That Empty Feeling

by Peter Corris

  ‘It’d help if I knew more about your investigation,’ I said. ‘Some details, facts and figures.’

  She let out a sigh. ‘I knew this was coming. How would it help?’

  ‘When there’s a conspiracy it has a sort of structure, in my experience. There are angles and people who fit into those angles. And you probe for the weak spots. You obviously thought Barry was a weak spot. CEO of what? A property development firm with transport interests, possibly connected to an oil scam. How about Sir Keith? Big in mining, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t know much about him. Bartlett was the focus. I want to trust you, Cliff.’

  The best thing to do when someone says they want to trust you is to shut up. They will or they won’t. You can’t help. I kept very still and in contact with her along the length of her long body. As before, we’d pulled up the covers, a sheet and a doona, and were warm and comfortable, still a little sweaty.

  ‘It’s to do with the Mogul oil refinery at Botany,’ she said. ‘It’s supplied from our oil fields and from foreign sources. Did you know there’s a lot of oil piracy going on?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They keep it quiet. The cargoes are insured and there’s all sorts of lurks to explain why it doesn’t always get to where it’s supposed to go. Fiddling the books, cover-ups of supposed leaks, falsification of capacities and purities. So large quantities of . . . undocumented . . . oil are moving around and the Mogul operation is taking in some of it. A lot in fact.’

  ‘Fucking oil,’ I said. ‘It’ll be good when it runs out.’

  ‘It won’t. They won’t let it, even if they have to squeeze it out of Ayers Rock.’

  ‘I think that’s sandstone.’

  ‘Whatever. The point is there’s a lot of fuel going in and out of the Mogul refinery that isn’t properly monitored and it’s worth millions. It’s going somewhere and the government wants to know where and who’s benefiting.’

  I thought about it. Developments involving demolition and construction, and interstate trucking were operations that used a lot of fuel. So did mining. If BBE and Mountjoy’s mining concerns were getting fuel free or at a substantial discount, they’d have a considerable advantage over their competitors. The loss of government revenue, federal and state probably, would be heavy and the legitimate movement of fuel was hemmed in with expensive safety regulations. Rogue operations wouldn’t observe these and that placed the public at risk.

  ‘Why don’t the Federal Police just arrest a few people at Mogul and pull in Barry and squeeze them?’

  ‘Mogul is a joint US and Singapore outfit and it already pays a lot of tax on its legitimate operation and employs hundreds of people, many of them in vulnerable electorates—state and federal. Get it wrong and that’s a lot of powerful interests offended and we haven’t got enough evidence to get it right.’

  ‘The tax office, auditors . . .’

  ‘Working on it, okay? But we need live, talking players, insiders with something to lose.’

  ‘It sounds too big for Barry. I can see why he’s not completely comfortable with it.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why he welcomed the arrival of the long-lost son. Someone to share the burden.’

  ‘Hence your deployment.’ I thought for a moment and then realised. ‘You were going to try to turn Barry into an informer, weren’t you? It’s the only thing that makes sense. You thought you could get to him through Ronny, if all else failed.’

  She slid out of the bed, grabbed an oversized sweater from the clothes rack and pulled it on. ‘You’d better get going,’ she said. ‘The watchers get watched.’ She didn’t confirm or deny what I’d said. ‘I’m going to have to come up with something on Ronald or they’ll move me sideways to work on the paper trail.’

  I located my clothes on the floor at the foot of the bed and dressed. ‘So it wouldn’t have helped much to say you knew Ronny isn’t Barry’s son and you couldn’t say how you learned that, anyway.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And you can’t reveal that you missed where he was being kept by something like . . . half an hour.’

  ‘Right again. Thanks a lot.’

  She stood rubbing at her ruffled hair, the sloppy sweater reaching just past her crotch, leaving her taut hurdler thighs and smooth lower legs exposed. I had to look away. I wanted her again and it wasn’t the time. I had to give her something. Without really thinking what I was saying, I said, ‘You could tell them that you’ve learned Ronny was a good boxer and might have gone off with a trainer to some boxing camp in the bush.’

  She stopped her search for knickers and looked at me. ‘Do they have such things? I know bugger-all about boxing.’

  ‘They do.’

  ‘Didn’t you say O’Malley was a boxer?’

  I zipped up my fly and sat on the end of the bed with one sock in my hand. ‘Jesus, Bron, that might just be it.’

  ‘It! Who cares about it? The question is where. You’ve got an idea you’re not going to tell me about. Fuck you!’

  ‘It’s the vaguest of possibilities and I’ll keep you informed if it comes to anything, I promise. You could tell your people you’ve lined up an interview with Barry Bartlett. I’ll arrange it. Would that keep them sweet?’

  ‘Temporarily.’

  That eased the tension and I left with us both wanting to trust each other but not sure how far we could.

  In the morning I rang the hospital and was told I could visit at any time.

  The morning paper carried a report on the discovery of a dead man in a house in Randwick and conveyed the police request for any member of the public, etcetera, etcetera . . . There was also a notice saying that Sir Keith’s funeral would be on Tuesday at Waverley, with an archive photo of him and Lady Betty in happier times.

  I showed the photos to Barry when I arrived at the hospital. He was depressed and hadn’t bothered with the papers.

  ‘I’ll send a wreath,’ he said. ‘No Ronny?’

  ‘Not yet, but the signs are that Des O’Malley is looking after him. I suspect it’s not in your interest.’

  Barry’s private room was like a bedroom in a house owned by someone for whom money didn’t matter. Everything, the bed, the fittings—TV, video player, phone and fax—the lighting, the view, were just as you would want them. You’d try to get better in a place like that just to enjoy it. I had a comfortable chair to sit in and Barry told me I only had to ask and I could get coffee or tea.

  I gave him a sketch of what Bron had told me about the fuel operation. He held the newspaper, staring at the photos, and didn’t interrupt me.

  ‘You’ve been busy,’ he said when I finished. ‘But it sounds as if you’ve been investigating my fucking business more than looking for my kid.’

  ‘It’s all linked up, Barry. Someone wants to use Ronny to get some hold over you. Who would that be, and why?’

  He shook his head. The weight loss had continued, probably a good thing, but his neck was beginning to look scraggy and his eyes were deeply sunk. ‘I got in over my head financially and Keith Mountjoy helped to bail me out, but there was a price.’

  ‘Involvement in the oil scam?’

  He nodded. ‘I went along with it, I admit. Shit, the edge it gave me. But it started to get pricey. It took a lot of money to keep the right people sweet. Keith started to feel the pinch and we . . .’

  ‘Wanted out?’

  ‘Not exactly. Well, yes. We thought to sell our interest. We had some potential buyers at that drinks bash.’

  ‘Jesus, Barry, you’re in bed with Americans and Singaporeans. You don’t come out on top against people like that.’

  He crumpled the paper in his big, liver-spotted hands. ‘I know. Why do you think my fucking blood pressure was through the roof? Keith and I were trying to work out how to shift the businesses most involved in the oil lurks and consolidate them. We were ready to cut our losses if we could do that.’

  ‘Who was your biggest problem? Did you even know?’

&nbs
p; ‘We knew all right. It was Keith’s fucking wife.’

  19

  Barry said Mountjoy’s wife was from Singapore. Educated in America, she was rich and ruthless. She’d rescued Sir Keith when one of his schemes had gone awry and fancied being Lady Mountjoy and running things.

  ‘She bought Keith lock, stock and barrel and she got him involved in the oil rip-off. But he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants and they don’t get along.’

  ‘Bad enough to have him knocked off?’

  He shrugged and winced as one of the tubes running out of him snagged. ‘Who knows? She’s a monster.’

  ‘And if she knew he was trying to extricate himself from the oil thing . . . ?’

  ‘I hate to think.’

  ‘The cops’ll look at her very closely for Sir Keith’s killing.’

  ‘Good luck. She’s so rich she could put herself seven steps away. You know how it works.’

  ‘The kids didn’t look Asian.’

  ‘Earlier marriage for Keith. Accidental death, the first wife. I wouldn’t be surprised if the dragon lady arranged it. Probably taught her how to go about it at Harvard, where she got her fucking MBA. So the cops are breathing down my neck, are they?’

  ‘Yeah, but apparently they’re struggling. You could . . .’

  ‘Not a chance. You know me. Plus I’ve got lawyers. They can string these things out for years and I dunno how many years I’ve got. But I’d like to hang on to a few things for Ronny’s sake. You’ve got to find him for me, Cliff.’

  ‘Did you know this Titch guy?’

  ‘Yeah, Titch Baum, he was a boxer, flyweight, pretty good but there was no money in it. Jockey for a while but he got rubbed out for something.’

  More boxers, I thought. ‘Did Des O’Malley go to a training camp somewhere?’

  ‘Des? That bugger never trained. Anyway, I didn’t manage him.’

  ‘No but you managed Sione Levuka, that Fijian who fought Des in the elimination bout for the Pan-Pacific title. And I know you—you’d have found out all you could about O’Malley’s preparation.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. It was a Mickey Mouse title but a stepping stone for Sione and Des took it seriously. He did train for that one. I think his people booked in at a place down at Helensburgh.’

  ‘A farm?’

  ‘Yeah. Jackson’s farm or Johnson’s or something. It’s still going—trains footballers and cricketers and those mad buggers who jump off cliffs down there.’

  ‘Hang-gliders.’

  ‘Right. I remember hearing that Des groused about being so far from a pub. Wise choice by his people. Des was a terrible boozer in those days. Didn’t do any good. Sione knocked him cold in the fifth and Des took a bad beating for a few rounds before that. He was too game for his own good. That’s when Des went on the skids. I felt a bit guilty about it.’

  ‘Why?’

  He stared at the window as if it were a screen and he could see his past life playing on its dark surface. ‘You know how the business works. I pressured Des’s people into taking the fight. Levuka needed work to get him ready for bigger things. Des was really no match for him. That’s why I took Des on later when he was in hock to the bookies and the loan sharks. I helped him get clear.’

  ‘You’re all heart, Barry.’

  ‘Fuck you, too. Come to think of it, I believe Des mentioned that Helensburgh place once or twice after I employed him. Took women there, I suppose. You think he might’ve taken Ronny there?’

  ‘It’s a thought.’

  He was tired now and his eyes closed and he seemed to be reprising our conversation. ‘I’m not the worst,’ he mumbled.

  It was something I’d said myself about him and it was true. I told him I’d keep working and would let him know if I needed more money.

  ‘Better hurry,’ he said. ‘While I’ve still got some.’

  After I left I remembered that I’d told Bron I’d arrange for her to talk to Barry and I hadn’t done it. Wouldn’t help things between us, but tit for tat—I was sure she hadn’t told me everything that was going on at her end.

  I phoned Sally Brewer and asked her what she knew about a training place at Helensburgh. She had more up-to-date information than Barry.

  ‘Jackson’s Farm,’ she said. ‘I hear it closed down last year.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Money, why else? Same as me having to take in a partner.’

  ‘Did you ever go there, Sal?’

  ‘Yeah, once, to look it over. It was all right—nice old farmhouse with an accommodation wing built on. Big barn converted into a gym, swimming pool, spa and sauna. Plenty of hills to run up and down. I’d have liked to put a couple of my boys there but I couldn’t afford it, too pricey. How’s Barry, and how’s that Ronny doing?’

  I told her Barry was out of the woods and that Ronny was okay. I asked her where Jackson’s Farm was and she gave me rough directions. I put the phone down, hauled out the office folder of maps I’d collected over the years and checked the one that covered the Illawarra and Helensburgh to refresh my fading memory of the place. A dirt road named Jackson’s Track snaked west into the hills. It was a long shot but I had no other leads. There was the question of Bron. The phone rang and I wondered what I should say if it was her.

  ‘Hardy.’

  ‘Bruce O’Connor, Hardy.’

  ‘Detective-Sergeant, are you making progress with the Mountjoy murder?’

  ‘I’ve got used to your bullshit, Hardy. I know you know more about this than you’re letting on. Did you hear there was a killing in Randwick?’

  My fingers tightened around the receiver. I couldn’t see how the police could make any connection to me except one—through Bronwen. It was hit-and-hope time, as the golfers say.

  ‘Saw something about it. What’s it to do with me?’

  I waited. Some cops are good actors, able to play teasing games with information they have or haven’t got, but not this one.

  ‘I was hoping you might tell me.’

  ‘No idea,’ I said.

  ‘Just thought I’d ask.’ He hung up.

  No question that they were digging and probing in all directions and there was no telling what they might stumble on. It resolved my indecision—good time to get out of Sydney for a spell and no time to involve Bronwen.

  20

  Rural properties are not my favourite places. I don’t mind a good sugar plantation you can admire at a safe distance from the snakes or a nice orchard where you can pick a fresh apple, but cattle farms are the worst. They smell of cow shit, which you’re likely to get on your shoes, and there are too many things to trip over. My rule is: pack boots and old clothes, a slicker and a towel, because farmers pray for rain and it usually comes when you least want it. In spring in the Illawarra rain was a certainty. And, depressingly, I’d heard on the radio that it had been raining heavily there for days.

  I’d been down to the Illawarra many times, usually on business, sometimes for pleasure, but I was more familiar with the coast than the escarpment and the hinterland. I’d been to Helensburgh once to a party with a girlfriend and once to give someone a bad time at a golf driving range. The party was fun, dealing with an angry man with a supply of metal clubs wasn’t and I still had a scar as a memento.

  I loaded the car with the things I’d need, like the clothes and a powerful torch, and things I’d want, like a bottle of scotch. The .38 was somewhere in between want and need.

  I took the Princes Highway under a cloudy sky to Waterfall, where I filled the tank and then went on for a short distance before turning off at the Helensburgh sign. The rainstorm hit just then and wind gusts rocked the car. Another fifteen minutes of wet driving took me to the town with its overflowing gutters and trees being shrapnelled by the rain, and I stopped for coffee. I spread the map out on the table and aroused the interest of the kid working in the coffee shop.

  ‘Where’re you headed?’ he asked as he put the coffee mug down.

  I pointed to J
ackson’s Track.

  He shook his head. ‘Is that your Falcon out there?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Never make it. The track’s sure to be cut by run-offs and overflows. It’s been pissing down the last few days. You’d need a bloody good four-wheel-drive.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He nodded and went back behind the counter. I drank the coffee, which was pretty good, and looked out the window at the pelting rain. I’m a summer guy, I thought. Sand and surf. What am I doing down here in Noah’s fucking flood?

  ‘Anywhere I can hire one?’

  ‘You’re keen.’ He pointed to a noticeboard beside the register. It was festooned with business cards, one for a firm hiring out earth-moving equipment, trucks and 4WDs.

  He gave me the directions and I left him a substantial tip. Outside, the rain had eased off but the gutters were still flowing fast. People dashed between awnings with their umbrellas and the traffic was crawling, mindful of potholes and the occasional blocked drain sending a sheet of water across the road.

  Twenty minutes later I was in possession of a Nissan Patrol with my gear safely packed in and the Falcon parked in the hire firm’s yard. The wipers, always a bit iffy in the old Falcon, worked a treat and I could feel the grip of new tyres. Back window wipers were a plus. The Nissan handled well, the power steering not too light, not too heavy. Three turns off the main street and I was at the beginning of Jackson’s Track, which began life as an adequately drained gravel road.

  Neither the draining nor the gravel persisted. After a few kilometres the track lived up to its name as it became a narrow dirt stretch, potholed and sticky with the promised runnels and wash-outs starting to occur as it wound its way steadily upwards. The bush was thick on both sides, obscuring the track ahead at the bends. The driving required my full concentration; a vehicle coming the other way would present a serious challenge, under the conditions. The stability of the track’s edges was problematical.

  For all that I enjoyed the Nissan’s capacity to cope with the surface, the axle-deep washes and the steady rain, mud splashed up onto the bonnet and body of the car turned the car more brown than its original white. Did my contract oblige me to wash it before returning it? I couldn’t remember.