by Peter Corris
‘You didn’t spot the nurse or Bright as something other than what they seemed?’
I shook my head. ‘I was lazy. I scarcely paid them any mind. Looking back there were probably signs but I was thinking Harry Jacobs could be the disrupter or maybe there was jealousy between the two women.’
‘Well, one got what she wanted.’
‘I think she wanted him in better condition. Tell you the truth, Frank, the whole thing pisses me off. What was Bright really doing? Had someone put him up to it and if so who? Did he just fuck it up, or what? It eats at me a bit.’
‘I’m sure it does. I know how stubborn you are.’
‘Yeah, but I can’t afford to be stubborn about this. I’ve got overheads. I have to keep drumming up trade.’
He nodded sympathetically and we went on to talk about other things.
I’d mollified grandson Ben with a do-it-yourself dinosaur assembly kit, dinos being his current obsession. I kept busy with routine jobs. A few long overdue payments came in when some court cases were settled and I kept my head above water. I worked out at the Redgum gym. Played some pretty good pool at the Toxteth Hotel and spent a few weekends with an old girlfriend down on the Illawarra coast. A balanced life, I told myself, work and play, but my thoughts often returned to that moment on the Volvo bus when Penelope Milton-Smith’s announcement meant things fell apart, leaving only questions.
The man who phoned me had a strong Korean accent but his English was perfectly grammatical. He said his name was Neville Kim, that he was Melanie Kim’s brother and that he wanted to see me. He kept the appointment precisely on time and came into my modest office with the bearing of a man used to bigger and better things. I’m no judge of suits, but his looked expensive and his shirt, tie and shoes looked the same. He was big, at least as tall as my 190 centimetres, and broader and thicker. His handshake was firm and dry.
‘My sister was a lost soul, Mr Hardy,’ he said, ‘but we loved her.’
I nodded.
‘We in the family blame ourselves, in a way. Melanie was beautiful but . . . unfocused. Others of us have achieved a lot in this country and she felt . . . undervalued. Perhaps that’s why . . .’
He trailed off uncertainly, which seemed to annoy him. He took a deep breath and his massive chest rose.
‘The police, in my judgement, have been less than diligent.’ He shrugged. ‘An Asian prostitute involved with a criminal. Who can blame them? But I am not satisfied. I want the man Bright brought to justice and I want to understand what happened.’
‘I can see why you would. I feel much the same for different reasons.’
It was his turn to nod. ‘Professional reasons, yes. Your name was mentioned in several news stories and I took the liberty of making some inquiries about you. I’m satisfied that you are honest, discreet and capable. I want you to investigate the circumstances surrounding my sister’s death.’
Neville Kim gave me his card. He said he had dual Korean and Australian citizenship and was the CEO of an electronics company I’d vaguely heard of. Its office was in a prestigious part of the CBD. He lived in Bellevue Hill. I informed him of my rates and charges and he smiled and asked if I preferred the retainer in cash, by cheque or direct deposit.
‘You knew I’d accept the job,’ I said.
‘I was told it was likely you’d be dissatisfied with the way things had worked out.’
‘Who told you that?’
He smiled again. ‘A confidential source. I’m afraid I can’t offer you any help at this point. My sister’s life was laid bare in the media and the reporting was mostly accurate. I knew nothing about Bright or Rory O’Hara beyond what I learned after Melanie’s death. The press quickly lost interest. Only one rather blurry photo of Bright was ever published. As far as I could tell from their interview with me, the police investigation was perfunctory. I have . . . technicians at my disposal, should you need them.’
I was still kicking myself for not checking on Jack Buchanan before accepting his job. If I’d known he was locked in litigation with an ex-partner and his finances were dodgy I might not have played things differently, but at least I wouldn’t have been surprised and a bit distracted when the information came my way.
I didn’t make the same mistake this time. I researched Neville Kim as thoroughly as I could and he came up trumps. His company was prosperous and he was respected in the business community. The connection to Melanie had been made in the press but treated sensitively. Kim was a leading light in the Sydney Korean community, a family man with an attractive wife and three children. Time to get busy.
No private inquiry agent can survive and prosper without a police contact. After I recovered my licence it took the best part of two years before I was able to cultivate that sort of a relationship with a police officer. Detective-Sergeant Colin Williamson was based in Glebe but he’d participated in a number of highly successful police operations and was frequently co-opted to squads assigned to big-time cases. He’d been in on the capture of a notorious and violent criminal who’d escaped from gaol and he’d talked down a couple of siege-stagers—one threatening members of the public and one holding a policewoman hostage.
I’d met Williamson in the Toxteth. I’d played pool against him, had a few drinks, shared a pizza while watching boxing on TV in the pub and we’d become wary friends. I called him at the Glebe station and arranged to meet for a drink that evening.
Williamson was in his early thirties, youngish for his rank. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to remain a policeman and was pursuing a part-time law degree in a desultory fashion. But his successes and his intention to marry the woman he’d rescued seemed likely to result in the police service being his life. His uncertainty made him more objective about his role than most cops. He knew I was a friend of Frank Parker and that being a friend of a friend of Parker’s wouldn’t do him any harm.
We took glasses of merlot and the pub’s offering of biscuits and cheese cubes into a quiet section with comfortable seats. Williamson was medium tall, thin but wiry with a face slightly scarred by youthful acne. He was sensitive about it and often held a hand up protectively to his lower jaw on the right side. The gesture made him look thoughtful, which he usually was when he was with me.
‘So, Cliff,’ Williamson said, spearing a cheese cube with a toothpick. ‘How’s it going?’
‘You know I’ve been doing these pissy little jobs for a while now. Just paying the bills, or nearly.’
‘Isn’t that what we all do?’
‘Such cynicism in one so young,’ I said. ‘The thing is, Col, a bigger job has come my way and I’m going to need some help.’
He grinned, ate his cheese and crunched a biscuit. He held up his glass. ‘Is this where you corrupt me with a glass of red and letting me win at pool?’
‘I never let you win. I hate to lose as much as you do, maybe more. No, I need some information on an operational police matter, or you might say a non-operational matter.’
That hooked him, as I knew it would. I sketched in the O’Hara story, which he was already familiar with, and told him about the Neville Kim commission. He leaned back in his chair and took a decent pull on his glass.
‘Shit, isn’t that typical?’ he said. ‘Some poor Asian hooker . . .’
I shook my head. ‘That’s just the point, Col. She wasn’t only some poor Asian hooker. Her brother said she was bright and felt undervalued. People like that often want to prove their worth. I think she was playing for higher stakes.’
9
Williamson looked sceptical. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘She downplayed herself in every way. Now that was obviously an act, though I didn’t know it at the time. Then, just once, I caught a glimpse of her in a completely different mode.’
‘As the hooker, you mean?’
‘No, something else. Something . . . determined.’
‘That’s very thin, Cliff.’
‘I know. It was just a feeling, but there’s a v
agueness to all this that worries me. The newspaper reports say Kelly Scott heard Bright and Kim arguing about drugs and money. That strikes me as glib, too easy. I’m wondering how hard your boys pressed her. They certainly didn’t push me very hard.’
He sighed. ‘Now we’re getting to it.’
We’d both finished our drinks and I got up for more, firing one parting shot. ‘How hard did they look for Chandry?’
I brought the drinks back and we ate some more of the cheese and biscuits, both thinking our thoughts.
‘I’ll ask around,’ Williamson said.
I raised my glass. ‘Thanks, Col.’
‘Think there’ll be anything in it for me?’
‘You never know.’
‘True. Have you got a theory?’
‘A very shaky one. What if the hit and run was really just an accident and someone put Bright and Kim into the mix just to keep an eye on O’Hara and stop him if they had to?’
‘Someone? I haven’t followed this too closely. You’re thinking of . . . ?’
‘Harry Jacobs, or someone behind him.’
‘Go on.’
‘What if O’Hara’s announcement about a new party and having people on board was a catalyst for Bright and Kim to grab Kelly Scott and apply the pressure?’
‘Yeah. And it worked.’
‘But what if Kim had another idea—get the names of the people and make a big splash. Think of the headlines.’
‘So Bright kills her. Jesus, you’re stretching it, mate.’
‘It’s just a theory, as I said.’
‘Theories have to be tested. How’re you going to do that?’ ‘By talking to Kelly Scott and seeing what you come up with.’
* * *
The following morning I phoned Jack Buchanan and asked him if he had a contact number for Kelly. He wasn’t pleased to hear from me.
‘Fuck you,’ he said.
‘Litigation not going too well?’
‘I’m fucked.’
‘Tell you what, Jack. I’ll give you back the retainer you paid me.’
Despite himself he laughed. ‘You cheeky bastard, but I’ll take you up on that.’
‘Okay, so …’ ‘I heard that Kelly’s back on the drugs.’
‘Back on them?’
‘You saw her. She’s naturally a well-built chick. How d’you think she got the waif look when she was modelling? Wouldn’t surprise me if she’s on something pretty hard.’
‘Do you know where she’s living?’
‘No, but one of my clients . . . former clients, said she’s doing some dress designing for a company in Surry Hills called Fringe Clothes. Bit of a sweatshop, she reckoned. I suppose she’s trying to work her way back into modelling.’
I thanked him, then I repaid his retainer, which I’d done nothing to earn. It was no sacrifice because Neville Kim had given me a password, which gave me access to a bank account with a six figure balance. Fringe Clothes was in Riley Street, Surry Hills. I caught a taxi. I was working, charging Kim at my top daily rate and on expenses.
The place was a narrow two-storey terrace with a very small sign on the gate outside. I rang the bell and a woman answered the door. She was middle-aged, dumpy, wearing a wrinkled dress and a cardigan that had seen better days. I showed her my licence and told her I was looking for Kelly Scott.
‘What’s she done?’
‘That’s not your concern. Is she here?’
‘No.’
‘Can you tell me where she lives?’
‘No.’
I could hear the sound of machines humming inside the house. I pushed past her and saw that the shabby ground floor of the house had been gutted to form a large open space. Ten women were working at sewing machines on benches. Most of them were Asian; a couple looked very young.
‘You can’t just barge in—’ I cut her off. ‘One phone call to Fair Trading and you’re in trouble. I very much doubt if this place is properly wired for factory work. Have to wonder about fire safety and the work permit status of some of these women.’
Several of the workers looked alarmed at my intrusion, but most just kept their heads down. A couple of the young women were pretty. I took out my mobile phone.
‘Have to wonder,’ I said, ‘if sewing’s all these women do.’
The woman threw a look at the stairs leading to the upper level.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I don’t want any trouble. Kelly lives across the street in 23A. She came in asking for designing work and I’m giving her a try. What’s wrong with that?’
I moved towards the door. ‘I’d advise you to clean this place up. Check the ages of your employees. Put in a tea room, do something about getting an inside dunny.’
‘How did you . . . ?’
‘I know your type,’ I said. ‘Watch your step.’
I left, waited for the traffic and crossed the road. The sweatshop woman watched me, looking worried. There was a chance she’d put something right, just a chance.
Number 23A was a terrace of the same design as the one across the street, but it had had the treatment—repaired or replaced tiles on the porch, white-painted front facade with the window surrounds picked out in black. Solid window bars and an olive green door behind a security screen built to repel all boarders. I rang the bell and heard it sound melodically inside.
After another ring soft footsteps approached the door and I heard a body press against it to use the spyhole. Then the door opened.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Kelly said. ‘Hardy. What’re you doing here?’
‘Hello, Kelly. I want a chat.’
It was strange to be aware that, after all the thinking and checking I’d done about her, these were virtually the first words we’d exchanged. She was wearing a thin, short silk robe with a Chinese pattern. She’d lost some weight but was a long way from the waif look, as Jack had described it, and neither weight loss nor the hectic brightness of her eyes suited her. She’d been putting on her makeup and still held a tube of something in her hand.
‘What about? No, I don’t want to talk to you. Go away.’
She fumbled when she tried to close the door; a lot of shapely breast was revealed as her robe fell open and she clutched at it.
‘Let’s not give the street a show,’ I said.
It was simple to ease past her and let the door close behind me. She glared at me and dropped her hand so that the robe parted all the way and her breasts were completely uncovered. She wore black lace panties.
‘There’s a private show for you,’ she said.
‘Cover it up, I want a talk, not a fuck.’
‘What’s wrong with you?’
She was angry now, had straightened up and regained some of that arrogant superiority I’d seen in her before.
‘Kelly, you’re a beautiful woman and in another time and place I’d dodge heavy traffic to get to you, but now I’m working and I’m more interested in what’s in here.’ I tapped the side of her head with a finger.
She closed her robe and jerked her head at the stairs. ‘Better come up to my room.’
‘It’s not your place?’
‘Shit, no. I’m renting and sharing and she’s in the kitchen. Come on up.’
The house had been thoroughly renovated with good lighting, carpet on the stairs and, unlike my place, no missing supports on the staircase bannister. Kelly went into one of the rooms off the landing at the top of the stairs. I followed her in and found her standing in the middle of the room naked.
‘You sure?’ she said. ‘I like an older man and I quite liked the look of you back there before all this happened. What’s your first name again?’
Her skin was a pale ivory shade; she was waxed smooth with her pubic hair shaven. She lifted her arms to her head and her firm breasts rose, the nipples firming. She’d have aroused the Pope.
‘My name’s Cliff. For Christ’s sake put something on, Kelly. You don’t like older men and you don’t fancy me. You’re playing games.’
&nb
sp; She gave a sulky grin, picked up her robe from the floor and slid it on. She sat down in front of a dressing table with a large mirror and set about making up her face.
‘Say what you have to say and be quick. I’ve got an audition.’
‘Acting?’
‘You bet acting. This time I’m going to fuck my way to the top.’
‘What about dress-designing?’
‘So that’s how you found me. I’ll dob in that bitch across the street.’
‘Good luck,’ I said, and surprised myself by meaning it. ‘D’you remember being interviewed by the cops after Bright shot the nurse?’
She used a brush on her smooth forehead. ‘Sort of.’
‘I think you were lying when you said you heard them arguing about drugs and money.’
The hand moving the brush paused for just an instant before resuming its work.
‘You do, eh?’
‘Yes. I think you heard them arguing about something else.’ She spun around on the stool and looked at me. ‘Go on.’
‘What was it?’
‘What do you think?’
That wasn’t the way to play it; the idea was to draw her out but she’d taken the initiative.
‘I was right,’ she said. ‘People think that a woman who looks like me has no brains, but they’re wrong. I had a feeling someone’d ask me this question some time.’
‘What’s the answer?’
She hurried through the makeup process. She put on the panties she’d dropped to the floor, walked to the closet, selected tights, a shirt and loose pants and dressed. She got a pair of stilettos and slid into them.
‘Cold outside?’
‘Coldish.’
She took a sleek satiny jacket from the closet and sat down to brush her glossy hair.
‘How much money have you got on you, Cliffy?’
I examined my wallet. ‘About two hundred dollars.’
‘How much can you draw from an ATM?’