by Peter Corris
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Contact Michael Tennyson.’
‘Jesus. You don’t mean meet him?’
‘No, I want you to say you’re returning his gifts and that he has no chance with you because you have someone else in your life now.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘If you agree, I want us to go around together. Like now, and go to other places. If Tennyson has someone following you he’ll see us together. Even if he doesn’t he’ll find out in some way. He has the contacts.’
‘Yes, I’m sure he has. But why?’
‘If he sent Mountjoy after Bobby he’ll very likely send him after me.’
We both drank some wine. She dipped a finger in the wine and drew circles on the table. Her nails were short, unpainted but well cared for. She looked up and examined me as if she was seeing me for the first time. She saw greying but thick hair, weather-beaten skin and a nose shaped by other men’s fists. No oil painting but not a gargoyle either.
‘You mean we’d have to appear to be lovers?’
‘Something like that.’
She nodded. ‘You’re a bit old for me, but I think I could make it look convincing.’
We kept it up for ten days. We went to dinner three or four times, met for lunch a couple of times and I stayed over at her flat, sleeping on the couch, two nights, and she spent one night in my spare room. I drove her to work on two mornings. She took my arm in the street sometimes. After a week she phoned Tennyson and told him there was a new man in her life.
‘He was furious,’ she said. ‘He called me foul names and said he’d make you sorry you were ever born.’
‘Good.’
‘Aren’t you afraid?’
‘No. I’ve had a lot of experience at dealing with threats and threateners.’
‘I believe you. What happened to your shoulder?’
I’d tried not to show any sign of the injury but she’d picked it up. I told her and she made a face.
‘We caused a lot of trouble, Robert and I, didn’t we?’
‘None of it your fault, Jane.’
It was all very strange. I’d never had a platonic relationship with a woman before. I enjoyed her company. She was very intelligent and had a sense of humour. Her flat was crammed with books—mostly history and biography, a few of which I’d read. Her taste in fiction was more highbrow than mine, but she had a scattering of good lighter stuff. We talked books a bit and politics. She was editing a biography of William John MacKay, the policeman who pulled Francis de Groot from his horse after he’d slashed the ribbon to mark the opening of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. MacKay went on to become Commissioner of Police. It sounded like the sort of book I’d read and she was interesting about it.
We played it straight, no flirtation. She was still grieving for Bobby and she was right—she was much too young for me and, anyway, something serious was at stake. I enjoyed it, but it did leave me acutely aware of my singleness.
Megan spotted us at dinner in Newtown and rang me the next day.
‘Who is she, Cliff?’
‘A client.’
‘Nothing more? You seemed very friendly.’
‘Nothing more.’
‘Are you sure? She was giving you the look.’
‘What look?’
‘The look a woman gives a bloke when she’s getting interested in him.’
‘No chance of that.’
‘I worry about you. You should be looking for someone.’
‘I’m always looking for someone, it’s my job.’
‘That’s right, joke—but too long on your own and you’ll dry up, get set in bachelor ways. Before long you’ll be washing your underwear in the bathroom basin and wearing your socks for a week.’
‘Is that what bachelors do?’
‘Yes.’
‘How would you know?’
‘I’ve read about it.’
‘I’ll try to remember it, love, but if it’ll set your mind at rest there is someone I’m hoping to catch up with when I’ve finished this job.’
‘Sounds as if you’re making it up.’
‘No. She’s a singer. I’ve got her CD somewhere. I’ll lend it to you.’
‘Wow!’
A couple of times as we went about our phony courtship I had the feeling that we were under surveillance. But it was a fleeting feeling, hard to be certain and not something I could act on. I was sure we were followed on the roads twice, but as soon as I took action designed to draw the driver closer or trap him, he peeled off. A white Commodore. The second time Jane noticed.
‘We were being followed, weren’t we?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t try to get away.’
‘No, I tried to let the car get closer to have a better look at the driver.’
‘But?’
‘He twigged to what I was doing.’
‘This isn’t working, is it?’
‘Not as well as I hoped. Wait on, he’s back. Jane, I want to try something drastic. Just do exactly as I say, okay?’
She nodded.
We’d had dinner in Randwick. I drove back to her place, parked outside and escorted her up the path. The car that had followed us cruised slowly into view. Halfway to the entrance doors I grabbed her and kissed her.
‘Shove me away hard and hit me,’ I said.
She did it. I slapped her quite solidly, held her and slapped again, trying to make the second slap look harder but pulling it. I swung her around and pushed her down without letting her fall. I kept a firm grip and dragged her to the entrance, pretending to shout at her.
‘Struggle,’ I said.
She struggled.
We got to the entrance, where we couldn’t be seen from the street and I put my arms around her.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m trying to provoke something. It was the only way. Are you all right?’
She was breathless and hung on to me for a minute before breaking away.
‘I’m all right. It hurts a bit. I’d hate to be hit by you if you meant it.’
‘You’re terrific, Jane, just terrific. Go in now. I’ll ring you tomorrow. I’m hoping this’ll bring things to a head.’
She put her hand to the side of her face. ‘Be careful,’ she said.
I waited until she had gone inside and then I came out and walked back to my car. There was no movement in the street. I drove back to Glebe as slowly as I could. I wasn’t followed. I gave myself a physical check as I drove. I was still stiff and sore in various spots and there was no point in pretending I was the fighter I’d once been. But I was still strong and quick and could put up a good show at least for a short spell. And most street fights are over within seconds. I’d been in quite a few and seen others and never one that lasted as long as they do in the movies.
He was waiting for me as I suspected he would be. It was late and the street was quiet. The white Commodore was parked four or five car spaces from my house. I stripped off the light jacket I was wearing as I got out of the car. I approached my gate and he stepped out from behind my neighbour’s giant 4WD. The spot isn’t well lit, but it was light enough for me to see that he was big and bulky with a prominent jaw and a beard.
‘You’re going to be sorry you were ever born, arsehole,’ he said.
‘You’re repeating what your boss said. Don’t you have any ideas of your own?’
That annoyed him, which was his first mistake. He rushed at me. I stepped aside and almost tripped him but he was nimble and got his balance back before I could hit him. He got in one straight punch to my still tender shoulder and I gasped and had to step back. That encouraged him and he made his second mistake. Kick-boxers think they have an extra weapon but they don’t really. As soon as they swing that foot their balance is a factor and in the ring their opponents aren’t permitted to grab hold. I was waiting for the kick. It came and if it had landed it would have done serious damage. He wore a pair of heavy boots, but that was anothe
r mistake. He’d have trained and competed in light shoes and the boots slowed him and affected his timing just a little. Just enough. I caught the foot in both hands and twisted hard as his weight came forward. He screamed as his knee ligaments and tendons stretched and tore and he went down. His head hit a brick pillar and he flopped onto his back. His eyes rolled up and closed.
It had only taken a few seconds and was quiet apart from his yell. I grabbed a handful of his shirt and coat collar and pulled him through my gate and up onto the porch. He was stirring but he wasn’t going anywhere with that knee and a probable concussion. I hauled him through the door, dragged him inside and shut the door. He tried to stand and gasped as his weight went onto the knee. He didn’t seem to know quite what had happened and he let me half carry him down the passage and drop him into an armchair.
His thick hair had protected his head, but blood was oozing out and trickling across his forehead. I wet a washcloth in the bathroom, filled a glass with water and brought them to him. I put the cloth up to his head and lifted his hand to hold it there. I put the glass in his other hand and lifted it to his mouth.
‘Drink it,’ I said.
He was dazed and uncoordinated but he gulped down some of the water and kept the cloth in place. My shoulder hurt where he’d hit me but compared to him I was in very good shape. His leg twitched and he yelped as the knee hurt him. The pain seemed to clear his brain and he stared at me as if he couldn’t believe someone so much older had taken him so easily.
‘You’d be Alexander Mountjoy,’ I said. ‘Michael Tennyson’s pimp and gofer.’
‘Fuck you,’ he said.
‘We’re going to have a talk, Alex, but first I need a drink.’
‘My leg’s . . .’
‘Badly damaged and the longer it stays without treatment the worse it’ll be. You might try this new synthetic stuff the footballers go in for. Not sure if it’ll work for the medial and the cruciate, but . . .’
‘Talk about what?’
‘Hang on.’
I went upstairs and got the miniature tape recorder Hank had given me as a birthday present and put it in my pocket. Then I got a bottle of scotch and a couple of glasses from the kitchen. I poured two hefty drinks, gave him one and put my hand in my pants pocket to turn on the recorder.
‘Let me get a few things straight. You’ve been helping Tennyson harass Jane Devereaux—delivering obscene material, following her, and you broke into her flat and stole some letters, right?’
‘Fuck you again.’
‘The longer it takes, the worse for the leg.’
‘Okay, okay, yes. I did what I was told to do. No one got hurt.’
‘Why is Tennyson doing this?’
‘He’s crazy, he’s obsessed with the ugly cunt.’
‘And you drove your car at Mary Oberon. Was that on Tennyson’s instruction, too?’
‘Yeah, that bloody whore fucked up. She was supposed to screw Forrest up good and proper, but she wasn’t up to it. She was supposed to get photos and she fucked that up.’
‘And she wiped the emails.’
‘Right, the dumb cunt.’
‘Tennyson’s an unforgiving employer, eh?’
He didn’t respond.
‘All right, here’s the big one. Why did you shoot Bobby Forrest?’
He’d drunk most of the scotch and was wincing with pain but suddenly his manner changed. He gaped at me.
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘I didn’t shoot him.’
‘Tennyson said he’d have him killed.’
He shook his head and the movement hurt his leg. ‘Look, Tennyson’s crazy but he’s not that crazy. He’d have got me to beat him up, sure, and I’d have been glad to do it—cocky ponce. But that’s all.’
It wasn’t what I expected to hear and I had to struggle to control my reaction. The trouble was, I believed him. His surprise and alarm were genuine, no doubt about it.
‘You followed him and Jane Devereaux in a white Commodore. Forrest spoke to me just before he was killed and he was being followed by a white Commodore.’
‘There’s a million fucking white Commodores.’
That was true.
‘Tell me what happened tonight.’
He told me that he’d phoned Tennyson and reported that I’d hit Jane Devereaux. Tennyson told him to wait for me and hurt me.
‘Kill me?’ I said.
‘No! Just put you in hospital for a long time.’
‘Weren’t up to the job, were you?’
‘Call an ambulance.’
‘I’ve got a better idea.’ I took the tape recorder from my pocket, turned it off, rewound it a bit and hit play.
‘. . . crazy, he’s obsessed with the ugly cunt.’
‘Oh, Jesus,’ Mountjoy said.
I poured him another drink. ‘Got your mobile on you, Alex? You’re going to give Tennyson a call.’
‘No.’
I pointed to his knee. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there were some bone splinters drifting around in there. Every minute counts.’
He made the call and I took the phone.
‘This is Cliff Hardy. I think you know who I am.’
‘Yes.’
A nicely modulated private school voice.
‘I’ve got Alex Mountjoy here and he’s not feeling very well.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes. I’m going to play a tape of our conversation. I suggest you listen carefully.’
I played the tape. Mountjoy sweated. He used the wet cloth to wipe his face.
‘What do you want?’ Tennyson said.
‘It’s not a question of what I want. It’s what I demand, what I insist upon. I can make as many copies of this tape as I like and send them where I choose, starting right now. Imagine the TV news, imagine the blogs, imagine the share prices of your companies.’
‘Go on.’
‘You are not to make any kind of contact with Jane Devereaux. You are not to phone, email or write to her, nor to approach her.’
‘You hit her.’
‘That was a charade. Mountjoy fell for it and so did you. Have you understood so far?’
‘Yes.’
‘Think about the restraining order she could get if she used that tape.’
‘You’ve made your point.’
‘I’m not finished. You are not to cause her any professional difficulties. I know you have influence in the publishing world. If she runs into any trouble that threatens her position the tape gets distributed. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Same goes for me. Any smell I get of your interference in my affairs and the world learns what a pathetic, bullying prick you are.’
That got to him. His voice took on an edge: ‘Is that all?’
‘No, you’d better send some people for Alex. We’re at my place in Glebe. A couple of paramedics and a tame doctor if you have one. Better bring a gurney and some way he can travel comfortably.’
‘I gather you thought I was responsible for Forrest’s death.’
‘I was wrong there. Do you know who was responsible?’
‘No, but whoever it was has my congratulations.’
He hung up. I handed the phone back to Mountjoy.
‘He’s not happy, Alex.’
They arrived forty-five minutes later—two men in tracksuits with a trolley and another in a business suit with a doctor’s bag. I met them at the door and waved them in with my .38 in my hand. The doctor looked startled when he saw the gun; the other two didn’t.
‘Has he had any medication?’ the doctor asked.
‘Scotch,’ I said.
One of the tracksuited guys sniggered.
I stayed by the door while they made their arrangements. The man who’d sniggered approached me, showing that his hands were empty.
‘What did you do to him?’
‘Not much. He mostly did it to himself.’
‘Good on you, he’s a ripe shit.�
��
Mountjoy yelped and swore a couple of times and gave me a filthy look as he was wheeled past. I watched as they loaded him into the back of a station wagon. Then one of the helpers walked back to Mountjoy’s Commodore. I waited by the open door with the pistol behind my back until both cars had gone.
I put the gun away, finished my drink and poured another. I got rid of the bloodstained cloth and sat with the tape recorder in my hand. I ejected the cassette—a tiny object to have such a decisive impact. Sort of decisive. I called Jane.
‘It’s over,’ I said.
‘What do you mean, Cliff?’
‘Tennyson and Mountjoy weren’t behind Bobby’s death but I’ve fixed it so that Tennyson won’t bother you again. He won’t ever contact you or cause you any professional trouble.’
There was a pause. ‘How did you manage that?’
‘I applied the right kind of pressure to the right person.’
‘That’s the answer you gave me once before. It means you won’t say.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Jane. It just means that you can get on with your life without worrying about Tennyson.’
‘And without Robert. So you still don’t know who killed him?’
‘No, but I’ll keep looking.’
‘However can I thank you, Cliff?’
‘Just send me a copy of the book about the top copper.’
I had a bad time at the inquest. The coroner made derogatory remarks about my profession and, by implication, about me. He came close to suggesting I’d failed in my duty of care.
Rockwell gave a detailed account of his investigation at that point but ended by admitting that he had no promising leads to follow. The finding was inevitable: Robert Raymond Forrest was killed by a person or persons unknown.
Rockwell approached me after the hearing.
‘Still sniffing around, Hardy?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Still bankrolled by Ray Frost?’
‘I wouldn’t call it bankrolled, but he’s still keen to find out what happened and you blokes obviously haven’t got very far.’
‘Have you heard the latest theory?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Don’t you read the tweets and blogs, keep up with Facebook?’