The note was word-processed, the ultimate in anonymity and much less messy and time-consuming than cutting out letters from a newspaper or magazine. It read: ‘We have your wife. If she’s worth half a million to you call now!’ A mobile number followed.
‘I was shocked,’ Bruce Haxton said. ‘I rang the number without hesitating. What else could I do?’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘Nothing, or almost nothing. A voice just said to wait. Shit!’ His mobile rang and he turned away to take the call.
Haxton was an Australian film director, a successful one, with a batch of Hollywood movies to his credit, and a couple of Oscar nominations. He was back home scouting locations for a film to be shot in Sydney, although, from what I’d read of it in the papers, it was actually set a thousand years in the future on another planet. I’d met him when I was doing a bodyguarding job for an actor in one of his earlier pictures. The actor, Lance Hartley, was a paranoid, coke-addicted nightmare, more in danger from himself than anyone else, but the job paid well. Haxton and I had got along under difficult circumstances then, and we’d stayed vaguely in touch-had a few drinks, went to a Kostya Tszyu fight together on his complimentary tickets- like that. He’d called me in his hour of need.
‘No chance,’ he said to his caller and hit the end button. He let out a long sigh and it was impossible to tell whether it was for his kidnapped wife or some other matter.
Haxton was forty plus, tall and lean with a prematurely grey head of hair and beard. He wore a sloppy outfit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe, and the laces on one of his Nikes was undone. Possibly an affectation, but more likely a sign of stress. Stress was his middle name, but after a few beers he relaxed and could be good company.
He popped a Nicorette and chewed without enthusiasm. ‘The thing is, she’s not worth half a million. She’s not worth a buck and a half, to quote Sinatra. God, Cliff, I’m losing my mind. I need a drink. You?’
‘Sure. Beer. Thanks.’
It was mid-afternoon. He’d told me he found the note pushed under the door of the house he was renting in Rose Bay when he’d got up in the morning after a very late night. He’d made his immediate response, stewed for a while and then called me. We were in the back, where the sitting room, kitchen, sunroom and deck flowed into each other. He built himself a solid vodka and tonic, opened a Budweiser and poured.
The house was a million dollar dream, so quiet, comfortable and well appointed it was boring. The traffic noise was a distant, soothing hum and if planes passed over they were well aloft and infrequent. We sat around a table, just above a courtyard with every brick and plant in place. Haxton worked on his drink while still chewing. He looked around and his shake of the head spoke volumes.
‘I grew up in Blacktown. How about you?’
‘Maroubra.’
‘Beachside. Brilliant, but you know what I’m talking about. Fibro, dunny out the back.’
I nodded and drank expensive, imported beer.
‘I married Cassie after my first movie won a couple of AFI awards and got me offers from LA. Guess what her job was on the picture?’
‘I’m betting she wasn’t the writer.’
He snorted and took another pull on his drink. ‘I always liked your one-liners. You know how things were back then. What was it, ten years ago?’
‘Pre-Howard, anyway.’
‘Yeah. Everyone was screwing each other. Cassie was the props girl. She was on with the DOP who said he was training her. In advanced fellatio, it seemed to me. I wasn’t complaining, mind you. We got it on and got married. I can’t remember why. It was never good enough to commit to or bad enough to quit. We sort of came and went. She didn’t really want to leave LA for this trip but she did, out of boredom probably.’
He finished his drink and got up to make another. He told me that they’d only been back for ten days and that Cassie had spent most of the time catching up with old friends and shopping. They’d spent four of the ten nights apart with no questions asked. He had no idea who she’d been with. They were together the night before last. She went out the next day and didn’t return. That didn’t worry him because he had what he called a ‘dinner meeting’. He came back to the house late and found the note in the mid-morning.
‘You’re getting around to saying that you’re not going to pay. That right, Bruce?’
‘Jesus. It’s like a scene out of one of my crappy movies. Moral dilemmas and all that ethical shit mixed with sex and money. In this case it’s straightforward. I can’t pay even if I wanted to-which I don’t-because I’m broke.’
I swung my head from side to side, taking in the glass, the chrome, the cedar decking, the hot tub.
‘It’s all on the budget,’ he said. ‘And don’t worry, your fee’ll be covered in the same way. I took this shitty job on because I need the fucking money. Only reason.’
‘How come you’re broke?’
‘You haven’t kept up. The last two pictures were flops. Went straight to DVD and didn’t do any business even then. It costs to live in LA. The mortgage and car leases you wouldn’t believe, and you have to keep up appearances in this game. Look like you’re down and you’ll be there.’
‘I’m flattered that you called me, but really it’s a job for the police.’
He shook his head. ‘No way. There’re still a few holes to fill in the picture’s budget and if word got out that I’m under this sort of pressure the whole thing could fold. I can’t afford bad publicity and I certainly can’t afford to let it get out that I’m broke. You see the bind I’m in.’
‘Plus you don’t care about her, one way or the other.’
‘Hey, I don’t want to get her ears in the mail or anything like that. Shit-movie talk again. What do you think I should do?’
‘I guess, when they get in touch, negotiate. Buy time.’
‘I suppose I could sell something, raise a hundred grand at a pinch.’
That’s the thing about the rich. When they say they’re broke they don’t quite mean it the way most people do. I was willing to take the job on even though I knew the people involved were flaky and the outcome was very uncertain. Just sitting tight waiting for a kidnapper to make contact didn’t appeal to me though. There had to be more I could do.
“You say you don’t know who she’s been spending time with, Bruce, but you must have some idea-some names, some suggestions. Let’s get proactive here, as they say.’
He gave it some thought as he worked on his drink. Then he left the room for a few minutes, returning with a notepad and some cards. ‘I found these in the bedroom-a few places she seems to have gone to.’
He handed them to me while he scribbled on the notepad. The cards were for a Double Bay wine bar, a disco at the Cross and a Thai restaurant in Newtown. The woman got around. Haxton tore off the page and passed it over.
‘That’s a few of the people she used to hang with and she mentioned them casually when we were together here. She scribbled down some cell numbers by the phone that seem to relate to a couple of them. That’s the best I can do.’
I examined the list-two men and three women; mobile numbers for one of the men and two of the women.
‘These blokes-friends or lovers?’ I asked.
‘Don’t know, but don’t rule out the women-Cassie swings both ways.’
I put the cards and the sheet in my pocket. ‘It’s a place to start. What you have to do is keep your mobile charged. That’s how they’ll contact you. You have to play it as hard as you can. Just get a response and buy some time.’
He nodded. ‘So I… go about my business?’
‘That’s right. There could be someone watching you, so act the way you feel. Shouldn’t be too hard. I’ll have someone keep an eye on you. Might spot a watcher if there is one and that’d give us an edge.’
‘Right.’
‘Two more things. Try and confirm that they’ve got her. Has she got a birthmark or a mole or something distinctive? A tattoo?’
‘Several tattoos.’
‘Right. Then ask for confirmation that she’s alive. Ask to talk to her. They might not play. If they’ve got her she might be drugged.’
‘ If?’
‘Wouldn’t be the first kidnap faked by the supposed victim. Does Cassie know you’re broke?’
He shook his head and I left him to his troubles.
I didn’t really intend to ring the people whose names I had. What would I say? ‘Hello, I’m a private detective looking for Cassie Haxton who’s been kidnapped. Please don’t tell the media.’ Getting the names was just a way of drawing a bit more out of Haxton, which had worked, and making me look efficient. I haven’t handled more than a couple of kidnapping cases and only one was a serious matter. But I’ve dealt with ransom demands for objects quite a few times, and I’ve come to the conclusion that they’re not always just about money. Putting the money angle aside, you have to ask yourself- who benefits!
Haxton had given me some clues and I phoned Ingrid Svensson who runs an agency for people-in the film business-actors, producers, directors and all the rest. She was the one who got me the minding job on Haxton’s earlier effort and we’d shared some jokes about Lance Hartley and his little habits. I’d since done a few jobs for her, like running an actor through some of the things he needed to know to look and sound like a private detective, and locating a producer who’d skipped without paying a couple of her clients.
Ingrid was busy but she found some time for me. Her office was in Surry Hills near the park named after the politician Eddie Ward, ‘the firebrand of East Sydney’. My mother, an ALP groupie, had played the piano at his wake. I went up seven floors to Ingrid’s ‘suite’, which was festooned with photographs of film people, not all of them beautiful. Ingrid is sixty and looks forty-one of those. Olive complexion, white-blonde hair, dark eyes, sharp cheekbones. She sat me down at her desk in the open plan office and lifted her Scandinavian eyebrows.
‘Well, Cliff?’
‘All this is confidential.’
‘But of course.’
‘Who would stand to gain if Bruce Haxton’s film…’
‘ The Golden Galaxy.’
‘… didn’t get off the ground?’
‘Not me, for one. A few people on my books are down to work on it. What have you heard?’
‘My lips are professionally sealed. All I can tell you, and I shouldn’t but I want to be as straight with you as I can, is that Haxton’s my client.’
‘Ah yes, I remember that you shared an interest in drinking and wrestling.’
‘Boxing.’
‘Disgusting; it’s been banned in civilised countries. But go on.’
‘That’s it. Are there rumours, doubts, fears, jealousies?’
‘This is the film business. All those things are a given.’
‘Anything specific? Come on, Ingrid, you know everything that’s going on.’
‘Well, I know they’re not quite there with the post-production budget. I hear they’re working on Henry Stawell to try to get it up to scratch.’
‘Him being?’
‘A lawyer, a stockbroker and a merchant banker, all done with flair.’
‘Is he likely to come through?’
‘Only if he’s sure the human structure is in place, the right people.’
‘Which brings me back to the original question.’
Ingrid doesn’t do things like scratch her head or fiddle with things on her desk. Her moments of hesitation are signalled by a slight tightening of her well-shaped lips. It came now. ‘There has been some talk about the script.’
‘I thought they just moved the actors around, lip-synced them and let the special effects people do all the work on films like this.’
‘It’s anachronistic to talk of films-there are no celluloid reels or sprockets anymore. It’s all digital.’
‘I’ll try to remember. The script?’
‘There’s a story that the script’s based on a book and that the writer’s been cut out of the action. In fact that his book’s not even acknowledged as a source, let alone earned him a payment.’
‘And who would that be? Not one of your clients?’
‘No, but as I told you, I’ve got a stake in this movie. Is what you’re investigating more or less likely to make it happen?’
Good question. Needed consideration. The light was dimming outside and at that elevation I could see a bank of fog moving in from the east. I quite like fog-the headlights, the honking at intersections, the lack of definition.
‘Cliff?’
‘It’s hard to say.’
Ingrid let out a sigh. ‘You’d never make it in this game. Too honest. The writer’s name is Tom Crabbe. He was on my books for a while as an actor until he punched a director and now no casting agency will look at him. He worked on one of Bruce Haxton’s films a while back. He turned to writing and had a few things published. I can give you his address and phone number. I know he’s still there because I phoned him about a residual payment.’
‘Thanks. A wild child, is he?’
She flicked open a teledex and scribbled something on the back of a card which she passed across. ‘You could put it so. Except that he’s ex-SAS, a black belt, and at least as big as you and younger. I’m not sure boxing with him would be a good idea.’
‘I think you’re right. Many thanks, Ingrid-keep me in mind for jobs, eh? Easy stunts, bit of driving. I’d be okay as an armourer.’
She smiled. ‘Perhaps you could shoot Tom Crabbe in the leg to subdue him. Or in both legs?’
Crabbe’s address was in Newtown in a street I knew running down towards the park in Church Street. I’d fancied buying around there when Cyn, a North Shore girl, and I got together. She resisted the inner west with all her might, but eventually gave in to me and agreed to Glebe. She said it would go ahead faster than Newtown and for a time she was right. Not now, though. I checked in the Gregory’s that I had the street right and was about to start the car when my mobile rang.
‘Cliff, he’s been in touch. Jesus, this is weird.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I should’ve said that it’s an electronically modified voice. He sounded very reasonable. I made the pitch like you said and he listened and said he’d think about accepting two fifty. Made me repeat the figure. I said I’d need time to get close to that.’
‘Good. Did he offer any proof that he had her?’
‘He described some tattoos, but Cassie did a shoot for an article on body decoration for an art magazine a while back. He could’ve seen that.’
‘Nothing else from her-a voice, a recorded message?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t suppose you got the number he was ringing from?’
‘I tried that but it didn’t come up.’
‘It wouldn’t, probably a stolen phone ditched straight off anyway. How are you feeling-more alarmed or less?’
‘That’s a funny question.’
‘It’s a funny business.’
‘Okay, well less, I suppose, given his manner.’
‘He said he’d be back in contact?’
‘Sort of. Yeah.’
‘Sit tight. I’ve got something to check. What’re you doing tonight?’
‘Going to a fucking party thrown by one of the worst actors who ever drew breath. Naturally enough, he’s in my picture.’
‘Hard to crash? Black tie?’
‘Shit no, the more turn up, the more the ego gets fed.’ I got the address and told Haxton I’d get someone to keep an eye on him to see if there was anyone else doing the same. I knew Hank Bachelor wouldn’t be able to resist a celebrity bash. I phoned Hank and lined him up. I was working the case and free to try my luck with Tom Crabbe. From the sound of him, I’d need some.
The house was a single-fronted, one-storey terrace-the sort of place I should have instead of my crumbling pile. Night had fallen and the street was dark. A newish Toyota 4WD, black with tinted windows, was parked in a bay in the front yard. Someone, not an urban purist, had created the spot out of the limited space available, destroying the original look of the house. The vehicle was ideal for transporting a kidnap victim. What was left of the skimpy front garden was reasonably well cared for and, unlike a few others in the street, there were no sagging armchairs or bottle-filled milk crates in evidence. Tom Crabbe was keeping up appearances.
You don’t knock on the front door of a suspect, you scout about. A lane ran behind the terraces. Sometimes people put their house number on the back fence or gate, some deliberately don’t. I’ve known some whose house looks immaculate facing the street and scruffy behind a high fence at the back to deceive malefactors. Mind you, they have state-of-the-art alarm systems in their elegant back courtyards.
There were no numbers along the lane and I had to count rooftops and TV aerials to work out which was the house of interest. A few cats prowled the lane, but it’s no use asking a cat anything. They wouldn’t tell you if they could. I was fairly sure I’d spotted the right house and I craned up to look over the fence. Lights on, music playing, or perhaps the television.
I went around to the front again and tried to think of a strategy. Nothing came. I crossed to my car to sit while I thought. The door to the house opened and a man came out, used a remote to unlock the 4WD, and rummaged in the back. He left the door open, swearing as he failed to find what he wanted. A woman and a child came to the door. The child laughed and ran out to help. A girl of about ten. You don’t put a kidnap victim in a house with a woman and a child, but maybe you put her somewhere else. There was nothing for it but to front him.
I crossed the street and stood beside the car. ‘Mr Crabbe?’ I said.
‘That’s my daddy,’ the girl said.
Crabbe straightened up as he pulled away from the open door. He looked at me and didn’t like what he saw.
‘Who’re you?’
‘My name’s Cliff Hardy. I’m a private detective working for a man named Bruce Haxton. I’d like to talk to you.’
‘Go inside, Chloe,’ Crabbe said.
‘Did you find my book, Dad?’
‘In a minute, love. Hop inside and close the door. I have to talk to this man.’
The kid scampered away and Crabbe gave me his full attention. A well-trained man, he’d been giving me ninety-nine per cent of it while instructing the kid. He wore jeans, sneakers and a pullover. He was about my size, as Ingrid had said, and looked, from the way he held himself, ready for anything. So was I.
‘What about Haxton?’ he said.
‘What about his wife?’
‘Cassie? What about her?’
‘You know her?’
‘Knew her. Wish I didn’t. Goodnight.’
He half turned to dismiss me. That was a mistake, a small one but enough. I took advantage of the split second he was off balance to hit him with a shoulder, making him grab at the roof of the car for support. I stepped back.
‘Let’s not get off to a bad start.’
‘We already have. Gotta admit you’re quick, but I can hurt you.’
‘I believe you, but if you kidnapped Cassie Haxton you’re in enough trouble already.’
He dropped the hurting hands. ‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘Heard but don’t believe. Cassie’s been kidnapped? Christ help the poor bastard stupid enough to do that.’
This was a violent man who’d learned to control his violence. It’s impressive when you see it up close, especially if you’re the beneficiary. It was a snap judgement, but everything about Crabbe’s voice and manner told me he wasn’t the kidnapper.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We should talk. Hang on a minute while I find Chloe’s bloody book.’
We were both wary. I stepped away and Crabbe kept an eye on me as he resumed his search.
‘Got it,’ he said. ‘She can’t finish the day without it.’
‘What is it?’
‘ The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.’
Inside the house and he introduced me to Wendy and Chloe. He gave Chloe the book and she took off with it. Wendy returned to the television and Crabbe and I went through to the kitchen. The house was in that pleasant state between renovated and left alone. It was tidy without being obsessively so. Crabbe opened the fridge and took out two stubbies.
‘Sit down.’
He gave orders to the manner born and I wondered what rank he’d held in the army. I took a few steps and looked at the row of cooking books before sitting down and accepting the beer-it never does to do what you’re told straightaway. We twisted off the tops and drank.
‘You really thought I’d kidnapped Cassie?’
I shrugged. ‘It was a line of enquiry. I was told you had a grievance.’
‘I did, but I’m over it. The thing about writing is that you can move on to another book and forget about the last one and any shit that might’ve gone down. The next one’s always going to be better.’
‘Okay. I’m in a spot here. I’ve told you something of what’s going on. Apparently the budget for Haxton’s picture isn’t quite settled. If news of this trouble got out it could be scuppered.’
Crabbe thought that over. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, maybe a bit older. Like me, he’d had his nose broken more than once, and there was a scar on his forehead not quite concealed by the dark hair falling near it. Ruggedly handsome was an apt description with an emphasis on the rugged. He drank as if he enjoyed the beer rather than needed it.
‘I couldn’t give a shit about Haxton’s crappy film,’ he said, ‘but I’m interested in anything to do with Cassie.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘It so happens that the book I’m writing uses her as a model for the main character. I’m thinking of having her kidnapped-art imitating life. Not that my work’s art exactly.’
My look must have been sceptical.
‘I’m told it happens from time to time to writers,’ he said. ‘This is the first time for me, but it’s kind of…’
‘An endorsement?’
He shook his head. ‘Come on, Hardy, what sort of a prick d’you think I am? The woman’s a bloody nightmare, but I don’t wish her any harm.’
He told me that he’d had a brief affair with Cassie when doing stunts for a Haxton movie and that she’d worked him over emotionally in ways he didn’t care to describe. He’d almost lost Wendy and Chloe due to the affair, and now, quite a few years later, he was projecting his feelings into his book.
He drained his stubbie. ‘So now I’ve told you things I shouldn’t and we’re even.’
‘Right. My feeling is that whoever has Cassie, or is pretending to have her, or is being put up to it by her-if you follow me-isn’t a hundred per cent serious. Has a grievance maybe, wants the money maybe, but isn’t quite fair dinkum.’
‘Fuck, I should make notes. I didn’t realise you investigators worked so much on instincts.’
‘Some do, some don’t. But from what I’ve told you about the state of the picture’s finances, can you think of anyone with anything to gain by sinking it?’
‘Take me through it again.’
I did, mentioning every name that had come up in my conversations with Haxton and Ingrid and showing him the names on Haxton’s list. The only thing I held back was Haxton’s financial plight.
‘You say he’s negotiating,’ Crabbe said. ‘Is he that mean?’
‘It’s a ploy to gain time and try to find some leverage.’
By this time Crabbe was taking notes, on the back of a magazine, as he listened. He put his finger on the spot. ‘This name’s interesting-Ben Corbett. He was a stuntman and an extra. I was in a few things with him then he went off the rails. He was caught trying to hold up a service station. He bashed the woman attendant and got a few years. I reckon he’d be out by now.’
‘Haxton didn’t mention anything like that.’
‘Directors live in a world of their own. He probably wasn’t in the country when it happened.’
‘Did he work on one of Haxton’s pictures?’
‘I think so. I could check.’
‘Did he have an affair with Cassie?’
‘Who didn’t?’
I’d given him my card and he looked at it to refresh his memory of my name. ‘I’d like to help you with this if I can, ah… Cliff
‘Why?’
Peter Corris
CH32 – The Big Score
‘For the most selfish of reasons-to get material for my book.’
‘Not to get back at Haxton?’
‘Wouldn’t hurt, but no. It was that producer bitch that dudded me. As I said, I’m over it.’
I finished my beer. ‘I admit I’m a bit out of my depth with this-not the crime, if there is a crime, but with the relationships of the people. I’d be grateful for any help I could get.’
Crabbe nodded and held up a hand in a comradely gesture. ‘I wonder how I would’ve gone up against you.’
‘I’d back you,’ I said. ‘Ten years ago it might’ve been even money. This Corbett, reckon you can track him down?’
‘Yes.’
He made some phone calls, explained to Wendy that he had to go out, said goodnight to Chloe and we were on our way.
‘Which d’you reckon makes the better impression, my SUV or your clapped-out Falcon?’ Crabbe said after I’d pointed out my car.
‘Depends whether we want to be frightening or comforting.’
‘Frightening.’
‘We’ll take yours.’
Crabbe drove expertly but without flourishes. ‘I’m told he’s living under a shop in Marrickville, probably selling dope and speed. He had a bikie period, not sure if he’s still into that.’
The shop in Addison Road was boarded up but lights were showing in the flat, more or less underground, below it. There was a ramp to the door.
‘Bit weird,’ Crabbe said.
We went down and Crabbe knocked on the door. After a short wait we heard a sound inside and then the door opened. If this was Ben Corbett, he wasn’t doing any kidnapping in person because he was in a wheelchair.
‘Hello, Ben,’ Crabbe said.
‘Fuck me, big Tom Crabbe and a mate come to do me harm. I heard you was on your way.’ He produced a pistol from under the blanket over his knees.
Crabbe’s move was as quick as I’ve ever seen. Almost like a conjurer, he plucked the pistol from Corbett’s grasp and pointed it back at him.
‘No need for that, Ben. I think we got the wrong end of the stick. Sorry to see you like this. What happened?’
‘Come off me bike, what d’you reckon? What do youse want then?’
‘Nothing.’ Crabbe activated the safety on the gun and handed it back.
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Mr Corbett, I’m a private detective looking for Cassie Haxton. I understand you-’
Corbett may have been a cripple but there was nothing wrong with his lungs. He threw back his head and let out a roar of laughter.
‘Bugger me. Cassie. You want me to tell you about her?’
‘Anything you can.’
‘Take a while. Come in. Truth is I’d be glad of the company. You’ve got no fuckin’ idea how many people avoid you when you’re crippled. Got anything to drink, Tom?’
‘I think there’s some rum in the car.’
‘Why don’t you go and get it while
‘Cliff Hardy,’ I said.
‘… him and me get comfortable.’
Corbett swung the chair around and I followed him into the flat-just a sitting room and bedroom as one space and a kitchenette tucked in a corner. If Corbett was selling dope as Crabbe suggested, he wasn’t doing very well at it. He looked as if he could have been passably handsome at one time, but confinement in the wheelchair had put flesh on him and blurred his looks. He sported a bikie ponytail, but the hair was thin and receding at the temples.
I heard the door close and Crabbe came in with a half-bottle of Bundy. Corbett had things arranged so as he could reach them. He got ice and a carafe of water and some glasses from the bar fridge and set them out on a battered pine table.
‘Pour us a strong one, Tom, and youse can have what you like.’
Crabbe obliged, half filling a glass and adding two cubes of ice for Corbett and making us two heavily diluted versions. Corbett took a long slug.
‘Jesus that hits the spot. These legs are fuckin’ useless but they hurt like hell sometimes. Nothing like a bit of Bundy to dull the pain. I remember when-’
‘We don’t need any of that, Ben,’ Crabbe said. ‘When did you last see Cassie?’
Corbett laughed. ‘That means when did I last fuck her-same thing.’ He brought his left fist down hard on his knees. ‘Before this. That’d be when I was in LA. She was hot, like always, and she reckoned she was going to take that stuck-up prick Haxton for fuckin’ millions. Crazy bitch had this plan-that what youse want to hear about?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Cost you.’
‘How much?’
I moved around the table, reached under the blanket and grabbed the pistol Corbett had tucked down beside him. I checked the load, jacked a shell into the chamber, and pointed the gun at the side of Corbett’s head.
‘You’re depressed, Ben. Drinking hard. It all got too much for you not being a king of the freeway. You ran yourself off the road one last time. It’s easy to arrange.’
Corbett lost colour. ‘You wouldn’t.’
‘I would,’ I said. ‘I’ve done it before.’
Corbett shot a desperate look at Crabbe, who shrugged. ‘He’s a hard bastard and there’s a lot of money at stake. But he doesn’t seem to want to share any of it with you.’
Corbett steadied himself with another belt of rum. ‘All I know is, she had this idea to show him up as a cheap bastard and then blackmail him. Said she’d lop an ear off like that fuckin’ mad painter if she had to.’
I cleared the magazine and breech and put the gun and the shells in Corbett’s lap. ‘Did she say anything about having an accomplice-a helper?’
‘I know what an accomplice is, you prick. Yeah, some dyke who has it in for Haxton.’
Crabbe and I left Corbett the rum and we drove back to Newtown, barely exchanging a word. He backed carefully into his parking bay.
‘Has to be Emily-Jo Taplin,’ he said.
‘You mentioned a female producer in uncomplimentary terms.’
‘Got it in one.’
We stood in the street and I thanked Crabbe for his help.
‘I can handle it from here,’ I said. ‘Don’t quite understand it but I expect I will.’
We shook hands. ‘I believe you. That was nice work of yours back there with Ben. Very scary. Have you ever offed anyone like that?’
‘No.’
‘Good bluff. Can I ask you to let me know how it works out? Could be very useful.’
I agreed.
If this scenario was the real one, and instinct told me it was, it seemed to me that the pressure was off. Wouldn’t hurt to let Haxton stew a bit, and Cassie wouldn’t come to any harm. I went home to sleep and to think about how to play out the last act-the whole thing now seemed like a bad movie script. The modified voice was a clue, suggesting that Haxton knew the real voice. Can that modification make a woman sound like a man? Why not?
I drove home. It was a night sans Lily, which is okay as long as there aren’t too many and they’re well spread out. There was a message from Haxton on the answering machine. He complained about my mobile being off and said the caller had been in touch again.
‘It’s fucking weird. He asked how I’d feel about a hundred grand and I said okay. Then I got a bit pissed off and said things about Cassie that I shouldn’t have. There’s something else. Ring me.’
So much for a good night’s kip. I called him and told him I had the mobile off because I was dealing with dangerous characters. A true egotist, he didn’t even register what I said.
‘The fucker was recording me,’ he said. ‘I know about this stuff-the clicks and that. I swear I was being recorded. What’s all that about?’
Recording him fitted the scenario. I was sick of him, sick of the whole fantasy world he and his kind lived in. I told him to take a pill and get some sleep.
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘I’m tired. I’ll see you in the morning and explain. Just be assured that your darling wife is in no physical danger.’
He was drunk and energised perhaps by some illegal substance and he ranted at me but I cut him off. ‘It’s more or less sorted, Bruce,’ I said. ‘Calm down. See you tomorrow at ten. Sleep.’
Haxton was dishevelled, unshaven and hungover when I arrived. The day had turned grey and cold and wasn’t helping his mood. For all that had happened he was still preoccupied with his profession.
‘Couldn’t shoot for shit in this weather, even locations,’ he said as he ushered me in. The place was a mess of glasses, a bottle or two, Budweiser cans, a pizza box, newspapers and ring-bound scripts. The kitchen smelled of burnt toast and spilled coffee. Haxton cleared a dressing gown from a chair for me and offered me a beer.
‘Got any champagne?’
‘Celebrating, are we?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘Tell me.’
I gave it to him the way it appeared to me. His normally pale face became flushed under the stubble and his hands shook as he poured himself some vodka, not bothering about me or the tonic.
‘That dirty bitch. Those dirty bitches. That fucking modified voice sounded like a man. They’ll go to gaol for this. See how they like it with the bull-dyke screws.’
‘You’re not thinking. From what I’ve learned it looks as if Cassie knows you haven’t got much money but wants to bleed you for whatever you’ve got or are going to get. Okay. I understand that. But what about this Emily hyphen-something-something? What’s in it for her?’
Haxton’s face was a mottled mask of rage. ‘She wants co-director status on the picture. She’s a grasping, ruthless, ambitious… I’ll finish her in the business.’
‘No you won’t. Don’t forget she’s got tapes of you being willing to negotiate over your wife’s kidnapping. It’s all shit of course, but the American media’ll give it a tremendous play. There isn’t any evidence that Cassie and this woman are behind it, but you can bet the National Enquirer’d love it.’
Haxton groaned. ‘What can I do?’
‘Play along, Bruce. Give them what they want for now. That’s show biz.’
‘She’ll bleed me dry, Cassie will, and the other one…’
‘Get yourself an LA lawyer. They can work miracles, we’re told. Think of OJ. Meanwhile, how about a cheque for my retainer and expenses to date?’
‘You bastard,’ he said. ‘What did you do?’
I leaned forward, took the glass from his hand and tipped the contents out on the floor. ‘I called in a favour from a friend and fronted up to an ex-SAS guy ten years younger than me. Then I took a loaded pistol from a bikie and threatened to blow his head off with it, Dirty Harry style. How’s that for a night’s work while you were scoffing pizza and getting pissed?’
‘Okay. I’ll write the cheque.’
‘Nothing personal. Sorry, that’s another of my crummy jokes, Bruce. Make it out to cash on the movie account,’ I said.