I opened the folder and read in typewritten upper case, ‘MY LIFE OF CRIME & THEIRS’. Another rule of breaking and entering is—get out quick. I restored the rubber bands to the folder, turned off the light and left the house. Mission accomplished, and all quiet on this western front.
* * * *
On the drive back I began to feel that things weren’t as wrapped up as I’d thought on finding the manuscript. My certainty that the assault on McCafferty had to do with his drug dealing would be useful to DS Rule, but I wasn’t prepared to impart that knowledge just yet. On the evidence of the dates on the newspapers, McCafferty had been in possession of the manuscript for some days before he was attacked. Why the delay in passing it on to Weiss when he must have been on a promise of a reward for delivering it? Was he contemplating or in the process of dealing with someone else? And what of Weiss? McCafferty’s name had rolled off his tongue easily after my brief mention of it. Which side was he playing for, apart from his own?
* * * *
I stopped in Newtown at a twenty-four hour copying joint and made two copies of the manuscript. I put one copy in a hiding place in the car—a virtually undetectable slit in the upholstery that self-sealed with velcro. Although it was late I phoned Rosemary Kingston, told her I had the manuscript and wanted to bring it to her.
‘I thought you were supposed to give it to this agent?’
‘I’m not sure I trust him.’
‘In that case, come on over. I was watching a late movie anyway.’
* * * *
‘Your bill’s not going to be that high,’ she said as she let me in. ‘What—petrol money, a few phone calls?’
‘I had to grease some palms, but you’re right. It wouldn’t be much if it was really all over.’
She ushered me into the flat and poured me a scotch.
‘It isn’t over? You wouldn’t be trying to inflate the account, would you? Sorry, I don’t really think that.’
‘Think what you like. I’ve barely earned the retainer as things stand, but there’s something off about it all.’
‘What do you mean, Cliff?’
‘I don’t know. It’s a kind of instinct. Anyway, thanks for the drink and here’s the book.’
She took the package and opened it. ‘Hey, it’s supposed to be written on a typewriter. This is a photocopy.’
‘I don’t trust anyone, including myself,’ I said.
I went home and although it was late I made myself something to eat, poured a drink and turned over the pages of the original manuscript. The prose was racy, the structure was artful and, superficially, the tone had a nice blend of contrition and defiance. Some of the names of officials, politicians and media types mentioned were familiar, but without doing a close reading I couldn’t see the book as a crime Krakatoa—more of a fizzing catherine-wheel with bits of mud spinning off it. There was a bit too much self-aggrandisement, a touch of religion, an obeisance to the conservative law and order agenda. I went to bed.
* * * *
I slept on it but didn’t come up with anything new. I told myself I’d done my job. I took the original manuscript to Phillip Weiss, who practically slavered over it. I kept the third copy for no good reason. I submitted my invoice to Rosemary Kingston and received prompt payment. Case closed.
But of course it wasn’t. Theo got out not long after and he rang me with his thanks and the news that he’d got a high five-figure advance from a publisher.
‘Good one,’ I said. ‘You’ll be on TV soon.’
He laughed long and loud and I found out why when Rosemary Kingston stormed into my office with the sort of anger that only a deceived and jilted woman can muster.
‘I want my money back!’
‘I don’t think so. We had a contract. Why?’
‘That bastard,’ she said. ‘The book’s a fake. After they’d paid over the advance, someone more cluey took a look at it and found out that it’s a total pinch from an English true crime story, with just the names and the local details changed.’
‘Well, he’ll have to return the money.’
She laughed bitterly. ‘No chance. He flew out for God knows where the other day. Left me a note.’
Theo had struck again.
<
* * * *
Blackmail
T
he note was word-processed, the ultimate in anonymity and much less messy and time-consuming than cutting out letters from a newspaper or magazine. It read: ‘We have your wife. If she’s worth half a million to you call now!’ A mobile number followed.
‘I was shocked,’ Bruce Haxton said. ‘I rang the number without hesitating. What else could I do?’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘Nothing, or almost nothing. A voice just said to wait. Shit!’ His mobile rang and he turned away to take the call.
Haxton was an Australian film director, a successful one, with a batch of Hollywood movies to his credit, and a couple of Oscar nominations. He was back home scouting locations for a film to be shot in Sydney, although, from what I’d read of it in the papers, it was actually set a thousand years in the future on another planet. I’d met him when I was doing a bodyguarding job for an actor in one of his earlier pictures. The actor, Lance Hartley, was a paranoid, coke-addicted nightmare, more in danger from himself than anyone else, but the job paid well. Haxton and I had got along under difficult circumstances then, and we’d stayed vaguely in touch—had a few drinks, went to a Kostya Tszyu fight together on his complimentary tickets— like that. He’d called me in his hour of need.
‘No chance,’ he said to his caller and hit the end button. He let out a long sigh and it was impossible to tell whether it was for his kidnapped wife or some other matter.
Haxton was forty plus, tall and lean with a prematurely grey head of hair and beard. He wore a sloppy outfit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, and the laces on one of his Nikes was undone. Possibly an affectation, but more likely a sign of stress. Stress was his middle name, but after a few beers he relaxed and could be good company.
He popped a Nicorette and chewed without enthusiasm. ‘The thing is, she’s not worth half a million. She’s not worth a buck and a half, to quote Sinatra. God, Cliff, I’m losing my mind. I need a drink. You?’
‘Sure. Beer. Thanks.’
It was mid-afternoon. He’d told me he found the note pushed under the door of the house he was renting in Rose Bay when he’d got up in the morning after a very late night. He’d made his immediate response, stewed for a while and then called me. We were in the back, where the sitting room, kitchen, sunroom and deck flowed into each other. He built himself a solid vodka and tonic, opened a Budweiser and poured.
The house was a million dollar dream, so quiet, comfortable and well appointed it was boring. The traffic noise was a distant, soothing hum and if planes passed over they were well aloft and infrequent. We sat around a table, just above a courtyard with every brick and plant in place. Haxton worked on his drink while still chewing. He looked around and his shake of the head spoke volumes.
‘I grew up in Blacktown. How about you?’
‘Maroubra.’
‘Beachside. Brilliant, but you know what I’m talking about. Fibro, dunny out the back.’
I nodded and drank expensive, imported beer.
‘I married Cassie after my first movie won a couple of AFI awards and got me offers from LA. Guess what her job was on the picture?’
‘I’m betting she wasn’t the writer.’
He snorted and took another pull on his drink. ‘I always liked your one-liners. You know how things were back then. What was it, ten years ago?’
‘Pre-Howard, anyway.’
‘Yeah. Everyone was screwing each other. Cassie was the props girl. She was on with the DOP who said he was training her. In advanced fellatio, it seemed to me. I wasn’t complaining, mind you. We got it on and got married. I can’t remember why. It was never good enough to commit to or bad enou
gh to quit. We sort of came and went. She didn’t really want to leave LA for this trip but she did, out of boredom probably.’
He finished his drink and got up to make another. He told me that they’d only been back for ten days and that Cassie had spent most of the time catching up with old friends and shopping. They’d spent four of the ten nights apart with no questions asked. He had no idea who she’d been with. They were together the night before last. She went out the next day and didn’t return. That didn’t worry him because he had what he called a ‘dinner meeting’. He came back to the house late and found the note in the mid-morning.
‘You’re getting around to saying that you’re not going to pay. That right, Bruce?’
‘Jesus. It’s like a scene out of one of my crappy movies. Moral dilemmas and all that ethical shit mixed with sex and money. In this case it’s straightforward. I can’t pay even if I wanted to—which I don’t—because I’m broke.’
I swung my head from side to side, taking in the glass, the chrome, the cedar decking, the hot tub.
‘It’s all on the budget,’ he said. ‘And don’t worry, your fee’ll be covered in the same way. I took this shitty job on because I need the fucking money. Only reason.’
‘How come you’re broke?’
‘You haven’t kept up. The last two pictures were flops. Went straight to DVD and didn’t do any business even then. It costs to live in LA. The mortgage and car leases you wouldn’t believe, and you have to keep up appearances in this game. Look like you’re down and you’ll be there.’
‘I’m flattered that you called me, but really it’s a job for the police.’
He shook his head. ‘No way. There’re still a few holes to fill in the picture’s budget and if word got out that I’m under this sort of pressure the whole thing could fold. I can’t afford bad publicity and I certainly can’t afford to let it get out that I’m broke. You see the bind I’m in.’
‘Plus you don’t care about her, one way or the other.’
‘Hey, I don’t want to get her ears in the mail or anything like that. Shit—movie talk again. What do you think I should do?’
‘I guess, when they get in touch, negotiate. Buy time.’
‘I suppose I could sell something, raise a hundred grand at a pinch.’
That’s the thing about the rich. When they say they’re broke they don’t quite mean it the way most people do. I was willing to take the job on even though I knew the people involved were flaky and the outcome was very uncertain. Just sitting tight waiting for a kidnapper to make contact didn’t appeal to me though. There had to be more I could do.
“You say you don’t know who she’s been spending time with, Bruce, but you must have some idea—some names, some suggestions. Let’s get proactive here, as they say.’
He gave it some thought as he worked on his drink. Then he left the room for a few minutes, returning with a notepad and some cards. ‘I found these in the bedroom—a few places she seems to have gone to.’
He handed them to me while he scribbled on the notepad. The cards were for a Double Bay wine bar, a disco at the Cross and a Thai restaurant in Newtown. The woman got around. Haxton tore off the page and passed it over.
‘That’s a few of the people she used to hang with and she mentioned them casually when we were together here. She scribbled down some cell numbers by the phone that seem to relate to a couple of them. That’s the best I can do.’
I examined the list—two men and three women; mobile numbers for one of the men and two of the women.
‘These blokes—friends or lovers?’ I asked.
‘Don’t know, but don’t rule out the women—Cassie swings both ways.’
I put the cards and the sheet in my pocket. ‘It’s a place to start. What you have to do is keep your mobile charged. That’s how they’ll contact you. You have to play it as hard as you can. Just get a response and buy some time.’
He nodded. ‘So I ... go about my business?’
‘That’s right. There could be someone watching you, so act the way you feel. Shouldn’t be too hard. I’ll have someone keep an eye on you. Might spot a watcher if there is one and that’d give us an edge.’
‘Right.’
‘Two more things. Try and confirm that they’ve got her. Has she got a birthmark or a mole or something distinctive? A tattoo?’
‘Several tattoos.’
‘Right. Then ask for confirmation that she’s alive. Ask to talk to her. They might not play. If they’ve got her she might be drugged.’
‘If?’
‘Wouldn’t be the first kidnap faked by the supposed victim. Does Cassie know you’re broke?’
He shook his head and I left him to his troubles.
* * * *
I didn’t really intend to ring the people whose names I had. What would I say? ‘Hello, I’m a private detective looking for Cassie Haxton who’s been kidnapped. Please don’t tell the media.’ Getting the names was just a way of drawing a bit more out of Haxton, which had worked, and making me look efficient. I haven’t handled more than a couple of kidnapping cases and only one was a serious matter. But I’ve dealt with ransom demands for objects quite a few times, and I’ve come to the conclusion that they’re not always just about money. Putting the money angle aside, you have to ask yourself—who benefits!
Haxton had given me some clues and I phoned Ingrid Svensson who runs an agency for people-in the film business—actors, producers, directors and all the rest. She was the one who got me the minding job on Haxton’s earlier effort and we’d shared some jokes about Lance Hartley and his little habits. I’d since done a few jobs for her, like running an actor through some of the things he needed to know to look and sound like a private detective, and locating a producer who’d skipped without paying a couple of her clients.
Ingrid was busy but she found some time for me. Her office was in Surry Hills near the park named after the politician Eddie Ward, ‘the firebrand of East Sydney’. My mother, an ALP groupie, had played the piano at his wake. I went up seven floors to Ingrid’s ‘suite’, which was festooned with photographs of film people, not all of them beautiful. Ingrid is sixty and looks forty—one of those. Olive complexion, white-blonde hair, dark eyes, sharp cheekbones. She sat me down at her desk in the open plan office and lifted her Scandinavian eyebrows.
‘Well, Cliff?’
‘All this is confidential.’
‘But of course.’
‘Who would stand to gain if Bruce Haxton’s film ...’
‘The Golden Galaxy.’
‘... didn’t get off the ground?’
‘Not me, for one. A few people on my books are down to work on it. What have you heard?’
‘My lips are professionally sealed. All I can tell you, and I shouldn’t but I want to be as straight with you as I can, is that Haxton’s my client.’
‘Ah yes, I remember that you shared an interest in drinking and wrestling.’
‘Boxing.’
‘Disgusting; it’s been banned in civilised countries. But go on.’
‘That’s it. Are there rumours, doubts, fears, jealousies?’
‘This is the film business. All those things are a given.’
‘Anything specific? Come on, Ingrid, you know everything that’s going on.’
‘Well, I know they’re not quite there with the post-production budget. I hear they’re working on Henry Stawell to try to get it up to scratch.’
‘Him being?’
‘A lawyer, a stockbroker and a merchant banker, all done with flair.’
‘Is he likely to come through?’
‘Only if he’s sure the human structure is in place, the right people.’
‘Which brings me back to the original question.’
Ingrid doesn’t do things like scratch her head or fiddle with things on her desk. Her moments of hesitation are signalled by a slight tightening of her well-shaped lips. It came now. ‘There has been some talk about the script.’
‘I thought they just moved the actors around, lip-synced them and let the special effects people do all the work on films like this.’
‘It’s anachronistic to talk of films—there are no celluloid reels or sprockets anymore. It’s all digital.’
‘I’ll try to remember. The script?’
‘There’s a story that the script’s based on a book and that the writer’s been cut out of the action. In fact that his book’s not even acknowledged as a source, let alone earned him a payment.’
Corris, Peter Page 8