The Reward

by Peter Corris

  ‘Tell me, tell me,’ he said. ‘I’m fucking dying to hear what you big-city detectives are up to these days.’

  We were sitting in Bob’s downstairs flat, the biggest of the four. Ours was directly above. Bob’s housekeeping was basic; we ate the pizza straight from the box and he produced a toilet roll for us to wipe our hands on. The wine we drank from the kind of glasses you can bounce on a cement slab. It was good wine, though. I gave him the gist over a couple of glasses and answered his questions in between slices of pizza. Bob had grown a thick moustache to compensate for the loss on top and this made it difficult for Max to lip-read him. I could feel his irritation and didn’t blame him for getting stuck solidly into the red.

  ‘I wouldn’t give shit for your chances,’ Bob said when I wound up.

  ‘Thanks, Bob. Wouldn’t you say a million bucks is worth playing a long shot?’

  Bob shook his head. ‘The bloody lawyer’ll chisel you out of it somehow even if you do get a sniff. Sounds to me like the lawyer put the heavies onto you.’

  I recalled Cavendish on the mobile as I left the Beckett house. ‘Maybe. I turned to face Max who was pouring himself another glass. ‘Bob does this, knocks everything on the head then hops in and shows you how it should be done.’

  ‘Good,’ Max said. ‘Let’s see you hop, Bob.’

  Bob wiped his hands and his moustache, slid the few bits of crust and droppings into the box and dumped it into a bin in the kitchen. He came back with a notebook computer and another bottle. I looked at Max and he shook his head.

  ‘Coffee, Bob.’

  ‘Pikers, it’s on. This is for me.’ He turned the computer on and started tapping. ‘Right, now, first up, Colin fucking Sligo. I take it you want dirt on him? Some leverage?’

  ‘Wouldn’t hurt. And his current circumstances, how he stands with the powers-that-be, retirement date, health, you know.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Bob said. ‘Plus you need an address and info on Peggy Hawkins. Shouldn’t be too hard. What’s her line, bowls, golf, gambling, booze . . .?’

  ‘Sex,’ I said. ‘Our information is that she’s most likely to be working in the sex industry, in one capacity or another.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me that,’ Max said.

  ‘You never asked.’

  ‘Easy, that should be.’ Bob said. ‘Now about Andrea Craig. Is she likely to link up with Peggy?’

  ‘They were both screwing Johnno Hawkins. Who knows?’

  Bob tapped the keys. ‘Hawkins, Craig, Neville . . . ages, any descriptions?’

  ‘Not sure,’ I said. ‘Peggy could be forty plus, Andrea a bit younger, maybe. Peggy was thin and dark with big tits fifteen years ago.

  Bob’s balding head was bent over the keyboard. He made a Roy Orbison growl. ‘Sounds good but women change.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Tired and a bit drunk, I tried to recall the trashed photograph. ‘Neville or Craig is or was blonde. Big eyes.’

  ‘Lesbian,’ Max said. ‘Very small mouth.’

  ‘No disadvantage,’ Bob said.

  Max had adjusted to the moustache and was following. We were three men without women, all a bit pissed. We all laughed.

  There was no food in our flat so in the morning Max and I went down to Bob’s. We found him reading the paper and eating crumpets with honey, accounting for the expanding waistline.

  ‘No challenge,’ Bob said when we appeared. ‘Or not much of a one.’

  I put the rest of last night’s coffee on to reheat and dropped four slices into the toaster. Max looked seedy. ‘How’s that?’ I said.

  ‘You’ll like this. Peg Hawkins runs a brothel in Surfers by the name of Satisfaction. High-class place apparently. She lives on the premises and runs a tight ship. In good standing with the council and with the constabulary and—wait for it men—one senior member in particular.’

  ‘No,’ I said. The toast popped and the coffee got hot.

  ‘That’s right. Deputy Commissioner Sligo is a devoted customer. Word is, Peg services him personally. I got this from a journo of absolute unreliability, mind. Needed confirmation and I got it. Silly fucker uses his credit card but not, I’m happy to say, his departmental one.’

  I poured two mugs of coffee, buttered the toast and brought the lot over to the table where Max sat with his head in his hands. ‘I should never drink red wine,’ he said.

  ‘Balls,’ Bob said. ‘It’s good for your heart.’

  Max groaned. ‘It’s my head I’m worried about. Got any pain-killers?’

  ‘Panadol. Top drawer. Col’s pretty dirty by all accounts, but he’s got less than a year to run on his contract and the general view is that everyone’s happy to let him go quietly.’

  I got the Panadol from the drawer and put the packet in front of Max. ‘That’s useful, Bob. He might be open to some persuasion.’

  ‘Yup. He doesn’t do much these days. Plays a lot of golf at Robina. Easy to get a quiet word with him. I’ve got the licence photos of all three for you. Col’s the ugliest, needless to say. Peg still looks pretty well-preserved. Can’t tell about the tits of course. Craig was booked for speeding yesterday in Kempsey. Driving a yellow Subaru coupe. I’ve got the registration number. Going north obviously, but whether she’s come up here or not I can’t say until she buys something with a credit card, checks into a hotel or breaks the fucking law.’

  I looked at Max who had taken a couple of capsules with his coffee and was nibbling on a piece of toast. ‘This is the sort of thing that’s putting blokes like me out of business.’

  ‘Dinosaurs,’ Bob said. ‘D’you want to know when Sligo’s teeing off next at Robina?’

  ‘Come on,’ I said.

  ‘I kid you not. They put the tee-off times on the computer and the computer’s hooked to a modem. If you know the password to the system you’re in like Flynn.’

  ‘Passwords are secret by definition.’

  ‘Hah,’ Bob said. ‘They’re a tradeable commodity, like everything else. I know bloody hundreds and I can trade with the best of them.’

  I drank some coffee and ate some toast. I’d managed to sleep on the undamaged ear and the ribs weren’t hurting much. And I was more practised at drinking red wine than Max. I felt pretty good and optimistic, although I was still worried that finding out who’d paid off Hawkins might not lead any further. ‘I’m impressed,’ I said.

  ‘You should be,’ Bob said smugly. ‘Colin tees off at eleven this very day. They’re playing a four-person Ambrose, whatever that is. Apparently they take a rest after the first nine holes. That’ll be around twelve-thirty.’

  ‘Where’s Robina?’ I said.

  Bob pointed out of the window. ‘Just down the way.’

  I turned to Max who was looking better by the minute. He tackled a second piece of toast. ‘You getting all this, Max?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘Would you rather tackle Peggy or Colin? I’m easy.’

  ‘I think the fresh air’d do me good.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I wish we could round up Craig,’ Max said. ‘She could be very useful to use against one or both of them.’

  Bob ripped off a metre of toilet paper and wiped his fingers. ‘You don’t know anything about her Queensland connections?’

  ‘Just that she made a lot of phone calls to the Gold Coast,’ Max said.

  ‘Shit, why didn’t you tell me that? What number did she call from?’

  Max consulted his notebook and gave Bob the number of the gallery. ‘Leave it with me,’ Bob said. ‘I’ll be able to give you the Queensland contact in a couple of hours. I gotta admit it, this is more fun than repossessing cars.’

  I thought about Max’s concern for Penny Draper and realised that we’d told Bob almost everything there was to know and, unlike my sketchy account to Claudia, we’d included names and details. Bob had never been a man of action and as I looked at him now, balding and soft around the middle, a key-tapper, I felt guilty.

  ‘Look, Bob,’ I s
aid. ‘Somebody bumped Barry White and had a good go at Leo Grogan. Somebody’s playing for keeps in this thing and we don’t have a clue who it is. He or they seem to have been keeping tabs on me and might know we’re here.’

  ‘So?’ Bob said.

  ‘So you should be careful.’

  Bob smiled. ‘Fuck you, Cliff. You think this computer work is cosy and safe. Two weeks ago a guy took a sledge to that front door there and wanted to do the same thing to my head.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I shot the fucker,’ Bob said.

  16

  We took a swim in the apartment block pool which was barely long enough to get a few decent strokes in, but helped to start the day fresh. I’d taken off the rib-wrapping and confined myself to a gentle breaststroke. The aches and bruises were fading. Max surprised me; he had a powerful stroke that cut neatly through the water. He was carrying some flesh around his waist like me but was in pretty good shape for a man pushing sixty. He kept at it longer than I did and looked as if he could have done a good bit more.

  ‘That was good,’ he said when he flopped out of the pool. I’d come carefully up the metal ladder. ‘Good antidote to the wine. Think I’ll stick to beer.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with Fourex,’ I said. ‘You’re happy about taking Sligo on your own?’

  ‘It’ll be a pleasure.’

  I’d towelled off and was stretched out on the tiles enjoying the morning sun. ‘If Sligo’s the one keeping an eye on things in Sydney he could have some pretty handy help up here.’

  Max had brought a small toilet bag down with him. He dried his hair and shook water from his ears. Then he cleaned them with a cotton bud before putting in the hearing aids. The hangover frown had lifted and when he slicked back his hair with a comb he looked younger and more lively than I’d seen him before. ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ he said. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I reckon these Queenslanders are bit players in all this. Important for the information they might have, but . . . remittance men and women as it were, if you see what I mean. Sligo included. The real energy’s in Sydney.’

  ‘Cavendish and whoever suppressed the note?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘But that someone has a handle on what you’ve been doing.’

  ‘Or on what you’ve been doing, Cliff. Think about how Bob can sneak into things. You use a mobile phone, and a fax machine, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, but . . . ’

  Max shifted as a ray of sunlight hit us, dazzled him, and prevented him from seeing what I was saying.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘It’s confusing the way it always is for me.’

  ‘Good. You’re in familiar territory. I’ve had a word with Bob. He’s got some more information and some good ideas. I think you should listen to him.’

  I was conscious that I didn’t have any very good ideas myself about how to question Peg Hawkins and Sligo beyond a vague notion of divide and rule. Bob was busy at his computer in a room off the kitchen. He shook one fist in the air while the other hand still worked at the keyboard.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Your Andrea Craig not infrequently called Peg Hawkins’ unlisted number.’

  ‘You’re amazing, Bob.’

  ‘I know, I know. Look, I’ve dug up a couple of mobiles for you blokes to use.’

  ‘Max can’t use a phone.’

  ‘That’s why I’m going with him. One of the reasons. The other is to see Colin Sligo eating shit. Now this is what I reckon you should do.’

  Bob and Max set off in the Laser for Robina and I got a cab to The Esplanade where Satisfaction was located, along with Satin & Silk, Fun Girls and Good for You. It was a little early to go calling on a lady of the night but that can be the best time to catch one, before the hard shell slides into place and time becomes money in the most direct way. Prostitution is illegal in Queensland, but the authorities seemed to be turning a blind eye. Like any well-conducted brothel, Satisfaction put a couple of barriers up between it and people on the street. A small garden in front of the two-storey, white-painted building was screened off by latticework and when you were behind that you still had a security grille to get through before you got to the front door.

  It was cool and shady in the garden with a strong scent of jasmine. I pushed the buzzer on the grille and got a recorded message: ‘This is Satisfaction, an escort service and relaxation centre. If you wish to enter please press the buzzer twice.’ Then the message was repeated in what sounded like Japanese.

  I pressed and the grille slid open. The front door opened as I approached and a slender blonde woman wearing a black lace wrap over a red silk teddy and red very high heels looked me up and down.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes, I’d like to spend some time with one of your ladies.’

  ‘Of course. Please come in. I’m Amanda. As you see, I’m a blonde, but if you’d prefer a brunette or a redhead I’m sure Chantelle or . . .’

  I kept moving past her and along the hall towards a huge mirror that noticeably slimmed me down. Amanda came after me, still chanting her spiel, swaying on the heels, maybe already sensing that something was wrong. She reached out, took my arm and tried to draw me towards her and her headily perfumed body that gave off only a slight tang of cigarette smoke and musk oil.

  ‘If you’d like to wait in there, sir, on the left, we can talk a little more. I’m afraid you can’t just walk about. Our guests want privacy as I’m sure you do . . .’

  Not breaking her hold and taking her other arm in a soft grip, I let her steer me into a small room which contained a bar, a couch and a TV set with a video playing. Two women, one black and one white, were to-and-froing on a bed, sharing a deeply-inserted double dildo and outdoing each other with their low moans.

  ‘Do you like that?’ Amanda said.

  ‘Not quite my scene. I want to see Peg Hawkins.’

  ‘I’m afraid . . .’

  ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ I said. ‘Just tell her I’m a friend of Colin Sligo. You might mention that I knew Johnno pretty well and I also know Andrea Craig. Have you got all that?’

  She broke free and all the softness and lubriciousness went out of her. ‘A copper, are you?’

  ‘Worse, Amanda, something much worse. And tell Peg not to try and duck out because I’ve got some people outside you ladies really wouldn’t want to meet. You really wouldn’t.’

  ‘We’ve got protection here.’

  ‘Look, if Peg’s in this room inside five minutes you won’t need protection or anything like it. We talk, I go. If she’s not, I guarantee you’ll be looking for another position and the word’ll be out on you and it won’t be easy to get something else this good. Now, be sensible.’

  ‘What name’ll I say?’

  I looked at her and shook my head.

  ‘Okay, I’ll fetch her. Stay here, will you? There’s a fat Jap getting a blow job next door. If he sees you he’ll freak.’

  ‘Three minutes,’ I said.

  Peg was down in less than that. She wore a white linen sleeveless dress with a pleated front and skirt. She showed just enough cleavage to indicate how impressive the rest of her would be. She was still thin, about medium height in medium heels and her lightly tanned skin, blonde streaked hair and make-up were all designed to make her look cool, successful and no older than she had to. It worked. Peg Hawkins must have been well over forty and must have had some hard years, but they weren’t showing yet. She came into the room and more or less ignored me while she turned off the television and told Amanda to keep an eye on things.

  ‘Now,’ she said. ‘Having succeeded in frightening young Amanda you can try me. I’ll return the compliment. I’ll give you five minutes and if you haven’t accounted for yourself by then you’ll be wishing you had.’

  ‘I don’t want to frighten you, Peg.’ I took out my PEA licence and showed it to her. ‘I want to
talk about Ramona Beckett, Johnno your late hubby, Colin Sligo, Amanda Neville or Craig—people like that.’

  She’d been standing up, rather stagily, beside the TV and her face had worn a look of indifference. But the names hit her hard. She moved sideways and sat on the couch. Her mouth twitched and a few cracks appeared in the flawless make-up around her eyes.

  Jesus,’ she said. ‘After all this time.’

  ‘It has been a while,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah. Make me a drink, will you? Vodka and tonic.’

  I went to the bar, mixed Smirnoff and local tonic water, added some ice cubes and handed it to her. I settled for the tonic and ice myself. She took a slug and settled back against the couch. Her hands, clutched around the glass, looked a little older than the rest of her.

  ‘Are you still getting a pay-off, Peg?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And Johnno’s super?’

  Another nod.

  ‘The super doesn’t have to stop and the Taxation Department doesn’t need to know about the other money. You don’t have to be charged with conspiracy to commit murder, money-laundering and all the other stuff. Not if you don’t want to be.’

  ‘You could be bluffing.’

  I drank, rattled the ice cubes. ‘A colleague of mine is out at Robina talking to Colin right now. We know that Amanda Craig is on her way up here. Maybe she rang you from Kempsey after she got booked for speeding.’

  ‘Stupid bitch!’

  ‘An ex-cop named Barry White is dead and another named Leo Grogan’s in intensive care.’ I turned to show her my stitched ear. ‘I got a bit of a hammering myself. It’s all breaking open, Peg, and people are going to suffer. You could be one of them.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about dead coppers.’

  ‘Maybe I believe you. Whether I do or don’t won’t matter if you tell me what I really want to know.’

  She sucked in a deep breath and the large breasts rose and fell eye-catchingly. She must have used the movement many times for her own ends but she wasn’t doing anything like that now. She was just taking in oxygen, just buying time. ‘And what the fuck’s that?’