What he said made me wish I had read the transcript. I’d been saving it for flight reading. I looked at my watch. Time was short and O’Connor was the type and in the profession to mean what he said about it. ‘Please explain.’
‘Have you sat through many trials, Hardy?’
‘A few, yes.’
‘Raggedy affairs, aren’t they?’
A surprising thing for a QC to say but I was in agreement. ‘They can be.’
‘Not this one. I’ve never seen a better prepared, better marshalled, better argued case. The Crown had everything sewn up tight-witnesses word perfect, evidence spotlessly presented, technical stuff exactly right.’
I held up a hand. ‘Hold it. What does that mean?’
‘You’ll see when you read the transcript. Scrupulous chemical analysis of the heroin, precise evaluation of its quality and… financial potential. That was crucial. The anticipated returns were off the graph. Just for bringing in a couple of packets of powder. The jury… shit-’ he broke off as his composure sagged momentarily. ‘The jury couldn’t wait to convict this bastard who’d tried to book himself into paradise.’
He was good, very good. I felt sure then that Bryce O’Connor would have done all he could for Master and found it not enough. That answered one of my questions, although it threw up quite a lot of others. His statement had wrung him out a bit and left him unhappy, not in the best condition for his meeting. I eased up out of my chair and gave him a respectful nod.
‘Thanks for your time, Mr O’Connor.’
The pain and discomfiture were still working in him. ‘Get fucked,’ he said.
‘Last thing. Who was the prosecutor at Master’s trial?’
‘John L’Estrange.’
‘Might be worth having a chat to him.’
‘Good luck.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You’ll find him in Holland, at the Hague. He got some sort of job in the War Crimes Tribunal.’
‘When was this?’
‘Soon after he got ten to twelve for Stewart Master.’
Trying to be a good citizen, I’d taken a bus into the city. As I left the Martin Place building that housed O’Connor’s firm I felt in need of exercise and decided to walk home to Glebe. Sometimes I’ve found that walking, if I can strike a good rhythm, can help with thinking. Not always, sometimes I just get tired. I strolled down to Goulburn Street and bought take-away chicken and salty fish from the Super Bowl, my favourite Chinese restaurant. More Asian faces than Anglo-Celt but Australian accents all around. Up through Ultimo into Glebe. A few years ago all the streets were littered with overflowing skips as the terraces were renovated or pulled down for facsimiles to go up in their place. There’s less of that now as the area settles down into its gentrified state. There are still ungentrified patches though, like my house.
I had a quick beer in the Toxteth, bought a bottle of red and went home to watch the TV news, eat and study the trial transcript, maybe get my tongue around a few French phrases. ‘Good evening, are you alone?’ ‘May I join you?’ ‘Would you like to…?’
The news consisted of more posturing about Iraq and I turned it off before the program finished. I put the take-away in the microwave and went upstairs to fetch the transcript. I poured some wine and sat down at the kitchen bench. The door bell rang. Not again, I thought, but it was a courier with the card that would allow me to tap the hundred thou.
Trial transcripts make frustrating reading. There’s too much legal quibbling holding up the action, the same ground is gone over and over again and there’s a kind of sterility coming off the pages because you don’t get a sense of the audience. Throw in the spectators and bit players and you can get the sort of stuff that works so well in plays and films and novels. Without it, dullsville. The newspaper reports were still fresh in my memory and this helped to flesh things out a little. Now that I’d met O’Connor I could see him in the role and there had been artists’ sketches of John L’Estrange, whose name hadn’t stuck with me, and of the judge. And of course, although she didn’t participate, Lorraine Master was there in my imagination.
Another frustration arises from the questions that come to your mind as you read. You want to be there to ask the witnesses questions that seem important to you but apparently didn’t to the learned counsel.
As I turned the couple of hundred pages, skipping the dull stuff, I thought I could see what O’Connor meant. John L’Estrange had presented the case against Master in a straightforward manner that seemed to say, Look, no tricks. This is all above board. Judge for yourself. Likewise, the judge’s summing up had been scrupulously fair, without frills or flourishes. Reading between the lines, you could get a sense of her law-and-order agenda as reported in the newspaper, but there was nothing the defence could point to as untoward.
I closed the binder and sat back with only one phrase coming to mind: a very neat package. I’d put my notebook beside the transcript but when I’d finished reading I only had three names written down-Salvatore Verdi, Colin Baxter and Detective Senior Sergeant Karl Knopf. Verdi and Baxter were the customs agents who’d inspected Master’s bags and detained him. Knopf was the forensic examiner who’d analysed the heroin and done tests on the packaging. There was no reason why any of them would be willing to talk to me and possibly nothing to be gained. But you never know. Ten to twelve was a heavy sentence and if any one of them was surprised by what resulted, they might have started thinking… Besides, I had two days before my flight and had already talked to the principals, so it was time to try the supporting cast.
As I finished the wine and poured another glass, I realised that I hadn’t turned the microwave on. I do that. I sometimes take out mugs of coffee and find them stone cold. I heated the food and ate it slowly, enjoying it and the wine and regretting that there was no one to share it with. The murder of my one-time partner Glen Withers some time back, following not long after the death from cancer of Cyn, my ex-wife of many years earlier, had rocked me more than a little. It wasn’t that I thought myself a Jonah, or that I didn’t feel a surge when an attractive woman came into view-like Lorraine Master-it was just that I sometimes wondered what the point was. In my experience sexual attractions, even love, were very transitory.
As I rinsed the dishes I remembered something I’d heard on the radio, maybe from Robin Williams on ‘The Science Show’, that in all creation only some kind of flatworm is truly monogamous and that’s because it fuses with its partner first time up in coitus. Bad night ahead, Cliff, I thought. Go out and find some company.
I found it at the Toxteth, where else? Daphne Rowley, who runs a printing and photographic business in Glebe and has provided me with false IDs from time to time, was playing pool in the pub and gave a cheer when she saw me.
‘A down-in-the-dumps PI named Cliff Hardy,’ she whooped. ‘I’m drinkin’ for free tonight.’
She was right. We played for drinks and she won. I’ve beaten her on occasions, but only when I was up and being positive, as they say. Down and drinking, she whipped me. We ended up over brandies as the pub emptied. Daphne would be collecting her dogs from outside the pub.
‘Tough case, Cliff?’
‘Not so bad,’ I said. ‘I’m going off to New Caledonia in a couple of days.’
‘Fuck you,’ she said.
‘Not original, Daph, I heard that earlier today. Just can’t remember who from.’
The hangover was mild compared to some, but enough to need dealing with. I drove to the Redgum Gymnasium and Fitness Centre in Leichhardt and did a moderately hard workout on the treadmill and the machines. Then into the sauna to sweat out the toxins. Feeling a bit light-headed but better, I came out to find Peter Lo doing curls with impossibly heavy free weights. Peter is Balinese and built low to the ground. I’d say that he’s all bone and muscle except that would suggest he hasn’t got a brain. In fact he has an excellent one. After climbing to a senior rank in the police force working in the forensic branch he’s recently taken leave to do a doctorate in criminology. His thesis was something to do with justice and society.
‘Hi, Dr Lo,’ I said as he paused between curls.
He sighed and flexed his fingers inside his sweat-soaked mittens. ‘If I had a dollar for everyone who’s said that.’
‘Sorry, Peter, I’m not at my best this morning.’
‘Yeah, I saw you head for the sauna. Heavy night?’
‘Not so bad. Can I buy you breakfast?’
‘You mean, “I need your help”, right?’
I nodded.
‘Bar Napoli. Twenty minutes.’ He sucked in air and his chest expanded like a balloon. He reached for a heavier weight. I couldn’t bear to watch and went off to shower and dress.
Meeting Peter was no coincidence. Where I make it to the gym three times in a good week, he’s there five mornings a week. They say that’s too often but it’d be a brave man who’d tell Peter Lo that. I was sitting down with a black coffee and two plain croissants when he strode in. I signalled to Luigi, who brought Peter his standard order-black coffee and raisin toast, no butter.
‘Let’s dispense with the prelims, Cliff. The thesis is going okay, the wife and kids are fine, I bench-pressed a hundred and twenty-five kays this morning. Personal best.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. How are your relations with your former colleagues?’
He took a bite of toast and appeared to chew it the prescribed number of times, whatever that is. He washed it down with some coffee. ‘No problems.’
‘Not afraid you’re stealing a march on them, you being a slope and all?’
He laughed. ‘Every one of them’s just as competitive as me.’
‘How about Karl Knopf?’
‘What about him?’
‘Your assessment.’
‘Eat your breakfast. First class.’
I ate and drank. ‘Would he talk to me if you asked him to?’
‘What about?’
With Peter I was always upfront and honest. He was too intelligent and experienced to deal with in any other way. He saw through evasions and half truths immediately and responded appropriately. I told him about the Master trial and its peculiar tidiness.
‘Karl’s straight, he wouldn’t be in anything dodgy.’
‘Good. I’d just like to get his impression of the way things went down.’
‘It is strange, the prosecutor shooting through like that. How about the customs guys?’
I shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
‘I’ll ask Karl to give you a call and I’ll see if I can find out anything about the customs men.’
‘Thanks, Peter. I’ll owe you. Again.’
He smiled. ‘Never know, you could have given me a footnote.’
Worked out, saunaed, breakfasted and feeling pretty good, I phoned Lorraine Master at her office and Fiona put me through.
‘Anything to report, Mr Hardy?’
‘Not really. Nothing solid but I’m following up on a few things. I’m booked for tomorrow.’
‘The money’s there. I’m faxing you the PIN. Present ID at the bank and you’ll be able to draw on the full amount.’
‘You’re sure I won’t take off for Tahiti?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘What gym did Stewart go to?’
‘Why?’
‘Might be useful to ask around. See if anyone else has been asking around. See if anyone’s interested that I’m asking around. It’s a technique of the profession. It’s called stirring the possum.’
‘I see. Quaint. The Atlas, in Watsons Bay. I go there myself. You could ask about me.’
I let that go by. ‘Why there?’
‘It’s a good gym. Plus it’s close to the marina and the yacht club.’
‘Stewart has a yacht?’
‘No, Mr Hardy. I do, the Merlot, and Stewart doesn’t know about it. It’s that kind of a marriage. Is that all?’
More than enough, I thought. All I could say was, ‘Thank you.’
The Atlas was located in a small street on the eastern edge of Watsons Bay. Unlike a lot of gyms-the Redgum, for instance, which has had earlier lives as a factory, a warehouse and dirty movie house-it didn’t bear the signs of having once been something else. The cement block building with the landscaping and tiling and tinted glass couldn’t have been more than a few years old and the discreet neon sign and name etched into the glass door were fresh and sparkling.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
The young woman behind the desk was wearing a top that stopped just below her breasts and well above her track pants, revealing a perfect midriff. She was fined down and buffed up and jumping out of her skin to be helpful. Even after my workout and clean-out I suppose I still wore my look of an approaching use-by date. She arranged her sharp, low-body-fat features sympathetically.
‘I’d just like to look around,’ I said. ‘Thinking of joining a gym, you know.’
‘Sure. New to Sydney?’
Felt like an insult, but I took it. ‘Up from Melbourne.’
The sympathy increased. ‘Look, by all means, Mr…?’
‘Master.’
‘Mr Master. Everything’s clearly signposted-weights room, machines, aerobics, sauna, pool.’
‘Pool,’ I said. ‘That’s nice.’
Her phone rang and she picked it up. ‘Heated,’ she said and her smile dismissed me.
It was mid-morning, and the place was busy. The free weights and machines sections were well patronised, mostly by yuppies but with a few oldies thrown in. Lines and wrinkles moving substantial weights, good to see. One sauna is much like another; the pool was a twenty-five metre job and would be very inviting at almost any time. I could see Lorraine Master here in her spandex with her personal trainer. What about Stewart?
At a gym there’s always someone as interested in talking as working out, sometimes more interested. I spotted him in the weights room. He took every opportunity to chat to the other people there, worked the weights reluctantly and put them down gladly. A class started up on the aerobics floor and that took most of his attention. Well-toned women moving rhythmically will do that. I watched the whip-thin instructor bounce and strut and most of the class stay in sync. I felt my age and caught his eye as he towelled off unnecessarily. He wandered over.
‘Gidday. Lookin’ the joint over?’
‘That’s right. Not that aerobics stuff, though it’s nice to look at.’
‘Tried it once. Fuckin’ near killed me.’
I gave him a conspiratorial nod. ‘My brother comes here and I thought I’d take a look. Stewart Master, know him?’
He was a big bloke, fiftyish, balding, overweight but not too bad. Nothing he couldn’t lose if he treadmilled, lifted more and talked less. ‘Yeah, I know him. Knew him anyway. Bad luck, that.’
‘Right, well I don’t make a song and dance about it. I’m up from Melbourne to help his wife straighten things up a bit. It rocked the family. I mean, we knew Stewie was no angel, but drugs… not like him. Did you see much of him?’
He was cooling down and had to make a decision now whether to go on talking or go back to the weights. The talking won. He swigged from his water bottle and wrapped his towel around his shoulders.
‘We chatted a bit, yeah. Not much. Nice enough bloke, Stewie. I’m Les, by the way.’
I played safe. ‘Bob.’ Forgettable.
We shook. ‘Yeah, he mentioned he was from Melbourne. Talked about the AFL. Meant bugger-all to me. I’m a League man. Broncos. Ex-Queenslander. He put in serious time here. Going for tone rather than bulk, you know? But he was bloody strong. You’d be a fair bit older than him, eh?’
I grinned. ‘I’ve lived hard. I’m not as old as I look. Still, I should’ve kept an eye on him.’
‘Right, I know what you mean, but you can only do so much with a goer like Stewie. Still, it’s going to be a blow to the people here.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Stewie put in a bid to buy the place. Big, big bucks. Didn’t you know? I thought…’
I clapped him on his beefy shoulder. ‘It’s all right, mate. Just playing it a bit close to the chest. Melbourne boy being cautious in the big smoke. Well, you never know. It could all work out okay. See you.’
Time to go. I didn’t know whether I’d got away with it or not and wasn’t going to hang around to answer questions. It was something to show for the visit. Hard to interpret. There’d been no reaction to the surname from the receptionist but it’s not an uncommon name, and chances were she didn’t know anything about the business side.
I walked away and looked back at the building. Freehold, very big bucks indeed, and even the price of the lease and the business goodwill would be heavy. I drove back to Darlinghurst and went to the office. Lorraine Masters fax with the PIN for an account with the Banque de France had come through. The card would be with me tomorrow, she said. I folded the sheet and put it in my wallet after writing the number in my notebook. Under the number I jotted two questions: did Stewart Master have that sort of money? Did Lorraine know about his interest in buying the gym?
I went out for a sandwich and when I got back there was a message from Peter Lo. I made instant coffee and rang him, talking between bites.
‘Karl Knopf says he’ll talk to you, Cliff. He’s stationed in Darlinghurst so you could drop in and see him. Here’s his number.’
‘Thanks, Peter. He sounded interested, did he?’
‘He did when I told him about the customs guys.’
I was about to take a bite but I dropped the sandwich on the desk. ‘What?’
‘Verdi was posted to Brisbane and Baxter to Perth.’
‘Soon after the trial?’
‘Right.’
‘Something’s going on.’
‘Looks like it. Be careful, Cliff.’
‘Why d’you say that?’
‘Customs is federal. Don’t get caught in the middle of a state and federal fuck-up. It’s not a good place to be.’
I thanked him again and hung up. I finished the sandwich and the coffee without tasting them. Then I wet my finger and picked up the crumbs I’d dropped on the desk as I thought. In the old days I’d have smoked but now crumb-picking would have to do.
I dropped the sandwich wrapper in the bin and wandered to the window. St Peters Lane isn’t much to look out on unless you happen to like the feel of old Sydney, which I do. It’s narrow, trapped between the buildings that front onto William Street and the weathered sandstone of the church. It’s a sun-starved stretch, cold and windy in winter and shadowy in summer. There’s no parking and it’s never become a shooting gallery. It’s not a place to linger in, so why was a man standing down there, staring up at my window and ducking out of sight when he saw me?
I’m mates with Stephanie Geller, aka Madame Stephanie, who runs a mail order, and these days online, astrological business in the office adjacent to mine. I have her key and occasionally let people into her waiting room when she’s late.
‘Zay like to be kept waiting, Cliff,’ she once told me. ‘So zay can feel zee vibes.’
She wasn’t around, so I let myself into her office, which commanded a longer view of the lane than mine, and peeked out. No watcher. Had he followed me from Watsons Bay? Through all that traffic that’s slowly strangling Sydney? No way to tell.