Win, Lose or Draw

by Peter Corris

  ‘That’s his name and my bank details.’

  I pushed it back.

  ‘And where to find Desiree.’

  ‘Why?’

  I shrugged. ‘I might learn a bit more and Colin here might want to take a photo.’

  ‘She’d need an hour to prepare.’

  ‘Just do it, Vaughan,’ I said. I took out my phone. ‘I’ll get busy with your transfer, but don’t press your luck. Don’t contact Cantini or George D’Amico.’

  He scribbled some more and I took the note.

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Mate, I don’t even know why you’ve done what you’ve already done, not really. I’m just saying—give me a clear run at this. And these details better be right or I’ll come looking for you.’

  Turnbull didn’t touch the fresh drink Cameron had brought him, a scotch and ice. He pushed back his chair and walked away. Cameron sloshed it into his own glass.

  ‘You’re hard on him,’ he said.

  ‘I’m hard on anyone who buggers me around. Keep that in mind.’

  He worked on his now double scotch while I got my bank online and transferred nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars to Turnbull’s account. When I looked up Cameron was smiling at me expectantly.

  ‘Time to talk terms with me, Cliff.’

  I shook my head. ‘Not yet it isn’t. You’ve booked yourself in for the long ride. You’re going with me to talk to Desiree and then to pay a call to …’ I looked at the note … ‘Bruce McBain of Marine Services Pty Ltd. Bring your camera.’

  Cameron was doing himself proud; he’d hired a flash SUV in Ballina, which he said had completely drained his credit card. I was resolved to get as much work out of him as possible so I said we’d take his car.

  ‘I’m going to need funds,’ he said.

  ‘You’re going to earn them. Let’s get a map and find out where this canal is.’

  We bought a map at a petrol station and located the canal. It turned out to be more of a creek, or it had been before the developments got going. It was flanked by big houses and apartment blocks that would be flooded if the global warming predictions came true. The buildings were over-elaborate showpieces, no loss if the waters rose. A houseboat was moored near where the original creek had undergone its makeover. There was a postage-stamp-sized jetty at the end of a track that led from the road down through a patch of scrubby land. Mangroves pressed against the mooring and the spot looked as though it’d be swampy when it rained.

  We got out of the car and Cameron slapped at a mosquito. ‘Ross River fever country,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s keep it cheerful, shall we?’

  ‘What’re you hoping to get from her?’

  ‘More.’

  We walked down to the jetty. It had seen better days, like the houseboat itself. It was shabby with peeling paint and rusty metal fittings. The sun was getting low in a cloudy sky and the mangroves cut down on the light. It was a gloomy scene.

  ‘Heart of darkness,’ Cameron said.

  ‘Cut it out,’ I said, but he was right. I moved gingerly onto the jetty. The planks sagged a little but held. Two steps took me to where a section of the boat rail was hinged to form a gate. I undid the catch and stepped onto the deck of the boat. It didn’t move at all. The water in the creek was low and the boat had settled on the bottom.

  Cameron was right behind me. ‘At least we won’t get seasick,’ he said.

  His chatter was annoying but I knew it was down to nervousness so I didn’t say anything. Later, maybe.

  ‘Anybody home?’ I called.

  That startled a seagull into taking off from the rail but brought no other response. I called again, with the same result. I’d been on houseboats on the Hawkesbury in jaunty times and knew where the living quarters were likely to be. We moved forward, past the wheelhouse cabin and along to where steps led down below the deck.

  Mangrove mud is smelly and the deck of the houseboat hadn’t been swabbed in a long time. Cigarette butts had been stamped into it and unnamed liquids spilled, but the smell coming up from below was something different and there was a humming sound that wasn’t mosquitoes.

  I gestured for Cameron not to touch anything and to stay back while I went down the steps. The space at the bottom is usually called the saloon. Typically, it contains a long, bolted-down table with bench seats on either side. Social area. Same here, but a woman was lying along one of the seats with her legs splayed out and her arms drooping. Flies buzzed around the slash that had cut her throat through to the vertebrae.

  I swore.

  ‘What?’ Cameron said. I was blocking his view on the narrow steps.

  ‘Have you ever seen violent death close up?’

  ‘Quite a few times.’

  ‘Kept your dinner down?’

  ‘After the first one, sure.’

  I backed up. ‘Come down and get the best shot you can. Don’t touch anything at all or drop anything. Make it quick and then we’re off.’

  He edged past me and I heard the sharp intake of his breath. I went back on deck and breathed the sultry, unclean air. Cameron came back and tapped his camera.

  ‘Got it. Very nasty, but not the worst I’ve …’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  We retreated to the boarding point and I used the sleeve of my shirt to wipe down where I’d touched the rail and the gate. We went quickly back to the car. The area could be seen from high levels of some of the buildings but I didn’t notice any movement. I told Cameron to start the engine and move off quietly. When we’d made several turns I relaxed. To give him his due, Cameron was calm and silent, concentrating on his driving. He said, ‘Who the hell did that?’

  ‘Who knows? Harris in a rage? An unhappy client?’

  ‘The girl, off her face?’

  ‘Don’t even think it.’

  Eventually, with the CBD in sight, I told him to pull over and asked to see the photograph.

  There was no doubt that the man had the talent; he’d caught the full horror of the scene with the light falling on the wound, the distributed blood and, with Desiree’s head turned slightly to one side, a single staring eye.

  ‘That should do it,’ I said.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘We’re going to see this marine broker, Bruce McBain. I’m betting he and Harris go back a long way and that he knew Desiree. If that picture doesn’t jolt the information we want out of him, nothing will.’

  ‘What if …?’

  ‘Yeah, what if she told whoever killed her about the sale of the yacht? No way to be absolutely sure but if he’s been approached by anyone involved in this mess, we’ll know when we see him.’

  ‘If he’s alive.’

  ‘That’s a point.’

  McBain’s office was a stone’s throw from the marina in a long, low, stylish building with tinted windows, several flagpoles flying various flags unknown to me and underground parking for the occupants. Visitors could please themselves.

  ‘Pricey place,’ Cameron said.

  ‘Don’t be too impressed. Everyone in it’s probably in hock to someone else.’

  ‘You’re a cynic’s cynic, Hardy.’

  We went into the building and located Marine Services on the first floor. We took the stairs and went down a corridor towards the back. Last office on the right. I pushed at the door and stood aside to let a young woman who’d been on the point of opening it step through.

  ‘We’re closed,’ she said.

  ‘Not quite.’ I flipped my wallet quickly open and shut, showing the licence. ‘Police. Mr McBain in? Good. I think you can go, Ms …’

  ‘McBain. I’m his daughter.’

  I smiled reassuringly. ‘Then we’ll know how to reach you if we need to. Thank you. Step aside, Constable.’

  Cameron moved; she edged past him and hurried away.

  ‘IPO. That’s an offence,’ Cameron said.

  ‘One of many.’

  I went past Ms McBain’s desk with all
its appurtenances neatly arranged and opened the door behind it. A fat man in shirtsleeves was standing looking out at the marina. Too fat to spin, he turned slowly.

  ‘What the hell …’

  ‘Take it easy, Mr McBain. We need a few minutes of your time.’

  ‘You have to make an appointment.’

  ‘This can’t wait. Please sit down.’

  I was watching him closely. He showed no signs of anything frightening happening to him lately, just extreme annoyance at being accosted when he was ready to sign off. Tall but very overweight, tanned but with too high a colour under the tan, he looked us over and decided he might as well sit down. Just doing that—two steps and a careful lowering—was an effort that had him sucking in a much-needed breath.

  ‘You’re brokering the sale of Lance Harris’s boat.’

  ‘Yacht. Yes.’

  ‘Pimp boat,’ I said. ‘It was arranged by …’ I nodded at Cameron. ‘Show him.’

  Cameron, who must’ve watched a few cop shows on TV, was leaning against the wall. He unshipped his camera, fiddled with the controls and put the small image a few centimetres in front of McBain’s face.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  ‘Not there at the time,’ I said. ‘Nor were we. Put your head between your legs and pull the wastepaper bin closer if you need to.’

  McBain scrabbled in a desk drawer for a packet of pills and clawed two out of the foil. The mug on his desk must have held some dregs of tea or coffee and he used them to swallow the pills. Cameron gave him one more look at the photo and then moved away.

  McBain crossed his arms over his chest and coughed. ‘I’m a sick man,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘You never saw us and you’ll never see us again, but if you don’t want to meet up with whoever did that to Desiree you’ll answer one question and take some advice.’

  McBain surprised me by recovering some of the sort of dignity that, oddly, fat men can muster. He still had his blue yacht-club tie tight around his fleshy neck and he loosened it. He took a tissue from the box on his desk and dabbed at his high, moist forehead.

  ‘And what would those things be?’

  ‘First, tell me how you were to contact Harris in Sydney and after that, forget him—and you’d be wise to take a long and far-distant holiday.’

  part three

  19

  On the Qantas flight from Coolangatta to Sydney that evening Cameron sulked. I’d made him leave the room while McBain gave me the information I wanted and I didn’t share it with him. He wanted to stay another night at the Surfside but I checked him and Turnbull, who’d already left, out and covered all their charges. I paid what he owed at the airport when he returned the SUV and I dropped off the Mitsubishi but he still wasn’t happy.

  ‘You could’ve at least booked us business class.’

  ‘Mate. Give it a rest.’

  ‘Don’t forget I saved your life.’

  ‘Maybe you did and you’ve been useful since, but I’m not your gravy train. I’ll give you some more money and you can stay in Sydney until this gets settled. I might need to call on you again. Nothing to stop you getting work and earning a quid yourself.’

  ‘I’m on a visitor’s visa.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first to fiddle that.’

  ‘I could approach Fonteyn personally. Tell him what I know.’

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘That his daughter’s hooked on drugs. That she’s manipulating a man who killed another man and that she’s possibly an accomplice …’

  He stopped.

  I nodded. ‘You see where that’s heading. If we’re going to come out of this the way we want to, certain things have to be more fully understood and, let’s say … arranged.’

  There was barely time for a drink and a snack on the flight but we had both. Cameron chewed on the twist of lemon from his gin and tonic. ‘I see what you mean. A clean outcome could be tricky to organise.’

  ‘Exactly. It’s difficult when you’re not quite sure who to blame, who to punish and who to protect.’

  ‘Quite the philosopher, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, I’m just going along hoping for the best.’

  ‘Who for?’

  ‘For everyone who deserves it.’

  ‘Does that include me?’

  ‘So far.’

  Cameron collected the luggage he’d left when he’d arrived in Sydney before scooting off to Ballina. He told me he had friends in the city and would be able to lob in with one or another of them, especially if he was able to pay his way.

  I told him to keep his phone charged and tell me where he was day by day.

  Before we separated at the airport I got his bank account details and agreed to pay him the balance of the original ten thousand.

  ‘One way and another you’ve dipped pretty deep into Fonteyn’s pocket already,’ I said. ‘What you’re getting now should keep you afloat here for a while.’

  ‘How long will it take you to find them, do you think? It’s your city and you’ve got the contact info.’

  ‘You mean how long will it take to detach a drug-addicted teenager from a homicidal paedophile drug dealer without causing too much collateral damage?’

  ‘Okay, okay, I take the point. But the whole deal has to be part of the outcome. Don’t forget, I still have the photographs of the girl and Desiree, and in case you didn’t notice I sent them to the Cloud.’

  ‘I’m not forgetting. The girl? That could be worth something to you whether things go right or wrong. Desiree? I wouldn’t be sure that having taken that picture is to your advantage.’ Then I did a fair but exaggerated impression of his mockney accent. ‘Know wot I mean?’

  I left him with his cameras and other baggage and caught a cab to Glebe.

  I emptied my bag. Dumped some clothes in the washing machine and checked the accumulated mail—there was nothing that couldn’t wait. Ditto for phone messages. They mostly came to my mobile these days and there was nothing of importance there either.

  I rang Megan to tell her I was back.

  ‘You sound tired,’ she said.

  ‘Been busy. How’re you lot?’

  ‘Okay. We’re thinking of buying a house and want your advice.’

  ‘What do I know? I’ve only ever had one.’

  ‘You are tired. Did you get the boys something from Norfolk?’

  ‘How about a machete?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. Yes, I got a telescope and a compass from the Bounty. Seems they had plastic in those days.’

  ‘How’s the investigation?’

  ‘Moving forward, as they say.’

  ‘Weasel words, I’m ashamed of you using language like that. Get some sleep, Cliff.’

  I thought about going to the office but decided against it. Didn’t like to admit it, but I was mentally as well as physically tired. And I had some serious thinking to do.

  Recently, someone had told me that, if I wasn’t going to grind my own coffee beans, then keeping the ready-ground stuff in the fridge was the go. Since I’d been doing that my coffee-making had improved and I’d started to buy more upmarket stuff. I brewed up a pot and excavated and microwaved lamb curry with rice. I ate the curry with a glass of red and sat down with a mug of coffee, laced with scotch, to think.

  There were several possibilities. One was, in effect, to toss in the towel. If Fonteyn were to blanket the Sydney media about his missing daughter the smell of money could flush Harris out. Against that, Harris could face prosecution for abducting and abusing a minor, not to mention his likely involvement in the death of Paul D’Amico. Then there was his apparent obsession with the girl. That could result in almost any disaster.

  McBain had given me a name, a phone number and an address but there were problems with that as well. The name was Philip Harris and McBain didn’t know whether it was Lance Harris’s brother, father, son, cousin or a simple coincidence of a not uncommon su
rname. If it was family, how deep did loyalties run? Lance’s reputation for letting people down could have an effect. The Zaca 3 was worth a lot. Blood is thicker than water but not always thicker than money.

  And there was the story of Harris wanting papers for his child-bride-to-be. There are ways of going about that and I knew people who could point me in the right direction. That could be a crab-like approach to the matter.

  That was as far as my thinking took me. I cleaned up, put the washed clothes in the dryer and arranged the Bounty’s telescope and compass on a shelf.

  Boats, I thought, bloody boats. I climbed the stairs and went to bed.

  In the morning Cameron rang to let me know his address in Petersham.

  ‘Give me a ring when you fancy a Portuguese meal.’

  ‘I might do that.’

  ‘Have you decided what to do?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said and hung up.

  I’d decided on a full frontal approach. Philip Harris lived in Greenwich. I rang the number and got a message telling me to call a mobile number. When I did I got a businesslike voice.

  ‘Philip Harris.’

  ‘Mr Harris, my name’s Hardy. I’m a private detective. I’m ringing about Lance Harris. Am I right in thinking he’s your …?’

  ‘Brother. Yes. What’s he done now?’

  ‘I’m keen to contact him about several matters. Could we meet?’

  ‘No. I don’t want anything to do with him or with anyone connected with him.’

  ‘He gave your name as a contact to a broker who’s selling his yacht and I …’

  The laugh that came over the line was full-throated and genuine. ‘You must be joking. Lance wouldn’t sell his boat in a fit unless it was some shonky scheme that he’d come out of with the money and the boat. And he wouldn’t involve me in anything like that. If I knew where the bastard was I’d set the police on him immediately and hope to recover one tenth of what he’s defrauded me of. You’ve been misinformed. Goodbye.’

  I put the phone down and sat back feeling foolish. McBain had been scared out of his wits and I was sure he’d told me what Harris had told him. Leaving a false trail is a standard con man’s trick. Did Harris know he was being pursued other than for his involvement with the D’Amicos? It seemed unlikely. Had he told Desiree the truth about his plans for the girl and the future? It seemed to fit his profile.