The Reward

by Peter Corris

  There was nothing much on record about the first Mrs Beckett and the reason wasn’t hard to see. Ramona’s beautiful mother, Gabriella, née Vargas, had supplied the genes that shaped Ramona. She was a tall, slender woman with hawklike features and a wide slash of a mouth. At forty-plus when her daughter disappeared, she was twenty years younger than her husband. All news reports described her as ‘distraught’, although in the photos I saw I would call her ‘composed’. She was the daughter of Tomas Luis Vargas who had been the Spanish Ambassador to Australia in the 1950s, so maybe she had learned a bit about composure.

  The story made a big splash in the Sydney papers, especially the tabloids, and even ran for a while in the national press, but it faded when nothing new turned up. It got new legs when the reward was announced but, again, no results, no staying power. Other bad news crowded Ramona off the front and inside pages—Prince Charles visited for the funeral of ‘Pig Iron’ Bob, three Amanda Marga members were arrested for the Hilton bombing and an aircraft hit a house in Melbourne, killing six members of a family.

  I read the cuttings through a couple of times, taking note of the names and trying to build up a picture of the players and their actions. The Beckett family hardly figured, other than photographically. No statement of any interest was reported from any one of them. Detective Sergeant John Hawkins was prominent early. He had the looks for the job—dark, cropped hair, hollow cheeks, immaculate three-piece suit. I have an instinctive distrust of any man who’d wear a three-piece suit in Sydney, especially in January and February. Early on, Johnno made all the right noises about ‘our investigations are proceeding satisfactorily’ and ‘we have several promising leads to follow’, then there was a slide to ‘we are calling on members of the public to assist’ and down to ‘information is being sifted’. In the end it looked as if he bored the journalists to death, but that impression may have been prejudiced by the line I was following.

  Over the years that followed there had been several follow-up stories and the Beckett case had even made its way into the ‘historical’ section of one Sunday tabloid, like the Bums-Johnson fight, the Japanese mini-submarines in Sydney Harbour and the disappearance of the Beaumont children. No new data emerged and, reading between the lines, it was clear that Gabriella Beckett had turned away any reporters who had approached her.

  I smoothed out the faxes and folded them so that Ramona Beckett, in the classic picture—the one that all the papers ran and was featured over the following years when the story was dusted off and dragged out again—looked up at me. Her forehead was high, but not too high, her nose was hooked but nicely so, her mouth was like her mother’s—a wide, thin-lipped gash, promising sin. The heavy, hooded eyes seemed to stare and probe into me and I had the strange feeling that she would try to get even with me from beyond the grave. Bullshit, I thought. I put the faxes in a folder and closed the cover on the staring eyes. When a will is probated, the mechanism is an application to the state Supreme Court from the executor for the go-ahead to put the deceased’s wishes into practice. The document and some supporting affidavits have to be lodged and, after the court grants the request, the whole lot is available for scrutiny by beneficiaries and other interested parties. Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t be allowed to look at the documents, but like most PEAs I had an understanding with a deputy registrar who was willing to stretch the definition of ‘interested party’ as long as it didn’t get him in trouble. I rang him and got the reference number which would enable me to avoid the long wait to look at the microfiche register on Level 5 of the Supreme Court building. He’d give me a pass to Level 6 where the wills are filed.

  Next I had to locate Harry Tickener’s Post-it. I found it stuck to a leaf of my notebook and telephoned the Martin Place office of Wallace Cavendish, solicitor to the Beckett family. I stated my business in guarded, almost cryptic terms to a secretary with an extraordinarily appealing voice, and was told that the man himself was away interstate.

  ‘Due back when?’ I asked.

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘I’d like to see him tomorrow.’

  ‘That may not be possible,’ said honey-voice. ‘If I may have your number I’ll advise you when Mr Cavendish will be free.’

  And that was the best I could do. I drove down William Street and parked in College Street at one of the meters that had become free as the earliest of the commuters on flexi-time started to move out. I walked through Hyde Park and St James’ Park to the Supreme Court. Level 5 is always busy with bonds, bail and other matters being settled. It was a relief to get the nod from my contact and bypass the people clutching their tickets and waiting for their numbers to show up in big red figures. Things are quieter on Level 6. I paid over the ten dollars necessary to get a copy of a will probated between 1850 and 1986. The public can get a look at any will but only an executor can see the full list of assets and their disposal. For the purpose of this exercise, and for a price, I was an executor. After a fairly short wait the documents were produced. A probated will can be a file as slim as a magazine insert or a hefty document. Joshua Beckett’s was somewhere in between. I flicked through it as I rode down in the lift.

  The bulk of the estate, which was valued at 6.8 million dollars, went to Beckett’s wife. There was a bequest of seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars to Sean Ian Beckett and sizeable shares in several companies. Estelle Lucy Beckett got half a million dollars and some smaller stock packages. A few charities came in for a whack and a couple of people who sounded like long-term domestic servants also did okay. No mention of the first Mrs B. The sum of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars was invested in a portfolio to be jointly administered by James Hills of Hills and Associates, accountants, and Wallace Cavendish, solicitor. The funds were at all times to be available at call, and Cavendish and Mrs Beckett jointly were authorised to dispense them to any person or persons ‘whose information leads to the conviction of those responsible for the death of my dear daughter, Ramona Louise Beckett’. Good on you, Josh.

  7

  Mrs Horsfield, Wallace Cavendish’s secretary, was a dumpy, homely woman with a beautiful voice. She’d phoned me at 8 a.m. to say that her lord and master could see me at ten. Meaning she’d communicated with Cavendish some time late yesterday and he’d agreed to a meeting virtually as early as it could be set up. That was interesting. I wore my best, that is to say my only suit—a dark blue lightweight double-breaster that hadn’t gone out of fashion, although the lapels were possibly not quite exactly the right shape for this year. Mrs Horsfield seemed to approve of my appearance. She’d probably been expecting a leather-jacketed thug, which I would have easily provided in a different context.

  ‘Just one minute, Mr Hardy,’ she said in a voice that would have lured most sailors onto the rocks, except that her second chin wobbled. ‘Please take a seat. Mr Cavendish is dealing with a tiny detail, then he’ll be with you.’

  I nodded and sat down in a deep leather-covered chair that seemed to swallow me up. The magazines on the table beside me catered for just about all tastes—Golf Today, Tennis Australia, Australian Business, Australian Bride, Home and Garden, Best Investments Guide. I leafed through the tennis magazine sceptically, wondering what effect it would have had on Rod Laver if he’d been called the new Lew Hoad at nineteen, the way they were calling Mark Phillipousos the new Pancho Gonzales. Darren Cahill had been the new Roy Emerson; Patrick Rafter the new John Newcombe . . .

  ‘Mr Cavendish will see you now, Mr Hardy.’

  She showed me into an office not quite as big as a tennis court. The walls were book-lined but leaving plenty of room for paintings, framed degrees and awards of one sort or another. You could do at least four different things in that room—work at the big teak desk, hold a conference at the big table, have a chat and coffee around a low table or have a sleep on the wide sofa. I assumed that there was a bar somewhere, so make that five things; if there was a TV, six. The blinds were set to allow in enough morning light to read by but not too m
uch. The air-conditioning, keeping the room at a comfortable temperature, was a faint whisper in the background.

  Cavendish stood up behind his desk as I came in. He was taller than me, getting on for 190 centimetres, and he looked fit in his blue shirt, dark trousers and red tie with braces to match. The braces were a jaunty touch in an otherwise very serious-looking man. He was somewhere between fifty and sixty, impossible to be precise because his smooth skin had a slightly artificial look as if he’d had a facelift, but that could have just been good genes and good dietary habits. His hair was thick, worn long and with plenty of grey in it. I’d have been willing to bet that his teeth were good and his prostate likewise. He took off horn-rimmed reading glasses as I moved across the room and I could see what a good prop they’d be in meetings when making a play with those deep-set but large grey eyes—put ’em on for something serious, whip ’em off when going for a laugh.

  ‘Mr Hardy.’ His handshake was firm, his accent what used to be called ‘educated Australian’.

  ‘Mr Cavendish, thank you for seeing me.’

  ‘Sit down, sit down. I can’t give you very long, but I must admit I was intrigued by what you told Mrs Horsfield.’

  I unbuttoned my jacket and sat down, wishing I had some red braces to show. ‘I think I can be a little more frank with you. My client has information that may throw light on Ramona Beckett’s disappearance.’

  Cavendish nodded. ‘So I gather. This is very late in the day. May I know the name of your client?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I’d like to ask you some questions.’

  ‘Go ahead. I’ll try to be more forthcoming than you.’

  ‘Is the reward of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars still on offer?’

  He hesitated and I watched him closely. Would he tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth? He didn’t. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is.’

  Not quite a lie, but an interesting understatement to say the least. ‘Can you tell me whose idea it was to post the reward?’

  He picked up his glasses and fiddled with the arms, bringing them together and separating them, as if one was the ‘no comment’ arm and the other was ‘the name’.

  The left arm was folded in. ‘I believe Mr Beckett conceived the idea.’

  ‘Did the other members of the family approve?’

  The position of the arms reversed. ‘I really couldn’t comment on that. I can’t quite see where your questions are leading. Perhaps you could be more specific about this information.’

  Fair enough. And I couldn’t see any harm in stirring the possum. ‘Only a little,’ I said. It seems to suggest the involvement of a member of the family in the . . . disappearance.’

  ‘That’s preposterous!’

  I had a feeling that I didn’t have much more of his expensive time and there was no point in fencing with him. He was smart, experienced and looked utterly secure. It was time for the broadsword. ‘She was a blackmailer, Mr Cavendish. I know because I frustrated one of her scams. She must have been an embarrassment to the family, perhaps even a threat. Maybe she went too far.’

  ‘That is ridiculous. Absurd. If you go about saying these things . . .’

  ‘She’s officially dead. Anyone can say what they like about her.’

  ‘I mean . . . implying that Gabriella or . . .

  The first slip and my tactic was not to notice it. I dropped my eyes, took out my notebook and made a play of checking a few things off. Cavendish glanced at his watch. Then I tried for my most winning smile, flipped the notebook closed and tucked it and the pen away in the inside pocket of my suit coat. All that took a second or two. ‘I know you’re busy. So am I. Like me, you must have a lot of things on your plate. Did you know Cy Sackville, by the way?’

  Cy was my lawyer and my friend. He’d been shot to death about a year ago and I missed him badly. But Cy would understand if I used the connection. Hell, he’d have been amused.

  ‘Yes, indeed. A fine man. A tragedy.’

  ‘Right. I killed the guy who killed him.’

  ‘Ah. Yes, I believe I . . .’

  ‘To be honest with you, Mr Cavendish, I don’t know how far I’m going to go with this. What I’ve got, it’s all a bit thin.’

  I was counting on Cavendish wanting to get me out of the hair of his no doubt very financially useful clients as quickly as possible. He dropped the glasses onto the desk. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’d like to see Mrs Beckett. I reckon I can manage to get to the son and daughter on my own, but the widow could be a problem. You could arrange it and be present. A quick meeting, a few questions, that’s all. What do you say?’

  This was more than he’d bargained for and he took some time over it. His high brow furrowed and I decided he was closer to sixty than fifty. Worry tends to work against a superficial youthfulness. ‘What,’ he said slowly, ‘would the nature of the questions be?’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s been a long time. Perhaps certain things have changed. For one thing, I’d like to ask Mrs Beckett if she knows of any propositions that were put to certain policemen.’

  ‘What propositions?’

  I shook my head. ‘Depending on her answer, I’d like to ask her about her relations with her stepchildren.’

  ‘I can tell you that. They are distant.’

  ‘I’d like to hear it from her.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He glanced at his watch again.

  ‘You seem very protective,’ I said.

  ‘With reason. Mrs Beckett is not a young woman.’

  I nodded. ‘About the same age as yourself, I’d guess.’

  He let that pass although he didn’t like it. ‘As you must have gathered, I’m a friend to Mrs Beckett as well as a legal adviser. She leads a life of some seclusion and you would find considerable difficulty in getting to see her. A great many journalists have tried over the years and failed.’

  ‘I know that,’ I said. ‘But when you tell her what I’ve told you, she may feel differently.’

  ‘You’ve told me almost nothing, but I take your point.’ He stood up, indicating closure, and to give himself the height advantage. ‘I’ll be in touch with you, Mr Hardy. I assume Mrs Horsfield has the number?’

  I stayed in my seat, denying him the advantage and hoping to make him feel just a little abrupt and foolish. ‘Mrs Horsfield has a beautiful voice,’ I said.

  He looked surprised, thought about sitting down again, decided against it, rested his hands uncomfortably on the desk in front of him. ‘Yes, she does indeed. She was an opera singer. A contralto. Do you like opera, Mr Hardy?’

  That was the opening I’d been waiting for—the chance for the broadsword thrust. I stood up quickly and buttoned my jacket. ‘I despise it,’ I said. ‘Silly stories, boring music and lousy acting. I hope you don’t waste too much money on it. I look forward to hearing from you soon, Mr Cavendish.’

  I made the route march to the door, feeling Cavendish’s shrewd grey eyes boring into my back. That never hurt anyone. I flashed a smile at the contralto and took the stairs instead of the lift. Muy macho.

  I’d parked near my office and walked down to Martin Place. As I strolled back I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. It’s not every day you put a high-priced lawyer on the back foot and maybe, just maybe, get to go where fearless journalists have failed to tread. Cavendish’s unwillingness to be fully frank about the reward, his relationship with the widow, and his remark about the ‘distance’ between her and her stepchildren interested me. I pondered these things as I walked up William Street, keeping my breathing as shallow as possible—the less of that sort of air you take in the better.

  There was no one in the corridor this time and not much action in the building as a whole. The other commercial tenants—a desk-top publisher of pornography, a mail-order coin and stamp merchant, an acupuncturist and a South African whose business I’m not sure of—tend to be late arrivers. The few residential occupants on the flo
or below me, where renovations happened, but petered out, sleep late. I went into the gloomy office and saw the message light blinking on the answering machine. I hit the button as I shrugged out of my suit coat. Two callers. The first was from the bank telling me that a cheque I’d been having some trouble with had finally been re-presented and cleared. The caller gave the time as 11.39. Just ten minutes back. The machine played the next message. Barry White’s agitated voice, sober and high-pitched, cut through my complacent mood like a chainsaw through pine.

  ‘Hardy! Hardy! Where the fuck are you? I’m in trouble. Jesus Christ! Get here. Rose Street. Quick as you can.’

  8

  The boarding house looked peaceful enough. A couple of residents lounged at the gate yarning to anyone who would stop. They stepped aside to let me pass and went on talking as if I didn’t exist. I went up the steps and in the front door to the familiar smells neglected and neglectful men generate—a compound of sweat, tobacco, beer, fast food, urine and dirty socks. There were two occupied rooms on the ground floor along with a kitchen and a sitting room, and I guessed three or four on the two levels above. That put Barry White’s room, number 4, one floor up.

  I don’t know where White had lived when he was riding high as a corrupt copper, but it must have been a million times better than this. The stairs were narrow and dark with gaps in the uprights and a rickety railing. The carpet was worn and lifting, a hazard to anyone with poor eyesight or a load on board, and that most likely applied to many of the residents. I went up quickly and reached a landing dimly illuminated by a small window that hadn’t been cleaned since the end of World War I. I knocked on number 4; I got no answer but the door swung slightly inwards.