Peter Corris - Master's mates

Did my name mean anything to you when we spoke on the phone, Mr Hardy?’

Her name was Lorraine Master and she was in my Darlinghurst office at 2 pm, as arranged, right on time.

‘I’ve known a few Lorraines and some Masters, but no one putting them together.’

‘Put together’ described her pretty well and that was probably why the remark occurred to me. She was tall with broad shoulders and then everything tapered down. Her eyes, skin and hair were dark and her teeth and tailored suit were snowy white. She had high cheekbones and a broad mouth over a strong chin. She smelt vaguely of some flower, one of the thousands I couldn’t name, and the perfume was working well against the dust and damp spores that flavoured my office. She exuded confidence, but with it there was a note of strain, a tension.

‘I’m Stewart Master’s wife, Stewart Henry Master, that is.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘That can’t be easy. What did he get, ten years?’

‘Twelve with ten to serve minimum on account of his record. But he’s innocent.’

Master had been convicted of attempting to import a sizeable quantity of heroin from New Caledonia. He was a career criminal with a long list of prosecutions and quite a few convictions.

‘Stewart never had anything to do with drugs,’ she said. ‘Never! He didn’t use them and he didn’t sell them. He’s a health freak, a body builder.’

He’s in the right place then, I thought. All the time in the world to work on his lats and pecs and everything else.

She was sitting very straight in the client’s chair, which isn’t that easy to do because it has hard spots. That’s deliberate. A private detective doesn’t want clients to get too comfortable. They might decide that it’s just good to talk, get it off the chest, and go on their way. I was on a much better chair behind my desk with things to fiddle with. I fiddled while I spoke.

‘As I remember, Mrs Master, they found the heroin in the false bottom of a suitcase that held your husband’s things.’

‘That’s so, with presents for the children and me in the case too.’

‘Well…’

‘It was planted. That wasn’t Stewart’s suitcase.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t follow the trial closely. He-’

‘You just took in the charge and the conviction, like everyone else.’ Her smile was thin with no humour in it.

‘I was going to say he must’ve claimed the bag.’

‘It was identical to his, but it was switched.’

I was fiddling with a ballpoint pen and just managed to stop myself from clicking it on and off. I put it down. ‘Where, by whom and why?’

‘That’s what I want you to find out and I’ll pay you very well to do it.’

‘That’s encouraging. But just say I could do it, what good would it do?’

‘Then whoever’s responsible could be convicted and Stewart’d be let go.’

She was somewhere in her thirties, well educated and confident. I couldn’t help wondering how she’d hooked up with a crim like Master. She wore discreet makeup, fashionable clothes and muted accessories. She seemed the kind of person who expected things to turn out well for her, but minute cracks were showing. The last statement was too simple and she knew it. She shook her head and her glossy, shoulder length hair danced.

‘I need help,’ she said. ‘The kids need their father, I need him.’

That impressed me. Not a rave against fate or the lawyers or the cops. Good word, help. I needed it myself often enough to be glad to give it if I could. If. It didn’t sound likely.

‘Let’s look at it,’ I said. ‘The customs guys couldn’t do the switch, could they?’

‘No.’

‘Baggage handlers wouldn’t have the time.’

She’d been sitting with her hands still in her lap. Now she clenched her fists and tapped them together. ‘Not at the Sydney end, no. It must’ve happened in New Caledonia and that’s where I want you to go.’

It was September, two weeks after the media blitz on the anniversary of the attack on the twin towers and the story was still running, although there was a weird segue to the threat posed by Iraq to the ‘freedom loving people’ of the world. The day was cloudy and dull but the light in the room seemed to lift as she said New Caledonia. I had visions of palm trees and blue lagoons and snorkelling under a tropic sky. I looked at my hands, a bit pale after winter, scarred from fights and accidents, and I shivered although it wasn’t cold. I’m a summer type, greedy for the sun, and now maybe I wouldn’t have to wait for it.

‘New Caledonia,’ I said, just to be saying it.

‘You know where it is?’

‘Vaguely,’ I said. ‘You turn right at Townsville.’

‘Rockhampton actually, but near enough.’

The correction reined me in a little. If I didn’t really know where the place was, how likely was it that I’d be any use there? ‘I don’t speak French.’

She laughed, showing those strong white clackers and the thought crossed my mind that being shut away from her must be bloody hard for Master. ‘Neither does Stewart or any of his mates. There’s a whole gang of them over there and one of them, or a couple, must’ve set Stewart up.’

‘Why?’

She shrugged. ‘Thieves fall out.’

‘You’re frank about him.’

‘Stewart’s a con artist, a fraud merchant, a thief, but he’s not violent and he doesn’t deal in drugs. He… he mostly takes advantage of people who’re trying to take advantage of him.’

‘What was he doing in New Caledonia?’

‘Property deal. Legitimate.’

‘It could’ve gone wrong. He could’ve been sucked into something he couldn’t control. It happens.’

‘Not to Stewart. Too smart.’

‘I seem to recall convictions.’

‘A long time ago when he was careless.’

Did she mean before he met me, I wondered. I picked up the pen and dropped it again. ‘You want me to go over there, link up with these mates, whoever they are, and get one of them to own up to…’

‘It’s not quite as raw as that.’ She reached down for the big leather bag she’d put beside the chair. ‘I’ve got some letters he wrote me, with names and places.’ She took out several airmail envelopes secured with a rubber band. ‘And also…’ She dropped the letters on the desk and hauled up a big ring binder. ‘A transcript of the trial and I’ve spoken to Stewart’s lawyer about getting you access to visit him. I don’t expect you to take this on without checking up on us and doing some preparation.’

‘You were pretty sure of me, Mrs Master, but I don’t know how realistic you are. Your husband’s… what? In his early thirties? And a body builder. I suppose his mates are the same vintage and shark hunters, windsurfers or whatever. I’m not in the first flush of youth and I can’t take my AK47 to New Caledonia. How d’you think I should proceed?’

‘By bribery. I’m offering you a hundred thousand dollars to spend on getting what I want.’

By mutual agreement we didn’t sign a contract there and then. I undertook to read the letters and the trial transcript and ask around about Master while his wife made arrangements for having the money available in New Caledonia. She made it clear that if I refused the job she’d look for someone else, which tapped straight into my competitive instinct.

‘You can keep the transcript,’ she said, ‘but not the letters. I only brought the originals to show you they’re genuine. You don’t have a photocopier?’

I waved my hand. ‘As you see. There’s one in William Street close by.’

‘Low overhead.’