Peter Corris - The Big Score

‘Names and addresses?’

‘I’ve got both for the agent, of course. Just a name for the guard. They won’t let you write anything here, you’ll have to memorise them.’

He gave me the information and I locked it in.

‘I’m not going to do this on a promise for something out of your royalties.’

‘Of course not. I’ve got another name for you. You submit your accounts to her and you’ll get paid.’

He gave me the name and I put it in the memory bank with the other two. I pushed my chair back and stood while he sat there, composed and assured. ‘Theo,’ I said, ‘if this is another one of your scams, you’re safer off in here than on the outside.’

First things first. I certainly wasn’t going to give Theo a freebie and I was sceptical about the job anyway. The name of his supposed provider was Rosemary Kingston. I had the number and I phoned her on my mobile when I was outside the prison. She agreed to see me as soon as I could get to her in Alexandria. I made the drive in good time and stopped by the office to pick up a contract form. If Rosemary was paying, no reason why she shouldn’t sign the papers.

Her place was a flat in a neat block in a street off Botany Road. Time was when this whole area was given over to light industry, but now a lot of the factories have gone and there are more residents going to work in suits than blokes in overalls. She buzzed the door open and I went up two flights of stairs, ignoring the lift for the aerobic benefit.

She had the door open when I arrived and I realised that she was vaguely familiar. I had a faint memory of her joining Theo in a pub one night and him leaving the small group of drinkers of which I was one. She was tall and well built, athletic looking, and wore a white blouse, dark red velvet skirt and boots with medium heels. Her hair was short and styled in a way that suited her long face- horsey if you wanted to be unkind, otherwise just strong featured.

'I've got a feeling I've seen you before,' she said as she ushered me into the flat.

We went down a short passage past a kitchen and bedroom to a good-sized living room with decent windows and a balcony.

‘It’s mutual,’ I said, ‘and it’s coming back to me. I think it was in the Forest Lodge pub. I was having a drink with a few people including Theo. You came in and he sloped off.’

‘That’s right. He pointed you out to me and told me you were a private eye.’

‘Still am and that’s why we’re here. Theo phoned you from the slammer?’

She nodded. ‘Yesterday. He said you’d be in touch today.’

‘Confidence should be his middle name.’

She smiled. ‘Right. Have a seat. Coffee or a drink?’

Her living room was nicely furnished with leather or pseudo-leather armchairs, a coffee table, a dresser holding books and CDs and a unit with a wide-screen TV and everything that goes with it. There was a drinks tray on the sideboard-gin, several whiskies, brandy. I pointed to tray. ‘How about an Irish coffee?’

‘Done.’

She went back to the kitchen and I wandered around the room looking at the books and CDs and the magazines in a rack. The music ranged from classical through to hard rock, stopping short of punk and rap. The book collection was eclectic-some classics, reference stuff, popular fiction, biographies. One section took my interest-a clutch of criminal biographies and autobiographies-Reggie Kray, Ronnie Biggs and Buster Edwards, the Great Train robbers, Neddy Smith, Roger Rogerson, ‘Chopper’ Read. Teamed up with them were Richo’s Whatever It Takes and books on Bond, Skase and Packer.

She came back with two mugs of coffee and a jug of cream. Set them on the table and brought over the bottle of Jameson’s. I turned away from the bookshelf.

‘Theo did his research,’ I said.

‘Before he went away and since. Put your own spike in, Cliff, and let’s get down to business.’

She told me that she was a partner in an importation business and that she’d been in a relationship with Theo for about a year before he had what she called ‘his mishap’. She had a strong belief in his book, which she thought would expose corruption in high places, and she was happy to finance my efforts to get it in the right hands.

‘You haven’t read it,’ I said. ‘How can you tell what it’s like?’

‘Theo’s told me about it in some detail.’

Theo had made a career out of telling people things in detail, most of which turned out not to be true. I asked a few questions designed to find out just how much he’d drawn her into his web. Subtly. The Irish coffee was going down well.

‘Mr Hardy, Cliff, in my business I hear all sorts of stories from all sorts of people. Many of them are trying to take advantage of me. That’s all right, sometimes I’m trying to take advantage of them. Do you follow me?’

‘Yes.’

‘More coffee?’

‘Thank you.’

She signed a contract. I stressed the retainer clause and she wrote me a cheque. She told me to invoice her for my expenses and daily rates by email.

‘You’re not set up for BPAY?’ she said.

‘No. Just post the cheques to my business address.’

‘Very old-fashioned. Clearance times and all that. What’s wrong with electronic deposit?’

She’d snookered me before and I felt I had to stay in the game. ‘I don’t have your level of trust.’

I finished off the second coffee which I’d spiked pretty heavily. I’d need a long walk around Alexandria and Zetland before I could drive. Always wondered about Zetland and how it came to be called that.

In my game you need connections and I had one in the Correctional Services Division. She sold information to journalists and people like me, charging according to the importance of the data. The address of a serving officer was sensitive and pricey, and the seller was taking a big risk. Rosemary Kingston’s account was up and running.

The guard, Colin McCafferty, lived in Homebush, not far from the gaol. Nice to be close to your place of work. I drove past the house, a semi with an overgrown front garden and a brick fence that looked as if a truck had ploughed into it at some time and minimum repairs had been made. The front porch held a sagging couch and a stack of broken Kmart plastic chairs. But there was no mail sprouting from the letterbox and no collection of free newspapers and advertising bumpf. Somebody was at home or had been very recently.

I went up the path and knocked at the door. No security here-a tattered flywire door, a window open ten centimetres at the bottom. I knocked again, louder, but got no response. A head poked around the brick divide between the two houses.

‘Are you looking for Col?’

The speaker was a shrunken, elderly type in a cardigan. He had bright, inquisitive eyes and his hands, supporting him on the brickwork, were trembling. Maybe, I thought, with excitement at something actually happening in his life. But not so.

I told him I was looking for Mr McCafferty-an administrative matter, I said.

‘You’ll find him at the Parramatta District Hospital, poor bugger. He got broken into and attacked right here- what’s the expression the telly uses?’

‘Home invasion,’ I said.

‘That’s it. I didn’t hear anything-pretty deaf, you see. But when Col came staggering out shouting, I woke up and when he collapsed I called the ambulance and they took him off.’

‘You were mates?’

‘No, no, hardly ever saw him. Worked funny hours, he did. But when a bloke’s been bashed like that you do what you can, don’t you?’

‘Right, Mr…?’

‘Davis, Ted Davis.’

‘So you rang the hospital, Mr Davis, and what did they tell you?’

The lively eyes squinted. ‘How did you know I rang up?’