Peter Corris - Master's mates

‘Yes you do.’

‘You’re right. Not long after the Master trial an offer came through for me to go on a study course.’

‘Where?’

‘Los Angeles. For a year, maybe two. Guaranteed promotion following.’

I took a long pull on the beer. ‘Nice, but you refused. Why?’

‘My partner’s dying of AIDS. The anti-viral cocktail didn’t work with him. Weeks to go. Their timing was a bit off.’

‘I’m sorry.

‘Are you? He’ll be glad to hear that.’

‘Look, Knopf-’

‘I know. I know. Chip on shoulder. Fuck it, it’s all so unfair.’

We sat quietly for a while and sipped our drinks. He drew in a deep breath and pushed his empty glass aside. ‘That’s it for me. You?’

‘I’m driving. Getting back to it, were there any unusual things about the evidence, the dope?’

‘Yes. You’re asking the right questions. The unusual thing was where it came from. Usually, you can trace the source pretty closely. It’s a matter of the chemistry-the Middle East, India, Afghanistan, South-East Asia-they all have their own stamp. But this stuff was different. It was high grade all right, but different, and the worry was that it might be from another source.’

‘Like?’

He shrugged. ‘The Pacific someplace.’

‘I see.’

‘That was the worry. They didn’t like the idea of a new close-to-home source opening up.’

‘They?’

‘Los Federales. ’

‘They were in it?’

‘Up to their balls-leaning on me for the analysis, sending me samples and literature. I reckon that’s why Master copped such a heavy sentence. I was told he was offered all kinds of leniency if he’d name names and talk places, but he never said a word.’

‘You sound as if you admire him.’

‘I was only in court a couple of days, but you had to kind of admire him. I mean, he’s good-looking, great body, so…but apart from that. He had a kind of dignity.’

‘Yeah, I saw him out at Avonlea the other day. He’s still got it, I’d say.’

‘What’s he doing out there?’

I shrugged. ‘Why not?’

‘Like everything else, it’s just a bit strange. Look, Hardy, I have to go. Hope I’ve been some help.’

We shook hands, both standing up. ‘You have. Thanks. Just one thing. Why’ve you been so… open?’

He smiled and gave the first camp gesture I’d seen, a flick of the wrist as he consulted his watch. ‘My partner’s a cop as well. How do think they’ve treated him medically and professionally? I don’t give a shit!’

When I was younger the sort of interview I had with Knopf would have left me empty and depressed, and even now I found it sobering. But the world’s full of stories like that and it does no good to cry over them. Knopf struck me as basically tough. He’d recover from his loss and just maybe I’d learn something from this case that’d interest him. For now, I had something to report to Lorraine Master before I started going through large amounts of her money. Always best to appear busy before clocking up the big ticket items.

It was raining steadily when I left the Prince Regent and I got soaked walking to the car. It was welcome after the dry spell but probably not enough to break it. Still, I kept my eyes open for any interested parties. No sign. Rain’s never mattered to Sydney’s Friday nightlife and the roads and streets were busy. Normally, I like that kind of bustle, but maybe Knopf’s misfortunes were working on me because I was disinclined to go back to an empty house. I hadn’t had a companion there for some time and there was no one on the horizon. I headed for the office where I could construct an encouraging email for my client with a few questions thrown in. At the office you don’t expect cheery company.

The building was empty the way it mostly is after six o’clock and I turned on the stairwell lights’ timer switches as I went up the two flights. I took off my wet jacket, dried my hair and face on a hand towel, made the obligatory cup of instant, settled down at the computer and tapped out my message with two fingers for the keys and my right thumb for the space bar. Works for me. I filled her in on the anomalies of the trial, told her when I was off to Noumea and that I’d received the authority for the money.

I sent the message and hit the ‘Get message’ button, not expecting anything. But there was a message: You are interfering in matters best left alone. Be advised.

My first threatening email. I printed it out and stored it. I imagined there were ways of tracking it to its source but I had no idea what they were and a strong suspicion that nothing would be learned anyway. I turned off the computer and the lights and left the office. Rain was spitting on the roof or I might have heard something. I didn’t. The timer switch didn’t work. They sometimes don’t. In the dark I tripped on an obstacle placed at the top of the stairs and fell the full length of the flight.

I know how to fall, the army taught me-protect your head, roll when you hit. It works more or less, but not as well on stairs as on grass. I tumbled a bit and my head bounced off the wall once. I managed not to grab at things, which can dislocate a shoulder or an elbow. I hit the landing on my back and felt the wind rush out. The fall had loosened the dust and I coughed and spluttered but didn’t black out so I heard the voice from below.

‘Get the message, Hardy?’

There was no reply to my email when I limped into the spare room to check the computer. Limped because as well as a bump on the head and a bruised back I’d slightly twisted my ankle coming down the stairs the night before. Nothing a big scotch and three paracetamols hadn’t coped with, but not the very best preparation for an international flight.

The questions that had sat in my sore head the night before were still there-who and why? And I still had no answers. It was hard to judge how serious the threat had been. A fall downstairs isn’t so much, compared to the bashing I could’ve got in that dark space. But then again, I might’ve broken my neck.

I showered and soaked the ankle first in hot water and then in cold and rubbed it with goanna oil until the bathroom smelt like a changing room after a hard League game on a warm afternoon. They say rubbing does nothing useful except perhaps stimulate a bit of blood flow, but it felt better and I could walk without the limp. At least for now.

The brief rain had gone and the morning was clear. I’m not usually worried about flying, but I prefer the sky to be blue so the pilot can see where he or she is going. I tested the ankle by walking up to the travel agency to collect my tickets. No problems.

‘Your flight’s at 12.30 this afternoon, Mr Hardy,’ the young woman who’d handled the matter said. ‘Are you sure you’ve got everything in order?’

‘Yep.’

‘Have you hurt yourself? I thought I saw you limping.’

Back home, I packed. Tricky when you’re not sure how long you’re going to be away, but I travel light anyway and I figured that in New Caledonia underpants and shirts would dry overnight. I couldn’t travel in my usual style because if I was meeting the white shoe brigade, which was what some of Stewie’s mates sounded like, I’d have to tog up a bit. On a visit to Brisbane with a woman I’d spent some time with until she decided her time could be better spent, I’d bought a linen suit. It was ‘unstructured,’ which meant it didn’t have shoulder pads and had a minimum of lining. Smart until it crumpled and still smart for a while after that. With old but classy Italian loafers and a black silk shirt, I reckoned I’d pass as someone who knew how to dress but only cared about it so far.

I hadn’t opened the guide to New Caledonia or the French phrase book. I packed them into the overnight bag I use for travelling however long I’m away and put the sections of the Saturday papers I’d want to read into the snazzy carry-on bag the airline had provided along with a volume of Somerset Maugham’s short stories. I was pretty sure there were some about New Caledonia. My only approach to a weapon, a Swiss army knife, went into the overnight bag.