf, you see. But when Col came staggering out shouting, I woke up and when he collapsed I called the ambulance and they took him off.’

  ‘You were mates?’

  ‘No, no, hardly ever saw him. Worked funny hours, he did. But when a bloke’s been bashed like that you do what you can, don’t you?’

  ‘Right, Mr...?’

  ‘Davis, Ted Davis.’

  ‘So you rang the hospital, Mr Davis, and what did they tell you?’

  The lively eyes squinted. ‘How did you know I rang up?’

  ‘I marked you down as a concerned neighbour, whether you knew him well or not.’

  ‘You’re right. He was renting, but I never had any trouble from him. Didn’t keep the place up very well but the owner’s a ... Well, the hospital people only talked to me because I was the one who phoned the ambos. Apparently he’s got no family. They told me he’s in a coma and it’s touch and go.’

  ‘When was this? Where’s the police crime scene tape?’

  ‘Some kids nicked it. Two days ago. Hey, who’re you with all these questions?’

  But I’d got what I needed from Ted. I gave him a salute and I was on my way. I rang the hospital, but with no right to ask all they would tell me was that Mr McCafferty was in intensive care. That could mean a lot of things, none of them good for me. Would anyone bash a man into a coma to steal a manuscript? It didn’t seem likely and perhaps the attack on McCafferty had nothing to do with Theo and his opus. Impossible to say.

  Being unable to talk to McCafferty, my only other point of contact was the agent. Phillip Weiss had an office in Paddington. I phoned and was told he was out of town for the day. The woman asked me my business and I gave her a very general account. I made an appointment for the following morning. Then I rang Rosemary Kingston and let her know how things stood.

  ‘That’s distressing,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, especially for McCafferty. Did Theo have a lawyer representing him at the trial?’

  ‘Not really. You’ll recall that he had no assets. He had a lawyer friend who just went through the motions. There was no serious defence and Theo didn’t really want to mount one. He was counting on contrition getting him a reasonable sentence and it worked. Why d’you ask?’

  ‘I don’t know really. I just thought Theo might have discussed things with him and mentioned a name or two. Could be useful in trying to find out who might be interested enough to assault someone in order to get hold of the manuscript, if there is one.’

  ‘You’re carrying your scepticism a bit too far, surely?’

  ‘I’ll start believing in it when I meet someone who’s seen it. Do you have the name of the lawyer?’

  She did and she gave it to me along with the phone number. Efficient person, Rosemary. Too efficient? I lined up an appointment with Courteney Talbot for a few hours after the agent. A busy day coming up and I’d done all I could for now. Time to go home, ring my live-in, live-out partner Lily Truscott, and see if she was free for the night. The case wasn’t an earner yet but it might be, and I thought I could shout us a decent meal on the strength of it.

  I had my hand on the car door when the mobile rang.

  ‘Mr Hardy?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Rule, Parramatta police. We understand you
telephoned the Parramatta hospital today enquiring about the condition of Colin McCafferty.’

  These days they’ve got you in the crosshairs as soon as you draw some money or make a phone call.

  ‘That’s true,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s a friend of a friend.’

  ‘Why didn’t the friend make the call?’

  ‘He had reasons.’

  ‘That’s not a satisfactory answer.’

  ‘It’s all I’m prepared to give you at this stage, Sergeant.’

  ‘We have your occupation down as private enquiry agent. That entitles you to no privileges whatsoever in regard to withholding information.’

  ‘I know. All I can say is that it’d cause you a lot of trouble to haul me in and it wouldn’t be worth your while. I might have something useful to contribute later.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yeah. You’ve got my number and you know where to find me. Give me your number and we’ll stay in touch. Tell you what, you let me know if and when McCafferty’s able to talk and I’ll tell you what my connection is.’

  ‘You’ve got a fuckin’ nerve.’

  ‘Is it a deal?’

  He cut the call but I had a feeling he’d cooperate. The bashing of a prison guard was a fairly important matter whether the man died or not, and if DS Rule had no leads he’d be smart to play along. Couldn’t be sure, though, particularly about how long his patience would last. I rang Lily from home and found she was keen to go for a feed and whatever might follow. Lily lives in Greenwich.

  ‘Great,’ I said. ‘Let’s make it over your side and your bedroom.’

  ‘I know what that means. Who’s after you—Philip Ruddock, Alan Jones, Mr Big? Never mind, see you when you get here, if you do.’

  * * * *

  We had a good night as we always do—a North Sydney eatery, a walk, and long, slow lovemaking—all the better for not being every night. I drove to Paddington feeling in harmony with the world, a mood I had to jerk myself out of—not appropriate in my profession.

  Phillip Weiss’s office was in a tiny two-storey terrace in a narrow one-way, closely parked street. I had to circle a few blocks to get the car anywhere near it. The Weiss Literary Consultancy was a small operation with a female secretary who probably doubled as several other things. She was fortyish, bookish-looking and efficient. She said that Phillip had an office upstairs but would be down in a minute and we could have our meeting at her desk while she went upstairs in his place. Meanwhile, would I like coffee?

  A voice preceded its owner down the stairs. ‘He’s a bloody private eye, Claire, and it’s after eleven. The man wants a drink.’

  Weiss was large in every way—tall and thick through. He had a head of wiry grey hair and the facial features of a man who enjoyed life, with laughter lines and a wide, smiling mouth. He had a long-neck bottle of Coopers in one hand and when I shook the other I wasn’t surprised at its strength. For a literary consultant he’d pass muster as a wharfie. He shooed Claire up the stairs in a non-objectionable, affectionate way, sat down at her desk and waved me to a chair. I took the pile of books from it and sat. He produced a bottle opener, flicked the top off and took two glasses from a shelf behind him. He poured with a practised hand and pushed one glass across.

  ‘Claire’s note was almost cryptic,’ Weiss said, ‘but my guess is you’re here about Theodore Baldwin.’

  'Theodore,' I said. 'I suppose he is, but he's Theo to me. I guess Theodore would look good on a book cover and spine.'

  'Certainly would. I hope you're here to tell me the manuscript's on its way. From what Theo told me on the phone I'm not surprised there's a serious level of security involved.'

  I studied him closely. I haven't had a lot to do with literary types but I imagine, from all the reading they do, they must know a few tricks about dissembling. But Weiss betrayed no such signs. Maybe it was the residue of my cheerful mood, but I was inclined to trust him. I shook my head.

  ‘No such luck, Mr Weiss. Things have got sticky.’

  I brought him up to speed with everything that had happened. He drank his beer and listened without interrupting. I took a good gulp of my drink when I’d finished.

  He put his glass down as the phone rang. He pressed a button and diverted the call upstairs. ‘You say McCafferty might die?’

  ‘Comas are dodgy. The thing is, it’s all so uncertain. If McCafferty was a regular smuggler-out of stuff from the gaol there could be all sorts of reasons why he’d be attacked—disgruntled former prisoners or pissed-off people on the outside. On the other hand, if Theo’s book is as hot as he says and word leaked out

  ‘It could be ashes by now. More hopefully, it could be sitting quietly in McCafferty’s house. The funny—no, the strange thing is, not many books are written on typewriters now. With anything done on a computer you have backup options, as I’m sure you know.’

  I nodded. ‘I have a journalist partner.’

  ‘I don’t want to sound heartless, not with a man on the brink…’

  Perhaps his true colours were showing now. ‘But you will,’ I said.

  ‘Just so. The commercial value of this property, given its ... provenance, and the possibility of continued criminal involvement, is very considerable. The advances for true crime, non-fiction books can be large, with the film or television potential to be considered. What do you propose to do now, Mr Hardy?’

  ‘It’s probably better you don’t know.’

  ‘Let me guess. You’re going to break into the McCafferty residence. I foresee a stunning introduction or preface if you succeed. I trust my verbal agreement with Theodore Baldwin is still in place. I have taped copies of the phone calls. Can’t be too careful.’

  I left feeling a bit less friendly towards Weiss than I had at first. But he had the experience in this and you have to respect that.

  * * * *

  There are two ways to break in to a house—you have to be either bold, just walk up and do it, or bashful—try to talk your way in. I decided to be bold. I’d taken a good look at the front of McCafferty’s house on my first visit and I didn’t think it’d present any problems. There was a simple Yale lock and no sign of an alarm. The place was rundown and neither the owner nor the tenant seemed inclined to spend money on security.

  I drove to Homebush in time to see Ted Davis, the neighbour, drive away in a battered Cortina. The street was quiet with only a few lights showing. I went through the gate, unshipped my picklocks, held a pencil torch between my teeth and had the door open inside half a minute.

  I closed the door quietly and stood still to allow my sight to adjust to the gloom. A little light was seeping in from the street through broken slats in the front room’s blind. I worked my way down the passage and turned on a low-wattage light towards the back section—it wouldn’t show from the street and the fence on the freestanding side of the house was high.

  I used the torch to probe into the two small bedrooms, sitting room, kitchen and bathroom. The place was dirty and untidy. The kitchen smelled of tobacco smoke and fried food. Two chairs had been overturned in the sitting room and there were a couple of broken bottles and glasses that seemed to have been swept from the table, perhaps by whatever implement had been used on McCafferty. The spattering on the floor and one wall was dried blood.

  Other than that, there was no sign of any particular disturbance, no evidence of a search. That gave me heart. The second bedroom held a wardrobe containing various items of clothing including a wrinkled corrections officer’s uniform. A battered overnight bag, crumpled to about a third of its normal size, was shoved into a strut of the iron bed frame. I pulled it out and found I’d been wrong about the search. The bag was padlocked but had been slit open. It contained a pair of socks and a change of underwear. I inspected it closely in the beam of the torch. There were a couple of very small round pieces of foil, a scrap of plastic cling wrap, more fragments of foil and under the loose cardboard base of the bag a mostly
decayed white pill. It was pretty clearly Col McCafferty’s drug-smuggling stash, now in the hands of others. So where was the manuscript?

  There were no bookshelves, no desk, no filing cabinet, nothing to suggest that McCafferty had ever had a book in the house, let alone a typescript. I searched the bedrooms with no result—no creaking floorboards, no sealed-off fireplaces. The kitchen was the least appealing space, with its smells and the film of grease over the surfaces. It was one of those rooms in which you’re reluctant to even breathe. But the laminex table was piled with a stack of tabloid newspapers, and a thick wad of A4 paper, fastened by a bulldog clip inside a manilla folder held together by rubber bands, was sitting near the top of the pile, with only a few newspapers lying haphazardly over it.