Peter Corris - The Big Score

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.’