‘I thanked them for coming and asked them to hold a bit of a wake for Jerry at his watering hole.’
‘I’m sure they’ll do that,’ I said. ‘I’d be in it. Shouldn’t you be there?’
‘No. Hold on.’
He spoke to the two drivers and the cars pulled away. It was then that I noticed the quality of his clothes—the suit, the shirt, the shoes. He’d obviously paid for the whole thing and the burial plot. This man had money.
‘We can get a taxi back. I’m hoping you’ve got some time.’
I nodded and we began to walk between the rows of graves and the ornate tombs as the early afternoon wind took on an edge.
‘A wake for Jerry’d be okay,’ Fowler said. ‘I always expected I’d go to his rather than him coming to mine. But I’ve got more serious business. I want to hire you to find out who killed my brother.’
* * * *
Fowler told me that Jerry had been the black sheep from the start, always in trouble for thieving and fighting. The parents were religious—hence the names Zachariah and Jeremiah—but it didn’t take with Jerry.
‘I was a couple of years younger,’ Fowler said. ‘I thought it was all bullshit, the religion, but I played along to keep the peace. Jerry was causing them so much trouble they needed something to make them feel worthwhile.’
‘How did you get along with him?’
Fowler shrugged. ‘Okay, what I saw of him. He was in and out of reform schools from his early teens and then he graduated to gaol. As I say, I toed the line, did okay at school, Fort Street, got a commerce degree, started a business that did well. Mum and Dad didn’t live to be very old but I helped make them comfortable for the last few years. Mum always said Jerry broke her heart, but there’s nothing to that. They were cowed, frightened people who clung to their religious delusions and then just sort of faded away.’
We walked back towards the gate. I had a pea jacket over a sweater and the cold didn’t penetrate too much. Fowler just had his business shirt and suit coat but he didn’t seem bothered. Reminiscing had removed him physically from the scene.
‘It’s a funny thing,’ he said, ‘how unforgiving Christians can be. They never forgave Jerry, wouldn’t have spoken to him more than half a dozen times since he became an adult.’
‘I’ve seen that,’ I said, ‘churchgoers shunning their unmarried pregnant daughters.’
‘Yeah. Anyway, I stayed in touch with Jerry as best I could, but my business took me overseas a lot and when he was out of gaol he was always in some rooming house or other—hard to track down. I gave him a helping hand when I could but
‘He probably shouted me a drink sometime or other with what you gave him.’
That’s when Fowler apparently started to feel the cold. He hailed a taxi. ‘Let’s go somewhere and have a drink. Jerry told me about you more than once and he spoke about you recently. That’s why I want to talk to you.’
The taxi took us to Fowler’s hotel—the Novotel at Darling Harbour. We installed ourselves in a warm comfortable bar and Fowler bought double scotches, putting them on his room account.
‘Jeremiah Fowler,’ he said as he raised his glass.
We drank the toast. Fowler unbuttoned his suit coat and leaned back in his chair. As a man in late middle-age, he was comfortably padded but not fat. Probably worked out a little when he had the time. He took another pull on his drink and got ready to talk.
‘About six weeks ago, when I was just back from the States, I found out where Jerry was living and went to see him. In Glebe, of course. That’s where the family had been for a couple of generations.’
The scotch was smooth—bound to help talking and listening.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’m a comparative newcomer. Jerry filled in the background for me.’
Fowler nodded. ‘He would. It was his only interest apart from a quick easy dollar. Well, I went to see him and found him pretty close to the edge financially, and health-wise. I told him about this caravan park that I’ve got an interest in. Well, I own it really, but I didn’t tell Jerry that, and I said he could have one of the mobile homes to live in rent-free. He seemed interested and the next thing I know he rings me and asks how much to buy the unit. I told him forty-five thousand just to name a figure and he said he thought he could raise it. Next thing I know I get the news that he’s dead.’
‘Did you tell any of this to the police?’
‘No, I knew the detective I talked to wasn’t interested. The only way Jerry could have got hold of that sort of money was through something criminal. He must have stepped on somebody’s toes and got himself killed. I want to know who killed him and I want to see them in gaol. Jerry spoke very well of you, said you’d helped him out a few times. One of the Glebe people pointed you out to me at the service and here we are.’
‘Where are we exactly, Mr Fowler?’
‘I’m trying to enlist you to find out who killed Jerry and I’m happy to pay your going rate. More if necessary.’
‘What makes you think I’d be able to do that?’
Fowler shrugged. ‘I feel that I let him down. I have to do something and this is all I can think of
‘You sent him off nicely. Isn’t that enough?’
‘No. I haven’t told you anything about my business, have I?’
‘I’d have got around to asking you.’
‘I run a freight company that operates here and in Europe and the United States. Not huge, but big enough and profitable. When I got started with a few trucks I ran into trouble with a competitor who wouldn’t play by the rules. Jerry rounded up a few blokes he’d met inside and it got sorted out. But Jerry was up on charges again at the time and I didn’t do enough for him: I was battling, short of time and money. He went away for a long, hard stretch and I prospered. As far as I could tell he didn’t hold it against me, but I felt I’d let him down. That’s why I made the caravan park offer. I didn’t want to look patronising or superior ... But Jerry threw me with his claim to have the price. Does any of this make sense, Hardy?’
Of course it did, almost too much sense, and I felt obliged to tell Fowler what had happened between Jerry and me. It didn’t reflect well on Jerry—given the price Zack had named for the mobile home, Jerry obviously was going for the whole bundle and planning to cut me out—or on me for not coming down harder, telling him to leave it alone. Over another couple of drinks I laid it all out.
Fowler listened intently, forgetting his drink. When I finished he shook his head.
‘That’s Jerry all right. Too proud to accept charity from me but ready enough to diddle you out of your share of the reward. He was my brother and I was fond of him, but he couldn’t lie straight in bed.’
‘Perhaps I’ve wronged him. Maybe when I was lukewarm about his proposition he decided to just go it alone.’
‘I’d like to think so, but I doubt it.’ He took a small notebook from his coat pocket. ‘When did he come to you?’
I told him and it became clear that Jerry had spoken about having the fifty thousand Sanderson had on offer before he spoke to me.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Fowler said. ‘I was starting to feel encouraged that you knew something of what he was up to. That means you wouldn’t be starting from scratch. But now you know that he intended to cheat you I suppose you’re not inclined to help.’
With the scotch working, I smiled at him. ‘Mr Fowler, you don’t imagine that I approve of all the people I work for, do you? Let alone like them.’
‘Then you’ll do it?’
‘Got your cheque book handy?’
* * * *
Knowing that Jerry had planned to cut me out of the deal made it easier in a way. I could be objective about the job and not feel any obligation to him. The other thing was that I was in the loop already, although I hadn’t told Fowler about the attack on me. I wanted to sort out who had me in their sights and I figured I might as well get paid while I was doing it.
* * * *
A while
back I’d done some work for a bookmaker named Tim Turnbull. A missing daughter case that didn’t turn out too badly for all parties. I’d stayed vaguely in touch with him and had backed a couple of his tips successfully. I phoned him and arranged a meeting.
Tim lived in Paddington in a three-storey terrace with all the wrought iron, white pebbles and native garden you could wish for. He’d demolished a smaller house beside his own to provide garage space with a swimming pool and a lavish entertainment area. Tim’s parties were legendary.
I penetrated the layers of security and Tim led me into his den-cum-bar. The chairs were deep and comfortable, the bookshelves held a mix of racing books and hardback best-sellers, and the bottles of liquor were seductive in the subdued concealed lighting. It was mid-afternoon.
‘What’ll you have, Cliff?’
‘Light beer.’
‘Jesus, a couple of hundred grand’s worth of booze and you want light beer.’
‘If you have it, Tim.’
‘Smartarse. Of course I’ve got it. No one drinks seriously anymore.’
Tim was out to prove his point. He gave me a stubbie of Cascade Light and a glass and let some cognac glide into a crystal balloon for himself. I sniffed the air.
‘What happened to the Havanas?’
Tim, forty pounds overweight with a purple nose and florid complexion, scowled. ‘Had to give them up. Doctor’s orders.’ A reminder of this injunction damaged his sociability. ‘What can I do for you?’
I spun him a line about a client being unhappy after his dealings with Charley Sanderson. I said I wanted Tim’s opinion of Sanderson and how heavy he was likely to come down on anyone who got in his bad books. Turnbull had started out as a runner for his fathers SP book and he knew a bit about the rough side of the game. He seemed to enjoy letting his mind work along these lines.
‘Charleys a wimp,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t have the guts to come down hard.’
‘What about getting someone to do the business for him?’
‘Nah. He’s afraid of the law. That’s one of the three things he’s afraid of.’
I had to play along. ‘The other two are ... ?’
‘His missus. A real dragon. Keeps him on a very tight leash. She’d be afraid of what might happen if he got into bad company like that Rivkin. Charley’s wife likes to move in respectable circles. The other thing he’s afraid of is going broke.’
‘Any risk of that?’
Tim looked around the room, at the wood panelling, teak bookcases, chromium and glass bar—signs of wealth too solid ever to be lost, you’d think, but he said, ‘It can all go down the gurgler really quick if things go wrong.’
‘That’s interesting. Not that this business my client’s pissed off about is that big a deal, but what would Sanderson do if his finances collapsed?’
Tim swilled his brandy and took a sip. ‘He’d wriggle out of it somehow.’
I finished my beer and got up. ‘Thanks, Tim. This is all between us, of course.’
Thinking about the old days and getting a sniff of a competitor’s problems had restored Tim’s good mood. He got to his feet and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘I remember how you played things so sweetly when I had that trouble with Kirsty. You protected all our arses. Whatever you say’s okay with me.’
* * * *
I was flying by the seat of my pants, but I had to start somewhere. I could have trawled through some of Jerry Fowler’s mates, or people I knew in what they’ll probably soon call the criminal industry, to try to get a line on who might’ve knocked over Charley Sanderson’s stash. That would have taken time and expense. An approach through Charley Sanderson himself, stamped by Tim Turnbull as unlikely to have anyone killed, seemed the better option.
Big bookmakers are on the web with office phone numbers supplied. I made contact and arranged a meeting with Sanderson by posing as a journalist wanting a story. My mate Harry Tickener, who runs the Searchlight web newsletter, would cover for me. Searchlight operates on a shoestring and its motto is ‘We name the guilty men’. It does, too, and Harry has all his minimal assets protected from libel suits.
Important people, or people who think they’re important, don’t make same-day appointments, even if they’re publicity prone like Sanderson. My appointment was for late morning the following day.
I’m not a keen or constant punter and I couldn’t have named more than one or two horses then in the news. I bought a couple of papers just to acquaint myself with something of the racing scene and went in to the office. No assailants lurking.
I looked through the papers and then picked up the baton I’d left on my desk. It was about 70 centimetres long and retractable, the top half sliding into the bottom section which had a rubberised handle. Portable. It was ceramic and weighed about two kilos. It had four or five notches filed into it near the top. I slapped it against my palm quite softly and it hurt. I looked forward to returning it to its owner—the hard way.
* * * *
For two men in the same profession, Tim Turnbull and Charles Sanderson couldn’t have been more unalike. Where Tim’s lifestyle fitted the image of the ‘colourful racing identity’, Sanderson’s was more like that of a chartered accountant. Tim’s operational centre was somewhere in his grand pile, Sanderson’s was in a Randwick office complex. Sterile was too warm a word for it. I was shown by a neatly dressed and scrubbed female secretary into a room that had all the personality of an empty stubbie. No books, no bar, just a desk and filing cabinets. It only lacked an eye chart on the wall to feel like a medical office.
Sanderson was a grey man in a grey room. He wore a grey suit and he barely acknowledged me as I walked in. Then he surprised me.
‘You’re not a journalist,’ he said.
‘How d’you know that?’
‘I’ve met too many of them over the years. I never saw one who looked like you. You’ve got the half-decent clothes but not the look or the manner.’
“What’s the manner?’
‘Stealthy. You don’t look stealthy. Have a seat and tell me quickly what you want before I have the security people up here.’
I sat in a well-worn chair and looked at him more closely. He was bald and freckled; he wore rimless glasses and his shoulders were narrow in the padded suit jacket. He looked as though he’d made a decision to remove colour from his person, his surroundings and his life. Except for his eyes behind the lenses. There was something alert, almost predatory about them. No red glow like in those of Anthony Hopkins’s Hannibal Lecter, but not dissimilar. This wasn’t a man to fool with and I wondered how Tim T had got it so wrong.
‘I’m a private detective,’ I said.
‘Why am I not surprised? I’m a busy man, Mr Private Detective. What do you want?’
He had me on the retreat, feeling for the ropes. I could take it on the arms like Ali against Foreman, or come in swinging. I decided against the Ali option.
‘I’m wondering if you had anything to do with Jerry Fowler’s murder.’
‘Who’s Jerry Fowler?’
I studied him. It was a critical moment. If he genuinely didn’t know who Jerry was I’d eliminated one of the ‘possibles’. He’d put the question neither too quickly nor too slowly. Delivered it flat, with all the appearance of ignorance mixed with indifference. I had to make a decision and I made it.
‘Jerry Fowler was a small-time crim of my acquaintance. He came to me a few days back with a story about you having been robbed of a certain amount of money and offering a reward for the identity of the people who robbed you.’
I was watching him closely and he didn’t react beyond a blink and a slight tightening of the jaw, which could have meant something or nothing. ‘Story’s not right,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been robbed of anything.’
‘Haifa million, hidden from the ATO.’
‘No.’
‘I’m not sure I believe you.’
He tried to hold my gaze, couldn’t, and looked down at his empty desk as if he thoug
ht something useful might appear there. ‘Believe what you please. I’d like you to leave. I’m busy.’
After a pause I shook my head. ‘You’ve overplayed your hand. Do you know the meaning of the word disinterested?’
That caught his vanity. ‘Yeah, I’m disinterested in everything you have to say.’
I stood. ‘You’ve got it wrong. Look it up. It means uninvolved, having no stake in something. You’re not disinterested in this, Charley. You’re up to your balls in it.’ I dropped a card on his desk. ‘I couldn’t care less about you or your stash or any reward. I cared about Jerry. Get in touch when you’ve thought it over.’
Corris, Peter Page 5