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 canapes 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?’
I looked where she pointed. A tall, slim young man was leaning against the wall talking earnestly to an older man. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt-no tie and the shirt hung outside his trousers. Cool.
‘He looks a lot like Bobby Forrest,’ I said.
Her face was flushed and her eyes were sparkling until I said that. Her expression changed as she grabbed a glass from a circulating tray. ‘Why’d you have to say that? Why’d you have to bring me down? Poor Bobby, he could’ve had all this. He was better than that. .’
She was speaking too loudly, possibly loudly enough for the young actor to hear, so I put my hand on her mouth.
‘Shush, Soph, too loud. You’ll do yourself out of your commission.’
She grabbed my hand and held it in a sweaty grip. ‘You think I only care about money. I don’t. I love them. I love ’em all, ’specially poor Bobby.’
A young woman in jeans and a silk shirt stained by red wine and with the sleeves rolled up to reveal some interesting tattoos on her left wrist, came across and almost jostled Sophie aside. She was drunk.
‘Heard you talking about Bobby Forrest,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘What was he to you?’
‘Sorry, that’s my business. Who are you?’
‘I’m Chloe.’
‘Chloe what?’
‘Just Chloe, just poor Chloe. You shouldn’t talk about him, not worth talking about.’
Sophie bristled and Chloe looked ready to get physical when we were interrupted.
I’d been introduced to Earl Carlswell, the director, when I arrived. He came across now and spoke quietly.
‘Sophie’s not herself,’ he said. ‘She’s had some bad news. I wonder if you’d be kind enough to take her home?’
Sophie was still gripping my hand and trying to get her head onto my shoulder. Her makeup was smeared and her loose top threatened to slide down and reveal more of her than she’d have wanted. I helped her to her feet and she draped herself around me.
‘You’re nice,’ she said. ‘Let’s have a drink together.’
‘Let’s not,’ I said.
I scooped up her bag, slung it over her shoulder and guided her towards the nearest door. The cool night air and the breeze sobered her up enough to at least walk. The street was full of cars generated by the party and I’d had to park a couple of streets away. She was staggering by the time we reached the car and had to steady herself against it. She took a flask from her bag and had a swig.
‘You’ve had enough, Soph,’ I said.
‘Fuck you, or is that what you’ve got in mind?’
I opened the door and helped her in. She took another swig and slumped down in the seat. I got the car moving and realised I didn’t know her address.
‘I’ll take you home, Soph. What’s the address?’
She told me. It was Paddington, not far from her office. The traffic was heavy in Darling Street and the going was slow.
‘What’s the bad news?’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Earl what’s-his-name said you’d had some bad news.’
‘That prick.’ She slurred the words. ‘Told me he was cutting Nicky’s scenes to the bone. Prick. Nicky’ll be devastated, prob’ly blame me. Prick. They never forgive you, actors. Bastards.’
‘Who was the drunk girl? I thought I recognised her from somewhere.’
‘Chloe? Nobody. Actor groupie. Bit of a nutter.’
She used the flask again and sat silently for the rest of the drive. Something was nagging at me as I navigated Paddington’s narrow streets and I nailed it down just as I drew up outside Sophie’s house. It was something she’d said in our interview before Bobby was killed. No, something she hadn’t said about his past . Breaking my old habit, I hadn’t made notes on the conversation and, in the drama of the events that followed, it had slipped my mind. I was sure I’d missed something then.
I helped her from the car to her door but she was too drunk to open it. I fished in her bag for the keys and unlocked the door. The house was single-storeyed which was a relief-I didn’t fancy carrying her upstairs. I considered trying to get some coffee into her and asking her again about the violent incident but I remembered that she’d been adamant about there being no dirty linen. She was too drunk anyway.
I helped her down the passage to her bedroom. Like her office, it was a mess, clothes lying around on the bed and on other surfaces. I stumbled over shoes as I eased her towards the bed and lowered her down. She was barely conscious. I took off her shoes, lifted her legs onto the bed and made her comfortable. Her eyes opened and she looked at me as if she’d never seen me before. Then her eyes closed and she snored.
I went through to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. I put it on the bedside table. I walked back towards the door and noticed the set of framed photographs along the wall. Men and women, actors; I recognised two-Bobby Forrest and Nicky. I looked at Bobby’s picture. It was a studio portrait presenting him in the best possible way. He looked handsome and wholesome, but was he? I thought about Jane Devereaux and Ray Frost and the feeling of failure that had been with me for weeks.
I went back to the bedroom. Sophie had rolled slightly so that she was on her side with one hand up close to her face, probably her natural sleeping position. At a guess she’d be asleep for at least a couple of hours before her bladder or her dry mouth woke her. I juggled her keys in my hand and knew what I had to do.