by Peter Corris
‘Crows Nest.’
I’d put the .38 in the pocket of my leather jacket while she was away. I pulled the jacket on and we went out and got into the Golf. Pen handled the car well despite the wrist injury and seemed to enjoy herself. She parked in Alexander Street opposite the gym, which, like most of them, featured big windows and glass doors. Pen giggled when she saw me put on a baseball cap and a scarf that I allowed to ride up to cover the lower part of my face.
‘It’s odds against him actually being there,’ I said. ‘But I’ll hang as close as I can.’
‘What do I do?’
‘You’re his girlfriend. You describe him minutely and say you’re sorry for breaking up with him and you desperately want him back. You don’t know where he is. All you know is that he’s a hapkido fanatic.’
‘I’m distressed, right?’
‘Very.’
We crossed the street, Pen tottering on the very high heels. Inside the glass doors was a lobby with the gym on one side and a physiotherapy business on the other. There were pamphlets on a stand outside the physio place; I took one and pretended to study it while getting as close as I could to the gym door. I saw Pen approach the desk where a man with broad shoulders and a shaven head was tapping at a computer. He looked up as Pen spoke and seemed glad to be interrupted.
Pen was animated. She got as close to the man as she could and put her hand on his arm. She pushed back the sleeves of her jacket and top, showing him the cast on her wrist. He was all sympathy but he shook his head. Pen let her shoulders slump as she walked away. His eyes followed her to the door.
I went across the road and waited by the car.
‘No dice,’ she said.
‘Better luck next time. You played it perfectly.’
We repeated the process at Stanmore and Auburn with the same result. Pen was tired and disappointed and I drove us back to Glebe.
‘You don’t seem cast down,’ she said.
‘I’d have been surprised if it’d worked. It’s never that easy. We’ll just have to think of another angle.’
She sat back and closed her eyes. I tried not to look too often at her long slender legs in the tights and the way the skirt had ridden up almost to her crotch.
Back at the house she changed into the clothes she’d worn before but kept the wig and the makeup on—‘For fun,’ she said. We ordered a delivery of Thai food and I opened a bottle of white wine.
‘Second drink and it’s after seven o’ clock,’ she said. ‘That’s a first.’
She tried to remember anything else significant about Bright but came up empty. I told her not to worry.
‘We might tackle it from the politicians’ end,’ I said.
‘How?’
‘Have to think.’
We watched the news on television and Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris, which put us both in a good mood. We said goodnight and went upstairs. I switched on the reading lamp and went to bed with the Dormandy book on opium. The door opened and Pen came in. She was still wearing the makeup and wig but she was barefoot and dressed in only a lacy black slip. She slid into the bed and kissed me.
‘Be gentle,’ she said, ‘be very gentle.’
I was.
19
We made love again in the morning and lay in the tangled bedclothes. Pen suddenly rolled away.
‘Canberra,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘I’ve just remembered that the guy in Stanmore said there was a hapkido place in Canberra. Wouldn’t it make sense for Bright to be in Canberra if he’s been caught up with lobbyists and he has plans to blackmail politicians?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘There are lots of Russians in Canberra—at the universities, the embassy.’
‘At the Institute of Sport.’
‘You’re making fun of me.’
‘Yes, but it’s not a bad idea. Better than anything I’ve come up with.’
‘You were talking about coming at it from the politicians’ angle.’
‘Right. I haven’t had any bright ideas along those lines but we could think about it some more. Yes, why not?’
We got out of bed. Pen shivered in her slip.
‘Colder in Canberra,’ I said.
‘Calls for some faux fur and boots.’
Quick showers and warm clothes. Pen found the Ainslie Gym in the suburb of that name and I booked us online into the Northbourne Motel. We were on the road in the Falcon soon after 10 am.
‘Sure this’ll get us there?’ Pen said.
‘It’s got me pretty well everywhere I’ve needed to go for a good few years. More room for your long legs and I’m on expenses. Neville Kim can pay for the petrol.’
‘And the motel?’
‘Yup.’
‘Meals, drinks?’
‘I exercise my judgement.’
‘Will you tell him about me?’
‘There are some things a client doesn’t need to know.’
We made good time on the freeway and after a stop for fresh air and coffee at the halfway point, we were in Canberra before one-thirty. I checked us in as Hardy and Smith. As usual, the room wouldn’t be ready until mid-afternoon. We left our bags and Pen walked down to the CBD to do some shopping. I took a long aimless walk to get rid of the driving stiffness. The day was clear and still but the air was bitingly cold and, despite a coat, gloves and a scarf, I had to walk briskly to keep warm.
When I got back Pen was in the bathroom, wearing her wig and putting on her makeup. She wore the clothes she’d had on the day before plus a pair of spike-heeled shiny black boots. A silk-lined silvery jacket with fake fur collar and cuffs lay on the bed. She came out, slipped the jacket on and posed.
‘How’s this?’
‘Terrific.’ I opened the mini-bar. ‘Time for a bracer against the cold. What’s your fancy?’
‘Did you know,’ Pen said as we drove towards Ainslie, an inner suburb of Canberra, ‘that the White Australia policy had a bit to do with the choice of Canberra for a capital?’
‘No. How was that?’
‘I read about it somewhere. The thinking at the time was that white people were creative because they lived in cold climates. They avoided the hot-climate torpor of the coloureds, so the capital of a new white man’s country should be in a cold place.’
‘Well, it’s certainly cold, but I wouldn’t say Canberra’s an advertisement for creativity and productivity. Think of the parliament.’
The gym was on the second level of a three-storey building in Ainslie’s small shopping precinct. Mount Ainslie, just a big hill, rose up behind it. As before, Pen went in, all long legs and fluttering eyes. I was able to watch her performance from the stairs leading up to the top level. I told myself Bright was unlikely to recognise her even if he was there, but it could get sticky.
Pen went through her routine with the guy at the desk and he nodded affirmatively. Pen persisted but he shook his head. She favoured him with a high candlepower smile and walked out.
I came down the stairs and took her arm. ‘Success?’
‘Yes, he comes here. He uses the name Steve Ball. I tried to get him to give me his address or a phone number but he wouldn’t.’
‘So we’ll just have to watch the place.’
‘Not exactly. He said Steve’s due in for a sparring session at four o’clock this afternoon. That’s only an hour from now.’ ‘I’m looking forward to seeing him in action.’
‘And then what?’
‘Follow him home, I guess, and think about it.’
We waited in the car park the clients used to access the gym from a back entrance. I turned the engine on to run the heater from time to time. Pen was quiet, plucking loose threads from her jacket. I noticed that she’d added false fingernails to her outfit, painted silver to match her jacket.
‘How will you feel when you see him?’ I asked.
‘I’ll feel like kicking him in the balls, but I won’t.’
Four o’clock ca
me and went and there was no sign of Bright. We went up to the gym and I could hear heavy thumps and loud, hissing breathing. Pen looked disappointed and upset, which gave me an idea.
‘Idiots,’ she said, looking at the padded, leaping men.
‘Can you cry?’
‘What?’
‘Can you cry, or look as if you’ve been crying?’
‘I can’t just cry, but I could smear this mascara, I suppose.’
‘Do it. Go in and work on him. You’re terribly disappointed and upset.’
‘I am.’
‘Try to get something more out of him, anything.’
She took a tissue from her shoulder bag, wet it with saliva and dabbed at her eyes. The mascara left smudges near her cheekbones. She pulled her top down to reveal more cleavage and tottered inside. I took up my former position and watched as she pleaded with the man at the desk.
She dug for tissues in her bag. Her shoulders shook and she threw back her head several times and almost lost her balance. He put out his hand to steady her and she clasped it. He resisted, but only briefly.
She came out looking quite dishevelled with her face stained, the heavy lipstick smeared, and the jacket slipping off one shoulder.
On the stairs going down I straightened the jacket. ‘How did it go?’
‘I did cry.’
‘I thought you might.’
‘He said he didn’t have a phone number and all he’d tell me was that Steve lived in a place called Gundaroo.’
20
I didn’t know the southern tablelands area well so I looked Gundaroo up on my laptop. It was in New South Wales but close to Canberra—only about a half-hour’s drive away. It was described as a village, with agriculture as its main activity. Academics and public servants from Canberra had weekenders there and small blocks for hobby farms and keeping horses. It was a tourist attraction for its heritage quality.
I absorbed this while Pen got out of her fuck-me outfit, as Germaine Greer might have called it. She took her time about it and when she’d finished it was far too late to do any hunting.
I phoned Neville Kim and told him what I was doing, although not that I’d narrowed the search down as far as I had.
‘That’s very encouraging,’ he said. ‘I have some friends in Canberra. I’ll give you a couple of phone numbers to use should you need help.’
I wrote them down and promised to keep him informed. Pen stuffed the glamour gear into a plastic shopping bag.
‘Might keep the boots,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
She asked who I’d been talking to and I told her about Kim’s offer of help.
‘Will we need help?’
‘I’m trying not to get ahead of myself. I’m already out on a limb. By rights, a private detective should check in with the police, especially when there’s a wanted criminal involved.’
‘Are you going to do that?’
‘Not just now. Maybe when we locate him.’
We drove into Civic and ate at a Spanish restaurant. We both had garlic prawns and garlic chicken. I had a beer and we shared a small carafe of white wine. The restaurant was half full on a weeknight.
Over coffee Pen said, ‘Are you going to charge it to your client?’
I reached for her hand. ‘No, this is just about you and me.’ We’d left the air-conditioning on high in the motel. We stripped off, made love and ended up slick with the motel’s scented oil and damp with perspiration.
We drove to Gundaroo in the morning. I had the photograph of Bright, which Neville Kim had rightly described as blurry, my PIA licence and my experience to work with. Asking the right questions to find someone was my bread and butter and I set about it. Pen had insisted on coming along although there was nothing for her to do. She bought newspapers and magazines and installed herself in a coffee shop.
The heritage buildings, and the tendency of people to greet each other in the street more than they do in the city, gave the place its village air. Showing the photograph and my licence and downplaying the seriousness of the matter, I inquired in a few of the obvious places—service station, general store, newsagent—without success.
I sat with Pen and had a coffee. The coffee and croissant culture had reached Gundaroo, as it had most small places with any claims to olde-worlde atmosphere.
‘No luck?’
‘So far. Tell me, did Bright drink in Darwin?’
She considered. ‘Not much.’
‘What did he drink?’
‘Beer.’
The Heritage Inn had undergone renovations over time to make it comfortable for twenty-first century` drinkers but it retained the original nineteenth-century structure and a big effort had been made to preserve the historical features. I went into the bar, ordered a middy of Carlton Black and dropped my change in the tips glass. I drank, waited until the barman had served another of the half-dozen customers, and went through my routine.
‘Lousy picture,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘What’s he done?’
It was the first bite I’d had.
‘Nothing, as far as I know. He’s a friend of someone else I’m looking for who might have done something, if you see what I mean.’
‘Yeah, well looks like Steve Ball. Bit skinnier than that, though. Comes in occasionally. No trouble.’
‘That’s good. Do you happen to know where he lives?’
‘He’s got a place out Gundaroo Road north about five klicks. Old joint on a couple of acres, bit tumbledown. Been there for the last few years, off and on.’
He moved away to serve another customer. I finished my beer, turned to go, and asked casually, ‘What does he drive?’
The barman scratched his head. ‘Seen it once. A Jeep, I think. Yeah, a blue Jeep.’
I thanked him again and left. Pen was looking bored when I rejoined her but she sparked up at the news.
‘Let’s go,’ she said.
‘Okay, but this is simply surveillance. Then we go back to Canberra and you stay there.’
‘While you do what?’
‘Call the police in.’
‘And arrest him. I’d like to see that.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Cops and guns—it wouldn’t be safe.’
I followed the barman’s instructions, keeping an eye on the odometer. It was seven kilometres rather than five, but country people always underestimate distance. The blocks showed signs of being cared for—good fences and gates, strategically placed stands of trees, graded, well-drained tracks. A few of the cottages were visible from the road and looked presentable.
Bright’s place was easy to spot. It let the side down badly; the rusty gate sagged on its hinges and the fence had gaps, partly repaired by star stakes and wire. I drove by slowly. The track was muddy and rutted and led to a garage that would have offered minimal protection. No sign of a car.
‘He’s not there,’ Pen said.
‘But he could be close by. We can’t hang around here. I just want to scout a bit up there where the road bends.’
‘Why?’
‘Looks to be a track running beside his property and quite a few trees. We’ll need some cover while we prepare.’
I drove up to the bend, which put me the best part of a hundred metres from Bright’s gate. A patch of thick bush started there and the track appeared to be a fire trail into the forest. I got some binoculars from the glove box and told Pen to stay put.
The drive had been uphill and it was colder out here than back in the town. I pulled up the hood on my anorak and walked into the bush. I was lifting the binoculars when I heard a faint sound behind me. I felt a blow to the side of my head that stunned me. Then another blow to the same place and the ground tilted and a big gum tree came rushing to meet me.
21
I came out of it in a room I didn’t recognise and in the company of three men I didn’t know. One wore a suit and a professional air, the other two wore cas
ual clothes—jeans, bomber jackets, sneakers—and if they were professionals it was at something different from the man in the suit. I was sitting on a chair; a plastic restraint anchored my right wrist to the armrest. My anorak was hanging on the back of the chair.
‘I’m a doctor, Mr Hardy,’ the suit said as he bent over me. ‘Do you know what day it is?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the date?’
I told him the date.
‘You’ve been concussed, but not too badly. The hood you were wearing softened the blow.’
I looked at the two others. ‘Blows,’ I said.
The doctor nodded. ‘Yes, bruises and some abrasions from where you hit the tree. How’s your vision?’
‘Okay.’
‘Hearing?’
‘A bit of ringing.’
‘Normal.’
‘Where’s Penelope?’
‘She’s safe.’
‘That doesn’t answer the question.’
The doctor moved away.
‘It’s all the answer you’ll get,’ one of the others said.
‘Who’re you two?’
The stocky one was doing the talking; the taller one was the strong silent type.
‘You could call me Mr A and him Mr B.’
‘That’d be A for arsehole and B for bastard.’
‘I should’ve hit you harder,’ B said.
‘Maybe you should have. What’s this all about?’
‘Just be patient,’ A said. ‘Someone’ll be here soon to speak to you.’
In a situation like that there’s an impulse to talk out of nervousness. It’s best to suppress it. The room was small and neat with a single bed, the chair I was sitting on and not much else. A and B stood over by the door, A with his arms folded, B with big hands dangling. Through the window I could see foliage of some kind. I looked at my watch but the glass had cracked and it had stopped. I had no way of knowing how long I’d been unconscious.
The two men looked capable and I was tied to a chair. In the movies I’d have been able to swing the chair and flatten them both. Or use my cigarette lighter to melt the plastic restraint. But the chair was fairly heavy and I didn’t have a cigarette lighter. I was worried about Pen but I’d been told she was safe and I hadn’t been damaged other than in the initial attack. Something was brewing, disagreeable most likely, but probably not life-threatening.