by Peter Corris
McGuinness drew the robe tighter around him for warmth and reassurance. ‘You don’t understand about these people, do you? They love to rub each other’s noses in the dirt. You think mega-rich rivals don’t invite each other to their big bashes? They do, all the time. They’re polite on the surface and they fester underneath.’
What he was saying had a ring of truth to it, although I’d only glimpsed both protagonists briefly. McGuinness was acting like one of those Mafia informants who’d decided to spill all the beans and take his chances. In his case the risks weren’t as great, but his involvement in Louise Kramer’s death, whatever it was, had convinced him they were great enough.
‘I believe you, Clive,’ I said, ‘and I’m prepared to let you drive the Beemer to Queensland or to Mascot with your passport in your pocket or whatever, but I need to know where Billie is.’
He nodded. ‘I’ve got about a million frequent flyer points. I’ve got contacts in the States. I can make a living there.’
‘What about this joint, and Dottie?’
He shrugged. ‘Both rented. Dottie’s not my wife. I don’t know where the Marchant woman is, but I know who does know.’
‘And who’s that?’
‘I need my guarantee.’
‘So do I, that you tell me and then don’t tell whoever it is that I’m on the way.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because you’re a slimy, slippery bastard and I can see the wheels turning in your head.’
We kicked it around for a while, with the evening grower cooler and McGuinness feeling it sharply in his wet state and needing a drink worse than I did. Eventually we came up with a solution: McGuinness booked a seat on a flight to Bangkok leaving in about three hours. I didn’t allow him to shower and I watched him closely. He dressed in his tan lightweight suit, no tie, packed a bag and collected his passport. I’d drive him to the airport and stay with him all the way to the departure gate, keeping his boarding pass, ticket and passport in my pocket to that point. No phoning permitted. He agreed to tell me what I wanted to know when he was due to board. I told him that if what he said didn’t check out I’d arrange for him to be arrested in Bangkok.
‘Nasty gaols there, they tell me,’ I said.
He looked sceptical. ‘I don’t think you’d have the clout. A crummy private eye.’
‘Mate, all I’d have to do would be to say you were a terrorist, head of a cell here in Frenchs Forest with plans to set Ku-ring-gai Chase ablaze this summer. Drop a couple of cans of petrol in your garage with a few standard lighters. I’ve got your passport number and your flight details. They’d jump at it, the level of paranoia being what it is.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
Give him his due, that was when he made his move and it was smart to do it after a reluctant compliance. I’d moved a little too close to him; he sensed it, got set, pivoted, and aimed a hard chop at my neck. We’d had another drink and he’d made his strong. Maybe the dousing in the pool had affected him. Either way, I saw the blow coming and swayed back in time. I shoved him hard while he was still moving and his hand cracked into the doorjamb. He let out a yell.
‘That’ll bruise,’ I said. ‘Might be broken.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Never mind, those nice hosties on Thai Air’ll look after you. Especially in business class.’
All the fight went out of him as he nursed his hand. He left the house without a backward glance, as if his life to that point was disposable. I took his wallet with his credit cards and his passport and put them in the door pocket on the driver’s side of the car. He had to manage his suitcase with his left and he struggled to get it into the boot. Too bad. Another struggle to get buckled up and we were on our way.
We scarcely exchanged a word on the way to Mascot. McGuinness was slumped in his seat, obviously depressed and uncertain of his future. I was calculating the odds on his lying and leading me up a garden path or into something worse. I thought I had him bluffed, but it’s a strategy you can never be sure of.
At the airport, I parked and he struggled to the check-in with his case and collected his ticket and boarding pass. I took them and his passport from him and we went to the bar.
We had almost an hour to wait and McGuinness got stuck into the scotch. I drank coffee. His right hand was changing colour but he could move and flex his fingers so it looked as though nothing was broken.
‘Have them put some ice on it when you get on board,’ I said.
He didn’t reply. Bad loser.
He was about half drunk when his flight was called. I held his documents out of his reach, and bent towards him with my hand to my ear.
‘Let’s hear it, Clive.’
‘How do I know you won’t do what you said anyway?’
‘You don’t. You have to rely on my integrity. Come on, they’re boarding.’
He let out a whisky-laden sigh. ‘Rhys Thomas,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Rhys Thomas. D’you know him?’
‘Yeah, I know him. He’s Clement’s muscle.’
The call came again and McGuinness stood. ‘They handed Marchant over to Thomas.’
‘Who’s they?’
‘Phil Courtney, the guy I was with in your shitty motel room and a nurse—well, she would’ve looked like a nurse.’
‘I don’t get it, Thomas works for Clement.’
‘Clement thinks he does, but he’s really Barclay’s man. He’s got an interest in a sort of physiotherapy clinic in Manly. I suppose that’s where she is.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘I don’t know. I told you I could only give you a name.
I don’t know what it’s called. Just that it’s in Manly somewhere. Thomas is going to get the information, whatever it is, and use it against Clement for Barclay. Now give me the fucking ticket.’
It sounded plausible, something unlikely to be invented on the spur of the moment by a stressed, frightened man. His flight had been called; now he was being paged and he hadn’t passed through customs. We moved towards the area and an impatient-looking attendant beckoned us. It looked as if the tardy passenger would be escorted through and rushed to the plane. That should prevent any phoning. I handed over the documents; he almost fell into the arms of the attendant.
There were three physiotherapy clinics listed for Manly in the phone book. I wrote down their names, called in at the first Internet café I saw and checked on them. One place, North Steyne Physio and Orthopaedics, announced a speciality in injuries and discomforts associated with horse riding. Had to be the one, given Thomas’s racing background. I was low on petrol after covering so much of Sydney; I stopped to fill up the tank and myself. I bought a kebab, a stubby of stout and a takeaway coffee with sugar—nothing like a diversity of cultures food and drink-wise— and consumed them in the car while I considered what to do next.
If Billie Marchant was at the Manly clinic, there were bound to be people guarding her. If she wasn’t, there was a good chance she was dead. As I ate and drank I pondered what the information she had could possibly be. Lou Kramer had given me no inkling other than that she thought it could be important—something to do with what had got Eddie killed, perhaps about someone ill-disposed towards Clement within his organisation. Subsequent events tended to confirm that but had brought no enlightenment.
The first thing to do was take a look at the clinic. I drove to Manly and located it a block away from North Steyne, close to Pittwater Road. The photo on the web page had flattered it. It was a nondescript two storey building in the middle of a set of three. The one to the left was a secondhand bookstore and the one on the right was up for lease. I went around the block and drove past it twice.
Manly being Manly, there was a fairly constant flow of traffic and no convenient parking places. I found one a block away and came back on foot to do a recce. There were lights on in the upper level of the building housing the clinic but its street-front windows and door
were dark. I kept on the other side of the one-way street, walked down to the next crossroad, and circled around to try to get a look at the back. A laneway ran behind the buildings fronting the road and I walked up it until I was standing facing a high brick wall with the clinic behind it, its upper level lights muted but visible. The gate in the wall looked impregnable, but the rickety fence of the place up for lease next door offered possibilities.
Still, no obvious strategy presented itself, not for a one-man operation. I needed support. I reached for my mobile, and swore. Disliking the thing, I’d left it in the car, a bad habit I was having trouble breaking. I walked back to the car and put the key in the lock. I felt a blow to my back and pitched forward against the car. Something cold and metallic jabbed me twice behind the ear and then I could smell it rather than feel it. He kept me pressed against the car door.
‘Well, well, if it isn’t Mr Nuisance himself. Cannot learn a lesson.’
South African accent, youngish voice. At a guess, Jonas Clement Junior.
‘You can’t shoot me here,’ I said.
‘This is silenced, Mr Hardy. You would just be another collapsing drunk being helped by a big, strong young fellow like me. You’ll cross the road and go into the place you were so curious about. Very careless is what you are, man.’
17
You don’t argue with a big ex-mercenary holding a silenced gun, but you muster what dignity and weapons you can. I relaxed under his pressure and quietly pocketed the keys.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘You’re holding the cards, Jonas.’
He clipped my ear, quickly and stingingly, with the pistol and then eased back. ‘That’s for being cheeky. Now we wait for a break in the traffic and go across. Straight across. If you run or go left or right, you’re dead.’
I stepped back from the car and he shepherded me around it to face the road. The traffic wasn’t heavy and he prodded me forward.
‘You’ve done this before,’ I said.
‘You just bet I have, and enjoyed it, too.’
‘Yeah, in Africa. Probably with twelve-year-olds, fourteen tops, old women maybe.’
‘You’re talking yourself into your grave.’
We were across the road. The darkened door slid open and I went through into a carpeted area, lit only by the torch a big man was carrying.
‘Him again,’ he said, and I knew he was another of my Toxteth hotel friends.
‘Yes, Kezza, him again. I thought so.’
‘How did he . . . ?’
‘He’s going to tell us. You rang Rhys?’
‘He’s on his way.’
‘Right. So, we’ll find somewhere to make Mr fucking Hardy uncomfortable while we wait. See if he’s carrying anything of interest.’
Kezza slapped my pockets and took the keys. ‘Where’s your wallet?’
It was in the glove box with the .38 and I didn’t want them looking. For ease of access, I’d put a few things in my shirt pocket earlier—my investigator’s licence, some cash and a credit card. I tapped the pocket. ‘Don’t carry one.’
Kezza took the licence, the card and the money. Clement turned on a light and we went up the stairs to where a series of rooms ran off a narrow passage. He pushed me into a room and slammed and locked the door. The room was small; it had no window and contained only a lightly padded massage or treatment bench without any covering and a locked cabinet that presumably contained items to do with physiotherapy. I sat on the bench and leaned back against the wall. Clement had been right— driving past the place slowly twice, parking too close and not being careful around the back had been sloppy work.
I’d expected some pretty heavy security inside if Billie was being held here, but why the close watch on what came and went outside? I hadn’t anticipated that and found it puzzling. What were they expecting? I knew McGuinness hadn’t alerted them and I couldn’t come up with any explanation. I gave up and concentrated on trying to gain some sort of advantage. The cabinet was solid and firmly locked. The door likewise. The walls and ceiling were smooth plasterboard; the overhead light was covered by a screwed-down plastic shield. The lino tiles on the floor were tightly glued into place. I had my fists and feet, nothing else. Maybe my brains.
I stretched out on the bench and tried to remember exactly what McGuinness had said about Rhys Thomas. He’s really Barclay’s man. Assuming Kezza and Clement weren’t aware of this, and there was no other heavy in the place, that could be my advantage.
After about an hour, multiple footsteps sounded in the passage and the door was unlocked. Rhys Thomas came in accompanied by Clement. I stayed where I was.
‘You look relaxed, Hardy,’ Thomas said.
‘I’ve been in worse places.’
‘I’ll bet you have. So have I, so has Jonas here. How’s the eye?’
‘Just a split in old scar tissue. It wasn’t as bad as it looked.’
‘You were a fighter, were you?’
‘Among other things. Is Wilhelmina here?’
‘Who?’
I sat up. ‘Thought you mightn’t know. That’s her name. Billie’s short for Wilhelmina.’
‘This man is a real smartarse, Rhys,’ Clement said. ‘I vote we take him to the Gap and push him off.’
‘Not very original,’ I said.
Clement took two steps forward with two fists clenched. ‘You make me angry, man.’
‘Short fuse. Insecure. Probably something to do with your father.’
‘Stop it, Hardy,’ Thomas said. ‘Your pop psychology’s a load of shit. Jonas here just loves violence, goes well with his bad temper.’
‘Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here,’ Clement said.
Thomas looked at him. ‘It might be best for you not to have been here, Jonas. Depends on how things turn out.’
Clement shrugged, retreated and seemed to lose interest, leaning back against the wall.
That remark reminded me of Thomas’s quick response when I’d kidded him about Dylan Thomas. He wasn’t the thug he sometimes appeared. It also made me suspect what McGuinness had said about him being Barclay’s man was right. He was slightly bow-legged, partly disguised by loose black trousers, but solidly built. He wore a cream linen shirt and boots with a bit of heel. Lifted him to maybe 180 centimetres. Touch of vanity there. As on party night, his thinning brown hair was slicked straight back. At a guess his teeth were false; probably hit a rail or got hit by a hoof somewhere along the line.
‘The woman’s here, Hardy,’ Thomas said. ‘But how did you find out?’
I shook my head. ‘Sworn to secrecy.’
An impatient grunt from Clement, ignored by Thomas.
‘Doesn’t matter. But we’ve got a problem. I bet you’d like a drink.’
Was this Thomas showing his hand? Didn’t seem likely with Clement looming there in the background, but anything to get out of this room which was starting to feel airless and to smell a bit.
‘Sure,’ I said.
Thomas inclined his head. We went out and down the passage with Thomas leading and Clement following close behind at my shoulder. I picked up the source of the smell—Jonas Clement Junior had very bad BO.
At the end of the passage there was a sitting area with lounge chairs and a low table. A sort of down-market conference room. I dropped into one of the chairs, grateful for the comfort after the hard bench. Clement, looking bored, sat not far from me. I gave a couple of puzzled sniffs in his direction; he scowled at me, opened his jacket and let me see the holstered pistol.
Thomas put my keys, cards and money on the table as items of no interest. Bad sign. He opened a bar fridge, took out a can of beer and tossed it roughly in Clement’s direction. He stretched out a long arm and caught it easily— nothing wrong with the reactions.
‘What d’you fancy, Hardy?’ Thomas said.
But I didn’t really know what he was up to and I wasn’t going to play good-guy games with him. ‘It doesn’t fucking matter, Rhys. Whatever you like. Let’s get on with it.�
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Thomas poured two solid slugs of vodka and dropped in a few ice cubes. He handed me a glass and bared his too-white and even teeth in a smile. ‘We’ve got a problem with Ms Marchant. She won’t respond in any way. We think she’s faking but how can you tell with a zonked-out junkie like that?’
I drank some of the icy vodka and felt it warm and encourage me the way it should. ‘My heart bleeds for you. Maybe she’s suffered brain damage from being buggered about by you and your goons.’
Thomas shook his head. ‘I don’t think so and neither does a doctor we brought in to look at her. Pulse fine, blood pressure okay, etc.’
Clement had sucked down his beer in no time flat. He crushed the can in his fist. ‘Fuck this. Let’s work this prick over until he tells us how he got here and then let me have a go at the woman. In Africa we worked out certain things about women—what they really didn’t like, you know?’
Thomas had a long pull on his drink and shrugged. ‘You see how things stand, Hardy? Jonas here is impatient and wants to use his considerable experience.’
‘The impetuosity of youth,’ I said.
‘Fuck you,’ Clement said. ‘Give me another beer, Rhys, and I’ll show you some of the things you can do with an empty can.’
Thomas said, ‘Jonas isn’t subtle, is he? Scary though.’
‘One-on-one I’d give myself a chance,’ I said. ‘Fifty-fifty, I’d say. But like all bullying cowards that wouldn’t be his style.’
Thomas tossed off the rest of his drink. ‘This is all bullshit. I’m in charge here and I’ve got a different idea. Marchant won’t talk to us, but I think she would to your girlfriend.’
I looked and felt blank.
‘Ms Sharon Marchant. You’re going to get her here to persuade her sister to be sensible.’
I almost laughed. ‘You’re dreaming. She’s not my girlfriend.’
‘Really? You disappoint me. Doesn’t matter. We need her here and you’re going to get her to come.’
‘I don’t think so.’