Peter Corris - The Big Score

I went straight to the office, hooked the camera up to the computer and printed out copies of the photographs. I picked out the best shot of the mystery man and made a couple of blown-up copies. I studied the face intently: square jaw, thin mouth, heavy brows, straight nose, thick grey hair worn long. No scars. I looked at it too long so that in the end the feeling of familiarity had gone.

The FBI or the CIA could no doubt have run it against the millions of other faces they have digitally recorded and search for a match. Not an available facility for a one-man operation in Newtown. My best bet was Harry Tickener, a journalist who has worked the streets, boardrooms, courts and parliament in Sydney longer than he likes to recall. Harry’s up with the technology, but he receives so many emails a day you’re lucky to hear back from him within a week. I took one of the photos and went to see him in his Surry Hills office where he runs an online newsletter that prints stories others are afraid to touch.

Harry groaned when he saw me walk in the door carrying two styrofoam cups of coffee. ‘Jesus Christ, there goes an hour’s work,’ he said.

‘But here’s the best coffee in Sydney.’

Harry grinned, took the top off his cup and flipped it towards the bin. Missed. ‘Thanks, Cliff. Always good to see you. What’s up?’

I put the photo on his desk, keeping it covered with my hand. ‘Take a quick look at this. Just get an impression and see if a name springs to mind. I felt I knew the face but I’ve studied it too long.’

I uncovered the image. Harry looked at it, blinked and snapped his fingers. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘I’d swear that’s Daniel Murphy twenty years down the track. You’ve found him. Where is he?’

I shook my head. The name triggered the recollection I’d been searching for. Daniel Murphy was an international hockey player who’d killed his wife’s lover. The couple were separated at the time with a young child and Murphy had been told that the lover had a record of child abuse. He shot him, went on the run and wounded a policeman before he was captured. His counsel stressed the mitigating circumstances, but the wounding of the cop counted heavily against him and he was sentenced to eighteen years to serve twelve before being eligible for parole. Murphy had escaped from Goulburn goal four years into his sentence, injuring an inmate and a guard, and had never been recaptured.

I said, ‘It wasn’t quite twenty years back, was it? What happened to the wife and child?’

‘The wife committed suicide when Murphy was convicted. That’s all I know.’

Usually, when Harry helps, I promise him the story if it can be told when everything sorts out, if it sorts out. The strike rate isn’t that good, but there wasn’t a chance of it happening this time. I thanked him and left him grumbling.

Using the name I had, I trawled through the Sydney Morning Herald database and came up with the information in detail. My recollection was confirmed, with additions: Murphy had emigrated from Ireland to Australia when he was barely more than a youth and had no relatives here. His wife’s maiden name was Wexler. She’d been a street kid with emotional problems and when found dead in her flat from a drug overdose the infant was dehydrated and suffering from various illnesses to do with malnourishment and neglect. It was odds on that the child had been put in care and fostered out to become, in time, Cameron Beaumont.

I emailed Sydney Featherstone that I was on the job, making progress and that the omens were good. I drove straight back to the mountains and pulled up outside the cabin early in the afternoon. I approached the building and a dog, tethered near the steps to the front porch, began barking loudly. I stood where I was and waited.

Cameron Beaumont opened the door and looked me over suspiciously. Despite my jeans and leather jacket I might still have been a cop. Can’t tell these days.

‘What do you want?’ he said.

‘To talk to you and Daniel Murphy.’

That rocked him. He looked over his shoulder and his body language directly contradicted what he said: ‘There’s no one here of that name.’

I held up the photograph. ‘Was yesterday.’

Like all great tennis players, he had vision like a jet pilot and he didn’t need to come any closer to see the picture. ‘Who are you?’

‘We can talk about that and a few other things.’

The dog kept barking. I heard hacking coughs coming from inside and then Murphy appeared in the doorway.

‘He’s sick,’ Beaumont said.

I nodded. ‘I know. I saw him chuck his guts up yesterday. You didn’t.’

Beaumont turned his head. ‘Dad?’

Murphy shrugged. ‘Don’t worry, this had to happen some day. You a reporter?’

‘No, I’m a private detective and right now I’m thinking about all this staying private. That is, if you’ll talk to me. You could start by calling the dog off.’

‘Quiet, Max,’ Murphy said. Raising his voice caused him to start coughing again. When he recovered his breath he invited me in. I went past the dog and Beaumont into the cabin. It was a mobile home that had been put up on stumps and ceased to be mobile. It was cramped but everything appeared well ordered and arranged. Several windows were open and there was a fresh eucalyptus scent mingling with the smell of cigarettes. Everything was spotlessly clean except for an ashtray brimming with butts.

‘Make some coffee, Cam,’ Murphy said, ‘and we’ll let the man tell us who he is, first off.’

Beaumont moved towards the back of the room and ran water. Murphy sat on one side of a built-in eating bench and indicated to me to sit opposite. I put the photo on the surface and showed him my PEA licence.

Murphy lit a cigarette. ‘I met a few blokes in your game inside.’

‘You would,’ I said. ‘Hazard of the job. I’ve been there myself.’

I told them my story and then Daniel Murphy told me his. After he escaped from gaol he’d made his way to Queensland, where he worked on fishing boats, and then to Wollongong and into a plastics factory.

‘Little show,’ he said. ‘No one cared who you were or where you came from. I got a driver’s licence in a false name, Medicare card-the works. One day there was a chemical spill-Dioxin-and I got two lungs full, thank you very much. Like inhaling that Agent Orange shit. Fucked my lungs first and then it spread. I took a payment to keep quiet about it. Didn’t like doing it, but I couldn’t afford to make a fuss.’

By the time we’d finished the coffee Murphy had worked his way through a few more cigarettes. He asked Cameron to get him a drink and the young man set a couple of cans on the table.

‘Doesn’t drink himself,’ Murphy said as he cracked a can. ‘Smart.’

‘How did you end up here?’

‘I had some money. Went to Sydney and tracked Cameron down. I always meant to do it but I didn’t have the chance till then. Wasn’t easy, couldn’t go through official channels, but I had a few names from people who’d written to me in the early days in gaol. I found him. Doesn’t look much like me, but he’s the spitting image of my dad as I remember him. Show him the photo, Cam.’

Cameron produced a faded, slightly creased photograph of a man in football togs with a 1950s look to them. Murphy was right-the resemblance was striking.

‘That’s all I’ve got of him. He was a champion Gaelic footballer. He was IRA and the Brits killed him.’

Cameron had hardly spoken a word. Now he handled the photograph like a precious relic, smoothing it in his big, strong hands.

‘Anyway, when I found out that Cam was a tennis champ I was that proud. I’d had a pretty useless life up to that point and I decided I’d do something with the time I had left.’