Does your wife know about the sorts of things you do for Greaves?'
'Leave her out of it.'
'I just want to be sure she doesn't run off and phone up your little mate.'
'She won't.'
'Trouble in Paradise?'
'We're not as close as we were.'
'Too bad. I'm pretty sure I can convince the police Louise Kramer didn't suicide. I can get them to investigate things-phone calls, sightings of cars, purchase of vodka…'
He started to speak but I stopped him.
'I don't want to know what you did or didn't do personally. I know you were involved,' I said. 'She lied to me and used me and I don't owe her anything. What I'm interested in is the whereabouts of Billie Marchant.'
'Why?'
'I'm working for her sister now.'
'You're a leech.'
'Poetic. Listen, you'll like this-she's fixing to pay me with the money you gave her to go away.'
'It wasn't like that.'
'She thinks it was and she's not happy about it.'
In the not-so-far distance I heard a car door slam and a metal gate slide open, grinding a little. I looked at McGuin-ness, who shrugged.
'Dottie's taken herself off somewhere.'
'Like?'
'Don't know, don't care.'
'That's not a good attitude.'
'I knew you were trouble the minute I set eyes on you and I told Barclay so. Get on with it, Hardy. I'm cold and I need another drink.'
'Best to keep you that way. What has Greaves got against Jonas Clement?'
He gave me a shrewd look. 'Don't know everything, do you?'
'I know enough to put you in prison for conspiracy to commit murder and abduction.'
'I could charge you with assault.'
'You fell in, told your wife so.'
He shook his hair and water dripped down into his eyes again. He rubbed them red. 'Shit, this was getting too heavy for me anyway. Will you give me some time to get clear?'
'If I like what you say.'
'I don't suppose you listen to Clement's radio spot?'
'Why would I? Why would anyone?'
'Right, well, about five or six years ago, no, maybe four years, Clement blew the gaff on a deal Barclay was trying to put through. It was a loans thing to some Pacific country, I forget the name. Essentially it was a money laundering operation. Clement had the inside story and exposed it on the air. It didn't make a big splash; his audience wasn't that big then, but it stopped the deal dead. Barclay arranged a quick retreat and cover-up but he lost a lot of money and face.'
'Why'd Clement do that?'
'Because Barclay was screwing his wife.'
I cast my mind back to the party, an event that was starting to seem like a long time ago. 'That'd be… Patty.'
'No, Tara, the one before Patty.'
'Jesus, d'you mean this whole thing's about a couple of rich bastards competing over models?'
'Yeah, and over money. They can scarcely tell the difference between sex and money. In my experience they get equally excited about both.'
Two things troubled me. I'd thought McGuinness had an active background of some kind, but the way he spoke suggested something else. If I was going to strike a deal with him I needed to size him up better.
'What's your history, Clive? How did you get involved with nasties like Greaves and Clement?'
'Why?'
'Just tell me. Your future depends on it.'
'I was a statistician. I worked with Barclay in the tax office. We were both into that Iron John shit back then. You know, weekend bivouacs and paint guns. Kids' stuff, but it gives you some moves and some sort of confidence, I suppose. Barclay persuaded me I could do better by working for him in the private sector. I have. Until now.'
'Okay, what about this? Greaves was at Clement's party a while back. He was putting shit on him, but how come he was there if there's so much bad blood between them?'
McGuinness drew the robe tighter around him for warmth and reassurance. 'You don't understand about these people, do you? They love to rub each other's noses in the dirt. You think mega-rich rivals don't invite each other to their big bashes? They do, all the time. They're polite on the surface and they fester underneath.'
What he was saying had a ring of truth to it, although I'd only glimpsed both protagonists briefly. McGuinness was acting like one of those Mafia informants who'd decided to spill all the beans and take his chances. In his case the risks weren't as great, but his involvement in Louise Kramer's death, whatever it was, had convinced him they were great enough.
'I believe you, Clive,' I said, 'and I'm prepared to let you drive the Beemer to Queensland or to Mascot with your passport in your pocket or whatever, but I need to know where Billie is.'
He nodded. 'I've got about a million frequent flyer points. I've got contacts in the States. I can make a living there.'
'What about this joint, and Dottie?'
He shrugged. 'Both rented. Dottie's not my wife. I don't know where the Marchant woman is, but I know who does know.'
'And who's that?'
'I need my guarantee.'
'So do I, that you tell me and then don't tell whoever it is that I'm on the way.'
'Why would I do that?'
'Because you're a slimy, slippery bastard and I can see the wheels turning in your head.'
We kicked it around for a while, with the evening grower cooler and McGuinness feeling it sharply in his wet state and needing a drink worse than I did. Eventually we came up with a solution: McGuinness booked a seat on a flight to Bangkok leaving in about three hours. I didn't allow him to shower and I watched him closely. He dressed in his tan lightweight suit, no tie, packed a bag and collected his passport. I'd drive him to the airport and stay with him all the way to the departure gate, keeping his boarding pass, ticket and passport in my pocket to that point. No phoning permitted. He agreed to tell me what I wanted to know when he was due to board. I told him that if what he said didn't check out I'd arrange for him to be arrested in Bangkok.
'Nasty gaols there, they tell me,' I said.
He looked sceptical. 'I don't think you'd have the clout. A crummy private eye.'
'Mate, all I'd have to do would be to say you were a terrorist, head of a cell here in Frenchs Forest with plans to set Ku-ring-gai Chase ablaze this summer. Drop a couple of cans of petrol in your garage with a few standard lighters. I've got your passport number and your flight details. They'd jump at it, the level of paranoia being what it is.'
'I suppose you're right.'
Give him his due, that was when he made his move and it was smart to do it after a reluctant compliance. I'd moved a little too close to him; he sensed it, got set, pivoted, and aimed a hard chop at my neck. We'd had another drink and he'd made his strong. Maybe the dousing in the pool had affected him. Either way, I saw the blow coming and swayed back in time. I shoved him hard while he was still moving and his hand cracked into the doorjamb. He let out a yell.
'That'll bruise,' I said. 'Might be broken.'
'Fuck you.'
'Never mind, those nice hosties on Thai Air'll look after you. Especially in business class.'
All the fight went out of him as he nursed his hand. He left the house without a backward glance, as if his life to that point was disposable. I took his wallet with his credit cards and his passport and put them in the door pocket on the driver's side of the car. He had to manage his suitcase with his left and he struggled to get it into the boot. Too bad. Another struggle to get buckled up and we were on our way.
We scarcely exchanged a word on the way to Mascot. McGuinness was slumped in his seat, obviously depressed and uncertain of his future. I was calculating the odds on his lying and leading me up a garden path or into something worse. I thought I had him bluffed, but it's a strategy you can never be sure of.
At the airport, I parked and he struggled to the check-in with his case and collected his ticket and boarding pass. I took them and his passport from him and we went to the bar.
We had almost an hour to wait and McGuinness got stuck into the scotch. I drank coffee. His right hand was changing colour but he could move and flex his fingers so it looked as though nothing was broken.
'Have them put some ice on it when you get on board,' I said.
He didn't reply. Bad loser.
He was about half drunk when his flight was called. I held his documents out of his reach, and bent towards him with my hand to my ear.
'Let's hear it, Clive.'
'How do I know you won't do what you said anyway?'
'You don't. You have to rely on my integrity. Come on, they're boarding.'
He let out a whisky-laden sigh. 'Rhys Thomas,' he said.
'What?'
'Rhys Thomas. D'you know him?'
'Yeah, I know him. He's Clement's muscle.'
The call came again and McGuinness stood. 'They handed Marchant over to Thomas.'
'Who's they?'
'Phil Courtney, the guy I was with in your shitty motel room and a nurse-well, she would've looked like a nurse.'
'I don't get it, Thomas works for Clement.'
'Clement thinks he does, but he's really Barclay's man. He's got an interest in a sort of physiotherapy clinic in Manly. I suppose that's where she is.'
'What's it called?'
'I don't know. I told you I could only give you a name. I don't know what it's called. Just that it's in Manly somewhere. Thomas is going to get the information, whatever it is, and use it against Clement for Barclay. Now give me the fucking ticket.'
It sounded plausible, something unlikely to be invented on the spur of the moment by a stressed, frightened man. His flight had been called; now he was being paged and he hadn't passed through customs. We moved towards the area and an impatient-looking attendant beckoned us. It looked as if the tardy passenger would be escorted through and rushed to the plane. That should prevent any phoning. I handed over the documents; he almost fell into the arms of the attendant.
There were three physiotherapy clinics listed for Manly in the phone book. I wrote down their names, called in at the first Internet cafe I saw and checked on them. One place, North Steyne Physio and Orthopaedics, announced a speciality in injuries and discomforts associated with horse riding. Had to be the one, given Thomas's racing background. I was low on petrol after covering so much of Sydney; I stopped to fill up the tank and myself. I bought a kebab, a stubby of stout and a takeaway coffee with sugar-nothing like a diversity of cultures food and drink-wise-and consumed them in the car while I considered what to do next.
If Billie Marchant was at the Manly clinic, there were bound to be people guarding her. If she wasn't, there was a good chance she was dead. As I ate and drank I pondered what the information she had could possibly be. Lou Kramer had given me no inkling other than that she thought it could be important-something to do with what had got Eddie killed, perhaps about someone ill-disposed towards Clement within his organisation. Subsequent events tended to confirm that but had brought no enlightenment.
The first thing to do was take a look at the clinic. I drove to Manly and located it a block away from North Steyne, close to Pittwater Road. The photo on the web page had flattered it. It was a nondescript two storey building in the middle of a set of three. The one to the left was a secondhand bookstore and the one on the right was up for lease. I went around the block and drove past it twice.
Manly being Manly, there was a fairly constant flow of traffic and no convenient parking places. I found one a block away and came back on foot to do a recce. There were lights on in the upper level of the building housing the clinic but its street-front windows and door were dark.
I kept on the other side of the one-way street, walked down to the next crossroad, and circled around to try to get a look at the back. A laneway ran behind the buildings fronting the road and I walked up it until I was standing facing a high brick wall with the clinic behind it, its upper level lights muted but visible. The gate in the wall looked impregnable, but the rickety fence of the place up for lease next door offered possibilities.
Still, no obvious strategy presented itself, not for a one-man operation. I needed support. I reached for my mobile, and swore. Disliking the thing, I'd left it in the car, a bad habit I was having trouble breaking. I walked back to the car and put the key in the lock. I felt a blow to my back and pitched forward against the car. Something cold and metallic jabbed me twice behind the ear and then I could smell it rather than feel it. He kept me pressed against the car door.
'Well, well, if it isn't Mr Nuisance himself. Cannot learn a lesson.'
South African accent, youngish voice. At a guess, Jonas Clement Junior.
'You can't shoot me here,' I said.
'This is silenced, Mr Hardy. You would just be another collapsing drunk being helped by a big, strong young fellow like me. You'll cross the road and go into the place you were so curious about. Very careless is what you are, man.'