by Peter Corris
‘Fifteen hundred?’
‘Got a cheque book on you?’
‘Yes. Not much in the account.’
‘A grand?’
I shrugged. ‘I think so. Just.’
‘Let’s go. There’s an ATM near the pub down the way and I’m due to meet someone there pretty soon. You give me two thousand seven hundred dollars and I’ll answer your question. In fact, you’re a life-saver. Give me fifty now.’
I gave her the note. She opened a drawer in the dressing table, took out a small pillbox and tapped out some white powder. She folded the note and pushed the powder around into two lines. Then she rolled the note tightly and used it to snort both lines. She sniffed, wet her finger to pick up the residue and licked the finger. She smiled at me and put the money in her pocket.
‘Let’s go.’
We left the house and walked down the street to where there was an ATM on one corner and a pub on the other. I drew out the money and we crossed and went into the pub. Kelly gave a thumbs-up to a man leaning on the bar, but took a seat in another part of the room.
‘Get me a large vodka and tonic with a slice of lemon and we’ll talk business.’
I went to the bar. The man she’d signalled to gave me a brief knowing look before returning his attention to the racing section in the newspaper spread out in front of him. His fingers were heavily nicotine-stained and his hand trembled as he turned the page. I got Kelly’s vodka and a glass of white wine for myself.
‘Your dealer?’ I said as I put the glasses down.
‘Got it in one. I was broke and was going to have to talk him into letting me have some on credit. Not now.’
‘Not yet,’ I said. I made a pile of the notes and put my cheque book on top of them. ‘Who do I make the cheque out to?’
‘Cash, of course. Hey, I’ve just realised. You’re working. Who for?’
I shook my head.
‘You’re on expenses.’
‘Forget it, Kel. This is it, there ain’t no more, that fifty won’t get you far. He might let you have some blow if you blow him.’
‘How about if I blow you?’
‘We’ve been through that.’
‘Okay, write the cheque.’
I did and folded it and the cash together into a sizeable chunk. She eyed it hungrily.
‘What did they talk about?’
Either she had built up a strong tolerance or the coke she’d taken was of low quality, because the high was leaving her minute by minute. She took a big slug of her drink, but it wasn’t going to stop her coming down and she knew it.
‘All right and fuck you. The prick said he was obeying orders.’
‘Whose orders?’
‘He didn’t say. The cunt said that they should use me to find out the names of the politicians Rory had got to and what he had on them. He said no.’
‘And he cut her throat for that?’
‘No, there’s more. You might get your kicks from this. He wanted us to get in a threesome. He wanted her to finger me while he fucked her, or the other way around. She wouldn’t do it. She called him a pervert and he lost it and killed her.’
She finished her drink and reached for the money. Her hand stopped a bit short of it and she started to laugh, the most bitter laugh I could ever remember hearing.
‘What?’ I said.
‘The funny thing is, I didn’t know the names and I don’t know about the dirt. She would’ve had to torture me and she’d have done it, the slant-eyed little cunt.’
‘Who does know?’
‘Who do you reckon? Rory and that treacherous blonde bitch.’
‘Where are they?’
She snatched at the money. ‘Fuck, you want everything, don’t you?’
I pinned the money with my fist.
‘Last I heard,’ she said, ‘they were in fucking Darwin.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Glassop, that IT nerd. I met him at a sort of party in a wine bar. He was splashing money about and I helped to get him pissed and tapped him for a hundred bucks. He thought he might get into my pants. Some hope. He told me he helped them get tickets under false names.’
I let her grab the money. She shoved it in a pocket, got up and almost lost her balance in her high heels.
‘You need help, Kelly,’ I said.
‘Fuck you. Like you care. I’m helping myself. Tell you one thing, arsehole. You’re not the first to come looking.’
‘Who else?’
‘Work it out.’
She tottered to the bar to make her connection.
10
I went online to look for stories about O’Hara and Penelope Milton-Smith. There had been a few, with photographs, from around the time of the police investigation into Kelly Scott’s abduction and the death of Melanie Kim. Apart from one picture of them onstage at Wollongong, they were paparazzi shots with both subjects trying to avoid being photographed. There was one photo of them together, both dressed down and wearing shades, on a city street, but there’d been nothing for nearly a month. I was wondering about their relationship when Colin Williamson rang.
‘I haven’t got much,’ he said.
‘Every little helps.’
‘I talked to a guy who was sitting in on one of the interviews with O’Hara. He wasn’t the main man, but heard quite a bit. He said O’Hara was very nervous and very uncooperative.’
‘You’re not his favourite people.’
‘Yeah, but on the basis of that they put a surveillance team on him and the girlfriend and this guy was part of that team. He says it was weird. They spotted the team and did everything to make it easy for them. Like they welcomed them.’
Welcomed the protection, I thought. ‘That’s interesting.’
‘If you say so. But what’s more interesting is that they eventually took advantage of being such easy targets and our guys getting slack and managed to dodge the team. Haven’t been picked up since. They’re in the wind.’
That needed some thought. Who were Rory and Pen in need of protection, and then in hiding, from? Presumably whoever Sean Bright had been working for, and who the hell was that? Harry Jacobs didn’t seem a likely candidate. His object seemed to have been to stop the O’Hara tour and that had been achieved. I liked the idea of the catalyst being O’Hara’s announcement of his political connections. That suggested one or more of the people he’d had undertakings from had had second thoughts. It all pointed to a need to get information from O’Hara and Pen. Melanie Kim’s death was beginning to look like collateral damage.
I laid it out for Neville Kim in a Macquarie Street coffee shop, putting my theory about Melanie Kim’s wish to exploit the situation as delicately as I could. He drank a long black while listening without interruption.
‘Foolish, foolish girl,’ he said when I’d finished. ‘It fits though. She would have enjoyed being at the centre of a media and political storm. Despite all the sleaziness—no, partly because of it, she would have felt she had scored against the family. Who was it said that all families are unhappy?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘A Russian, I think. The thing is, Mr Kim, this is blowing up into something much bigger than it looked at first. I’ve already paid out quite a lot of money to—’
‘Are you saying it’s too big for you?’
‘No.’
‘I assure you it’s not too big for me. Go to Darwin, go wherever you have to to find who killed my sister.’
‘And what about whoever may have been behind it?’
He shrugged his well-tailored shoulders. ‘My chief concern is the actual killer. If the net spreads further that will be interesting but probably no concern of mine and therefore no concern of yours unless you want it to be. I have confidence in you, Mr Hardy.’
‘Thank you.’
‘The funds are available. Use them.’
They were the best terms I’d ever had from a client on the basis of a preliminary report. O’Hara and Pen had gone just about as far
away in Australia as you could go without needing a passport, but, luckily, I had a useful contact in the Top End. A long-time friend, Harry Tickener, was the editor of the Sentinel, an online magazine dedicated to printing what the mainstream media shied away from. He had a stringer, Dave Burns, whom I’d met a few times.
Dave was a Tiwi Islander and the only indigenous person with a PIA licence, as far as I knew. For Harry, he kept a close watch on the asylum seekers held in detention in Darwin and the Indonesian fishermen held in gaol. He was something of a celebrity—related to a good many of the Tiwi Islanders who played Australian football locally, as he had himself, and in the big league. He was also a major figure in the organisation of the Arafura Games, a competition that attracted athletes from all over the world. Harry had told me Dave had been courted by political parties of all persuasions and had knocked them all back.
I got his number from Harry, rang him, got his answering machine, left a message and he rang back an hour later.
‘Cliff Hardy,’ he said. ‘I heard you lost your licence?’
‘I found it again. I’m looking for someone up your way, Dave. Think you could help? Have you got some time?’
‘Is it urgent?’
I thought of Kelly’s parting remark. ‘It could be.’
‘I’ve got the time if you’ve got the money.’
‘It so happens I do.’
I booked the ticket, the hire car and the hotel online. Good time to go to the Territory—the Dry, with the temperature usually steady around thirty degrees. I packed a bag—light clothes, swimmers, a hat, camera and voice recorder, no gun, impossible on a domestic trip—and caught a morning flight.
Don’t eat much, don’t drink, and get up and walk to avoid DVT are the recommended rules. I obeyed two of them, slept a bit and read about opium and how the British had created millions of Chinese addicts in the interest of trade. There were case histories of people, some of whom did very well on the drug and others who went insane.
Darwin was warm and breezy under a clear sky. The flight had taken a little under four hours and there was only a half-hour difference between Sydney and Darwin so that it was just before midday when I arrived, collected my hired Pajero and drove to Palmerston, Darwin’s satellite city, where Dave Burns had an office. I had the address and the GPS took me there. Dave’s place turned out to be a demountable, one of a number perched on a dusty block in a light industrial area on the northern outskirts.
I parked just about at the demountable’s door. The 4WD had squeaky brakes and the engine was running a bit roughly. Alerted by the noise, Dave opened the door and was standing at the top of the steps leading to it before I could get out of the car.
‘Hi, Cliff,’ he said. ‘You need a mechanic not a private eye. That thing has problems.’
‘Gidday, Dave. It’ll do.’
I got out, carrying an A4 manila envelope. He came down the steps and we shook hands. Tall and rangy, Dave was in his early forties but looked as if he could still take a mark and kick a goal if required. We went into his office, which was hot with no air-conditioning, cramped and smelled of tobacco smoke. Dave wasn’t a smoker but most of his indigenous clients were and in that climate, moist for a good part of the year, the smell soaked into paper and the furniture. Not that there was much of that—a desk, two filing cabinets, two chairs.
Dave was in shorts, sandals and an untucked polo shirt; I felt overdressed in drill trousers, shoes and a long-sleeved shirt.
‘So what brings the big smoke to the Top End?’
‘Looking for someone, Dave.’
I’d made copies of the best photos I could find of O’Hara and Penelope Milton-Smith, including the one onstage during the Wollongong appearance where they both had a kind of celebrity performance glow. I took the copies from the envelope and passed them to him.
He shuffled them. ‘Rory O’Hara,’ he said. ‘Who’s the woman?’
I told him.
‘Should be easy to find, looking like that.’
‘I doubt she is now. Probably more like in that one in the street,’ I said. ‘I think they’re in hiding.’
‘From?’
I shrugged. ‘Hard to say, but at the moment, as far as I’m concerned, from me. Here’s the background.’
I filled him in thoroughly on the case. He was one of those people who didn’t fidget, didn’t scratch himself; you knew you had his full attention.
‘Where do people hide up here?’ I asked.
‘In the bush or on a boat. Are either of them boaties?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘There’s various places around, out of town but not too far out, available for short-term rent. Sort of package deal—house, car, pool, camping gear, dog, the works. Most of the booking’s done online but the places advertise with pamphlets. I’ve got a contact at the tourist bureau who might be useful. The bureau sort of hosts some of the places’ websites.’
‘Would money help?’
‘Always.’
‘I’m on a good wicket there. Neville Kim wants it done and he’ll pay what it takes. That covers you, too.’
There was a light breeze through a set of louvred windows but I wasn’t acclimatised and was sweating. Dave looked as if he’d just had a shower. He’d sat virtually still behind his desk to this point; now he turned on his computer and touched some keys.
‘Better make it official, Cliff. You’re enlisting me as an associate for this case?’
‘Right.’
He printed out a form. ‘Just one thing. If we find the guy who killed the girl, what d’we do?’
‘Why are you asking?’
‘I know you, or I know about you. I know you’ve taken a couple of people out and you tried to shoot the bloke who killed your girlfriend a while back. Where did Mr Kim draw the line?’
I shook my head. ‘Nothing like that, Dave. Those shootings were in self-defence and once in hot blood. This is just a job, pure and simple. Straight to the cops if we even get a sniff of Sean Bright.’
He passed the form across and I signed it with a damp hand.
‘I’m booked in at the Capricornia in Darwin,’ I said. ‘I’ll check in, have a swim and try to get used to being back in summer again. Give me your bank details.’
Dave rose smoothly to his feet. ‘Let’s see how it goes.’
‘I’d rather—’
‘You whitefellas don’t always get what you’d rather. Tell you what, I’ll make a start today and we could talk this evening. How’d you like to see some boxing? I know you were into it. He touched his eyebrows where he didn’t have white scars from boxing cuts but I did.
‘Sure.’
‘There’s a card tonight at the Kingfisher pub, eight-thirty. It’s on the harbour. You’ll find it.’
We shook hands again and I drove into Darwin where Santa hadn’t made it in 1974.
* * *
The Capricornia was only a block away from the CBD and the harbour was across the street, fringed by a park. The designer of the hotel seemed to have been unable to make up his mind between a desert oasis and a tropical island, but it was comfortable enough with a good-sized room, air-conditioning, mini-bar and a fan-cooled balcony. The pool was only a few metres away and I was in it within minutes of arriving.
Refreshed and more comfortable in shorts, a T-shirt and sandals, I sat out with a beer and had some crisps and a couple of the complimentary pieces of fruit for a late lunch. I was uncomfortable with Dave Burns’s perception of me as a killer. Anyway, it was certainly not on the agenda now. I had no gun and this was primarily an information-gathering exercise.
I took a long walk around the city and out past Parliament House and down to the harbourside precinct. I’d never been there before and had to admit to being a bit disappointed. The CBD, with its shops, pubs and restaurants, had a homogenised look, and the official buildings and sleek tourist-oriented developments reminded me of Canberra. The populace was not as multi-ethnic as I’d imagined: a great
many pale skins and freckles.
The most impressive thing about the place was the harbour. It stretched away to the far distance, slowly heaving with the calmness of the day. I thought it’d be more fun to be looking for O’Hara and Pen out on the water, although I wasn’t a boatie either.
* * *
I’d bought a map on my walk and plotted my route to the Kingfisher pub. I got there early to have a meal and a drink—steak sandwich and salad and a rough red. The pub was on the harbour to the east of the city with a huge beer garden that ended in a thick stand of mangroves.
The crowd was mixed, the way boxing crowds always are, with men in smart lightweight suits and women in party dresses mingling with the T-shirted, tracksuited types. The ring was set up under lights outside in the centre of the beer garden. Twenty dollars admission and a stamp on the hand for coming and going to the bar and the toilet.
Now I did see the ethnic mix I’d expected. At least a third of the patrons were indigenous and there was a strong Asian presence—Chinese, Indonesians, at a guess, and Indians. Rock music was blasting up into a starry sky and night birds swooped, scoring hits on the insects attracted to the lights.
I paid, got my stamp and hung around near the gate to the beer garden waiting for Dave. Soon after 8 pm he appeared, dressed much as he’d been before but in white jeans rather than baggy shorts, accompanied by a woman he introduced as Tania Hope. She was dark but several shades lighter than Dave. She wore a light sleeveless dress. Makeup, jewellery and trimmings she didn’t need; she was stunning just as she was.
Dave had an ice bucket with a bottle in it in one hand and three glasses in the other. We went through the gate and he and Tania nodded to people they knew as we worked our way to a table two rows back from the ring.
‘Tania worries about the blood,’ Dave said. ‘How d’you feel about that, Cliff?’
‘I only worry when it’s mine.’ I smiled at Tania. ‘Sorry, I can’t resist when someone plays the straight man for me.’
‘Blokes,’ she said. ‘Let’s have a drink.’
Dave poured the chilled white wine and we chatted as the crowd built up quickly and the noise mounted. Smoking was permitted in the open and a blue haze was caught in the lights. Then the lights suddenly blacked out for about ten seconds and when they cane back on, the officials and the announcer were in the ring.