Comeback (5 page)

I copied the emails into the file and updated the memory stick. Bobby had given me the name of the street and the number of the building, but not the number of the flat. Not surprising. It was late at night and he’d had a fair bit to drink. Also, presumably, he was in a confused mental state. When he said she wasn’t there any longer he said it the way an ordinary citizen does. I wasn’t an ordinary citizen and I was pretty sure I could find out something more. I took my mobile off the charger and made sure it was fully functioning.

Bondi again. How many times had my work taken me there? The place seemed to have a magnetic attraction for problem people and for me. Maybe I was one of them. I surfed there as a teenager and perhaps that helps to impose a grip that won’t let go. Over the years I’ve toyed with the idea of moving there. Feasible at one time, not so easy now with the prices and my new mortgage. Driving down Bondi Road, just the look of the water, grey though it was, revived memories of it when it was blue and the feeling of scudding along on a wave towards the white pavilion and the brown bodies on the sand.

I located the street and drove slowly along to the address Bobby had given me. The street was tree lined and pleasant with a mixture of houses and flats. There would probably be glimpses of the water from the upper levels. The building I was looking for was newish and smart. It had a low fence, trees and shrubs in the front, ten letterboxes at the gate and a winding pebblecrete path.

It was a set of serviced apartments, the kind that can be leased for long or short periods. Almost hidden underneath the stairs was a small concierge desk with a woman sitting bent over, staring at the screen of her mobile phone and with her fingers flying. She was in her twenties, blonde and good-looking. When she heard the door close behind me she looked up.

‘Can I help you?’

I showed her my brand spanking new licence card in its leather folder and tried to look as young as the photograph.

‘I hope so,’ I said. I handed her Miranda’s photograph. ‘I’m looking for this woman. I believe she lived here recently.’

She put the mobile on the small desk in front of her and studied the picture. ‘Is she in trouble?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Wouldn’t surprise me.’

‘You know her?’

‘Wouldn’t say that. She was here for a while. Very short term.’

‘What apartment was she in? Do you know her name?’

She shook her head. ‘Never learned it. Didn’t want to. She was a stuck-up bitch. She was in twelve, one bedroom job.’

‘There must be a record of her time here, rent paid and all that.’

She took a card from a drawer. ‘Letting agents. They’d have that stuff. They’re in Campbell Parade. The address is on the card.’

I took the card and thanked her.

‘Are you really a private detective?’

I nodded.

She sighed. ‘That must be exciting. Don’t need a secretary, do you? This was the only job I could get although I’ve got a lot of skills. I sit here playing games on my phone.’

‘Sorry. Maybe something better’ll come along. Do you remember anything in particular about this woman, apart from not liking her?’

‘Like what?’

‘Friends.’

She snorted. ‘Wouldn’t call them friends. All blokes.’

‘Do you mean what I think you mean?’

‘Sure do.’

I thanked her again and left.

■ ■ ■

The guy in the estate agency was far less forthcoming. He was young, wore a dark suit and had gelled hair.

‘I’m afraid I can’t give you any information at all,’ he said.

‘I’m sure you can. For example, what’s the rent of apartment twelve? No harm in telling me that, surely.’

‘Two thousand two hundred dollars a month.’

‘Is it occupied now? I might want to rent it.’

As urged by Megan, I’d invested in some new clothes and I was wearing a lightweight grey suit and a blue shirt. No tie, but the shirt was tucked in.

A pause, and then he said, ‘It’s empty.’

‘Things are slow?’

He didn’t reply. I thought about mentioning the purpose to which Miranda appeared to have put the apartment but decided not to because it might cost the young concierge her job.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to make things difficult for you but I’ve got a client with a very serious complaint against the woman who rented that place. He’s an important person and he doesn’t want to involve the police. That’s why he’s employing me. But if I don’t make progress it’ll bring the police in eventually. Give me her name and forwarding address and that’s the last you’ll hear of it.’

He wasn’t happy He looked across at the empty desk in the office as if hoping someone would materialise there. No such luck. He tapped on his keyboard.

‘Mary Oberon.’

‘Forwarding address?’

‘Twenty-six Hood Street, Burwood.’

‘I’m guessing she paid a substantial amount up front.’

He nodded.

‘Phone?’

He read off a mobile number and I wrote it in my notebook. Second bit of paper in the case. ‘You sighted the ID?’

‘Not me, but somebody must have. That’s all...please.’

I could have pressed him for bank details and other things but I took pity on him. Suspicious sceptic that I am, I had doubts that the information was genuine. Perhaps the name, if I was lucky, but false ID isn’t hard to get.

■ ■ ■

I had a track of Springsteen’s
Nebraska
playing when my mobile rang. Hank Bachelor had equipped me with a handsfree hookup and I kept driving instead of pulling over as I used to have to do.

‘Hardy.’

‘Cliff, it’s Bobby. You were right. There’s a white Commodore following me.’

‘For how long?’

‘I don’t know. I just picked it up. But I’m pretty sure.’ ‘Where are you?’

‘Strathfield.’

‘How many in the car?’

‘One, two—I’m not sure.’

‘On the highway?’

‘No, I was heading for the golf course. I wanted to take a look at it. I’m going to play there next...Jesus Christ!’

‘What?’

‘He’s crowding me off the road. I have to stop. Shit, oh shit...’

I heard two sharp reports and then nothing except the buzz of an open connection.

‘Bobby! Bobby!’

The buzz stopped.

I had no idea where the Strathfield golf course was, or how many ways there were to get to it. He said he’d been out to Parramatta, which gave me some indication, but apart from that I’d have to rely on the
Gregory’s
and luck.

Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty

And meet me tonight in Atlantic City.

I cut Springsteen off and headed for Strathfield. When I reached the outskirts I stopped and checked for the golf course, then plotted a way to it as if I’d been coming from Parramatta. That took me through a grid of suburban streets until I saw a cyclone fence at the end of a road that looked like the sort of thing golf clubs use to keep people out. The area looked pretty affluent and the houses had the appearance of places occupied by families with both parents working to make the mortgage. I drove down the road towards a wide stretch of parkland bordering the fence. I made the turn to follow the fence and saw a red car a couple of hundred metres away. It had pulled a short way off the road and was slewed slightly to the left. As I approached I could see a skid mark on the road. I pulled up behind the Alfa.

An arm was hanging loosely outside the driver’s window. I sucked in a deep breath, got out and approached the car. A long scrape indicated where the Alfa had been swiped by another car. Bobby Forrest was slumped forward, anchored by his seatbelt. There were two dark holes a few centimetres from his right ear. Blood had clotted around them and seeped out and matted his fair hair.

I stood and looked at him for a minute or two before I called the police. One meeting and a phone call didn’t amount to much of a contact. But he’d told me things he’d only told one other person—his father. Somehow that mattered. The older I get the younger the young seem, and Bobby Forrest had seemed very young. I felt a mixture of emotions—pity, anger, guilt—as I keyed in the numbers.

~ * ~

4

Over the next few hours I told the story four times—to the uniformed cops at the scene, to the detectives there, again at Strathfield police station and again at the central police complex at Surry Hills. That took us well into the afternoon. I was tired, hungry and strung out. I’d had too much dispenser coffee; the taste in my mouth was foul and my mood was worse. My hands were dirty. I’d been tested for gunfire residue and the tissues I’d been given to wipe the testing solution away hadn’t done the job. They’d taken the SIM card from my phone.

Detective Inspector Sean Rockwell’s mood wasn’t much better than mine.

‘How long have you been back in business, Hardy? A month?’

‘Bit more.’

‘And this happens.’

He consulted a sheaf of computer printout. As well as telling the police what had happened I’d given them the memory stick and they’d printed out the Forrest file. Nothing else I could’ve done. They’d have seized the computer in any case and I already had a conviction for withholding evidence. A private inquiry agent has no privilege of confidentiality, especially when no lawyer has been involved in the case contract. Rockwell’s look of disgust snapped my fragile control.

‘Do you know why this bloke came to me? I’ll tell you. Because he was worried about a serious relationship he was in and, quite reasonably, he knew that if he went to you lot the story would leak out to the media within the hour and he’d be fucked. That’s why. He wanted me to handle it... discreetly. It all went wrong and I’m sorry about it, but don’t come all high and mighty with me. I’ve said all I’m going to say and stayed long enough. Charge me with something or let me go.’

‘I’d love to,’ Rockwell said, ‘charge you, that is.’

‘I bet you would, but you’ve got nothing on me. You know everything about it I know. His mobile’ll confirm he rang me just before he was shot.’

‘No sign of his mobile.’

I shrugged. ‘The killer must have taken it.’

‘Or you did.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Who knows what a loser like you would do? Anyway, we don’t quite know everything. We don’t know what you found out when you checked on this...’ he looked down at some notes he’d made, ‘Miranda’s address.’

‘Dead end, I told you. Short-term rental. She was on the game. Your blokes there must know about it, probably got freebies.’

He slammed his fist on the desk and some of the sheets of paper slipped to the floor. ‘Piss off, Hardy. And stay right away from this fucking mess you’ve created.’

‘Where’s my car?’

‘Impounded for further investigation.’

That meant they’d take it apart carefully and just stick it back together any old how or not touch it and just hang on to it to punish me.

‘My house keys?’

‘Collect them on your way out.’

I was escorted from the interview room to the front desk where I picked up my keys. They kept my SIM card and I was issued with a receipt for it and my car. As soon as I got outside I was bailed up by a clutch of reporters—cameras, microphones, tape recorders, the works.

‘Mr Hardy, was Bobby Forrest on drugs?’

‘Why did Bobby hire you?’

‘Was it suicide?’

‘No comment.’

I pushed through them and hailed a taxi. They persisted while I got in, still filming and firing questions. They’d be at my house for sure. I gave the driver Megan’s address in Newtown and he had the sense not to say a word for the whole trip. Perhaps he was a central police station specialist.

Megan took one look at me and stood aside. She was holding Ben and he reached out to grab my hair. It was better than being asked questions.

‘I need a drink,’ I said. ‘A big one.’

Megan had seen me stressed quite a few times before. She just nodded. ‘You know where it is.’

I made a large scotch and ice and took a big pull on it before sitting down. Megan put Ben on the floor and he surprised me by tottering across to a shelf of toys and pulling some out.

‘He’s only ten months old.’

‘Nearly eleven. He’s early at everything. Be careful what you say. He understands a lot. What’s happened, Cliff? You look a wreck.’

It was close to six o’ clock and I asked her to turn on the television news. The death of Bobby Forrest and my encounter with the media was the lead item.

The body of actor Bobby Forrest, star of several television series and recently cast in the lead role for a major film, was found at Strathfield today. It is understood that the body was discovered by private investigator Cliff Hardy who, it is assumed, was working for Bobby Forrest. It is not known what Mr Hardy was employed to do or exactly how Bobby Forrest died except that a gunshot was involved. Speculation that Hardy was acting as a bodyguard has not been confirmed. He was interviewed by police for several hours this afternoon but would make no comment. Bobby Forrest...