You’re cold, Cliff!’ Cyn banged her fist on my desk. ‘That’s your bloody trouble, you’re cold!’ She was close to tears the way she always got when we argued. They weren’t tactical tears, but they were part of the reason that I nearly always lost the arguments.
‘I’m not cold’, I said. ‘I’m warm-hearted, a loving man. I’ll take you out tonight.’
‘I don’t want to go out.’
‘Okay, we’ll stay home. I’ll cook.’ The telephone rang. We were in my office where I answer the telephone, open the door and type the letters myself, because there’s no-one else to do it.
‘Hardy Investigations. Warm-hearted Hardy speaking.’
‘Your heart’s as warm as Bob Askin’s. Cut out the bullshit, Cliff, I’ve got a job for you.’ It was Athol Groom, who works in advertising and agenting; he sometimes drinks where I sometimes drink.
‘Terrific, Athol’, I said. Athol deals in people with soft jobs; Cyn calls him a pimp, and she made a face when I said his name. ‘What sort of job?’
‘Come down here and I’ll tell you.’ He gave me his address.
‘How long do you reckon this’ll take?’
‘How the hell do I know? All day, all night, all week. The longer the better as far as you’re concerned, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, I guess so. But I’ve gone up to seventy-five a day and expenses.’
‘Shit. All right. Just hurry, she’ll be here soon.’
‘She?’
‘Selina Hope. Hurry.’
I put down the phone and stood up; Cyn moved away from me as if we were in a slow ballet.
‘A job’, I said.
‘It’s always a job, what we need is a talk- tonight.’
‘I don’t know, love,’
‘A minute ago you were going to cook some slop for me, drink two-thirds of the wine and that.’
She was looking very nice that morning, my wife. Nearly as tall as me, she was straight and slim with honey-blonde hair. She must have come directly from the architect’s office where she worked because she still had draughtsman’s ink on her fingers. She saw me looking, and her fine-boned, handsome face went hard.
‘Cold’, she said. ‘Selfish and cold.’
I patted her arm, there were no tears which was good. I went out.
Athol’s pimping shop was in Double Bay on a steep hill. I ran the back wheels of my old Falcon into the kerb and let it sit there in a way which says to the world, ‘this car has a faulty handbrake’; but what can you do? Athol’s decor was dominated by photographs, mirrors and magazines. The pictures were blow-ups of models with impossible cheek bones doing mysterious things amid shadows. The magazines were glossy, and the mirrors are fine if you’re a five foot nine clothes horse with the right angles and planes. When you’re a thin, six foot, thirtyish man with untidy dark hair and Grace Bros, clothes, they’re not so good. A lacquered, Sassooned brunette pressed a buzzer when I told her who I was, and Athol hurried out.
Athol Groom is one of those men in the fifties who plays squash and eats nothing so as to keep his waist down; he likes a drink though, and that slight thickening won’t be denied. He has a glossy moustache, and hair and teeth to match, but he’s not a phoney.
‘Good to see you, Cliff, how’s Cyn?’ I took Athol home once, and after one look at Cyn he tried to persuade her to take up photo modelling. She laughed at him.
‘All right. What’s going on?’
The brunette looked at her appointment book and spoke up crisply. ‘Mr Blake is due any minute, Mr Groom.’
‘Right, right. Come on, Cliff, you’re a bodyguard; come and meet the body.’
We went down a corridor past more photographs and into Groom’s office. A woman was leaning back against the big desk combing her hair. It was worth combing, a great blue-black mane that rippled and flowed under the comb strokes. Its owner had the standard tall, thin, flat body; but with a face to haunt your dreams forever. Her skin was darkish, almost olive; she had jet black eyebrows, dark eyes and a wide, wonderful mouth. Her nose was nothing much, just exactly as straight and thin as it needed to be.
‘Selina’, Athol said, ‘this is Cliff Hardy. Selina Hope, Cliff.’ We nodded at each other, but I was listening to Groom’s voice; this was his handle-with-care, this-side-up voice. I gathered Miss Hope was a hot property.
‘We’ve got a little problem here, Cliff. There seems to be some creep hanging around Selina’s flat, following her and such. Was he there this morning, love?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ I expected an exotic accent of some kind to accompany the face but there was none, just good, clear, educated Australian.
‘You think’, Athol said sharply. Maybe he was thinking about my fee.
‘Easy’, I said. ‘Miss Hope’s said the right thing. When someone’s watching you it’s a feeling you get more than anything else. Sort of corner of the eye thing. Is that right?’
‘Yes, exactly.’ It’s not often I say just the right thing for a beautiful woman-I’m usually considered somewhat blunt-but I did it this time. She smiled at me as if I’d won the pools. But there was some relief in that smile too-she’d been scared.
‘Okay’, Athol said. ‘Well, we all know about the weirdos in this game. It’s probably some freak who’s seen Selina in a bra advert and can’t sleep. A few strong, silent looks from Cliff and he’ll give it away. It’s a pity the London job fell through though, that would’ve been the best cure. Next best thing is to keep busy. I’ve lined Selina up for two jobs today, Cliff, and I want you to stick close, and see her home. Okay?’
‘Sure.’
‘Off you go.’
I followed Selina to the back exit; she was wearing a black jumpsuit, caught tight at the ankles and loose pretty well everywhere else. Her walk was a spectacular strut that made the hair bounce on her straight shoulders. We walked across to a bright blue Mercedes sports car and she tossed me a set of keys. I threw them back.
‘I’m a column gears man’, I said.
She laughed and unlocked the car; I couldn’t find the seat belt, couldn’t fasten it and couldn’t push the seat back. She helped me with one hand and put in a cassette with the other-we took off to a roaring of guitars and electric piano.
Over the music and traffic noise I asked her about the London job. She told me that she’d been booked to be snapped outside the Houses of Parliament with a peer of the realm for a Scotch whisky advertisement, but the peer had died.
‘Tough luck.’
‘Would have been a good trip.’ She dipped a shoulder and flicked the Merc around a bend, changed down and surged up a hill.
‘Have you worked in London before?’
‘London, Paris, New York.’ There was pride in her voice but no conceit. I decided I liked her.
‘Have you been getting any other harassment- phone calls, letters?’
‘Not a thing. Just as you said, a glimpse of someone, a feeling..’
‘You don’t know what it’s about?’
‘Not a clue.’
I didn’t like the sound of it; a good tail, one who just leaves that feeling, is a professional, not a sex-starved creep. Professionals work for money and the people who pay them have reasons. We drove down to Woolloomooloo near the docks; there was a fair bit of traffic and activity and she glanced around nervously as she locked the car.
‘Do you have the feeling now?’ I asked.
‘Not sure.’
‘What are you doing here, an ad for overalls?”
She laughed and we walked towards a dinghy-looking warehouse. ‘You’ll see’
We went up some steps and in through a mouldy door. If the place was a nightmare outside, it was a dream within. The carpet was deep, the walls were white and the lighting was costing someone a fortune. The huge floor area was partitioned off into dressing rooms and elaborate, stylised sets. There were cameras and light fittings everywhere.
‘Not overalls’, I said.
‘Soft drink, I believe. Come on.’ She led me through the maze of equipment and props, and we wound up with a photographer named Sam, his assistant and a few cases of soft drink. Sam was a Levantine; squat and heavy with a floral shirt unbuttoned to show his virile chest and stomach. All of it. His offsider was an anorexic blonde who whisked Selina away and took me out of camera range. I asked for a sample and got a bottle of Diet-Slim cola which tasted like rusty water with saccharine added. Selina came out wearing a super-formal dress, and proceeded to drape herself around some Swedish furniture while sipping tall glasses of the beverage. I got bored with this and wandered off in search of a phone. I found one behind a jungly set which was being sprayed with insect repellent by Livingstone and Stanley. I dialled the number of the terrace house in Glebe where Cyn and I practise wedded bliss. She answered in a tone that told she was keeping her head of steam up.
‘It looks as if I’ll be home tonight.’
‘You’d better be. We really need to talk, Cliff. Where are you? In some pub at the Cross, I suppose? Pissing on?’
I was still holding the Diet-Slim; I looked across to a set that featured a silver-grey rolls Royce-a woman sitting in a fur coat was getting out of it and smiling up at a guy in a dinner suit.
‘Yeah, something like that’, I said.
‘I’ll see you tonight.’ She hung up and I skirted the jungle, a schoolroom and a torture chamber back to where Sam had Selina reading while sipping: the book was The ABC of Love.
Sam clicked away and the blonde moved lights and Selina smiled and smiled until I wondered at her patience. The money would have to be good. Eventually they called it a day and, after kisses all round, Selina climbed back into her jumpsuit and we were on our way.
‘Lunch?’ I said.
She shook her head. ‘Not for me, but I’ll watch you.’
It was lunchtime, and things were quiet outside as we moved towards the car. Suddenly there were hurried sounds behind us, and I heard a whooshing noise and felt one side of my head tear itself loose from the middle. I crumpled, heard the sound again and my shoulder caught on fire. I went down further but managed to grab a pair of legs and pull. I looked up and saw a big guy in blue overalls pulling Selina towards a car. She screamed once and he hit her, and she was quiet. Then a knee came up into my face and I slammed down hard on to the footpath.
It all took about fifteen seconds: I was going to lunch with a beautiful girl and then I had a bleeding face, dented shoulder and no girl. And I’d be missing lunch. I brushed aside the few people who tried to help me and staggered up to Forbes Street to hail a cab. My ear and nose were bleeding and my clothes were dirty, but the Sydney cabbie is a brave soul. I gave the driver Groom’s address, and mopped at the blood. My entry at the agency sent people fluttering and bells ringing: Athol came out quickly and hustled me off to wet towels and a large Scotch. I told him what had happened while I cleaned up.
‘Did he hit her hard?’
‘I don’t think so. Why?’
‘That face is just pure gold. I don’t like to think of it being knocked about. What should we do now?’
I pulled a bit of loose skin off the ear and started the blood flowing again. ‘Call the cops’, I said.
He shook his head. ‘I’d rather not. You’ve got no idea what people are like in this racket. Any police trouble involving Selina and her career could be finished just like that.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘The face has to be a pure image, untainted, see?’
‘Not to mention your commission.’
‘Right. There must be something you can do.’ He was reproachful; I could have said that a bashing and an abduction were very different things from a loitering perv, but I didn’t.
‘Give me a bit of time on it. If I can’t come up with anything pretty quick you’ll have to get the cops. Where does she live? Who’re her friends?’
He told me that Selina shared a flat in Woollahra with another girl, and gave me the address. He didn’t know much about friends. I got to the flat quickly; my leg gave me trouble on the stairs, but never let it be said that Hardy gives in to pain. I forgot about the leg when I saw the flat door hanging on one hinge inside a shattered frame. I looked straight into the living room-torn paper, ripped and crumpled fabric and carpet made it look as if a small bomb had gone off inside. I took a few steps past the door and stopped when a woman came into the room. She looked at me and screamed.
‘Easy, easy’, I said. ‘I’m a friend, you must be Jenny.’
She nodded; her face was white and her hands were flying about like frightened birds. ‘Who’re you?’ she gasped.
‘Cliff Hardy.’ I produced some documents, thinking that they might help bring some order to the chaotic scene. The woman started swearing and I poked around in the debris while she visited terrible things on unknown persons. I gathered that she’d walked in on the violated flat just before I did; the telephone had been ripped out of the wall-the only departure from a cool, thorough bit of searching. No book, and there were a lot, was undisturbed; all lined clothes had been slashed; drawers had been tipped out and the contents sifted and all edges stuck or otherwise fastened-carpets, furniture, pictures, ornaments-had been lifted and inspected.
She picked things up and dropped them helplessly. ‘Why?’ she said.
‘It’s to do with Selina. Has she been in trouble lately? Been seeing any strange people?’
‘Strange? No… but she said there was a perv hanging around.’ Alarm leapt in her voice and eyes. ‘Is she all right? Where is she?’ She seemed to notice my injuries for the first time and drew the right conclusions. ‘Something’s happened!’
‘Something’, I said. ‘I’m not sure what. Selina’s been grabbed by someone, not a perv. How close are you to her?’
‘Oh, we’re… friends. I worked in TV, and I met her while she was doing a commercial. We got along, and she needed a flatmate. Grabbed? What does that mean?’
‘I wish I knew.’ I bent down and picked up a photograph from the floor. It had been detached from a frame and the backing had been cut away. The picture was a studio portrait of a self-satisfied looking guy with good teeth and ringletted brown hair.
‘Who’s this?’
‘Colin Short, Selina’s boyfriend.’
‘Athol Groom didn’t tell me about a boyfriend.’
‘He doesn’t know. Selina keeps him a secret.’
‘Why?’
She began making piles of the dismembered books. ‘He’s a photographer. A model isn’t supposed to be on with any one photographer. Shit what a mess. Why would anyone do this? What do they want, money or what?’
I squatted and helped her with the books. ‘They were looking for something. Selina ever mention a hiding place?’
‘Come on, we’re grown up people.’
‘Where does Short live?’
‘He’s got a sort of studio just around the corner. If I could find the address book…’ She rummaged round in the mess and came up with a notebook. She read out the address and I wrote it down. ‘He phoned this morning, as a matter of fact.’
‘What did he want?’
‘God, why are we doing this? Something should be done!’
‘Believe it or not, this is doing something. What did Short say?’
‘He just wanted to know if Selina got away okay. She was supposed to go to London the lucky…’ She broke off and looked contrite.
‘Don’t worry’, I said. ‘I know what you meant. How did Short take the news that she wasn’t going?’
‘Seemed upset. He kept asking me was I sure.’
I grunted and stacked a few more books. Jenny told me that Selina had been keeping company with Short for nearly two years, sometimes she spent the night at his place, sometimes he stayed at the flat. I got the door into a position where it would open and close and persuaded her not to call the police-Athol Groom was handling that end of it I said. She nodded then she dropped to her knees and started rooting urgently through the mess.
‘What’re you looking for?’
‘The dope’, she said.
I contemplated walking to Short’s place, it was only a step, but the leg was throbbing so I drove. As it turned out, that was lucky. I was fifty yards from the address when I pulled into the kerb to watch something very interesting. Short, whom I recognised from the photograph, despite his white overalls and a pair of heavy industrial goggles pulled up on his head, was loading something into a blue van. He made a trip back into the studio which had a shop front directly on to the street, came out with another bundle and pulled the door closed behind him. He walked past a white Toyota station wagon which had his name and business painted on the side, got into the van and drove off. I followed.
It was a good, clear day and the traffic moved easily; a secret boyfriend seemed like a promising new factor in the situation, especially one behaving suspiciously. I didn’t feel confident though. Leaving the city always made me uneasy and now there was the background buzz of tension from the fight with Cyn. We headed west at an unspectacular pace and the Blue Mountains got closer and the air heated up.
In Emu Plains we turned off the highway down the Old Bathurst Road and past the prison farm.
We travelled five miles towards the mountains until the van turned off down a bumpy dirt track where I couldn’t safely follow. I went on a bit and tucked the Falcon away off the road under some trees. I took the Smith amp; Wesson. 38 out from under the dashboard, checked it over, and walked back. Half a mile along the track dropped sharply; at the foot of the hill there was a tree-fringed clearing and the van was pulled up in the middle of it. Short was mounting a camera in a tree on the left. I watched from cover up above the clearing. He fiddled, went into the clearing, went back and then he got a second camera and stuck that in a tree on the other side. Next he took a carbine from the van, checked its action and hung it over his shoulder. He took out a small box, flicked a switch and counted to ten. His voice boomed out over the grass and set birds fluttering in the trees. He leaned back against the van pulled down his goggles and looked at his watch.
Ten minutes later a green Holden came over the hill. It pulled up on the edge of the clearing and two men got out; they wore business shirts and ties, and looked bulky and tough. Short’s voice crackled out towards them.
‘Stop’, he said. ‘Cameras on the right and left, take a look.’ Their eyes swung off and Short unslung his carbine.
‘The cameras are filming. There’s a third one somewhere else.’ He lifted the rifle. ‘I used one of these in Vietnam. You get the picture?’
One of the men nodded and held up a manila envelope.
‘Right’, Short said. ‘Give it to your mate. You, bring it here.’ He pointed with the rifle to a spot on the ground in front of him.
The envelope changed hands and the shorter of the two men came forward and held it over the place Short had indicated. He said something which I couldn’t hear. Short spoke into the box again: ‘Back on the right hand side of the road, three tenths of a mile back you’ll see a kerosene tin. It’s in there.’
The man shook his head; Short fired a quick burst at his feet; he dropped the envelope and jumped away. Short swung the muzzle slowly in an arc in front of him. The noise of the shots was still echoing. ‘.. not a trick. Go!’
They walked back to the Holden, talking intently; they got into the car and drove off. Short stayed where he was, very alert. He ignored the envelope. He waited ten minutes then he relaxed, picked up the envelope and opened it. He let the two or three bundles of notes slide out into his hand, slipped them back and stowed them away in a pocket. Then he uncocked the rifle, put it against the wheel of the van and strolled across to the right-hand camera.
While he was working I crept down through the trees and sprinted to the van, bent low. He got the first camera down and for an awful second I thought he was going to bring it back to the van, but he put it down and moved across towards the other tree. He was whistling. I reached around for the carbine, worked the action loudly and stood up with it pointed at the middle of his back.
‘Short.’
He stopped whistling and swung around. I moved towards him keeping the rifle pointed at his belly. There was no self-satisfaction now in his high-coloured, handsome face. He lifted the goggles; they pinned back his hair, and I could see that it was retreating high on his temples.
‘Surprise’, I said.
‘Smart’, he said. ‘I suppose you want the money?’
‘I might’, I said. ‘But I really want the girl.’
‘What girl?’ He took a few steps and I moved the gun.
‘Easy.’
He ignored me and kept coming. ‘What girl?’ he shouted. Despite the gun I’d lost the authority and stepped back. I said ‘Selina’, and he swerved to one side and swung a long, looping punch at my ribs. A gun you’re not going to use is useless; I dropped it and tried to punch him in the belly, but he moved and I hit his shoulder. We circled and shaped up like schoolboys; he rushed me and tried to tear my head off with a swinging right. I stepped under that and got him quick and hard in the ribs. He tried to kick but then I grabbed his leg and flipped him over. While he was wondering what to try next I got out the. 38 and pointed it at his knee.
‘Behave yourself, or I’ll cripple you.’
He nodded and sagged back on the ground. ‘Don’t hurt Selina’, he said.
‘We’re not communicating.’ I moved the gun a fraction in conciliation. ‘Selina was abducted this morning. I’ve been hired by her agent to find her. Do you know what I’m talking about?’
He sat up a bit straighter, but all the combat toughness had left him; he was pale and the hand he put up to pull off the goggles was shaking.
‘I don’t know’, he said.
‘You know something, sonny. This is a nice, quiet spot. Something nasty could happen to you here, and there’s enough evidence about for me to fix it any way I like. D’you see what I mean?’
He nodded.
‘Right. Now this was a pay-off you set up here. You’re a photographer, I assume you were selling pictures, right?’
Another nod.
‘You did a good job.’ I squinted along the line of the. 38. ‘Who was in the pictures.’
‘Xavier Carlton.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Carlton was a big-time businessman and sportsman with criminal and political associations, which every journalist in Sydney knew and kept quiet about. He was also a pillar of the Church. ‘Who else?’
‘A girl.’
‘Selina. You bastard. How much?’
‘Thirty thousand.’
‘For what?’
‘Prints, negs, the lot.’
I had no time for Carlton, he was a corrupt and vicious hypocrite but blackmailers are a low breed too, and this one had put his supposed girlfriend right in the shit. It was hard to understand.
‘How did you set it up?’
He spoke slowly and carefully, editing as he went along. ‘Carlton was celebrating his Golden Slipper win, we latched on to him. He got amorous and I got some pictures.’
I was sure he was lying; the careful preparations I’d seen suggested that he would have planned his move in detail-maybe down to dropping Carlton a hint or putting something in his champagne.
‘You realise what you’ve done to the girl don’t you?’
He looked away from me. ‘I put a note in with the film telling him she knew nothing about it. That’s the truth.’
I snorted. ‘Carlton wouldn’t give a fuck. He’s grabbed her and he’ll break bits off her.’
‘She was supposed to be going away. I thought…’
‘That he’d cool off? You picked the wrong boy. Carlton’s crazy, he won’t take this. He’ll grill Selina till she tells him about you and he’ll come after you.’
‘I was planning to get her away somewhere safe when I got through here. I thought she’d be okay at work today.’
‘You must have sent Carlton a sample. You might just as well have cut her throat.’
‘Oh God, what can I do?’
I was thinking fast. How to get to Carlton? He’d committed himself by taking the girl and his natural inclination would be to clean up. He wouldn’t take his money back and go home. What did we have? I looked at my gun and then at his gun and then at the cameras.
‘How good will those pictures be?’
‘The best.’
‘Get up.’ I moved back, took up the carbine and pulled out the magazine while he stood irresolutely brushing dirt off his coveralls. I tucked the. 38 away.
‘Do you think you can take me?’ I said.
‘Maybe. Someone did recently. It depends on the circumstances.’
‘It always does. I don’t think you can, but we haven’t got the time to find out. Frankly, you make me sick, but do as I say, don’t argue, don’t think and we might get her back. What do you say?’
He got up smoothly; he moved well. ‘Yes. I’ll do whatever you say.’
‘Get the cameras. Let’s move.’ We drove back to the road and switched to my car. On the drive back to Sydney, Short told me that he’d set up the blackmail because he needed capital for his business, and money to cover gambling debts. He said he loved Selina. I didn’t respond; he could’ve told me my name and I’d still want to check.
I hung around in Short’s studio, which had a water bed and a lot of tedious albums of photographs, while he worked in his darkroom. He produced blow-ups of the faces of the two couriers and a couple of full length shots. He was right, they were good photographs.
Bill Abrahams is an ex-cop who drinks. He got shot and was invalided out of the force on a pension which keeps him alive and drunk in a room in Glebe. When he’s not too drunk he can remember the face of every crim he’s ever seen and after twenty-five years as a cop, that’s a lot of crims. I bought a dozen cans and carted them and Short up the stairs to Bill’s room. I banged on the door.
‘Who is it?’ Bill growled; he was capable of not opening the door if he was not in the mood.
‘Tooheys’, I said.
He opened up and I handed in the beer. ‘They’re cold’, I said.
Bill took the beer and had a finger in the ring-pull of a can faster than Griffo catching flies.
‘C’mon in, Cliff. Good to see you. Have one?’ Like all serious drinkers, Bill took a very proprietorial attitude to alcohol. We went in and I introduced Short. We sat around the laminex table by the window and opened cans. Short gulped his down and Bill looked keenly at him as he set him up with another.
‘You’re scared of somethin’’, he said.
‘He’s scared of Xavier Carlton’, I said. ‘He’s gone and got himself in a bit deep and we’re looking for a way out. How’s the memory, Bill?’
He opened his second can. ‘Good as ever. It’s all I’ve got left, sometimes I wish it wasn’t so bloody good.’
‘I want you to take a look at these.’ I spoke quickly and motioned to Short to pull out the pictures; the danger with Bill is that as the alcohol level rises so does the water mark of his memories, and if they overflow the bank you never get to the point. ‘Anything you know about these blokes, anything.’
Short spread the prints on the table; Bill hauled out his specs and examined the photo of the taller man who was holding the envelope. He stared hard at the image and then shook his head. ‘Don’t know him.’
I opened another can; Bill looked at the picture of the man who’d jumped back after dropping the envelope.
‘Mustard Cleary’, he said.
I let out a sour, beery breath. ‘And what do you know?’
‘All bad. Stand-over man. Did some banks.’
‘Killer?’
‘Could be. Did your mate here back him down?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He won’t like that at all. I wouldn’t go near him without a gun. Cliff, even then… ‘ He waved the beer can pessimistically.
‘Where can I find him, Bill?’ I got out a ten dollar note and put it under one of the empty cans. Short was looking at the pictures with an expression which was hard to interpret; he didn’t look afraid, maybe it was shame.
‘Mustard’s a Pom originally’, Bill said. ‘There was a pub he used to call his local. Where was it?’ He drained his can and pulled another automatically. ‘Ultimo. The Wattletree, know it?’
‘I know it. A bloodhouse.’
‘Certainly, that’s Mustard’s style. ‘Course this is a few years back, could be a poofter palace now for all I know.’
‘I don’t think so.’ I thanked Bill and we left him to the rest of the cans and his memories. On the drive to Ultimo Short said that it was a pity we’d left the M1 in his van, and I was inclined to agree.
It was near enough to 7pm, Thursday night, when we got to the pub-pension and pay night and the place was swimming along merrily on a tide of beer. The sight of a couple of women at the bar reminded me that I was going to miss my appointment with Cyn. I told Short to buy us drinks and look out for Cleary while I made a phone call.
‘Cyn? I’m sorry, it’s unavoidable. I… ‘
‘It doesn’t matter, Cliff.’ She sounded weary rather than angry and I took heart.
‘I should be able to wind it up tonight, or maybe tomorrow. There’ll be a good fee.’ The door to the public bar swung open and a wave of noise flowed out. I kicked it closed. ‘Cyn…’
‘It doesn’t matter’, she said again and hung up.
I dialled again and the phone rang and rang. Back in the bar, Short had set up two Scotches, doubles, which was all wrong for comradely drinking in this sort of pub. I put the Scotch down quickly and ordered a middy. I hadn’t eaten all day and the whisky on top of the beer hit me and made me incautious. I asked the barman if Mustard Cleary had been in lately.
‘In earlier’, he said. ‘In a bloody bad mood, too.’
I forced a laugh. ‘Well, you know Mustard. Wouldn’t know where he is now, would you?’ The barman looked me over: I’m too thin and my clothes are too cheap to be a policeman, and Short was still wearing his coveralls. He didn’t quite know how to place us so he hedged his bet.
‘Marty might know.’ He jerked his head at a stocky man who was built like a bull; he had a bristling ginger air-force moustache and was wearing clean, starched and ironed khaki shirt and pants. He looked up when he heard his name, and I negotiated the distance between us carrying my beer and fumbling for my makings. I reached him, pulled the tobacco out and rolled one.
‘Looking for Mustard Cleary’, I said. ‘Smoke?’ I pushed the makings across and he took them.
‘What for?’
Short had come up behind me. ‘My mate and I have a delivery to make. He said to meet him here, we’re a bit late.’
He rolled a thin cigarette. ‘Didn’t mention it to me.’
‘Well, it hasn’t gone too smoothly. I understand he’s a bit mad about it. Anyway, he’ll be happy to see us, but I want to get on with it.’
‘What is it?’
I shook my head and ordered three beers. I lit both cigarettes and put the match away in the box, the way a con does. I was wondering how to get him out in the lane when he made up his mind suddenly.
‘I can’t tell you where Mustard lives because I don’t know you. I can tell you where you might find him though.’
I drank some beer and tried to keep it casual. ‘That’ll do, where?’
‘Said he was going fishing, didn’t make much sense to me the mood he was in, but that’s what he said. Mustard keeps this boat down off the lighters in Blackwattle Bay. Know the place?’
‘I know it. Thanks.’
‘Tell him I’ll have a snapper, moody bastard.’
He turned back to his beer and we walked out. I looked into the bar through a window: Marty was lowering the middy I’d bought him and smoking my tobacco; he looked up at the TV set and didn’t seem to be thinking of going anywhere. I headed for the car fast and Short followed me.
‘I don’t get it’, he said. ‘What’s going on?’
I gunned the Falcon’s engine and swung out into the traffic. ‘What does the harbour mean to you, Short?’
‘Shit, I don’t know. Boats, the Opera House, the Bridge.’
‘Me too, but to people like Carlton and Cleary it means a good place to put bodies.’
Short groaned and I turned off Bridge Road up the back way to Glebe, the way the taxi drivers go.
‘You mean she’s dead?’ he said quietly.
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Then what’s the idea?’
I could hear his harsh breathing and feel his agitation; the Rafferty’s rules style of the real hard men were becoming clear to him, and he must have seen his own little coup was a panto by comparison. I didn’t feel like easing up on him.
‘Ever hear of drowning? The lungs fill up with water and life stops. Happens every day and it’s hard to prove that one person drowned another.’
‘Christ’, he said. ‘Hurry.’
The way he said it reminded me that he’d been in Vietnam. I turned at the cosmetics factory, cut the engines and the lights and let the car roll down to the back of the blocks of flats near the water. Short was out of the car before me.
‘How do we get down to the water?’ he asked.
‘There’s usually a right of way.’ I pointed to a gap between two block of flats. ‘Have a look along there, I’ll look up here.’ He scooted off and I moved up towards the end of one block. I turned back when I heard a low whistle; he’d found the right of way-an overgrown brick path with a derelict handrail that led down to the water. We stumbled down the path and across a stretch of grass to the half acre or so of lighter platforms linked together like chain mail. An outside light from the flats cut through the gloom but the end of the lighters and their far edges were in darkness. Dark, lumpy shapes stood up here and there, piles of boxes and other debris-cover. Across the water the container terminal was working; the machinery ground and grated and there was an occasional crash as a heavy load touched down hard.
‘We go out to the end’, I whispered, ‘and if there’s nothing there we work around the sides. Keep under cover and listen for a boat, could be a motor, oars, anything.’
Short nodded and we stepped over the gently lapping edge of the water onto a platform. It was slow, nervy work trying to avoid the collapsed and rotting timbers and keep under cover. About half way out we heard noises off to the left. Getting closer I could see movement; shoulders and heads against the light thrown out from the container dock. There was a boat in the pool of light and Selina Hope was sitting up in it; her hands were tied and there was something across the bottom half of her face. Mustard Cleary was picking up a box a few feet back from the water and the other man was untying a rope that ran from the boat to a cleat on the lighters. Short touched my arm and showed me the iron bar he held ready to hit with or throw. His readiness for action impressed me. I stepped out and moved up close with the. 38 held out police style.
‘Police’, I yelled. ‘Don’t move!’
Cleary dropped his load swearing; he ducked low and rushed the gun. I fired over his head and the sound was cancelled by a metallic crash from the container wharf, but Cleary heard it, and stopped. He bent down to grab something and I came forward quickly and crashed the gun butt down on his neck. He crumpled and I nudged him again on the way down.
When I untangled my knuckles and straightened up I heard heavy breathing and scuffling off to the side and saw that Short had moved to the edge of lighters for a bit of hand-to-hand with the other man. The rope had been untied and the boat had drifted off a little; Selina sat ram-rod straight, watching the action with terror in her eyes. Short’s opponent was swinging a bit of timber and Short was giving ground; then he seemed to lose his footing and he was hit on the shoulder. Some more swings, some more backing from Short, then another stumble; the timber swinger jumped forward to go for the head but Short swayed aside and smashed his elbow with the iron bar. The timber hit the platform and Short put the bar to his knee, balls and elbow again, quickly and scientifically. The guy screamed and begged him to stop. I moved in with the gun, feeling a little superfluous.
‘Good’, I said, but Short was hauling on the rope.
We got Selina aboard and free and she babbled and held on to Short as if he were the last sane man in a world gone mad. I eased them apart after a while and suggested that we be on our way.
‘What about them?’ Short asked. I was covering Cleary and his mate with my gun in a vague sort of way; Cleary was conscious but was more in a lying-down than standing-over mood. I gave Short one of my hard looks and held out my hand.
‘Give me the money.’
He looked pained but he handed the envelope over. I put the envelope down beside the man who was rubbing his genitals thoughtfully. ‘Tell Xavier to forget it’, I said. ‘Tell him to go to confession and do the stations of the cross, and forget it. It’s over, finished. Got it?’
He nodded and I patted his shoulder. ‘Wait here a while and then you can go home. Unless you’d like another go at him?’
He shook his head. We left them there with their aches and pains and thirty grand and walked across the lighters to the distant shore.
Back at the car Short made a clean breast of things, putting himself in the best possible light. He pleaded necessity, swore he intended to protect her and so on. Selina had been scared witless by Carlton’s boys: she said she’d done nothing but scream and cry and hadn’t told them anything because she hadn’t understood what was happening. She still didn’t, properly, but she’d seen Short fight like Lancelot in the lists for her and that was enough. They were both experiencing a sort of danger and deliverance high, and I felt like a voyeur. I drove them to Selina’s place and made her promise to ring Athol Groom with the good news before she did anything else.
It was after nine on a clear, mild night but I was feeling far from clear and mild myself. There were things about Colin Short that niggled at me, but I had bigger problems. I stopped at the Toxteth and bought whisky for me and gin for Cyn. Maybe we could sit out on the bricks with the insects and take a little tobacco and alcohol and talk things out. Maybe. The house was dark and the front gate stood open but not welcomingly. I went in and found Cyn’s note on the kitchen table: it said she was sorry, it said she had left and would collect her things tomorrow, it said good luck.
I poured a big drink, made some cigarettes and sat down to think. Like every married man I’d fantasised about being free; well, here it was and how did I like it? I didn’t like it much. I drank some whisky and I still didn’t like it. I thought that the talk wouldn’t have gone well anyway and that it would have come to this and it was better to have missed that last fight. I drank and got angry and wanted the fight. She had no right to deny me the fight. Upstairs the bed was made, the ashtrays were empty, the books were stacked. She’d taken some clothes and things for beautifying herself. I looked around and mentally separated her possessions from mine. It was surprisingly easy to do.
I drank some more and self-pity ran strong and I thought sourly about Selina and Short and trust and love. I poured the rest of the whisky back into the bottle, drank two cups of strong coffee and went out to the car.
Breaking into Short’s studio took about two minutes, locating his life’s treasures took a little longer. Some marks on the floor and a certain artfulness about the ashes in the grate told me that all was not as it seemed. A section of the brick fireplace had been taken out to accommodate the heavy, brass-bound chest. I pulled it out, waited a few minutes to be sure that errant torch beams weren’t attracting attention, and tickled it open with a skeleton key.
Colin Short was a great photographer, he had a particular talent for men in the public eye and attractive young women. I recognised a politician and radio announcer and could probably have identified a few other faces if I’d tried. A couple of films had a similar cast list.
One bundle of pictures showed a young, dark woman playing games around a swimming pool with a couple of very interested middle-aged men. The hair was different in style but it was Selina Hope. I took these pictures and a few samples of the rest and put the chest back.
I’d had some more whisky when I reached home so I was feeling rather weathered when I got to Athol Groom’s establishment the following midmorning. He congratulated me and we negotiated a fee. I asked him for the dates of Selina’s overseas trips and got them. The poolside pictures had a date on the back which proved to be just two weeks before one of Selina’s trips.
‘Hang around, Cliff, Athol said. ‘Selina’s coming in and I know she’ll want to thank you. What d’you make of this bloke of hers?’
I was about to answer when Selina came rushing in with Short tagging behind. She looked tousled and a bit underslept but marvellous. She gave me a peck on the cheek.
‘You look tired’, she said. ‘You must have a rest. I don’t know how to thank you.’
I wanted to tell her that Short was vermin, that he’s used her to make dirty money and probably would again. I wanted to see his sheepish bit-of-a-rascal look drip away and to see her flay him. But I couldn’t; she was so purely happy, so forgiving and loving that I couldn’t destroy it. I knew why I wanted to destroy it and I knew it had nothing to do with justice or her future happiness.
I shrugged. ‘Next time you do an ad for Scotch make sure you get a bottle for me. Could you excuse me, Selina? I want a word with Colin.’
I took Short out into the corridor and showed him the pictures I’d souvenired from his collection. He went pale and plucked at a couple of bits of stubble he’d missed that morning.
‘You’re a lying, thieving shit’, I said.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘You’ve retired as a blackmailer. If I ever hear you’ve gone back to it I’ll drop these in the mail with a covering note.’
‘Don’t worry’, he said. ‘I’ll burn the lot.’
‘I’m a born worrier. She didn’t see Carlton the other day, did she?’
‘No, just those two.’
‘That’s something, maybe Carlton’s smart enough to let it lie.’
‘We’re going to New York’, he said. ‘Getting married’.
‘I’d keep it quiet’, I said. ‘Just a few friends if you have any.’
We went back inside and Athol opened some champagne for the occasion. I had a couple of glasses and got a decent kiss off Selina but it didn’t do me any good. Later I went back to Glebe. Cyn had made a good job of cleaning her stuff out; she’d even taken the bottle of gin.