Peter Corris: The Big Drop

‘Well?’

‘Can’t be sure,’ he said. ‘But I think it’s the blue stuff that gets onto the money.’

‘You know what that makes this set-up, then?’

‘Yeah,’ he growled. ‘Looks like this is where they try to get it off.’

And that was the way it looked a few days later when a microscopic examination of my hundred dollar note had been made. Frank Parker rang me with the good news.

‘Serial number checks with a run stolen from a bank in Parramatta last month. Traces of the dye-not visible to the naked eye. Someone’s found a way to take it off.’

‘What about my money?’

‘Sorry, mate. Evidence.’

‘Great. What about the house?’

‘Nothing. Clean as a whistle. Leased under a phoney name, paid for in cash.’ His laugh was a harsh bark. ‘Cash?’

‘Don’t be bitter. You must have something to go on.’

‘Not a bloody thing. Looks like they just cleared out after your pal Scholfield went for the jump.’

‘Are you looking for people who’ve turned blue lately?’

‘Have you got any other helpful comments, Cliff?’

‘Can’t you just take a photo of it?’

‘What?’

‘My hundred bucks.’

That finished the conversation with Parker and left me wondering what to do next. It wasn’t that I didn’t have a case on hand; I was on a retainer from a security firm to check on some of their employees who were suspected of not rattling the doors they were supposed to rattle and not shining their torches where and when they were supposed to shine them. It was night work mainly, but not exclusively. I had the job for a month and was only half way through. The company didn’t expect a perfect record from its men, apparently that was unheard of; it was a question of ‘acceptable levels of-non-performance’. I ran over some of the results I’d got so far, but I couldn’t keep my mind on the job. I kept getting pictures of Norman Scholfield trying to cope with worry in a good-humoured way. I didn’t like the idea of someone throwing him off a twenty-storey building-that was too much for good humour. Then I remembered the pub.

Balmain has lost a lot of its good pubs to the bulldozer and to solicitors who’ve wanted interesting-looking buildings for their offices in which they can arrange the conveyancing of other interesting buildings. But this one was a survivor, and Scholfield had directed me there with a note in his voice like pride. It was down by the water with a balcony that gave you a good view of the container terminal; but there’s something agreeable about drinking while other people work. We had a beer in the sun and he’d borrowed my pen. I saw him ring directory enquiries, scribble on the phone book and then make a quick call. He gave me back the pen-a thick-writing ballpoint with purplish ink.

It was much the same time of day again when I got to the pub and I bought a beer and retraced my steps. The water was still there and the container terminal; the directory was there too and the numbers stood out clearly on the page in thick purple backhand.

I sipped the beer and thought how unprofessional I was being, but then, that’s one of the advantages of my non-profession. I dialled the number and heard a heavily accented woman’s voice on the line.

‘Yes? Yes?’

‘Norman Scholfield, please.’

There was a pause and then the voice came through slowly and emotively. ‘He is not here. Who is calling, please?’

In this business you make all sorts of half-arsed judgements; I took a punt now that this voice belonged to someone who wasn’t glad that Norman had free-fallen without a ‘chute. ‘I’d rather not say on the phone. I have something that might interest him. Could you ask him to meet me? Are you in touch?’

‘Yes. Where should he meet you?’

I named the pub. ‘I’ll be up on the balcony, he knows the place. We had a drink here a few days ago. I’ll have a can of Fosters all ready for him. Umm… I take it he’s just stepped out or something? I would like to see him soon.’

‘Yes. An hour?’

‘Good. Thank you.’

I went for a walk around the streets, wondering what was going to happen next. It was a mild winter day; the sunshine was fitful and the water turned from a greenish blue to a hard grey in response to it. A small yacht moved along in the choppy water looking incongruous against the backdrop of cargo, machinery and work. Fifty-five minutes later, I was back on the balcony with a fresh beer and a clean glass and a can of Fosters in front of me.

She came in. Dead on time. She was tall, with black hair, olive skin and eyes and a nose like a Coptic mask. She was wearing a camel-coloured coat and boots and as she stood in the doorway there wasn’t a man within sight who wasn’t staring at her. She walked over to me and sat down and I could feel and hear breaths hissing out between clenched teeth from all around.

‘Norman couldn’t come,’ she said.

‘I know. He’s dead.’ I opened the beer can and poured some into my glass. ‘This was his drink, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes. That was his drink.’

‘And who’re you? I know you’ve got a new phone number lately. I’d say Norman was important to you, and you don’t look like a relative. I don’t know anything else about you.’

‘Why did you want to see Norman?’ She tramped right over what I’d been saying as if the words were a minor nuisance.

‘I didn’t, I wanted to see you.’

She made a move to get up but I got my hand across, gripped her arm and pressed her down. ‘Wait. Let’s talk, what harm can it do? Will you have a drink?’

She subsided and shrugged. In the smooth, brown skin of her face, especially around her eyes, were lines of strain and desperation. Her face looked too strong to ever show unhappiness as we lesser mortals do, but it was there. I got her a gin and tonic, and drank the Fosters while she took a few sips. Her teeth were even and white and she had long, slender bands with pink, polished nails cut short. She had a black turtleneck sweater on under the coat, no jewellery. I told her about my brief association with Scholfield, my scouting about with the cops and then waited for her contribution.

‘You didn’t give my number to the police?’

I shook my head.

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘I don’t know. If he was working with some people at getting dye off stolen money I don’t really care. It sounds like a pretty dumb scheme and he didn’t look dumb to me. I liked him. I suppose I’m just curious. Do you know who killed him, or why?’

‘No. If I did, I would kill them.’

‘Perhaps it’s just as well then.’

‘I don’t understand you.’ The skin tightened along her exquisite jawline; she was like an arrow in a bow-all lined up with the string tight.

I finished the beer. ‘Revenge is old-fashioned.’ I muttered. ‘Let it go.’

‘No! He was a lovely man, so funny. We laughed all the time. I know he was not always honest, not so very honest. But he didn’t hurt people, just…’ She waved her hands and all the men looked at her again.

‘Institutions,’ I said. Frank had told me that Scholfield’s frauds were insurance jobs, mostly.

‘So. He was a gentle man. I think the one who killed him should be dead too. I would feel better then.’

‘In gaol,’ I said. ‘We don’t kill people anymore for murder, not here.’ I don’t know why it was, maybe just the idea of her feeling better because her man’s killer was out of action got to me. I’d come close to Norman’s condition more than once and no one would have given a damn. Not that I’d really want anyone to. It was a confused sort of feeling. She nodded vigorously.

‘Gaol. Yes. For a very long time. Will you work for me?’