by Peter Corris
Master's mates
( Cliff Hardy - 26 )
Peter Corris
Peter Corris
Master's Mates
1
Did my name mean anything to you when we spoke on the phone, Mr Hardy?’
Her name was Lorraine Master and she was in my Darlinghurst office at 2 pm, as arranged, right on time.
‘I’ve known a few Lorraines and some Masters, but no one putting them together.’
‘Put together’ described her pretty well and that was probably why the remark occurred to me. She was tall with broad shoulders and then everything tapered down. Her eyes, skin and hair were dark and her teeth and tailored suit were snowy white. She had high cheekbones and a broad mouth over a strong chin. She smelt vaguely of some flower, one of the thousands I couldn’t name, and the perfume was working well against the dust and damp spores that flavoured my office. She exuded confidence, but with it there was a note of strain, a tension.
‘I’m Stewart Master’s wife, Stewart Henry Master, that is.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘That can’t be easy. What did he get, ten years?’
‘Twelve with ten to serve minimum on account of his record. But he’s innocent.’
Master had been convicted of attempting to import a sizeable quantity of heroin from New Caledonia. He was a career criminal with a long list of prosecutions and quite a few convictions.
‘Stewart never had anything to do with drugs,’ she said. ‘Never! He didn’t use them and he didn’t sell them. He’s a health freak, a body builder.’
He’s in the right place then, I thought. All the time in the world to work on his lats and pecs and everything else.
She was sitting very straight in the client’s chair, which isn’t that easy to do because it has hard spots. That’s deliberate. A private detective doesn’t want clients to get too comfortable. They might decide that it’s just good to talk, get it off the chest, and go on their way. I was on a much better chair behind my desk with things to fiddle with. I fiddled while I spoke.
‘As I remember, Mrs Master, they found the heroin in the false bottom of a suitcase that held your husband’s things.’
‘That’s so, with presents for the children and me in the case too.’
‘Well…’
‘It was planted. That wasn’t Stewart’s suitcase.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t follow the trial closely. He-’
‘You just took in the charge and the conviction, like everyone else.’ Her smile was thin with no humour in it.
‘I was going to say he must’ve claimed the bag.’
‘It was identical to his, but it was switched.’
I was fiddling with a ballpoint pen and just managed to stop myself from clicking it on and off. I put it down. ‘Where, by whom and why?’
‘That’s what I want you to find out and I’ll pay you very well to do it.’
‘That’s encouraging. But just say I could do it, what good would it do?’
‘Then whoever’s responsible could be convicted and Stewart’d be let go.’
She was somewhere in her thirties, well educated and confident. I couldn’t help wondering how she’d hooked up with a crim like Master. She wore discreet makeup, fashionable clothes and muted accessories. She seemed the kind of person who expected things to turn out well for her, but minute cracks were showing. The last statement was too simple and she knew it. She shook her head and her glossy, shoulder length hair danced.
‘I need help,’ she said. ‘The kids need their father, I need him.’
That impressed me. Not a rave against fate or the lawyers or the cops. Good word, help. I needed it myself often enough to be glad to give it if I could. If. It didn’t sound likely.
‘Let’s look at it,’ I said. ‘The customs guys couldn’t do the switch, could they?’
‘No.’
‘Baggage handlers wouldn’t have the time.’
She’d been sitting with her hands still in her lap. Now she clenched her fists and tapped them together. ‘Not at the Sydney end, no. It must’ve happened in New Caledonia and that’s where I want you to go.’
It was September, two weeks after the media blitz on the anniversary of the attack on the twin towers and the story was still running, although there was a weird segue to the threat posed by Iraq to the ‘freedom loving people’ of the world. The day was cloudy and dull but the light in the room seemed to lift as she said New Caledonia. I had visions of palm trees and blue lagoons and snorkelling under a tropic sky. I looked at my hands, a bit pale after winter, scarred from fights and accidents, and I shivered although it wasn’t cold. I’m a summer type, greedy for the sun, and now maybe I wouldn’t have to wait for it.
‘New Caledonia,’ I said, just to be saying it.
‘You know where it is?’
‘Vaguely,’ I said. ‘You turn right at Townsville.’
‘Rockhampton actually, but near enough.’
The correction reined me in a little. If I didn’t really know where the place was, how likely was it that I’d be any use there? ‘I don’t speak French.’
She laughed, showing those strong white clackers and the thought crossed my mind that being shut away from her must be bloody hard for Master. ‘Neither does Stewart or any of his mates. There’s a whole gang of them over there and one of them, or a couple, must’ve set Stewart up.’
‘Why?’
She shrugged. ‘Thieves fall out.’
‘You’re frank about him.’
‘Stewart’s a con artist, a fraud merchant, a thief, but he’s not violent and he doesn’t deal in drugs. He… he mostly takes advantage of people who’re trying to take advantage of him.’
‘What was he doing in New Caledonia?’
‘Property deal. Legitimate.’
‘It could’ve gone wrong. He could’ve been sucked into something he couldn’t control. It happens.’
‘Not to Stewart. Too smart.’
‘I seem to recall convictions.’
‘A long time ago when he was careless.’
Did she mean before he met me, I wondered. I picked up the pen and dropped it again. ‘You want me to go over there, link up with these mates, whoever they are, and get one of them to own up to…’
‘It’s not quite as raw as that.’ She reached down for the big leather bag she’d put beside the chair. ‘I’ve got some letters he wrote me, with names and places.’ She took out several airmail envelopes secured with a rubber band. ‘And also…’ She dropped the letters on the desk and hauled up a big ring binder. ‘A transcript of the trial and I’ve spoken to Stewart’s lawyer about getting you access to visit him. I don’t expect you to take this on without checking up on us and doing some preparation.’
‘You were pretty sure of me, Mrs Master, but I don’t know how realistic you are. Your husband’s… what? In his early thirties? And a body builder. I suppose his mates are the same vintage and shark hunters, windsurfers or whatever. I’m not in the first flush of youth and I can’t take my AK47 to New Caledonia. How d’you think I should proceed?’
‘By bribery. I’m offering you a hundred thousand dollars to spend on getting what I want.’
2
By mutual agreement we didn’t sign a contract there and then. I undertook to read the letters and the trial transcript and ask around about Master while his wife made arrangements for having the money available in New Caledonia. She made it clear that if I refused the job she’d look for someone else, which tapped straight into my competitive instinct.
‘You can keep the transcript,’ she said, ‘but not the letters. I only brought the originals to show you they’re genuine. You don’t have a photocopier?’
I waved my hand. ‘As yo
u see. There’s one in William Street close by.’
‘Low overhead.’
‘That’s right. Do you mind telling me how come you’ve got a hundred grand going spare?’
She stood up to a full 180 centimetres in medium heels. ‘Yes, I do mind. But I’ll tell you this-it’s not Stewart’s ill-gotten gains.’
I put the transcript in a drawer, she picked up the bundle of letters and her bag and we went out and down the stairs into St Peters Lane. Her looks and the white suit turned heads as we made our way to the motor showroom where they let me use the copier. I wondered why she wore something like that on a dull day with rain threatening. Maybe she liked turning heads.
I copied the letters and we shook hands. We exchanged cards. Hers said she was a business consultant and carried an office phone number, a mobile number and an email address. I hadn’t got around to putting the email address on mine. She left the showroom. At a guess, her BMW-a Merc maybe-was in a nearby car park.
Chris Rowley, a salesman I sometimes have a drink with and who’s never quite given up on the idea of selling me one of their Saabs, wandered over and gave a low whistle.
‘Client?’
‘Yep. Maybe.’
‘Looks well heeled. Are you on a good earner, Cliff?’
‘Could be, with travel.’
‘Ah, time to replace that clapped-out Falcon with something more reliable?’
‘Overseas travel.’
‘Good luck to you. Don’t forget to pay for the copies.’
I did some calculations as I walked back to the office. If I took the job on it’d be a few weeks at least before I could expect to show any results or admit failure. At four hundred dollars a day plus expenses the cost would rack up pretty high, and New Caledonia was bound to be expensive. Everything French is. But funds didn’t seem to be a problem for our Lorraine. I realised that she’d told me nothing about herself. I was intrigued and it was a fair bet that was part of her plan.
In the office I tidied up a few things I’d left hanging-sent off a few emails, a couple of invoices and paid some bills. I realised that I was clearing the decks for the Master matter. No contract, no retainer-not best business practice, but then I’ve never been known for best practice at business or anything else.
I copied Lorraine Master’s phone numbers and email address into my notebook and looked at the sheets of photocopy paper. There were six letters spread out over a month or so. The handwriting was a big, loopy scrawl, easy enough to read. Immature perhaps. For some reason, maybe because I wanted to get a more objective view of Master before encountering him directly, I put off reading the letters. But I was still detecting. Because you have to see both sides to get the full message on an airmail letter, I had the Masters’ address-Double Bay, and a house not an apartment. Nice. And another thing-the letters probably didn’t contain any passionate endearments or improper suggestions or she wouldn’t have handed them over so readily. Of course there could be others, she might have culled them, but six letters in four weeks wasn’t bad for a bloke.
I put the photocopies and the transcript in a shopping bag and locked up the office. As I went down the stairs I caught traces of Lorraine Master’s perfume and I wondered about the condition of the marriage. A hundred thousand was a lot to spend on someone. Was it an investment? I was going to have to do some digging. I remember a historian telling Phillip Adams on ‘Late Night Live’ that although it was nice to have letters it was better to have them to and from, otherwise you only had part of the picture. In a way, this game is like being a historian or an archaeologist. The whole story isn’t on the surface.
Early spring in Sydney isn’t much different from late winter, which can be pretty much the same as autumn. In the hour or so since I’d been on the street the wind had picked up and was colder. New Caledonia beckoned all the more strongly. I had to walk quite a few blocks before I reached the car and I was glad to get inside. It still held some of the earlier warmth of the day. I drove home to Glebe looking forward to parking a big scotch by the computer and searching through newspaper files on the web for Stewie. Well, looking forward to the scotch.
When I got inside the phone was ringing. I let the machine pick it up.
‘Mr Hardy, this is Bryce O’Connor. I’m Mrs Master’s legal representative and-’
Quick work, Lorraine. I picked up. ‘This is Hardy.’
‘Good. I gather you want to visit Stewart Master?’
‘Well, yes, I-’
‘Would tomorrow suit?’
‘Tomorrow! What’s the rush?’
‘Mrs Master is anxious to get things moving.’
‘Just bear with me a minute, Mr O’Connor. You say you’re Mrs Master’s lawyer?’
‘Correct.’
‘Did you defend Master?’
‘I did. Unsuccessfully.’
‘This is probably a silly question to ask, but d’you think Master’s innocent?’
‘Usually I wouldn’t answer such a question, but yes, I do. This was entirely out of character for him.’
Marvellous how some people can be such accurate judges of character. I should be so cluey. ‘Did you recommend this course of action to her?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Not to put too fine a point upon it, I don’t have a high opinion of private detectives. Now, my time is valuable, Mr Hardy. Would a 10.30 am appointment at Avonlea prison suit you?’
From the tone of your voice I’d rather it was you inside to be visited than Stewie Master, mate, I thought, but I agreed and he hung up first to save spending another valuable half second. I dropped the receiver and listened to two other calls that didn’t amount to anything important and went to get the scotch. I like a brisk pace generally, but this was starting to feel like a flat out sprint. Lorraine Master had a no doubt high-price lawyer and a medium-price private detective jumping through hoops. Good going.
I poured the drink and took it upstairs to where I keep the computer in the spare bedroom. I made a mental note to check on Bryce O’Connor because I felt sure I’d have further dealings with him, and on Lorraine Master, naturally. Then I began my trawl for the dope on Stewart Master. In the old days this would have meant visits to newspapers or libraries and fiddling about with microfilms or, still worse, microfiche. Now it’s a comfort-of-your-own-home job with a drink to hand. In one way I like it, in another I don’t. There was something about getting out, rubbing up against people to get what you wanted, that felt good, gave you a feel for things.
The subscription to the Sydney Morning Herald database is another overhead, but a valuable one. I turned up the paper’s coverage of the Master trial and read through the reports carefully. I also studied the photographs and saw that the lensmen hadn’t missed an opportunity to get pictures of Lorraine. She turned up every day in a variety of outfits. Nothing flashy, all designed to show, firstly, how mature and respectable she was and, secondly, how attractive. Would a man smuggle drugs, risk gaol, risk losing me? her appearance seemed to say.
It didn’t do any good. Master, born in Melbourne, arriving in Sydney in his twenties, was a career criminal, the amount of heroin was large and he’d been ‘uncooperative’ with the police. O’Connor, giving him his due, had stressed Master’s non-involvement with drugs and his relatively clean record in recent times. A family man, happily married, a sportsman.
The clincher was Master’s fingerprints on one of the plastic bags containing the dope. O’Connor argued that these could have post-dated the discovery of the bags but two customs officials swore that Master hadn’t touched the bags. O’Connor tried the Mandy Rice-Davies argument-’Well, they would say that, wouldn’t they?’-but it didn’t work. An election wasn’t far off and law and order toughness was the watchword. Justice Mary Pappas wasn’t looking to get her sentences reviewed for softness and she hit Stewie with twelve big ones.
As far as I could judge, Bryce O’Connor QC had performed adequately under extreme difficulties. The
surprise was the inept contribution from Master himself. For a silver-tongued conman with an imposing physical presence he came across as limp and unconvincing, insisting that the heroin had been planted. After the report on the sentence there was no further mention of Master. All this had happened nearly six weeks before and I scribbled a couple of questions as I finished the last article and the scotch simultaneously. Why no appeal? And why the quickness of the trial-a few weeks only after the arrest?
My eyes were hurting. I logged off and went downstairs to scramble some eggs and drink some wine. In a moment of weakness I’d bought a case of cheap chardonnay advertised by leaflet in the letterbox. The wine was okay but the offers kept coming by snail mail and email until I was sick of the sight of them. Also, having a whole case of wine ready to hand didn’t help my periodic attempts at moderation.
As I ate, I thought about prisons. I’d been briefly on remand in Long Bay many years before and had visited people there, but not recently. I’d served a short sentence at Berrima for obstructing the course of justice a while back and that was about it for personal experience. I’d heard that things had changed in the prison system but I didn’t know anything about the changes and nothing about Avonlea. Another web search.
I rinsed the saucepan, plate, knife and fork and glass, ate an apple and brewed a pot of coffee. I sorted through the mail I’d brought in and dumped most of it in the bin. I poured the coffee and was about to go up for another computer session when the door bell rang. I wandered down the passage with the mug in my hand and opened the door without turning on the porch light. Didn’t want to look too welcoming. A large figure loomed up and shoved me aside as it bullocked its way inside.
‘Hey!’ I yelped, partly from surprise and partly because hot coffee had hit my hand.
I spun around. My intruder had taken a few strides inside and was leaning against the wall, panting hard.
‘What does she want?’ he shouted.