by Peter Corris
He put out his now free hand. ‘Keith Mountjoy. Surely you remember me?’
I shook the soft, moist hand. ‘Sir Keith.’
He nodded. ‘For my sins.’
‘Plenty of those.’
He released a well-fed, whisky-and-cigar-cured laugh. ‘You haven’t changed since that time you cost me a lot of money.’
With Des O’Malley and Sir Keith, my past was catching up with me. I’d been hired once by the Greyhound Racing Association to investigate claims of race fixing. It turned out that one of Sir Keith’s trainers was involved and it had cost him money to minimise the penalty. He’d tried, but failed, to suppress the whole thing by offering me an inducement.
‘You seem to have done pretty well since those days,’ I said.
He popped a cracker into his mouth and chewed enthusiastically. ‘Yes, yes, head’s well above the waterline, thank you. What’s your connection with good old Barry?’
‘What’s yours?’
‘Oh, this and that. Hullo, here’s the man himself.’
Barry, in a suit costing about the equivalent of Sir Keith’s and draped in the same paunch-concealing style, was coming towards us.
His hands were empty, so he was able to clap both of us on our shoulders. ‘Keith, Cliff, good to see you both. Having a good time?
‘Sorry,’ he went on, without waiting for an answer, ‘I have to break this up. I’ve got someone I want you to meet, Cliff.’
‘I’d better find the better half,’ Mountjoy said. He cast a reluctant look at his abandoned plate and stumped away.
Barry pointed. ‘She’s the slant piece in the white.’
A tiny Asian woman, wearing a gleaming tight white dress, propped up on very high heels and with glossy black hair piled high to give her extra height, half turned towards the approaching Mountjoy and handed him her empty glass.
‘She runs the show,’ Barry said. ‘Big mining money and getting bigger. Mining’s the future of this wonderful country, Cliff. Rake up any money you can and get into it.’
‘Are you into it?’
Barry didn’t answer. He shepherded me through the crowd, nodding and smiling as he went.
‘No woman, mate?’
‘Not tonight.’
‘Might be a spare heifer you can cut out.’
Barry liked to make reference to his very brief spell as a jackeroo. He led me towards where a tallish, youngish man was standing listening to a couple of older men.
‘Cliff,’ Barry said, ‘I’d like you to meet my long-lost son, Ronny Saunders, Bartlett that was. Ronny, this is an old mate of mine, Cliff Hardy.’
Bartlett/Saunders turned away from the seniors and put out his hand.
‘Gidday, Mr Hardy.’ His London accent made the greeting sound ironic.
Barry laughed. ‘He’s learning the language . . . trying to.’
I shook the hand at the end of a well-muscled arm coming off a well-muscled shoulder. ‘Nice to meet you. Your dad still sounds like a Pom to me. What d’you think?’
Ronny grinned and Barry butted in before he could speak. ‘They pick me as an Aussie at Heathrow.’
I nodded. ‘As soon as you go through with your British passport.’
Barry just managed to conceal his annoyance. ‘Loves a joke, does Cliff,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you to chat. I’ve got to get this thing underway.’
I finished my drink and Ronny reached for the glass. ‘Let me get you another one.’
‘You’re not drinking?’
‘I’ve had two already for my nerves. I’m not used to bubbly. Have to pace myself.’
Or be careful, I thought as he moved away towards the drink waiters. Barry’s lifestyle and habits had turned him into a jowly, late-middle-aged—and possibly very ill—Everyman. There was no discernible resemblance between him and young Ronny now, but Ronny’s likeness to the old photo I had of Barry was striking. The same broad, hard planes to the face, the same aggressive jaw and dark, probing eyes. The hair was different; Barry’s was thinning even when he was young and Ronny had a full crop, but male baldness comes down the female gene stream.
He returned with my champagne and orange juice for himself. I thanked him and we looked to where Barry and two other men were conferring near the lectern and microphone.
‘Dad said I didn’t have to listen to this,’ Ronny said. ‘He reckons it’s all pats on the back stuff between him and some of his investors.’
‘Aren’t you interested in the financial side of his business?’
‘Yes, very, but I’m not privy to everything. What do you . . . ?’ He moved towards the periphery of the crowd and I had no option but to follow him because he obviously wanted to ask a question.
We were over where the clutch of imported-for-the-event pot plants almost afforded us privacy. Party chatter had died down and Ronny kept his voice low. ‘You don’t look like a businessman, if you don’t mind me saying. What’s your connection with Dad?’
‘You mean what do I do?’
He smiled, exhibiting the same sort of charm that Barry could still display when he was in the mood. ‘I suppose I do. Sorry, it’s just that I’m anxious to learn as much as I can about the business. I just wondered . . .’
‘I’m a private detective. I’m keen on boxing and I took an interest in a fighter Barry was managing a while back. I did Barry a favour.’
‘Oh, I see. That must be interesting work,’ he said, but he didn’t sound very interested. I nodded; he said it’d been nice talking to me and he moved away, sipping his orange juice. I hadn’t had much of a chance to ask him anything, but I’d at least checked him out, and I was thinking about leaving when I was aware of someone else joining me in the medium seclusion.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. Husky voice. ‘Is that the son?’
She was tall and dark, wearing a stylish pants suit and holding a half-full glass. Her hair was drawn back into a tight bun and her far from ugly face was dominated by a pair of black-rimmed spectacles. I stopped thinking about leaving as I considered her question. But nothing about her manner suggested that it was worth trying to pick her up. I said that it was indeed the son.
‘Thank you.’
She walked straight over and spoke to him, standing very close. He gave her the charming smile and their heads dipped together as they spoke. I shrugged and moved towards the door.
Des O’Malley sneered at me as I approached. I emptied my glass and handed it to him. He had no alternative but to take it and I mimed a left hook to his mid-section as he stood there holding the fragile glass gingerly in his meaty hands.
I was in my car and turning the ignition key before it struck me that I’d seen the dark woman in the glasses before. But where and when and who she was eluded me.
6
Barry had said he was taking Ronny up to Palm Beach for the rest of the weekend, so I spent some time bringing my notes up to date on the car insurance scam and thinking about trying to breach a security outfit’s own security.
Zac Dawson’s business was installing and servicing surveillance and monitoring equipment—listening devices, cameras, infra-red beams, sensors, that sort of thing. He was ex-army like me and we’d done jobs for each other over the years. We’d met in a pub up at the Cross a week or so earlier, when he’d said he had a proposition for me. He’d bought the first round, which is always a good start for a proposer.
‘Have you heard of a mob called Botany Security Systems, Cliff?’
‘No.’
‘Newish and going to be big, I’d say. They provide bodyguards, nightwatchmen (and women), payroll protection and such. Bit of a muscle mob, I’m told, headed by this South African hard case.’
I nodded and drank some wine. Zac is a small, wiry, intense type who doesn’t drink. He’s a qualified electrician and sound engineer and a hands-on type who says he can’t afford to be one per cent off at any time. I’ve seen him crawl into spaces you wouldn’t fit a cat.
‘They operate out of an office
complex in Bunnerong Road, Little Bay. The weird thing is, the premises themselves have bugger-all security. Just a shitty fence you could push over and a gimcrack guard booth for checking the employees’ passes.’
‘Sounds like they need your services.’
‘They do and I’ve convinced the guy who’s second in charge to hire me but the top guy isn’t interested. Believes in manpower.’
Zac said this scornfully and drank his mineral water.
‘Whereas you,’ I said, ‘believe in . . . ?’
‘Science. I’ve got to convince the boss man that he needs a complete upgrade.’
‘How?’
‘Breach what he’s got.’
‘You’re the expert.’
‘It’s a two-man job. I’ve been in there already. I need someone who hasn’t.’
Zac sketched out a plan. It sounded pretty wild and I told him I’d think about it.
I had been thinking about it, and Zac’d been pestering me. He was offering good money and in the end it was too hard to resist and I gave in.
So on Sunday night I sat in the Longboard wine bar in Bronte waiting for Bruce Talbot, the mark. When he came in, swaggering, an overweight man in his early thirties in a flash suit and with carefully arranged, thinning, dirty blond hair, he was immediately recognisable from Zac’s description. He was already drunk, as Zac had said he’d be, and looking for trouble.
‘He’s got problems,’ Zac had said. ‘I kept a watch on the vulnerables for a while. This dickhead plays tough but isn’t and he won’t learn.’
Talbot proceeded to drink a lot, talk loudly and make passes at several women. Eventually he overstepped the line and a man several kilos lighter took him outside and left him hunched over and vomiting. I intervened before more damage was done, cleaned him up and drove him home. He insisted I come in for a drink, then he passed out.
I located his security pass to the Botany Security Systems complex, photographed and measured it and left.
Barry rang me on Monday morning. ‘You didn’t stay long at the party. Looked around and you were gone.’
‘Not my scene.’
‘What did you think of Ronny?’
‘He seemed a nice enough kid, respectful but not a softie.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘The physical resemblance is strong but how many convincing Anastasias turned up?’
‘Who?’
‘Never mind. You seem to have made up your mind and he’s happy to call you Dad. I wonder what he called his stepfather.’
‘You’re sceptical.’
‘So are you. Look, Barry, the thing that concerns me is the inability to do much checking on his story. I can get a copy of the birth certificate, but so can anyone. It doesn’t prove it’s him. Unless you want me to fly to England and talk to the people in Coronation Street.’
‘No, no, I’m not that doubtful. It’s just that certain things are in the balance right now and if some bastard did have the idea of planting someone close to me . . .’
‘Is there anyone who’d go to that amount of trouble?’
‘Who knows? It’s a dog-eat-dog world out here.’
‘This kind of stress isn’t good for your hypertension. Or anything else.’
‘I know, that’s why it’d be good to have someone . . . Look, what I want you to do is just keep tabs on him,’ he repeated. ‘See where he goes, who he sees.’
‘Isn’t he with you most of the time?’
‘No. I send him out on jobs. Have him look at construction sites, meet people. He’s young; he doesn’t want to hang out with an old fart like me.’
‘You said you’re paying him?’
‘Yeah, a bit.’
‘How much is a bit?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Why I ask is, if he seems to be spending a lot of money over and above what you give him, then questions arise.’
He saw the point. ‘A couple of hundred a week and he’s got a company car, as I said.’
‘He can’t meet the rent on a Paddo flat with that sort of money.’
‘It’s one of my places. I’m letting him use it.’
‘Credit card?’
‘Just for the petrol.’
‘Keep it like that.’
‘Okay. Shit, I hate this.’
‘You can drop it if you like.’
‘No. I’ve got to be sure.’
‘Are you still handling fighters?’
‘A couple, more or less at arm’s length through Sally Brewer.’
That was a surprise. Sally Brewer was a forty-plus hard case who’d taken over a boxing gym from her father, Rex, a legend of the business. She trained and managed boxers and had a few fighting around Australia and the Pacific and was doing okay. I’d known Rex well, knew Sally slightly.
I told Barry to give Ronny the afternoon off but ask him to drop in on Sally’s evening session around 6 pm so he could acquaint himself with that area of Barry’s interests. I said I’d pick him up as he left BBE, see how he spent the free time and meet up with him at Sally’s gym.
‘Why there?’ Barry said.
‘I miss the smell of the sweat and the resin, don’t you?’
He didn’t reply and hung up.
Ronny’s blue Holden ute roared up out of the underground car park of the BBE building and headed towards the city. He stopped at the first public phone he spotted and made a call. Then he drove to Surry Hills and parked illegally in Riley Street. If he stayed there too long BBE would be up for a fine.
I stopped, obstructing traffic, and watched him walk into a Lebanese restaurant. I got moving and found a semi-legitimate parking spot. If it wasn’t, that’d be another expense for BBE. I walked back on the other side of the street. Ronny had taken his place at one of the pavement tables under an umbrella. The day was cool and windy with clouds that could mean anything. An umbrella might be the go.
Traffic in the street was heavy and my view of Ronny was blocked from time to time. He seemed relaxed, lit a cigarette and studied the menu. A waiter approached and he ordered something that turned out to be a beer. He smoked and drank and then, suddenly, the cigarette was gone and he was on his feet—the perfect gentleman. The woman I’d seen on Friday night, this time in oversized sunglasses despite the gloom, strode up and they were hugging and kissing.
Fast work, I thought.
She was dressed in a skirt and jacket rather than pants today, although with the same smart, tailored look. They settled into their seats and it was smiles and laughs and touches of the hands and menu-inspection and everything that goes with lunchtime-for-lovers.
Watching a couple enjoying themselves while completely unaware that their privacy is being violated isn’t the most salubrious part of the job. Nor is taking a photograph of them. I had a mini-camera with a zoom function and got two good shots in between the passing traffic. I didn’t like doing it. It reminded me of the old ‘Brownie and bedsheets’ days before the blessed advent of Lionel Murphy’s no-fault divorce legislation.
I waited until they were served their meals and then went back to my car and drove around until I found a place where I could pick Ronny up again when he left. It took a while. I ended up further along the street on the same side and watched in the passenger-side mirror as they finished their coffee.
The woman stayed seated while Ronny went into the restaurant to pay. She took her sunglasses off to rub her eyes and the quick look I got of her face confirmed that I knew her from somewhere, but still didn’t give me a name, time or place.
They walked, staying close together, to Ronny’s ute. He unlocked the passenger door and ushered her in, then took off more sedately than he had previously and headed towards Paddington. I had the address of his flat and followed without bothering to stay close behind. The small block of flats had parking for tenants and Ronny took his slot. It was an ugly, liver-brick 1930s structure that would house only three or four flats. No security set-up. Ronny unlocked the door to the building. To
do that he had to let go of her hand, but he kissed it first. Then they disappeared inside.
That was enough for me. I knew where he’d be in about four hours and had a pretty fair idea of what he’d be doing in the meantime. I found a pub and had lunch—a steak sandwich with salad, hold the chips, and a middy of light beer. I tried to remember how long it was since I’d been to the gym. Too long. I felt the flab at my waist. Not too bad but I pushed the toasted bread aside and promised myself a gym session the next day.
I was drinking the last of the beer, relishing it, with my mind turned off when it came to me where I’d first seen Ronny’s bespectacled companion. Something about the way she moved and the way she wore her jacket and skirt, like a uniform, triggered the memory. She’d been present as a sort of adjunct at a ceremony I’d attended where my friend Frank Parker, then a detective inspector, had been awarded a medal for bravery he’d displayed at a nasty armed siege. Frank’s coolness had resulted in saving a woman and two children from injury with minimum damage to the crazed gunman.
That had been four years earlier. The commissioner awarding Frank the medal had talked about the policewoman who’d been at the scene throughout. He’d mentioned her name, which I’d forgotten, but I remembered the way she’d gazed at Frank with open admiration. Shorter hair and no glasses but unmistakably the same woman. Here she was again, virtually in disguise with the severe hair arrangement and the specs. In civvies but still looking as if she was in uniform and still moving with a kind of drilled precision. It was London to a brick that she was now an undercover cop.
Plenty to think about and I had another drink to help the process. Frank was a superintendent with an inside track to higher rank these days, but still a friend, despite my low standing in the eyes of his colleagues. I wondered if he’d known the admiring female constable and how much he’d tell me about her if he did. Probably not much.
I drove back to Darlinghurst and parked where I had an arrangement with a non-driving house-owner who let me use his garage. I dropped the film in where I knew someone who would process anything from family snaps to bedroom frolics. I went up to the office, taking the stairs three at a time, and felt that my wind at the top of three flights was no better than fair. I phoned Frank, confident I’d catch him. The higher the rank, the more desk time. It irked Frank but he had a wife and a mortgage and he couldn’t afford to stand still.