Comeback (17 page)

‘And you drove your car at Mary Oberon. Was that on Tennyson’s instruction, too?’

‘Yeah, that bloody whore fucked up. She was supposed to screw Forrest up good and proper, but she wasn’t up to it. She was supposed to get photos and she fucked that up.’

‘And she wiped the emails.’

‘Right, the dumb cunt.’

‘Tennyson’s an unforgiving employer, eh?’

He didn’t respond.

‘All right, here’s the big one. Why did you shoot Bobby Forrest?’

He’d drunk most of the scotch and was wincing with pain but suddenly his manner changed. He gaped at me.

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

‘I didn’t shoot him.’

‘Tennyson said he’d have him killed.’

He shook his head and the movement hurt his leg. ‘Look, Tennyson’s crazy but he’s not that crazy. He’d have got me to beat him up, sure, and I’d have been glad to do it—cocky ponce. But that’s all.’

It wasn’t what I expected to hear and I had to struggle to control my reaction. The trouble was, I believed him. His surprise and alarm were genuine, no doubt about it.

‘You followed him and Jane Devereaux in a white Commodore. Forrest spoke to me just before he was killed and he was being followed by a white Commodore.’

‘There’s a million fucking white Commodores.’

That was true.

‘Tell me what happened tonight.’

He told me that he’d phoned Tennyson and reported that I’d hit Jane Devereaux. Tennyson told him to wait for me and hurt me.

‘Kill me?’ I said.

‘No! Just put you in hospital for a long time.’

‘Weren’t up to the job, were you?’

‘Call an ambulance.’

‘I’ve got a better idea.’ I took the tape recorder from my pocket, turned it off, rewound it a bit and hit play.

‘…
crazy, he’s obsessed with the ugly cunt.‘

‘Oh, Jesus,’ Mountjoy said.

I poured him another drink. ‘Got your mobile on you, Alex? You’re going to give Tennyson a call.’

‘No.’

I pointed to his knee. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there were some bone splinters drifting around in there. Every minute counts.’

~ * ~

16

He made the call and I took the phone.

‘This is Cliff Hardy. I think you know who I am.’

‘Yes.’

A nicely modulated private school voice.

‘I’ve got Alex Mountjoy here and he’s not feeling very well.’ ‘Oh.’

‘Yes. I’m going to play a tape of our conversation. I suggest you listen carefully.’

I played the tape. Mountjoy sweated. He used the wet cloth to wipe his face.

‘What do you want?’Tennyson said.

‘It’s not a question of what I
want.
It’s what I demand, what I insist upon. I can make as many copies of this tape as I like and send them where I choose, starting right now. Imagine the TV news, imagine the blogs, imagine the share prices of your companies.’

‘Go on.’

‘You are not to make any kind of contact with Jane Devereaux. You are not to phone, email or write to her, nor to approach her.’

‘You hit her.’

‘That was a charade. Mountjoy fell for it and so did you. Have you understood so far?’

‘Yes.’

‘Think about the restraining order she could get if she used that tape.’

‘You’ve made your point.’

‘I’m not finished. You are not to cause her any professional difficulties. I know you have influence in the publishing world. If she runs into any trouble that threatens her position the tape gets distributed. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Same goes for me. Any smell I get of your interference in my affairs and the world learns what a pathetic, bullying prick you are.’

That got to him. His voice took on an edge: ‘Is that all?’

‘No, you’d better send some people for Alex. We’re at my place in Glebe. A couple of paramedics and a tame doctor if you have one. Better bring a gurney and some way he can travel comfortably.’

‘I gather you thought I was responsible for Forrest’s death.’

‘I was wrong there. Do you know who was responsible?’

‘No, but whoever it was has my congratulations.’

He hung up. I handed the phone back to Mountjoy.

‘He’s not happy, Alex.’

■ ■ ■

They arrived forty-five minutes later—two men in tracksuits with a trolley and another in a business suit with a doctor’s bag. I met them at the door and waved them in with my .38 in my hand. The doctor looked startled when he saw the gun; the other two didn’t.

‘Has he had any medication?’ the doctor asked.

‘Scotch,’ I said.

One of the tracksuited guys sniggered.

I stayed by the door while they made their arrangements. The man who’d sniggered approached me, showing that his hands were empty.

‘What did you do to him?’

‘Not much. He mostly did it to himself.’

‘Good on you, he’s a ripe shit.’

Mountjoy yelped and swore a couple of times and gave me a filthy look as he was wheeled past. I watched as they loaded him into the back of a station wagon. Then one of the helpers walked back to Mountjoy’s Commodore. I waited by the open door with the pistol behind my back until both cars had gone.

I put the gun away, finished my drink and poured another. I got rid of the bloodstained cloth and sat with the tape recorder in my hand. I ejected the cassette—a tiny object to have such a decisive impact. Sort of decisive. I called Jane.

‘It’s over,’ I said.

‘What do you mean, Cliff?’

‘Tennyson and Mountjoy weren’t behind Bobby’s death but I’ve fixed it so that Tennyson won’t bother you again. He won’t ever contact you or cause you any professional trouble.’

There was a pause. ‘How did you manage that?’

‘I applied the right kind of pressure to the right person.’

‘That’s the answer you gave me once before. It means you won’t say.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Jane. It just means that you can get on with your life without worrying about Tennyson.’

‘And without Robert. So you still don’t know who killed him?’

‘No, but I’ll keep looking.’

‘However can I thank you, Cliff?’

‘Just send me a copy of the book about the top copper.’

~ * ~

part three

~ * ~

17

I had a bad time at the inquest. The coroner made derogatory remarks about my profession and, by implication, about me. He came close to suggesting I’d failed in my duty of care.

Rockwell gave a detailed account of his investigation at that point but ended by admitting that he had no promising leads to follow. The finding was inevitable: Robert Raymond Forrest was killed by a person or persons unknown.

Rockwell approached me after the hearing.

‘Still sniffing around, Hardy?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Still bankrolled by Ray Frost?’

‘I wouldn’t call it bankrolled, but he’s still keen to find out what happened and you blokes obviously haven’t got very far.’

‘Have you heard the latest theory?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Don’t you read the tweets and blogs, keep up with Facebook?’

‘No.’

‘Better catch up if you want to stay in your game.’

We were walking down Parramatta Road away from the Glebe coronial court. The morgue was in the same building and it was a precinct I’d spent a bit of time in over the years.

‘What’s the theory?’

Rockwell laughed. ‘Publicity stunt gone wrong.’

‘Come on.’

‘It’s the latest thing. You claim you were shot at. Generates publicity, wins sympathy.’

We stopped at the lights. Rockwell pressed the button to allow him to cross.

‘That’s bullshit,’ I said.

The light changed. ‘It’s as good as anything you’re likely to come up with.’

■ ■ ■

It was an empty feeling. The inquiries I’d made, which had looked promising for a while, had come to nothing. I was still holding a fair bit of Ray Frost’s money but without any idea of how to use it. A couple of minor jobs came my way—bodyguarding, money minding, process serving. I went about them efficiently enough but my mind was still on Bobby Forrest. I hadn’t asked Mountjoy about it because there didn’t seem to be any point, but someone had sent that warning text message. I had no idea who.

I concentrated on getting myself fully fit. People who hire someone like me prefer to see a physical specimen better than themselves. I went to the gym four or five times a week and worked harder. The shoulder healed completely and the small scar was nothing compared to some of the others I had.

‘Looking good, Cliff,’ Wesley Scott said. ‘Who is she?’

‘Sorry?’ I said.

He chuckled. ‘Most guys your age getting themselves in shape are doing it to attract or hold a woman. I’m all for it.’

‘No woman, Wes. Just trying to look the part of the capable ready-for-everything private detective.’

‘Which you are, my man. Just don’t overdo it.’

Work harder
, they tell you when you’re young and
don’t overdo it
when you’re older. There’s no in between. I tapered off a bit. I was spending too much time on my own—working at trivial jobs, exercising, taking my multifarious medications, living in my head. I could feel it getting me down. And in the background, nagging away, was the knowledge that I’d had a client murdered and didn’t seem to be able to do anything about it.

That’s how things stood when I got a call from Sophie Marjoram. She told me she was co-producing a film starring one of her clients and that the production was held up because the armourer had got sick.

‘You’ve done it before, I know,’ she said. ‘Can you help us out, Cliff? It’s only for a couple of scenes over a day or two. Good rates. I can arrange the union side of it and the insurance.’

I had done it a couple of times. It’s time consuming and ticklish. You have to get permits to use the weapons, arrange the hiring and inspect them very closely to make sure they’ll operate the way you want. Sometimes you have to supervise the installation of sugar glass windows or windscreens that’ll shatter in the right way. You have to liaise with the special effects and stunt people. And you have to teach the actors to keep their hands away from the parts of the weapons that get hot, even when firing blank ammunition. A bad burn and the production company is up for medical costs and can cause the director’s worst headaches—injuries and delay.

The film was a police drama set around Sydney and the scenes I was involved in concerned a shoot-out after a robbery and a shotgun suicide. The shoot-out was pretty straightforward but close work with a shotgun is dangerous and needs care. It was a change from my usual line of work and a chance to relate closely with other people. I threw myself into it and enjoyed the whole thing. The waiting around is boring. ‘I spent twenty years as an actor,’ Gary Cooper once said. ‘That’s one year acting and nineteen years waiting to act.’ But the money’s good. Coop should have added that.

My scenes were near the end of the film and, unusually, they were shooting in sequence, so I was around when the director called it a wrap and I was invited to the wrap party.

■ ■ ■

The party was held in a house in Wharf Road, Balmain. The house was owned by Sophie’s co-producer, not by any of the actors, still less by the writer. It was a big sprawling place that ran down to the water where there was a small jetty. I was told that the producer speed-boated himself to his office in Rose Bay and to as many of his meetings as he could get to by water.

The credits at the end of a film seem to roll forever and the names run into the scores if not over a hundred. Not all of them are invited to the party but a lot are and the house was pretty full by the time I arrived. Going to parties solo isn’t much fun and I wasn’t planning to be there very long. Have a couple of drinks and something from the catered buffet, chat to the chief stunt man, say hello to the special effects girl who’d helped with the shotgun scene.

They were talking on the ground floor, dancing on the first floor to music I’d never heard and doing other things on the top level. I got a scotch, ate some canapés and wandered about nodding and smiling. I was relieved to find Sophie Marjoram on her own in a corner but not so relieved when I saw how drunk she was. She grabbed my arm and pulled me down into a chair beside her.

‘Cliff, darling,’ she said. ‘Isn’t this great? Nicky’s so happy.’

‘Nicky?’

‘The star, the bloody star. My boy. He’s over there. Look at him. Is he cool or what?’