The Reward

by Peter Corris

  I was in just the right mood for a sick, bent copper. ‘Let’s go and see him. You’d better stay clear of this, Bob. You have to live here.’

  Bob nodded. ‘Byron’s more or less in my bailiwick. I know a few people down there. I could get some pressure applied to Andrea.’

  . ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Max and I’ll go and see Sligo. Where’s he live?’

  ‘Pacific Towers, it’s a high rise at the south end of the beach. Apartment 901.’

  Bob patted his waist. ‘The walk back’ll do me good.’

  The day had heated up and the tourists were out in force—pale legs and dark glasses, fat bellies and big behinds and some beautifully proportioned people of all races and both sexes. Max drove carefully through the light traffic and parked opposite the soaring tower block that would cast a shadow over the beach later in the day. He hadn’t spoken since leaving the bar and I wondered about his mood.

  ‘What’s up, Max?’

  ‘Do you feel we’re getting any closer to finding out who killed Ramona Beckett? That’s the object, remember? Especially from your point of view—that’s where the money is.’

  I was thinking along other lines and admitted it.

  ‘I don’t like losing the plot this much,’ Max said.

  ‘It probably all ties together in some way,’ I said.

  ‘And if it doesn’t?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’

  ‘True,’ Max said. ‘Very true. I have a tendency to want to tie things up. It made me very unpopular in Adelaide with those people who liked things to stay untied.’

  We crossed the road, skirted the palm trees in pots and went up the fake marble steps to the squawk boxes.

  ‘I’ll handle this,’ Max said. ‘I can usually hear these things for some reason.’

  ‘I told Peggy Hawkins I’d try to keep her out of it.’

  Max looked at me, shook his head and pressed the button for apartment 901.

  ‘Yes.’ A thick, husky voice.

  ‘My name is Max Savage, Mr Sligo. I’m a senior investigating consultant with the New South Wales Police Force. I’d like to have a word with you.’

  ‘What about?’

  I mouthed the response but Max nodded impatiently. ‘It’s about information received from Sean Beckett, Wallace Cavendish, Andrea Craig and others about the Ramona Beckett case.’

  The big plate glass doors slid open.

  Colin Sligo was a big man, or he had been. He wore pyjamas, a paisley dressing gown and slippers, not an outfit to increase your presence, but there was clearly something wrong with him. He was stooped, he shuffled and it looked as if the gown had once fitted him better than it now did. He ushered us into a big living room with a dynamite view of the Pacific Ocean. He waved us into seats and sat with his back to it.

  ‘Well?’

  I launched into an edited version of what we were about and what we’d learned. His grey, flabby face scarcely changed as I spoke. He looked as if nothing I said could touch him and I worried that we were going to get nothing at all.

  Sligo looked at Max. ‘What’ve you got to say?’

  ‘Nothing just now,’ Max said. ‘I’m waiting to hear from you.’

  Sligo shrugged. ‘You’ve got it all pretty well sorted out. Johnno knew I was coming up here and looking for a big score to take with me. I ran interference for him. Nothing much to it. Beckett paid well. Still does.’

  ‘Not for much longer,’ I said.

  Sligo shrugged again. The slight movement seemed almost to exhaust him and he sat still after it for nearly a minute. ‘I need a drink,’ he said. ‘Scotch, ice and water. Would you mind, Hardy? I’m pretty crook.’

  I went across to a bar similar to the one at the brothel and made the drink. I looked at Max, who shook his head. I made a drink for myself. I was puzzled. I’d expected resistance, threats, bluster. In a way, this acquiescence was harder to deal with.

  ‘Thanks,’ Sligo said when I handed him the drink. ‘What d’you want from me?’

  Max leaned forward in his chair. ‘The Craig woman says you put pressure on Beckett by saying you knew who’d done the kidnapping.’

  ‘That’s right. Johnno’s idea. He was a smart cunt.’

  ‘But you didn’t know?’ Max said.

  Sligo shook his head and then obviously wished he hadn’t. Just that movement caused him to sweat. He took a handkerchief from the pocket of the dressing gown and wiped his face. ‘I didn’t have a fucking clue. Neither did Johnno. Of course, we didn’t even bother to look.’

  I sipped my drink thinking this was very weird. I looked carefully at Sligo to see if there were any tricks he might pull. He certainly didn’t have a weapon and there didn’t seem to be any way he could summon assistance.

  ‘Have you been keeping an eye on things in Sydney?’ I asked. ‘Got anyone down there working for you?’

  ‘The only interest I’ve got in Sydney is in the horses and the football. Cavendish paid the money into an account regular as clockwork. There was nothing to watch. Tell you one thing, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Max said.

  ‘That Neville bitch, the one that used to be on the force, gave the ransom note to me.’

  This was almost too much to handle. ‘Why the fuck would she do that?’ I said.

  Sligo’s face, flabby in some places, sunken in others, almost made it to a smile. ‘You’ve gotta understand how much all these people hated each other—Johnno, Peg, me, Neville. We were all looking for the edge. Neville got the edge on Johnno but she reckoned she was safer giving me an edge on him, too. If Johnno ever sent anyone after her she’d tell them who had the note. It was all so fucking devious, no wonder it came unstuck. How did it come unstuck, anyway?’

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ I said quickly. ‘Where’s the note?’

  The almost smile had faded. Sligo sucked in a deep breath, apparently to give him the strength to get his glass to his mouth. ‘I was part of the bloody game. It amused me that Johnno was sweating for years and paying through the nose for something that didn’t exist. I burnt the fucking thing.’

  ‘Describe it,’ Max said.

  ‘Oh, it was fair dinkum, I’d say. Not one of your TV bullshit things with cut-out newspaper and that crap. It was professionally typed and what I’d call stylish. I can’t remember exactly what it said. Something about having abducted the girl and being prepared to let her live for two hundred thousand dollars.’

  Max was taking notes. ‘Who was it addressed to?’

  Sligo scratched at his grey, flaky skin. ‘The family, I think. I’m not sure.’

  ‘What were the arrangements?’

  ‘Jesus, it’s a long time ago. None of your pickup nonsense. The money was to be paid into a bank account and the girl’d be freed in a few days. You could do that back then—move large sums of money around, before the fucking government had its finger up everybody’s arse.’

  That much talking appeared to exhaust him and he sank back in his chair and sipped his drink.

  ‘They had photocopiers back then,’ I said. ‘Are you sure you didn’t make a few copies, for insurance?’

  ‘I’ve told you. I burnt it and I fucking laughed while I did it.’

  ‘You’re not laughing now,’ I said. ‘In fact you’re not much of anything. What’s wrong with you, Mr Sligo?’

  He drew in a deep breath and I could hear a rattle inside him that seemed to start in his lungs and come out through his throat. ‘I’ve got cancer. Found out for sure two days ago, except I’ve really known it for weeks. I’ve got it everywhere. Probably got it in the dick, and I don’t give a shit about you or Cavendish or Beckett or any fucking thing.’

  19

  Colin Sligo had never married and had no immediate family. He didn’t care what revelations about him came out after he was dead which he said would be a matter of weeks if he didn’t speed it up himself. He gave us the numbers of the bank account Cavendish had paid into on behalf of himself, Hawkins a
nd the two women. He kept drinking steadily and was three parts drunk by the time we were ready to go.

  ‘I still don’t see what’s in this for you, Hardy,’ he said. ‘It’s ancient history.’

  I couldn’t see any harm in it so I told him about the reward.

  He came as close as he could get to a laugh. ‘Good luck. Good fucking luck.’

  We drove back to Broadbeach and brought Bob up to scratch.

  ‘So there’s no need for you to go chasing hookers in Byron Bay,’ Max said.

  Bob nodded. ‘Pity. I suppose you guys are keen to get back to the big smoke?’

  Keen wasn’t quite the word, but things needed doing. We booked a flight, thanked Bob and I told him to send a full account.

  ‘You haven’t got a client.’

  ‘I’m going to collect the reward, remember? And if I don’t I’m going to get something out of somebody.’

  On the plane Max suddenly said. ‘I never did get to meet my widow.’

  ‘Pity,’ I said. ‘You’d have liked her. I did.’

  At Mascot, Max and I agreed to talk later on the question of our next moves. Max went off to collect his thoughts and impressions and to contact Penny Draper. I got a cab to my office and checked the mail, fax and answering machines. There was nothing from Claudia. I phoned her number at the Connaught and got no reply, not even a machine. It was late in the day and, after the warmth of the Gold Coast, the air had a bite. That suited my mood. Carrying my overnight bag, I walked to the Connaught as quickly as I could, fuelled by anger.

  I keyed her number in on the pad and got no answer. I beckoned to the desk attendant who pressed a button to unlock the door. That let me into an area that was still sealed off from the lifts. I could see what Claudia had meant about the security. I asked the attendant if he’d seen Ms Vardon recently.

  ‘Ms Vardon?’

  ‘Apartment 809.’

  He consulted a booklet. ‘That is not the name of the occupier.’

  ‘I was in there a day ago. It’s her apartment. Okay, okay. Who is the occupier?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, sir.’

  I got out my PEA licence and showed it to him. He was very unimpressed. A fifty-dollar note didn’t change his attitude and I went out onto the street seething with frustration. I stood on the spot where I’d bumped into her and could almost feel the force of her presence. I backed off to the street and stared up at the windows, remembering how she’d looked and felt and the hopes I’d had. I couldn’t trust myself to talk to another human being, not even a cabbie. I slung the bag over my shoulder by its strap and walked home to Glebe.

  No messages, no notes. I unpacked the bag, took a long shower and sat down with a large Scotch and my notebook, the one I assumed Claudia had investigated while I was asleep. I made my usual diagram with the broken and unbroken lines but my mind wasn’t on the job. I wondered whether any of what she’d told me was true. Most wasn’t. I put the pen and notebook down and worked on the Scotch. I realised that I’d dropped my guard way down. I hadn’t even recorded the registration number of her car.

  Images of her kept flashing into my mind. I’ve been told this happens when someone close to you dies. Well, that was fitting. The images were elusive, though, tangled up with vague memories of her laughter and sharp pictures of her face and movements. I scoured through the house in the hope that Claudia might have left something behind. I told myself I was doing this in the hope of finding some way to track her down, but I knew I was just looking for something to hold on to. I found nothing. I had another drink and, having skipped lunch after a busy morning and a bad afternoon, it hit me. I felt myself getting drunk and knew I should eat something but I had no appetite.

  I was on my third drink when the phone rang. Just for a split second I thought it might be Claudia and I tried to marshall my thoughts.

  ‘Cliff, this is Penny Draper.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Are you okay? Max wants to talk to you.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to talk to Max.’

  A pause. I could imagine her mouthing my words. The thought irritated me and I slammed down the phone. Fuck the disabled, I thought. As soon as it formed, the thought seemed childish and I poised my hand over the phone waiting for the ring. I snatched it up.

  ‘Penny? I’m sorry, I . . .’

  ‘Another woman already? That’s fast work, Cliff.’

  It was Claudia’s voice and I realised why Eve Crown hadn’t been able to remember whether a man or a woman had made the call to Andrea. Claudia’s voice was deep, almost masculine. Half-drunk, I was delighted by it and hated it at the same time.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say anything, Cliff?’

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘You mean ringing you now.’

  I pressed the cold glass to my forehead. ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I suppose I do. I can’t tell you just yet. I want you to know I admire you, though.’

  ‘To hell with you. You lied to me from the first fucking minute.’

  ‘That’s right. I had my reasons.’

  ‘Claudia, if that’s your bloody name. One man’s dead and another might as well be. Were there reasons for that.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with that. I swear it.’

  ‘I wish I could believe it. But how can I believe anything you say?’

  ‘You want to though, don’t you? We were good, Cliff. Weren’t we good?’

  ‘Stop it!’

  ‘All right. Let’s keep it businesslike if that’s the way you want it. What’s your next move?’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve. Why would I tell you anything? I don’t even know who you are.’

  ‘That’s right, you don’t. And that’s the way it has to stay for a while. But I can tell you this—everything you’ve done so far in this matter has been orchestrated by me. I sent Barry White to see you. And then I followed up myself. I enjoyed it, too. But you don’t want to talk about that. My god, I nearly died when I bumped into you at the Connaught. And then you handed locating Barry’s mystery contact right over to me.’

  ‘That must have given you a laugh.’

  ‘Not really. It was a lucky break, but if you’re smart enough you create your own luck. You must know that.’

  Despite all the rage inside me, I found myself enjoying talking to her. ‘What’s your interest in all this? Is it the reward?’

  ‘No. I can’t tell you but I will eventually. Right now, I need to know what happened up in Queensland. Did you see the Hawkins woman and Andrea Neville and Colin Sligo?’

  ‘You take my bloody breath away. Yes, I saw them. But I’ll be buggered if I’ll tell you anything about it. Why should I?’

  ‘You’ll have to, sooner or later. Who was it, Cliff? Who suppressed the note? Was it Mrs Beckett, Sean, Estelle, Cavendish? Do you know?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘That’s childish, after all I’ve done for you.’

  She was steering me back in that direction again and I let myself be steered. I couldn’t help it. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Didn’t you wonder why the bashing you got was so . . . gentle?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it gentle. What d’you mean?’

  ‘I wanted to test your resolve, Cliff. They went a bit too far, but I made it up to you, didn’t I? Tell me you haven’t thought about it since. Tell me you haven’t thought about having your cock in my mouth. Tell me you’re not thinking about it right now?’

  ‘I’m thinking you’re a crazy, manipulative, lying bitch . . .’

  ‘With a lovely tight cunt.’

  I was sober now, or close to it, and able to think. I tried to turn this weird contact to my advantage but couldn’t see how. I said nothing.

  ‘Stony silence. Okay. Do whatever you like. You won’t get far. I’ll call again this time tomorrow and maybe you’ll be more reasonable.’

  ‘Claudia, don’t . . .’

  She hung up and I slammed the phone
down again. It rang straight off and I let it ring for a long time. When I picked up Penny Draper sounded very peeved.

  ‘I thought you must’ve left the phone off the hook. You were very rude, before, Cliff.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I really can’t talk to Max just now. I have to get some sleep and straighten things out in my head. I’ll ring at nine tomorrow. Okay?’

  I hung on while she communicated this to Max. I expected her to speak again but it was Max himself on the line.

  ‘Cliff, I understand you’ve got some problems. Okay. Just wanted to tell you that Cavendish has gone to Melbourne for a day. They work late in that game and his secretary told me. He’s our best way into this thing as I see it. Not much we can do till he gets back. We’ll talk tomorrow. Come in here about ten. Goodnight.’

  He hung up and I stood there with my hand cramping around the phone.

  I had to bend down to shake Penny Draper’s hand and I have no doubt she would have been able to flip me over the back of the wheelchair if she’d wanted to. She was a solidly built, dark-haired woman in her thirties. Her face was pleasant and just missed being plain. She wore eye make-up and lipstick and knew how to apply them for best effect. She wore a white blouse, dark trousers and flat-heeled shoes. At a guess, she did weight training—her shoulders were developed and her grip was strong. Short nails, no rings.

  ‘I’m glad to meet you, Cliff,’ she said. ‘Max thinks a lot of you.’

  ‘Hello, Penny. Sorry I was so shiny last night. I’d been put off-balance.’

  ‘Fatal in any game,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about it. Max isn’t in yet, surprisingly, or maybe not. Can I get you a cup of coffee?’

  We were deep in the bowels of the Darlinghurst police complex in a small office that had two smaller rooms attached to it. The service, evidently, did not give great weight to its consultant investigative unit. The outfit had two computers and lots of paper. In the important divisions these days, it’s the other way around. I suppressed the normal impulse to refuse when a cripple offers to do anything for you.

  ‘Thanks, Penny. Some coffee’d be good. White, no sugar.’

  She wheeled swiftly across to a table where the urn and fixings were set out and did the business briskly. I looked around the room, noting the orderliness and efficiency. Schedules and lists were pinned to noticeboards; a big whiteboard was covered in diagrams and notes; a scale model of a building was showing on one of the computer screens while options like ‘dimensions’, ‘colour’, ‘entrance’, ‘exit’, flashed enticingly. The coffee was good. I leaned against a desk while Penny answered a phone.