by Peter Corris
‘You’ve got the look all right. Sit down, let’s have a chinwag.’
He was about fifty, middle-size, not fat but getting there with flesh under his chin and soft bulk to his upper body. I sat, opened the can, took a swig and pulled out my wallet. I put a hundred and twenty dollars of Ray Frost’s money on the table beside my chair.
He touched his eyebrows. ‘You’ve done some boxing.’
I nodded. ‘Amateur.’
He drank some beer. ‘Ex-cop?’
‘No . . .’
‘Ex-something.’
‘Army.’
‘You don’t say much.’
‘I thought I was here to listen.’
‘Right. Listen and learn. I used to be like you. Thought I was a hard case with the world against me.’
‘Maybe it was.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I was wrong. The world doesn’t give a fuck, one way or the other. Understand that and you’ve made a start.’
It went on like that for a while. Monkhurst was glib, parroting things he’d probably picked up from self-help books. Some of it made sense, some didn’t. When he started mentioning group sessions and role playing I began to detect a move towards his sliding scale of fees. I continued to keep my responses to a minimum, wondering how I could introduce the subject of Bobby Forrest.
Eventually I said, ‘Any notable successes, Barrie? People I might have heard of?’
His eyes went shrewd and he hesitated. ‘Well, I don’t like to . . .’
Before he could finish the sentence the front door banged. A young woman came bustling into the house and headed down to the sunroom.
‘Dad, I . . .’
She looked at me and her hand flew up to her mouth. She almost sagged against the door frame. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘Don’t talk like that, Chloe. Sorry, Cliff, this is my daughter, Chloe. She’s not usually so bloody rude. Chloe, this is a client, you shouldn’t—’
‘He’s not a client, you idiot. He’s that fucking private detective.’
She bore an unfortunate, heavy-featured resemblance to her father. Not drunk now, she was just as aggressive as at the Balmain party. She wore a tank top, jeans and boots. Her left arm was tattooed from the shoulder to the wrist. Her face was set in an angry scowl as she kicked one of Monkhurst’s empty cans across the floor.
Monkhurst stared at me. ‘Private detective? What . . . ?’
‘He’s the one that was on TV when Bobby Forrest got killed. Don’t talk to him, you dumb pisspot.’
Disrespect for a parent isn’t uncommon but this was something much more than that. She was close to hysterical.
‘That’s me,’ I said quietly. ‘Why’re you so upset?’
She glared at me and clenched her fist. ‘You know, don’t you, you fucker? You know!’
‘Know what?’ Monkhurst barked. ‘What’re you talking about?’
She glared at me as she pulled a mobile phone from her pocket. ‘You’ll never find him.’
‘I’ll find him.’
Monkhurst shook his empty can. ‘Find who?’
‘Make it easy on him, Chloe,’ I said. ‘Tell me where he is.’
‘Easy! Nothing’s easy. Fuck you!’
She ran from the room, down the passage. The door banged again. An engine started up and there was a roar as a car took off at speed.
Monkhurst crushed his beer can in those big hands. He glared at me.
‘Private detective?’
‘That’s right.’ I showed him my licence, taking care to keep out of his reach. Anger was building in him slowly but surely. His face was turning red and a vein in his forehead was throbbing.
‘Calm down, Barrie. Your blood pressure’s rising. I’m looking into the death of Bobby Forrest. He was my client like he was yours.’
‘I ought to . . .’
‘You shouldn’t. I was punching people while you were practising your putting. You’d get hurt. Try some of your own medicine.’
‘Fucking get out.’
‘No chance. That daughter of yours is in trouble and you’ve got some explaining to do if you want me to keep the cops out of this.’
He went to the fridge and got himself another beer. He applied the cold can to his flushed face. He hadn’t mentioned that particular anger management strategy. He threw himself down in the chair, opened the can and took a long pull.
‘That girl’ll be the death of me.’
He realised what he’d said and suddenly looked more worried than angry.
‘I was leading up to asking you about Bobby.’
He shrugged. ‘Poor bugger. What did Chloe mean by saying you know something? What d’you fucking know? I don’t understand any of this.’
‘I think she meant I know who killed Bobby. I don’t. That’s why you’re going to talk to me about you and Bobby and everything about him you told Chloe.’
It took a while and more beer before I finally got it all from him. He’d gone through his usual routines with Bobby and claimed to have had some success.
‘He was in a bad way with it. Hair-trigger temper, know what I mean? Like I used to have. He’d had this fight and hurt a bloke. Felt real guilty about it. Then he got better.’
‘When?’
‘Few months back.’
‘You kept seeing him, though.’
‘Yeah, I persuaded him he needed reinforcement sessions.’
‘You’re a con artist, Barrie.’
‘It’s legal.’
I was willing to bet that Bobby’s improvement had more to do with Jane Devereaux than Monkhurst’s games but I didn’t say so. I didn’t want to antagonise him any more than I had to.
‘Okay, now how much about Bobby did you pass on to Chloe?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you tell her about this business he felt guilty about?’
‘Well, yeah, I suppose. We talked about it a bit. I mean, it’s fucking hard to find anything to talk about with kids these days. They don’t seem interested in sports or nothing. Chloe reckoned she was a fan of Bobby’s. Watched him on telly and that.’
‘Did he tell you who the fight was with?’
‘Yeah, Clement somebody. He was real sorry about it. Came close to crying. Bit of a wuss.’
‘Did you tell Chloe about Clement?’
‘Yeah, she said she knew him. I told Bobby that and he wanted to talk to Chloe to see if she could get him together with Clement. But Chloe wouldn’t even listen. Just laughed.’
‘Did you tell Chloe where Bobby lived?’
‘Dunno. I made some notes. She could’ve looked at them.’
‘She saw his car?’
‘Course she did. What’s going on?’
‘Here’s the big question—do you know where Clement lives?’
‘Wouldn’t have a clue. Jesus, I get it. You reckon this Clement killed Bobby?’
‘Could be. He was very badly hurt. It finished his acting career.’
‘Fuckin’ actors. Wankers. I remember now. That’s where Chloe met Clement. She wants to be an actor. She goes to some acting classes and Clement’s one of the teachers.’
‘What classes? Where?’
‘Don’t know. I wasn’t that interested.’
‘Does Chloe have an address book?’
‘Carries it around with her all the time. I think she’s got most of that stuff in her phone anyway.’
‘Does she keep a diary?’
‘Not that I know of. Do people still do that?’
‘I want to look in her room.’
‘I’m not sure about that.’
‘Look, if she passed on information to Clement and he killed Bobby, she’s an accessory.’
‘Shit.’
‘I could try to keep her out of it.’
He nodded wearily. ‘Second door. It’ll be a mess.’
A mess was right. Chloe Monkhurst looked to be about twenty—if she hadn’t decided to live tidily by now it was unlikely
she ever would. She’d been wearing jeans and a tank top and there were similar items of clothing spread over the bed, the chest of drawers and lying on the floor. Shoes, too, and jackets. There was a snowstorm of used tissues and layers of magazines and CDs—some in their cases, some not.
A small table by the bed held a TV set with a DVD player and the discs were stacked beside it, like the CDs, in and out of their cases. No books. Would someone who lived in such chaos keep a diary? Hard to say.
We stood in the doorway. Monkhurst shook his head. ‘Rather you than me.’
‘What does she do?’
‘Search me.’
‘You must have some idea.’
‘She sleeps and eats here, some of the time.’
I searched the room. I found condoms and roaches, unidentifiable pills and cards for a variety of businesses—body waxers, eyelash tinters, body piercers and a tanning studio. Under the bed was a Sargasso Sea of tights, socks, more tissues and underwear. There was no diary, but tucked in among the CD cases I found a brochure for the Newtown School of Acting.
YOU CAN ACT
LET US BRING OUT THE
CATE BLANCHETT &
HUGH JACKMAN IN YOU
The brochure advertised different kinds of classes for different levels, times and the qualifications of some of the teachers—their roles and brief notices on their performances. Jason Clement wasn’t listed. The address was Angel Street, Newtown.
I took the brochure out to where Monkhurst was sitting with another can. I was thinking of taking him with me but he was too drunk.
‘I want to ring her,’ I said. ‘What’s her number?’
‘Dunno. It’s on my phone.’
‘Ring her.’
‘Why?’
‘Just do it.’
He fumbled the phone from his pocket, peered at it and slowly punched in the numbers. He held it to his ear and shook his head.
‘Disconnected.’
‘What sort of car does she drive?’
‘Volkswagen Beetle.’
‘Colour?’
‘Red.’
‘Rego?’
‘YZE something. Why d’ you . . .’
‘I might be able to talk some sense into her.’
He laughed. ‘Forget it. She spotted you for what you are. Nothing but fucking trouble. Should’ve spotted it myself. Take your money and piss off.’
I put one of my cards on top of the notes. ‘If she comes back or gets in touch tell her to ring me.’
‘Why would she do that?’
‘I don’t want to cause her any trouble. I just want to know who killed Bobby Forrest.’
‘And then do what?’
‘I don’t know. It could’ve been an accident. It needs talking about.’
He blinked, drunk but trying to get a grip on things.
‘I reckon you’re telling the truth.’
‘That’s right. If she’s in with Jason Clement and he killed Forrest, I’m her best chance.’
Angel Street wasn’t far from the office I used to have in Newtown. I’d handed it over to Hank Bachelor when I lost my licence. He still had it and I called in there before going to the acting school. It always pays to know what’s going on in the precinct you’re working in. As to the specific place you’re heading for, it’s useful to ask, as the cops do—anything known? Hank would have some idea.
He was there working on a piece of electronic equipment I’d never heard of designed to do something I didn’t understand.
‘Angel Street acting joint,’ Hank said. ‘Yeah, I know it. Struggling, I’d say. It’s in an old warehouse, small one. Rent’d be high though and maintenance low. A couple of well-known actors have done stints there as teachers in its better days.’
‘Any trouble?’
‘There was something a while back. To do with firearms, I think, but I forget the details. And there was some sort of protest from parents about them trying to recruit directly from the Newtown Performing Arts High School in King Street. Fizzled out. What’s your business there, Cliff?’
‘Looking for a woman.’
He grinned. ‘That’s what Megan says you should be doing.’
‘Is she still on about that?’
‘Yeah, but I guess that’s not what you have in mind. Do you need backup?’
‘No, but I’ll call you if I do.’
Angel Street is a block away from the main drag. It bends in the middle and part of it is blocked off to control the traffic flow. There’s a playground-cum-park on one corner and on a couple of other corners there are houses that were once shops. Gentrification has gone a fair way but there are still some old houses in poor repair and buildings like the one the acting school occupied that have seen much better days. It was brick, two-storeyed, and rose directly up from the edge of the footpath.
I parked opposite and went through a battered double doorway and up a short flight of steps. The interior was brightly lit by artificial light. The windows were so small and dirty it would otherwise have been in perpetual gloom. The ground floor was a small auditorium—a tiny stage and about a dozen rows of chairs that looked as if they’d seen a lot of service somewhere else. A flight of stairs led up to the second level, where I could hear voices and physical activity. I went up and found an area that resembled a gym with some exercise equipment and mats on the floor. A partitioned-off area was divided into small offices.
About a dozen people were doing calisthenics guided by an instructor. There were five or six women but none of them was Chloe Monkhurst. I waited until the set of exercises was finished and the group was taking a break before approaching the instructor. I showed him my licence.
He picked up a towel from the floor and wiped himself down. The exercises had been vigorous and he wasn’t young or in the very best physical condition.
‘What’s the trouble?’ he said.
‘No trouble. I’m looking for Chloe Monkhurst.’
‘Not here.’
‘I can see that. When is she here?’
He shrugged. ‘Not that often.’
‘How about Jason Clement?’
He shook his head and pointed to one of the offices. ‘You’d better talk to the director. She’s in there—Kylie March.’
Director seemed a bit elevated as a title for the head of the operation, and it was interesting that the first thing he’d done was ask about trouble. The would-be actors were a mixed bunch—some very young, some older; some scruffy, some well turned out. A few watched me closely. I hoped I was giving a good performance as a private investigator looking for information. I knocked on the door and opened it as a woman’s voice invited me in.
Kylie March looked the part. She was about forty, rail-thin in a figure-flattering black top with black pants. She was heavily made up and no Caucasian ever had hair that black naturally. She was sitting cross-legged and sideways at a desk studying a laptop computer screen she’d moved around to get the right illumination. She tapped a couple of keys before looking up at me. A performance.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’
I showed her my licence and told her who I was looking for. She asked me to sit but there was no chair.
‘Silly me,’ she said. Her voice was low and breathy.
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll stand. I know where Chloe lives but it’s Jason Clement I’m really looking for. I understand he works here.’
‘He did. No longer.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Is he in trouble?’
‘I believe so. How serious, is the question. That’s why I need to talk to him. Do you know where I can find him?’
The screen went blank. She hit a key to bring it to life and then used the mouse to close it down.
‘You can Google me if you want to,’ I said, ‘see that I’m legitimate.’
‘Oh, I believe you’re legitimate. I’m just wondering whether I should help you or not.’
‘If you have Chloe and Jason’s interests at heart you should.’
‘I wouldn’t say I had their interests at heart particularly. My concern is the school and I’m wondering whether your investigation will do it good or harm. I have a big investment here, you see, and I have to protect it.’
‘That’s honest,’ I said, ‘so I’ll try to be equally honest. I can’t say how things will work out. At best I don’t think your school need come into it. If things go a different way it might, and I suppose it could come in for some . . . notoriety.’
‘Notoriety isn’t such a bad thing in this business, depending on how it’s handled. May I have some time to think about it?’
‘No. It’s urgent and if you don’t help me I’ll have to come at it another way and then I wouldn’t care much about the reputation of your school.’
‘What other way?’
I took a punt. ‘I’m told there was an incident here some time back. Something to do with firearms. I could look into that for a start.’
It hit the mark. She slammed the lid down on the computer, picked up its case from the floor and slid it in. She hooked a jacket and a shoulder bag from the back of her chair and stood.
‘Okay, I’ll talk to you. You can buy me a drink or a couple of drinks so I get something out of it at least.’
We sat in the bar of the Bank Hotel with the windows open and the life of Newtown swirling around us. Kylie March ordered a martini, saying that was what people in films drank when they talked with private detectives. I had white wine.
‘How much do you know about Jason Clement?’ she asked.
It’s not best practice to let an informant ask the first question, but I had the feeling that Ms March would treat the interview like a performance and I might as well let her as long as I eventually got what I wanted. It was going to cost Ray Frost a bit—martinis don’t come cheap.
‘I know something,’ I said. ‘He was a promising actor and then something happened to him.’
‘He was brilliant. He was in a class I ran at NIDA and he was far and away the best. He had the poise, the timing, it. You know what I mean by that?’