With air fares, accommodation, expenses, my daily rates and what I’d paid Reg Penny and Jarrod Montefiore in Pacific francs, Lorraine Master had already shelled out a good deal in her husband’s cause. I wanted to give her a full accounting by email plus an online copy of the photograph supplied by Fay Lewis, and a report on what I’d learned so far. All very cyber savvy, but the intrusive message on my computer suggested this would be very unsafe. Instead I phoned and stressed security. She was appreciative and issued an invitation to a business meeting over dinner at her home. Tomorrow night, which would make it two nights since I got home. Where were Jarrod and Fay? I wondered. Still at sea? I had no idea how long it’d take to sail from Noumea to Vila or even if that’s where they’d gone. How good were Penny’s engines and equipment now? How had Fay played her cards, and what about that. 38?
Somehow, I had a feeling that before too long I’d meet up with Fay, at least, but how, where and when were anybody’s guess. I made up for my misses at the Sunrise Surf’s fitness gym by putting in two hard sessions at the Redgum. Even Wesley Scott commented on my dedication as I was leaving.
‘You going to get serious, Cliff?’
‘Semi-serious.’
‘No such thing.’
‘I know. Peter Lo been in?’
‘Of course. Now there’s serious.’
‘He’s young. I’ve had so many injuries over the years, a lot of places tweak and squawk.’
‘Excuses, man, just excuses.’ He glanced at the Air Calin bag I’d dumped my gym stuff in. ‘Enjoy it over there? I guess not. No tan to speak of.’
‘Work.’
He said something in rapid French. Maybe it was to do with Jacques and work and play but it was too quick for me to catch. That’s Wesley. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear him discussing Nietzsche in German.
Double Bay houses with water views probably start at around three million. Lorraine Master’s place wasn’t Paradis sur Mer, but it didn’t seem to lack anything you might need. It was white, two-storey with a two-car garage, swimming pool, manicured garden and a view out over Seven Shillings Beach only partially interrupted by foliage and other buildings.
The wide driveway was closed by a high iron gate with a smaller entrance gate next to it. I parked in the street and buzzed.
‘Cliff?’
‘Yes.’
‘Push.’
I did and the gate swung in. Cliff? I thought as I walked up a paved path to the front of the house. The garden beds were covered with some kind of straw and the trees and shrubs all looked healthy. Between the beds and under the trees was a low maintenance ground cover. I reflected that my front garden could look like this on a much smaller scale if I had a few grand to spend on it.
I went up a set of steps onto a tiled porch and got the button-pressing finger to work again. Butler? I thought. Filipina maid?
Lorraine Master opened the heavy interior door and released the catch on the solid security screen. She beckoned me in and then used the spare hand to invite me to shake. She was wearing a plain dress with a high neck and loose sleeves. Light blue. Suited her colouring. She had a small amount of jewellery about-neck chain, earrings-but it was unobtrusive and therefore probably cost a bomb. Her hand was dry and warm and I was reluctant to let it go. We went down a hallway, skirted a staircase and entered a room that murmured taste, money and comfort-things that don’t always go together. Chairs upholstered in blue, pale grey carpet, well-filled bookshelves, track lighting and a drinks trolley.
‘I’m going to have a g’n t,’ she said. ‘You?’
‘The same. Thanks.’
‘Sit down. What’s that you’ve got?’
I was holding a manilla folder with all the dope I hadn’t been prepared to send online. I put in on the arm of the chair and settled down beside it. ‘It’s what you’ve paid for, so far. There’s more to come.’
The level of Bombay gin rose to a commendable height in the glass. She dropped in a slice of lemon, two ice cubes and held up the tonic inquiringly. I put my thumb and forefinger the right distance apart and she poured.
‘More information or more money?’
‘Both.’
‘Okay.’ She held out the glass and I had to reach to take it. I liked her style-classy and considerate, but not too considerate.
‘Where’re the kids?’
We did a quick silent toast. ‘Why?’ she said. ‘Do you like kids?’
‘I don’t know many. Like some, not others.’
She sat and took a solid swig of a drink that looked to be about half the strength of mine. ‘Ours are okay. They’re upstairs. We’ve got an au pair. Why don’t you drink your drink and let me read the report? I can’t cook so I sent out for some food. Nothing special. We can discuss the details and whatever there is to discuss while we eat.’
I did as she’d done-extended the folder so that she had to lean forward from her chair to take it. She was the sort of woman you had to play those games with, otherwise, she’d have you in the back court all the time and you’d never make it to the net. The drink was just right for temperature, mix and punch and I sat back and enjoyed it while she read. I also enjoyed looking at her over the rim of the glass. Her skin glowed, her hair shone and her bones were well-covered. Whatever you’ve been up to, Stewart, I thought, you couldn’t have expected her to wait ten years.
She read rapidly, flicking back to confirm things or lodge them in her memory, names perhaps. She was through it in a few minutes and then spent nearly half that long studying the photograph. She tapped the pages back together and pinned the photo back where it had been.
‘Very professional,’ she said. ‘Let’s eat.’
We went through to a dining room with a teak table that looked something like the one Paul Keating bought for the Lodge. It was set for two places with a bottle of red wine standing by.
‘I thought you’d be a meat man,’ she said, ‘so I ordered in some stuff from the Balkan. You know it?’
‘I do. Great place. Haven’t been there for a while. Still going strong?’
‘Sure is. Wouldn’t mind a percentage.’ She picked up a waiter’s friend style corkscrew and handed it to me. ‘Open the wine while I bring in the food. Freshen your drink if you like.’
I did both things. I could hear sounds from the kitchen-microwaving, a fridge door, the rattle of plates. She came back with a stack of plates and a couple of steaming bowls on a tray, set them down and went back for more. After another trip we sat down to a spread of oysters in the shell, skewered meat with vegetables and rice, breadsticks and side dishes of spiced sausages and various sauces and dips I couldn’t name. The solid gins had relaxed me and the wine was smooth and fruity. We both dug in for a minute or two and then she looked across at me with a forkful held ready.
‘What’s wrong?’ she said.
‘I was thinking of Stewart.’
The fork clattered to the table and the food spilled. ‘Fuck you,’ she said.
‘Sorry.’
She had the fastest recovery time I’d ever seen. She had the spilt food scooped up and back on her plate, her lips wiped with a napkin and had taken a sip of wine before I could think of the next thing to say.
‘Just sometimes,’ she said, ‘I try to forget that my husband’s facing ten years in gaol and that I’ve got two kids to explain things to and a business to run and-’
‘Let’s start again,’ I said. ‘It was very nice of you to invite me and I’m enjoying it. Let’s talk about something else. Yachting. How long for a yacht to go from Noumea to Vila?’
She gave her throaty laugh. ‘You bastard, that’s not something else. You’re still working. Am I being rude?’
I knew she was manipulative, but was she that manipulative? Hard to say. ‘You’re doing fine, most women’d be climbing the walls. Most people.’
‘Caught yourself almost in time.’
‘Old habits. The food’s great.’ I reached over and poured her some more wine. We ate and drank for a few minutes, both things she did neatly and efficiently. She seemed to enjoy the wine without wanting to get it down as fast as possible, but it’s hard to tell with drinking. I knew a bloke who I’d have said drank about as much as me and ended up going to AA. I said if he did maybe I should but he told me he usually had half a bottle of scotch inside him before we got together and finished off the rest later.
She pushed her plate away and had a good sip. ‘Right. So where are we? Some kind of a policeman set Stewart up.’
‘If we can believe Fay and Montefiore.’
‘Mmm. Which one was she?’ I’d put the Salon de Fun leaflet in the folder.
‘She was the one on the end.’
‘Which end?’
‘That’s what I asked Montefiore.’
She smiled. ‘You sort of liked them, didn’t you? D’you believe them?’
‘I’ve met worse. Chancers, toughies. We’ll see if they turn up with some solid information. If they don’t, you’ve spent a fair bit of money for nothing.’
‘I think you handled it well. You baited the hook. Is there anything to be done while we wait?’
I drank some more wine, judging it to be about five notches in quality above the stuff I’m used to. ‘It’s difficult. If he is a policeman he could be federal or from any one of the eastern states. Very hard to find out if he’s an undercover type. I’ll have to talk more to Fay to get a line on that. If he isn’t…’
‘Is that worse or better?’
I broke a breadstick and poked it into one of the sauce bowls. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Mrs Master-’
‘Lorrie.’
‘Okay, Lorrie. I just don’t know. I haven’t come up against anything quite like this before. Rogue cops, yes. High level, complex international operations, no.’
‘Isn’t there some kind of internal affairs department in the police?’
‘Yes, but which state, and state or federal? Same problem.’
‘Let’s leave that aside for a moment. I’m interested in a sly suggestion you made-that Stewart might have agreed to cooperate with.. whoever, and got double-crossed.’
I shrugged. ‘It was just a thought. No, more like a feeling. I had a sense of him perhaps walking into a situation with his eyes open.’
‘How could that be?’
Something about her concentrated alertness made me want to fidget, to play with the breadstick, spin my wineglass. I kept my hands still. ‘What if Stewart was into something here that went badly wrong and the cops had him over a barrel? So he had to agree to a part in this sting or whatever it was, or they’d hit him with everything.’
She shook her head confidently. ‘No. That’s not possible. He’d broken off all his ties with the crims. He didn’t have any money but he wasn’t looking to get it in the old way. He was happy to lie low, think about things, get himself back in order. He was considering doing a university course. Psychology. Becoming some sort of counsellor-’
She broke off and stared at me. ‘Why are you looking like that?’
‘Did you know he’d put in an offer to buy the Atlas gym?’