Blindside

by J. R. Carroll

  ‘Steady on, wildman,’ she whispered. ‘No need to wreck the scenery to enjoy it.’

  ‘Sorry, baby.’ He slowed down after that, pleasuring her easily and often. That oil film was still working a treat. After a while she gave a sign that she’d had her fill, and he shot nicely into her.

  It was all over way too fast.

  As he was zippering up she said, propped on her elbows, ‘Got some come on your pants.’

  He wiped it off with a napkin.

  Sitting her up straight he held her tight so her bare chest pressed against his, and he could feel her heartbeat.

  ‘I really wanted to fuck you while he was here,’ she said.

  ‘I had that feeling. There was a certain . . . electricity in the air.’

  ‘That would have given him a shock.’

  ‘It’d take a lot to shock Wes,’ he said.

  After a while she said, ‘Sure is some voice, isn’t it? What’s his story, anyway?’

  ‘Wes? Used to be a champ. Now he’s a flasher.’

  ‘Truly? He doesn’t look like a flasher.’

  Shaun had to laugh. ‘And what does a flasher look like?’

  ‘Oh, dirty little guy in a cheap raincoat, loitering around shopping malls and lavatories.’

  ‘Wes certainly doesn’t fit that profile. But there are flashers and flashers.’

  ‘I guess. But he sure has an impressive voice. He should be an actor or something.’ It was true. Wes’s voice was a deep-seated seismic rumble that made windows vibrate.

  Shaun could hear her mind ticking before she said, ‘Do you really trust him?’

  It was a question Shaun had asked himself.‘I believe him.’

  ‘He might be having you on. Simmonds might have told him to do this, to get under your guard. Might be part of the plan.’

  ‘It’s possible,’he said. He couldn’t help but feel encouraged— and impressed—that she was capable of entertaining such devious thoughts, thereby, in a sense, confirming her allegiance. However, with all his experience as a cop and criminal and all those years in stir under his belt, no-one could teach him anything about reading into the depths of men’s hearts and minds through their lying eyes. As far as he was concerned Wes had passed the test. If Simmonds had set this up Wes would hardly have parked outside the house, hoping Shaun would approach him. He would’ve made the first move. All the same . . .

  ‘I have fallen into dubious company, haven’t I?’ she said. ‘A flasher and a . . . whatever you are.’

  ‘You know what I am,’ he said, holding her.

  ‘Do you still love me?’

  ‘I haven’t started loving you yet.’

  ‘God, I hope so. It’s a whole new life, isn’t it? I can barely remember the old one now.’

  Shaun said, ‘I don’t want to remember the old one.’ But I have to.

  In a while she said, ‘What happens now?’

  Once again she had tapped into his thoughts.‘Now? I have to go on a little trip up north.’

  ‘How far north?’

  ‘Don’t know. Somewhere along the New South Wales coast, I believe.’

  ‘When do you leave?’

  ‘Early in the morning. Gonna be a long day.’

  16

  Unlike his good friend Raydon—and most other people— Oliver McEncroe was not overfond of Sydney. On the rare occasion when he was obliged to go there he made flying visits, attending to business quickly and returning to the comfy bosom of Melbourne on the same day if possible. The fast tempo did not suit his conservative, stodgy disposition for a start, and most of the Sydney business leaders and legal fraternity seemed to be forever tainted with underworld connections. It was hard to know where one stood in Sydney: it was chaotic, standards were slipshod; people were different, they came from another planet, and Oliver could never relate to their swashbuckling opinions and cowboy attitudes. There was an air of casual laissez-faire, of which he disapproved. Having been raised as High Church of England he craved black-and-white moral distinctions, but in Sydney everything seemed to blur and overlap. Scratch its attractive surface and one discovered a nasty can of worms: a never-ending investigation into systemic police corruption, drugs sold openly on the streets, child slavery and prostitution, racketeering at every level, politicians rubbing shoulders with gangsters . . . it was all too rich for Oliver’s blood.

  If he’d searched more deeply into his heart, however, he would have seen the real reason he resented Sydney: it always made him feel as if he were out of his depth. The fact was that he’d lived a soft, privileged life, and he lacked the steel, the spine or whatever it was to cut it with the big boys in this roughhouse town where rules were made up to suit the occasion. Sydney showed him up for what he always felt he was in the presence of his father: a lightweight—even, at times, a fraud.

  As for the restaurant scene, Oliver did not want to think about that. It was simply impossible. In Sydney, even supposing you could find a proper restaurant, you could never count on a decent, satisfying meal. It was all experimental and constantly evolving—what they called ‘cutting edge’ dining, consisting of ‘taste fusions’. The last time he tried one of these establishments he ordered a dish that allegedly contained eight or ten ingredients and promised to be delicious, but when it arrived there was a tiny knob of something that looked as if it had been extruded from a cat’s arse sitting in the middle of a large white plate, with some kind of sauce zigzagged across it for artistic effect. It was so disheartening. You couldn’t even count on the same restaurants surviving from visit to visit: there was always a new batch replacing the previous. Even now, as he flipped through the in-flight magazine on his way north, he saw references to the ‘hot, new crop of restaurants that were wowing Sydneysiders’. They had names like TT, Red Shoe, Picoline, Zat and Shag—‘each exhibiting, in a very different way, a daring, almost giddy creativity’. Many of the chefs seemed to be TV celebrities who were as well known for their sex lives as their culinary achievements.

  Oliver did not want giddy creativity for dinner. His preference was for seasoned roast beef with gravy and potatoes and some greens on the side—the sort of fare one could rely on. Accordingly, when he visited Sydney he dined either at the Tattersall’s Club, with which his own club had reciprocal rights, or at the Ritz-Carlton, where he always stayed. The Ritz-Carlton restaurant was not ‘cutting edge’—or it wasn’t last time Oliver was there.

  His thoughts drifted back to Raydon, whose ridiculous appetites had once again landed him in deep shit. He was becoming increasingly dissolute and irresponsible, as if he couldn’t bear to let go of the last shreds of his youth. He was such a chronic pants man, with a penchant for the ‘hot and horny young sluts’ one apparently found on the Internet, on porn sites and chat rooms—whatever they were. Oliver had no grasp of that. Raydon, however, was right into it. As for Jo getting mixed up with this McCreadie character, well, that was unfathomable. The poor woman must have cracked up. How could she expose herself and her family to such flagrant shame and disrepute? Her parents would be devastated beyond belief. They were such fine people, they had always doted on Jo, and now in response she had picked up a handful of crap and thrown it in their faces. Altogether an appalling situation.

  Oliver had been unable to withhold the juicy information from his wife, Eugenie, who positively reeled upon hearing it. She even clutched her throat. Immediately Oliver’s feeling was that he had committed a grave indiscretion—Raydon was, after all, his client, and therefore entitled to the strictest professional confidence. Not any more. Eugenie played bridge twice a week, Fridays and Tuesdays, with a tight circle of girlfriends who would swallow such gossip like a school of starved piranhas. These idle, cocktail sipping women all had husbands in the professions and high places, including one who was a magistrate. Christ. The news of Jo’s wild affair with a recently released felon—clearly a killer, despite the judgement of the Court of Appeals—would rage through their extended social network like a fire storm, and
there was no telling where it would end. The more he thought about it, the more Oliver wished he’d shut up.

  Too late. There was no way Eugenie would be able to wait for bridge tomorrow night. The phone lines would be burning up nonstop. And just to fuel the issue even further there was that piece on the back page of the paper yesterday.

  As the plane touched down he turned his thoughts to more immediate matters. His Sydney contact had managed to provide him with the name of a police officer involved in the Tamsin Mascall case, and Oliver’s first job was to talk to this person. He was a detective sergeant named Patchouli, Garry Patchouli. Oliver’s contact described him as ‘quite a reasonable man’, which no doubt meant a sizeable sum of money had to change hands before he would provide Oliver with the help he needed to fix Raydon’s problem.

  Oliver had come armed with bundles of cash: used, nonconsecutive bills. He had a good idea how such transactions were carried out in Sydney.

  The taxi dropped him at the hotel at noon. Oliver checked in (the concierge pretended to remember him from a visit eight months earlier: another Sydney affectation), freshened up, changed into a more casual outfit (blue jeans, Italian loafers, white polo shirt, navy reefer), made several calls (including one to Eugenie, who was engaged), then strolled out into the rarefied air of Double Bay. Eugenie loved it here—loved shopping here—and every so often would come up with her best friend to wear out Oliver’s Visa card. Oliver didn’t mind. It took so little to make a woman happy. Over the years as his career advanced, Oliver had been unable to spend much quality time with his family, so a trade-off became necessary. Fortunately Eugenie saw that the good life to which she had become accustomed came at a price, and accordingly he always made sure that if he couldn’t shower her with attention he did it with money: a skiing holiday in Europe with the children (while Oliver slaved over hot briefs), fancy clothes, dozens of red roses delivered on a whim. All that took was a phone call from his secretary. A new Chanel or Versace outfit was enough to transform his wife into a purring kitten for days. These were all basic management techniques that Raydon should have learned.

  He hoped the same principle applied to Tamsin Mascall.

  In a few minutes he was in the main bar of the Golden Sheaf Hotel. Not so long ago it had served as an office for criminals and bent cops in which to ‘do business’, as the parlance went in Sydney. It looked a lot tamer now: just a normal lunchtime crowd, and no sinister-looking suits with suspicious bulges under their jackets. Oliver checked the time: 12.45. Patchouli had arranged to meet at one, but it didn’t hurt to arrive a little early. He went to the bar and ordered a Chivas Regal over ice. It was a warm day; the doors were open and a soft, pleasant breeze floated through the pub. Patchouli had said he was a tall man with brown hair who would be wearing a tan sportscoat with a stickpin bearing the Stars and Stripes, so Oliver would have no problem spotting him. He sipped the Chivas, not really wanting it but needing a prop. For some reason he felt nervous, even though he dealt with cops—and worse—nearly every day in court. In his mind he’d rehearsed some lines, but now he’d forgotten most of them. No doubt Patchouli would make the play anyway.

  He came in right on one, scanned the room quickly and made Oliver straightaway.

  ‘Garry Patchouli,’ he said, extending his hand.

  Half rising, Oliver accepted it with his customary Masonic grip. ‘Oliver McEncroe.’

  Patchouli sat down, perfectly at his ease it seemed to Oliver.

  ‘What’ll you have?’ Oliver said. From habit he was about to signal for a waiter before realising it was bar service only.

  Patchouli glanced at Oliver’s glass. ‘Hahn Ice. Have to be on the ball this afternoon.’

  Oliver fetched the bottle. He never drank beer—it was all proletarian slops to him.

  ‘So you have a slight problem,’ Patchouli said with cool understatement. ‘I’m sure we can find a way around it.’

  ‘Well,’ Oliver said, swirling the Chivas, ‘that’s why I’m here. My client is prepared to settle on fair and reasonable terms.’

  Patchouli smiled. ‘Bet he is.’

  Oliver felt himself redden. ‘Mr Patchouli, let’s be honest, if I can use a dirty word. We all know this is a fucking rort, pure and simple.’

  Patchouli shrugged one shoulder.‘What can you do when you’re caught in a bear trap but saw your leg off?’

  ‘That about sums it up,’ Oliver said. ‘So let’s do what has to be done. What is the procedure for this . . . surgery?’

  Patchouli produced a card from thin air and handed it to Oliver. Smooth operator. On it was printed ‘Henry T. Agar— Private Investigator’. ‘Call this man,’ he said. ‘Tell him I referred you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Oliver said. ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘You can express your appreciation in the form of a broker’s fee,’ Patchouli said.

  ‘Of course. And how much is this broker’s fee?’

  Patchouli showed him three fingers. ‘Non-refundable, full and final payment. Cash.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  On the scale of things it was not a large sum, but it grated all the same to pay off this corrupt bloody copper. He was so fucking brazen, so sure of himself. Oliver produced three bundles of a grand each, wrapped in rubber bands, and gave them to Patchouli. He had another two in reserve. The cop didn’t bat an eye as he pocketed the cash—a typical day of law enforcement in Sin City.

  ‘You understand there can be no receipt.’

  ‘I understand perfectly,’ Oliver said.

  ‘We never met. You’ve never heard of me.’

  ‘That too.’

  Patchouli finished off his Hahn Ice and stood. ‘I’d better move. I’m due in court.’

  ‘What’s the case?’ Oliver said out of professional interest.

  ‘Fraud,’ Patchouli said, with no irony at all. ‘Solicitor siphoned his clients’ funds. Unscrupulous bastard.’

  ‘Reprehensible,’ Oliver said to himself as Patchouli walked out the door. He looked down at the card: Henry T. Agar— Private Investigator. It was a name Oliver knew. He wished he didn’t.

  Back in the Ritz-Carlton lounge, Oliver considered his position. Henry Agar was a notorious individual whose name had long been associated with the worst criminals and cops in the history of Sydney. A famously flamboyant figure, he drove a gold-plated Rolls-Royce and had sired children to dozens of women over the years. In the late eighties a Cambodian princess committed suicide after Agar refused to marry her. Apparently she was carrying his child at the time. There were numerous, in-depth news items, many of which accused him of breach of promise and pretty much blamed him for the young woman’s death. In the fallout there was a slew of lawsuits from an aggrieved Agar, who subsequently demanded a six-figure amount from a top-selling national magazine for his side of the story. Upon receiving the advance, however, Agar reneged on the deal—no story was ever delivered. The magazine’s publishers found themselves in a bind: if they took legal action to recover the fee they would expose themselves to accusations of chequebook journalism—and poor taste. In the end they kissed goodbye to their money, which Agar claimed to have donated to an unnamed charity.

  Henry Agar. One of his closest friends was a contract killer named Barry Edwards, who was tight with a bad bunch of NSW detectives until one day in 1986 or thereabouts, when business tycoon Adrian White’s wife was abducted, raped, tortured, strangled and dumped in the bush. Edwards’ semen was found in the victim and he went down for life, no parole. The police’s theory was that he had conspired with Agar to kidnap the woman for ransom, but it was a botched job from start to finish because of Edwards’ inability to control his violent impulses. Everything spun out of control and in the end they had to cut their losses and kill her. The husband was ready and willing to pay a large amount, but it never changed hands.

  In a sensational separate court case police tried to nail Agar for complicity, but there was no forensic evidence and only one witness, whose testimony was deem
ed unreliable by the jury because he was a drug addict and a compulsive liar who had cut a side deal with police. Edwards had testified against him, but the defence was able to establish that he was merely trying to save his own hide by deflecting culpability,and was motivated by an intense and venal hatred of Agar stemming from other, unrelated, issues. For the prosecution it was a shambles: the case against Agar fell apart and he walked triumphantly from the courthouse chomping on a big cigar. His licence to practise remained intact. And, as far as Oliver was aware, he had never done time, even though his name had been dragged through the mud at regular intervals. In fact he seemed to revel in the heavy going career-wise, and was something of a star on the Sydney chat show and late-night raunchy club circuit. Oliver knew all this because he had read Agar’s autobiography (ghostwritten by a hack crime reporter from a Sydney tabloid), pretentiously called Private Eye, Public Life:The Henry Agar Story.

  This was the man Oliver now had to deal with. To do so, he decided, he would need several stiff drinks under his belt, not to mention a high-powered handgun. Any whiff of fear and Agar would slice him into sushi. Oliver would have to stick to his guns and not accept any shit from this person. In the eyes of a man like Agar, indecision or nervousness would identify him as a soft-cock pen-pusher to be taken apart and ridiculed. Agar would spit him out with contempt. Quite apart from Raydon’s problem, there was also Oliver’s pride and self-respect at stake.

  Oliver called Agar’s office number first, but the call was diverted to his mobile phone, at which point he was invited to leave a message on the voice mail. It was typical of lowlife bastards like Agar to put himself out of reach, so he could always reply on his own terms and gain some leverage. A man like him would never answer a cold call unless he knew who it was. No doubt he was enjoying a sumptuous lunch in a flashy restaurant to go with his flashy personality. Oliver obliged by leaving a short, succinct message stating his name, Patchouli’s and finally Raydon’s—just enough information to capture his interest. He then checked the time: 2.30. He ordered a Chivas Regal and moved to an armchair near a window, with a sofa on his left and another chair opposite. He placed his phone on the table in front of him. It didn’t ring.