Peter Corris - O'Fear

‘Did you know a man named Barnes Todd?’ Cy Sackville asked me.

‘What do you mean, did? I do know him. Barnes Todd.’

‘I’m sorry, Cliff. You don’t know him any more. He’s dead.’

Shit,’ I said. ‘Everybody’s dying these days. How come you and I aren’t dead, Cy?’

Sackville smiled his expensive lawyer’s smile, the one that means we’re going to win but it’ll cost you. ‘I keep myself fit and I work in a profession known for the longevity of its members. Whereas you…’

‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘On both counts. Well, private eyes live longer on average than some people.’

‘Who?’

‘Astronauts. I’m sorry to hear about Todd. He wasn’t that old, was he?’

‘About fifty, bit more.’

Depressing. But I was determined not to be too depressed, there had been too much of that in my life recently. ‘It’s always nice to see you,

Cy, but why the sudden summons to your pricy presence? You weren’t Todd’s lawyer, were you?’

Sackville shook his well-groomed head. He’s about my age, which is more than forty, and I rate him marginally brighter and about twenty times richer than me. At five foot seven he’s six inches shorter, and we both weigh about twelve stone. You can see what a good team we make. ‘You don’t seem very upset at my news.’

‘I didn’t know him well!’ I snapped.

Sackville raised one eyebrow. He was sitting behind his big polished desk under a painting with a lot of clouds and light in it. It looked as if it could float off the wall any minute. Then it could float out the window, across Martin Place and maybe down the Pitt Street mall. Since the big stock market crash, I had been in a few plush offices where space had opened up on the walls. But Cy has always been careful and patient. ‘You seem to be under a lot of strain,’ he said.

Usually Cy’s affluence, displayed in the wood panelling of his office and the cut of his suits, amused me; today it got under my skin. I shrugged and plucked at the fabric of the chair I was sitting in. I was pretty sure I could get a finger into the upholstery and do some damage. ‘I’ve got a few problems,’ I said.

‘Women?’

‘No woman. That’s one of the problems.’

‘Money?’

‘Ditto. What’s all this about Todd?’

Sackville fiddled with a file on his desk. ’It’s a bit weird. I got a call from Todd’s solicitor, name of Hickie. One-man show in Bondi Junction. Well, it’s not a bad location for certain kinds of work. Anyway, Hickie got a letter from Todd a couple of days before his death.’

I suppose that’s when I took it in properly- that Barnes Todd was dead. I met him almost twenty years ago when I was happily married and looking for a cheap house. He dabbled in real estate, among a lot of other things. He found the Glebe terrace I still lived in, helped with the finance and a few other problems. I’d seen him perhaps two or three times a year since then- at the pub, in the street or in a restaurant. He was about ten years older than me and he’d served in the Korean war. We used to have a drink and joke about our wars. Mine was the Malayan emergency which had started earlier than Korea and gone on longer, to 1960. I’d been in on the very end of it. The talk drove Cyn, my then wife, nuts. This was years ago, of course. Until recently, war talk has excluded women in our society. Maybe it’s different in the Middle East. Nowadays you can meet female journos and photographers who know a bit about it, but Cyn knew war from books and films, which give you only a shadow of the physical and mental truth. Anyway, I’d liked what I’d seen of Barnes Todd.

The memories didn’t improve my mood. ‘What’s this exchange between legal chaps got to do with me?’

‘You are in a bad way. Have you been playing tennis or doing anything for your body lately?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘My body’s been letting me down.

It feels tired in the morning and it won’t sleep at night. Get on with it, Cy.’

‘I had to ascertain that you knew Todd. That you were acquaintances, at least.’

‘You’ve done that. He was a big bloke, bald and getting fat. He didn’t do much for his body either, but I would’ve expected it to last him a fair while longer. How did he die?’

‘Car accident. He went over a cliff down on the south coast.’

I nodded. ‘He had a house down there, I remember. I used to think he was lucky to have it.’

Sackville grunted. He has a house at Palm Beach, so I suppose he doesn’t think much of the south coast. ‘Wife. No children. Have you met his wife, Cliff?’

‘No. I thought he was a bachelor with girlfriends. I saw him with a few women over the years. Look, now I come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve seen him for a year or more.’

‘Hickie tells me he was married about a year ago. To… let me see…’ He opened the file and flicked over a page. ‘Felicia Armstrong. Younger than him. She’s now a fairly rich, fairly young widow.’

I dug the finger under the binding on the chair and felt the stitching. It gave a little. ‘Cy,’ I said, ‘get to the point. As far as I know Todd was a good bloke. If I’d heard about it, I’d have gone to his funeral. Maybe. Like I’d go to yours, or Harry Tickener’s.’

Sackville shuddered. ‘Don’t speak of us in the same breath. Tickener smokes forty Camels a day. It’s very likely you’ll get the chance to go to his funeral. I plan to outlive you.’

‘You’re risking a violent death by playing the close-mouthed lawyer on me. I could be out making money.’ I leaned forward and stared at his face. I saw no lines, good teeth, gold frame glasses and an even tan.

Cy blinked. ‘I’m glad to see you can still clown. I was beginning to worry about you. You look as if you’ve just copped a ten-year sentence with no remissions.’

I had had a few snorts of mid-morning wine and hadn’t stood too close to the shaver. I needed a haircut and my twice-broken nose has wanted straightening for twenty-five years. I let my tainted breath drift across his desk, sniffed loudly and stroked my stubble like Mickey Rourke. ‘What’s the bottom line, Cy?’

‘I remember when you used to play the alcoholic,’ Sackville said. ‘After Cyn left you. It went on too long and it wasn’t all that convincing, or funny. Barnes Todd has left you some money.’

‘Why?’

‘To find out who murdered him.’

I sat back in the chair. Sackville unhooked his glasses and set them down gently on top of the file. He massaged the bridge of his nose and tried to look grave, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. It irritated me, the way a lot of small things had lately. What’s so funny? I thought. I’d been in this business for nearly fifteen years. I’d found murderers before, hadn’t I? Well, stumbled across a couple. ‘How much money?’ I said harshly.

‘Ten thousand dollars. His wife’s not too happy about it.’

A rock band was playing in the Martin Place amphitheatre when I left Cy’s office. The drummer and the bass guitarist had shaven heads; the singer and lead guitarist had hair to their waists and both wore leather skirts, high-heeled boots and heavy make-up. I suspected the singer was a man. Twenty years ago they would all have been arrested for creating a public nuisance, but now the shoppers and lunchers walked by or paused to listen while they ate. None was visibly corrupted. The singer screamed, ‘Fuck me!’ into the microphone, but no one did, at least not there and then.

By the time I crossed Castlereagh Street the heavy, jolting music was a thin wail and by Macquarie Street the traffic was making more noise. I’d told Sackville the truth-business was bad and money was short. I bought a sandwich and shared a seat outside the Public Library with a young Japanese couple, clearly tourists, and a woman in a long overcoat who was muttering to herself as she crunched hard frozen peas from a packet. I ate the sandwich and considered the jottings I had made in my notebook.