Peter Corris - The Empty Beach

I heard her sigh on the line. ‘You know, I could never decide whether I liked you or not, and I still can’t.’

‘You do,’ I said. ‘You like me. Besides, we saved each other’s lives. It’s a bond.’

‘There’s that, I suppose. What is it-the canard?’

‘That Thomas McLeary says Freddy Ward killed John Singer.’

‘Did he?’

‘Did he what?’

‘Kill him.’

‘I thought you might be asking if McLeary said he did.’

‘Oh, shit. Never mind. All right, if I get a chance I’ll spread it.’

‘Thanks. I’ll take you out to dinner when this is all over and we’ll talk about Radcliffe-Brown.’

‘When will that be?’

‘Soon.’

‘Look after your other leg.’ Click.

I’m not what you’d call a committee man. I get restless if I hear more than two people talking about the same subject because it’s a fair bet that only one of them will be talking sense. So I don’t like teamwork or sub-contracting and only do it when I have to.

Roger Wallace runs a big investigating agency in town and has tried to recruit me several times, without success. We preserve a mutual professional respect. I got past his secretary to a direct enjoyment of his successful voice.

‘I heard you got thumped, Cliff,’ he said.

‘Kicked.’

‘Not there, I hope.’

‘No, Roger, not there.’

‘Good. Well?’

‘I need a house watched. Big place, out Camden way. Also a tail on one or two men. A phone call to me if there are interesting developments. No action.’

‘Easy. Whose house?’

‘Freddy Ward.’

‘Freddy? How nice. He do the kicking?’

‘No.’

‘You surprise me. All right, you’re on. Two men and they don’t come cheap. How long?’

‘Two days, three at most.’

‘When do they start?’

‘Now.’ I gave him details of Ward’s house and descriptions of Rex and Tal. I told him that there could be activity in Glebe and the eastern suburbs. He told me his chilling daily rate; I looked around my room that needed painting and wondered how much the agents got to keep.

By lunchtime I felt better. I scrambled some eggs, drank wine and soda and called Frank Parker inviting him over and asking him to bring a few things with him. While I waited I read some more of Hemingway’s letters, which Hilde had given me in hospital. I was reflecting that I hadn’t written a personal letter in years when Frank knocked.

‘Nice dump,’ Frank said when he got inside.

‘You always say the right thing. Drink?’

He had one and put his feet on a chair. He was wearing a lightweight grey suit and a blue tie. He fiddled with the end of the tie.

‘Not smoking?’ I said.

‘No. Get to the point, Hardy. Glebe is all greyhounds and trendies as far as I’m concerned, and I don’t like either.’

‘Right. I’m stirring up trouble between Freddy Ward and Tom McLeary.’

‘Shouldn’t be hard. Why?’

‘To find out what happened to Singer.’

‘They know?’

‘Someone knows in that bloody troika, and I want to squeeze it out.’

‘Troika? You count Mrs Singer in too?’

‘Have to.’

‘She hired you to find out.’

I leaned forward to pour him more wine. ‘Maybe she put him through her blender and can’t handle the guilt; I just don’t know. But I reckon I can flush something out.’

He put his hand in his pocket and brought out a cylinder about the size of a nasal inhaler. He tossed it up and caught it. ‘Why d’you want this?’

‘I’ve got one more move to make. I have to front McLeary and twist his balls. That’ll be dangerous and I’d like to have someone on hand to help.’

‘We’re understaffed.’

‘You brought that. You’re going to play along.’

‘Yeah. Well, I can probably find a cadet to put on it. It’s irregular, but everything’s fucking irregular these days. Did you hear we’re getting gay policemen?’

‘You’ve already had them. It’s just a matter of owning up.’

He looked sour at that; it was cigarette time, so he played with the cylinder. ‘Pretty simple, this. It gives off a hum in the patrol car-directional. You flick this switch and it screams. Good for half a mile or so.’ He threw it across and I caught it.

‘Thanks. How many men can you spare?’

‘I’ll give you two for three days.’

‘I’d rather have three for two days.’

‘No.’ He got up and stretched. ‘Back to it. I’m looking forward to the Glenlivet.’

‘You’ll crack.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I won’t.’ I believed him. ‘I’ll put them on in the morning. That okay?’

I said it was, and opened the door for him.

‘You’ll have to think of somewhere to put that bleeper, Hardy. If you stick it up your arse you won’t be able to work the switch.’

I read, watched television, ate and used the knee exerciser. Hilde didn’t come home; she doesn’t always. I took the analgesics again and read Hemingway in the wee small hours. Tough luck, Scott, tough luck, Ernest. I thought about the Singer case and decided I’d handled it all wrong. I should have tried to find out in detail what sort of man Singer was; what he thought, what he did hour by hour. Then I might have been able to judge what he did to himself or what was done to him. But it was too late for that and the water was muddled. My present strategy was a Judas goat approach. I didn’t like it, but it was all there was. Of course I could pull out altogether, declare a no-contest, but that wasn’t on; I’d done it before and it left me with that feeling of being unable to recall a fact, but magnified a thousand times and intolerable.

Hilde came home in the morning and I sent her out to do a little shopping for me. It took her most of the morning and when she got back she poured herself a hefty glass of wine, a rare thing for her to do before six.

‘Some men are watching the house,’ she said.

‘That’d be right. What do they look like?’

‘I only caught a glimpse-moustaches and longish hair.’ She touched the back of the collar of the shirt she was wearing. She had her hair up in a tight bun.

‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘They’re cops. It’s the ones with the short hair and suits you have to worry about.’

She sniffed and drank some wine. I had a glass with her just to be companionable. I flexed the knee and thought it felt a bit firmer.

‘What’s happening, Cliff? Is it dangerous?

‘Moderately. I’ll take you out for a sauerbraten when it’s all over.’

‘I don’t like sauerbraten.’

The second team of cops came on duty in the early evening; Frank had been better than his word. I rang Roger Wallace.

‘Freddy’s keeping it rural. He might be sighting in rifles, of course. One of his boys went into town and stomped around the beaches for a bit.’

‘Is he back yet?’

‘No.’

‘I think there’ll be action when he gets back. Let me know.’

He called back an hour later. ‘Moving,’ he said. ‘Freddy and three others, two cars, heading for town.’

‘Thanks, Roger. Send me the bill.’

Hilde had gone out to a film. She phoned as I’d asked and said she thought there were at least two suspicious-looking cars parked near the house. I asked her what film she was going to.

‘Gallipoli.’

‘My grandfather was there.’

‘On which side?’ she asked.

I got out the knee brace that Hilde had brought that morning. It was a revolting object with straps, flesh-coloured plastic and padding. It nauseated me to look at it, which was part of the idea. I slit the padding and tucked the little cylinder away, positioned so that I could get at the switch and look as if I was scratching my knee. The brace stiffened the knee and hurt, but all great planners have their problems. Think of Napoleon and his piles.