Comeback - [Cliff Hardy 37]

by Peter Corris

  I got a description of his car and the registration number. He told me where he was parked and how long before he’d be back at his car. I told him not to worry about feeling he was being followed because I’d be doing it.

  He laughed. ‘Well, that’ll be a new experience. What will you do if someone else is following me?’

  He sounded much more relaxed than before, perhaps too relaxed. It happens sometimes. People feel better for just having talked the problem over and being offered some help, still to be delivered. It’s like the way an ailment can feel better after you decide to see a doctor.

  I had time to get out to what used to be the showgrounds and take up a position within sight of Bobby’s red Alfa Romeo. Right car for a rising star. It was Tuesday and quiet at the complex. I spotted the Alfa and parked in a two-hour zone close by. Bobby came out within a couple of minutes of the time he’d suggested. He was dressed pretty much as before but carrying a slim briefcase. He opened the car from fifty metres away and looked around, but there were twenty or thirty cars parked in the area and he didn’t know which was mine. He tossed the briefcase onto the back seat, climbed in and drove away. I waited to see if any of the parked cars would follow him. None did.

  He drove fast, too fast and aggressively for the amount of traffic. He cut in and out, skilfully but leaving little margin for error. After one manoeuvre the car he’d cut in on gave him a blast on the horn and tailgated him up to a set of lights. Bobby jumped out and strode back to the car. The other driver got out and stretched a 190-plus centimetre body with bulk to match. Bobby shouted at him and the driver shaped up to throw a punch. Bobby got ready to mix it. Cars were banked up at the lights and horns were blaring. I was two cars back. I got out and shouted.

  ‘Police!’

  Bobby and the other man froze. I came up and jostled Bobby.

  ‘I’m not a cop, but look around. Half these people are on their mobiles and the cops’ll be here any minute. You two fuckwits better get back in your cars and piss off.’

  The pair looked around. The big guy shrugged and got back in his car. Bobby did the same and drove off, just catching the green light. He’d mentioned his bad temper and now I’d seen an example of it. Pretty extreme. You could say it added shading to his rather bland character, but it was a dangerous addition.

  I followed, hanging back, made the short run to the golf course and pulled into the car park. A Mazda pulled in next to him. A young man got out and shook hands with Bobby. They hauled their clubs and buggies out of their cars and squatted on the driver’s seats with the door open to change their shoes. Then they fitted the clubs to the buggies and strolled away. I rang his mobile. Golfers tell me you need a clear head, preferably an empty one, to play well. I wondered if Bobby was still seeing red.

  ‘Hardy,’ I said. ‘Jesus, Bobby, you need to watch your temper. That guy would’ve flattened you.’

  He sounded calm. ‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s a problem.’

  ‘I’d say so. Anyway, you’re all clear for now. Enjoy your round. What time will you leave home to pick up Jane?’

  He told me. That left me with eight empty hours. I drove back to Pyrmont and entered a few notes on my conversation with Sophie Marjoram into the Forrest file. I Googled Goldstein Smith Publishing and clicked on the name Jane Devereaux. The entry came up with another photograph, just an upper body shot showing her at her desk, and a list of her accomplishments. It was a formidable tally—honours degree and a Masters in comparative literature, a batch of literary criticism articles published, co-editorship of a literary magazine. The photograph showed her glancing up in the direction of the lens. The shy smile was there along with an expression that could only be called intelligent. It enlivened her face but left it a long way short of pretty. I wondered about the attraction between her and Bobby. On the surface it looked like an attraction of opposites, but that was probably too simple. I copied the entry and added it to the file. Still no more paper.

  Sophie had given me the names of a few films Bobby had been in and I found three in my local DVD place. Action stuff mostly. Looked watchable.

  I had lunch in a cafe and went to the Redgum Gym in Leichhardt to work off the lunch. Since my heart attack and bypass I’ve had to take quite a bit of medication and some of it has to be taken clear of food and clear of other medication. It irritates me having to swallow pills at particular times, but not as much as another bypass would. I put in a solid workout on the treadmill, the machines and the free weights and felt virtuous.

  ‘Going fine, Cliff,’ Wesley Scott, the proprietor, said as I completed the last set. ‘Looking more cheerful too, man.’

  ‘I’m back in business, Wes.’

  ‘God help us. So you’ll be coming in all bruised and battered again.’

  ‘No, I’m aiming for a better class of client.’

  ‘Won’t be hard to achieve. How’s your grandson?’

  ‘Thriving. How’s business?’

  ‘Would you believe I’ve signed up five politicians all keen to lose weight and look good for the next election.’

  ‘Which side?’

  ‘Both sides, man. Both sides.’

  ‘Must be hard to tell them apart.’

  ■ ■ ■

  Bobby lived in Redfern in a street that was physically close to the Block, the area heavily populated by Aborigines, and a continual problem for people well disposed to the Aborigines and those hostile to them. But Bobby’s street was a million miles away in economic terms. Every house in it had been gentrified recently and the speed humps were new and the bricked footpath was even newer. It was on the fringes of Surry Hills and it was a sure bet the real estate agents advertised the houses as ‘suit Surry Hills buyer’ just as they used to say ‘suit Balmain buyer’ for overpriced ruins in the inner-west.

  Bobby’s house was a neat, single-storey terrace. Good investment if he owned it, high rent if he didn’t. The Alfa was parked outside and I had about half an hour until Bobby emerged, slamming the door behind him and feeling in his jacket for the keys. He was more smartly dressed than before—white shirt, beige jacket, dark slacks, boots. I was parked just around the corner in a cross street. Not many of the houses had driveways and there were quite a few cars parked in the street. Bobby drove off, heading east, and no one followed except me.

  He drove carefully and well, more like a solid citizen than a speedway performer this time. Maybe he’d learned his lesson or perhaps the thought of Jane had a calming influence on him, or perhaps it was just because he knew I was following him. I kept a few cars back. It’s easy to follow someone when you know where they’re going and Bobby was obviously heading to Randwick, where Jane lived. Her street was off Alison Road, not far from the racecourse. Bobby pulled up outside a block of flats and used his mobile phone. No honking horns or knocking on doors these days. There was nowhere to park, he’d snaffled the last spot in the street, so I had to cruise past, turn and come back. It took two passes before Jane came out of the building. Bobby sprang from the car and wrapped his arms around her. She was smaller than she appeared in the photograph and she virtually disappeared into his big-bodied hug.

  They broke apart and he opened the car door for her. She wore high heels, a dark-coloured pants suit and a white blouse. It was a simple but elegant outfit, not striving for glamour. Well, it was only Wednesday night. They did some kissing before Bobby started the car and moved off. I was going slowly in the other direction. A Commodore that had been parked fifty metres from the Alfa started up and followed it—at least it made the same turn, further down the street. I lost time and distance going in the wrong direction before I could turn. I got back as quickly as I could and saw the Commodore waiting to make the turn into Alison Road.

  The traffic was heavy and the Commodore had to bluff its way into the stream of traffic and I had to do the same. The Alfa had to be a fair distance ahead and it was no certainty yet that the Commodore was following it. The road rose and although the light was dropping I co
uld see the Alfa signalling right in the distance. The Commodore nearly caused an accident getting across to make the turn. I was locked into a stream of traffic and there was no way I could change lanes. The Alfa and the Commodore headed off and I was forced to carry on a kilometre or more before I could make my way back.

  There was a maze of streets in the direction they’d taken and any number of options for dinner. A waste of time trying to track them. I was certain that Bobby had been followed and equally certain that Miranda wasn’t doing the following. Not unless she was a mistress of disguise—the driver of the Commodore had been a man.

  ~ * ~

  3

  There’s a lot of waiting and time killing in this game, always has been. I had a meal and a glass of red in a pub near the racecourse, walked around for a bit and then squeezed into a barely legal parking spot close to Jane’s block of flats. If the car that had followed Bobby showed up again I’d get another chance to follow it. Didn’t happen. The Alfa returned and Bobby drove into the block’s parking area. Looked as though Jane had parking rights Bobby could use. I stayed put and a light came on in a corner flat on the second floor. Two figures came out onto the balcony and merged into one figure. I drove home feeling more than a touch of envy at their closeness. I’d had my share of assignations and I missed the feeling they can give you. I told myself I was just in a pause, not retired.

  My house seemed even emptier and more lonely than it usually did. Megan was urging me to sell it, get something more cheerful, more manageable. She was right but I had trouble with the idea. I’d had the house a long time, ever since my marriage to Cyn, and it was imbued with memories, some bad, mostly good. I’d made love there, spilt blood and had some of my own spilt. There’s been times when I was flush with money and other times, like now, when funds were low. I knew I should find a way to shake all this loose and go somewhere else, but I was back in business and somehow that seemed to make keeping the house and the memories all the more important.

  I went through all this with a large scotch to wash down my night-time medications. Not exactly the doctors’ recommendation, but I resented taking the pills so much I needed some compensation. My thoughts drifted back to the Bobby Forrest case and I told myself I’d made some progress. Hard to say what conclusions to draw, but that wasn’t unusual this early in the piece. I’d turned on many more lights than I needed to work against the emptiness of the house and I promised myself I’d stop doing that. Now I went through turning them off. The power bill would be colossal if I kept it up and I wasn’t afraid of the dark.

  ■ ■ ■

  I phoned Bobby the next morning to tell him he had been followed, but by a man.

  ‘A man? Well, she said she knew people.’

  ‘Right. Are you going to be out and about today?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got a meeting with a producer at ten, a lunch with some friends and then I thought I’d drive out to where they’re going to be shooting my next film. Just to take a look.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Parramatta. I have to do a river swim there and I want to get a look at the spot. Swimming in rivers can be tricky. Haven’t been out there for a while.’

  ‘Do you do your own stunts?’

  ‘Mostly. It’s fun.’

  ‘What? Falling from high buildings?’

  He laughed. ‘No, I leave that to the experts. But things like swimming and fight scenes. I like them—you have to get the timing just right.’

  No doubt, I thought. The last thing he’d want would be a broken nose. I’d got the timing wrong a few times in the real thing.

  ‘Jane again tonight?’

  ‘No, she’s busy. What she calls the slush pile.’

  ‘Okay. I don’t want to alarm you, but if you see a white Commodore on your trail, keep driving for as long as you can. Circle back towards the city and call me. I’ll try to catch up with you.’

  ‘A white Commodore. Okay.’

  ‘Don’t be heroic if you spot it. Just call me.’

  ‘What will you be doing, Cliff?’

  ‘Finding Miranda. If I can.’

  I could hear the relief in his voice. ‘That might mean I won’t have to contact her.’

  ‘Might.’

  I was tired of thinking about the name Miranda as if it was in inverted commas. Bobby had told me he’d mostly communicated with her via the dating site and by mobile but that he’d had some emails from her. I asked him to forward them to me before he went about his business for the day.

  ‘They’re embarrassing,’ he said.

  ‘Just do it, please. I need to get a feel for her style.’

  ‘I gave you her address.’

  ‘You gave me an address. How do you know it was really where she lived? She might’ve been playing it cautious on a first date. I bet you didn’t tell her where you lived that time.’

  ‘You’re right. Shit, I wish I’d never...All right, I’ll forward the bloody emails now.’

  Not the smoothest conversation with a client, but I needed his involvement. I drove into Pyrmont, bought a takeaway long black and went up to the office. The mail box was half full of ’to the occupier’ junk with only a couple of bills directed specifically at me. I’d given Bobby my bank details and when I checked online his payment was in, making the balance look temporarily respectable. My inbox held a message from Megan, one from the Dendy cinema telling me what was playing and what was coming up, and three forwarded from Bobby.

  My darling Bobby

  I can’t understand why you are treating me so cruel. You know what a beautiful pair we make together. I have your picture up everywhere in my place, in every room, so I can look at you all the time. If you did the same I’m sure you’d feel as I do that we belong together. Please don’t make me so unhappy. She’s not for you, my love. That little nothing. She’s so ugly. Ugh!

  Your loving

  Miranda

  Darling Bobby

  You must be suffering agonies from not being able to make love to me. I know I would be if my vagina had failed to open for your beautiful cock. I’d be desperate. I’d probably kill myself. Please don’t think of doing anything like that. I know I can make you feel like a man. A real man. Just imagine being big and hard and filing me up and us both coming together. I admit I’m in my sexiest underwear as I write this and I’m so hot. I’ll have to use my fingers on myself I’m doing it now with one hand.

  Oh, Bobby!

  I love you.

  Miranda XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

  Bobby

  I’m desperate. Please contact me. We could be so happy and instead I’m so miserable. Well, I’ll make you even more miserable if you go on like this. I won’t be responsible for what happens. I can’t bear to think of you with her. I hate her, hate, hate, hate. I wish she was dead.

  In sorrow

  M

  I read the emails through a few times and leaned back to consider what conclusions I could draw from them. A narcissistic personality clearly, combined with brittleness and insecurity. Bobby had told me that the real threats had come in the messages sent through the website. In these she was just warming up. What I couldn’t decide was whether what she wrote was genuine or feigned. There was something formulaic about it, particularly the sexual come-on. It read a bit like an excerpt from the advertisements for phone sex. But perhaps that’s the only note you can strike when in the throes of sexual hysteria. I wasn’t sure.

  I copied the emails into the file and updated the memory stick. Bobby had given me the name of the street and the number of the building, but not the number of the flat. Not surprising. It was late at night and he’d had a fair bit to drink. Also, presumably, he was in a confused mental state. When he said she wasn’t there any longer he said it the way an ordinary citizen does. I wasn’t an ordinary citizen and I was pretty sure I could find out something more. I took my mobile off the charger and made sure it was fully functioning.

  Bondi again. How many times had my work t
aken me there? The place seemed to have a magnetic attraction for problem people and for me. Maybe I was one of them. I surfed there as a teenager and perhaps that helps to impose a grip that won’t let go. Over the years I’ve toyed with the idea of moving there. Feasible at one time, not so easy now with the prices and my new mortgage. Driving down Bondi Road, just the look of the water, grey though it was, revived memories of it when it was blue and the feeling of scudding along on a wave towards the white pavilion and the brown bodies on the sand.

  I located the street and drove slowly along to the address Bobby had given me. The street was tree lined and pleasant with a mixture of houses and flats. There would probably be glimpses of the water from the upper levels. The building I was looking for was newish and smart. It had a low fence, trees and shrubs in the front, ten letterboxes at the gate and a winding pebblecrete path.

  It was a set of serviced apartments, the kind that can be leased for long or short periods. Almost hidden underneath the stairs was a small concierge desk with a woman sitting bent over, staring at the screen of her mobile phone and with her fingers flying. She was in her twenties, blonde and good-looking. When she heard the door close behind me she looked up.