Peter Corris - The Dying Trade

I got a shave in the Cross at a barber shop where I’d once seen Gough Whitlam, before he became Prime Minister — I figured he’d know where to get a good shave. The Italian razor man was neat and economical and let me read the paper while he worked. He was coming on strong with garlic and aftershave but I fought back with beer and I guess the honours were about even. The News had put Costello on the second page and had splashed a government statement about unions across the front. There was a front page picture of a cricket player kissing a paraplegic girl to remind everyone that God lives and life is still all fun and games.

I got to the office, checked the mail and the incoming calls with the answering service. There nothing of interest in either. I rang the number which Harry Tickener, newshound and wordsmith, had given me the night before. He must have been sitting on top of the phone because it was snatched up the second it rang.

We established identities, confirmed that we were both in sound health and got down to business. The records branch of the motor registry never shuts down to accredited people and Tickener’s contact had got what we wanted during the night. In a voice as thin and reedy as himself, Tickener recited the facts: “The Rover is registered to Dr William Clyde, 232 Sackville Drive, Hunters Hill, the Fairlane to Charles Jackson, 114 Langdon Street, Edgecliff, the VW to Naumeta Pali, Flat 6,29 Rose Street, Drummoyne.”

“Good. Do you know anything about these people?”

“Not a thing. The only Charles Jackson I know of is a cop, Detective Inspector, CID. I don’t know where he lives or what he drives. Never heard of the others, could find out though.”

“Right, you take Clyde, call me in an hour.”

I tidied my desk, throwing away bills and advertisements, and paid a couple of modest accounts with cheques I could cover by lodging Gutteridge money. I phoned Grant Evans at home. It was delicate but I was getting more confident.

“Grant? Cliff, I’m getting closer but I need a piece of information.”

“How big a piece? I’m feeling weak.”

“Not big, but close to home. You have a colleague by the name of Charles Jackson?”

“Yeah, what about him?”

“Your assessment.”

“No comment.”

“What does he drive and where does he live?”

“A Fairlane, he lives in Edgecliff somewhere.”

That spoke volumes. Evans trusted me but not enough to give out information on anyone for whom he had any regard. I had a character sketch of Jackson from those seven words.

“Anything else Cliff?”

“Not until tonight. You on duty?”

“Yeah, seven to three.”

“Good men with you?”

“Good enough.”

“I’ll call you at eight.”

“You’d better come through on this, Cliff. There’s a bit of flak about the car bombing and some bright boy has got on to the Gutteridge connection. I’m not sure how long I can sit on it.”

“Just hold the lid on until tonight. What I’ve got will be big enough to make you smell like a rose.”

He rang off without saying any more. Grant’s position in the force was secure, but it would add to his troubles if the promotions didn’t keep coming. If he got stuck on a rung too long he’d dry up with frustration and snap like a dead branch. He needed to get up to the top and get there soon. I hoped I could help him make it. Tickener’s call came through at 10.00 precisely. It tied things up.

“Dr Clyde’s a plastic surgeon,” he said without too much interest. “What about Jackson?”

“He’s the cop you’ve heard of.”

“Yeah?” He sounded keener. “What’s it all about?”

Suddenly I had doubts about telling him, not about his honesty but about his control of his tongue. If he went around talking to the wrong people for a day, word could get about and the whole thing could be blown. If Gutteridge’s files existed and were being put to use there could be prominent people in all sorts of places treading the high wire and alert to anything in the breeze about Brave and the Gutteridges. I decided not to risk it.

“It hasn’t quite come together yet,” I said, “but I expect it to tonight. I’ll call you at eight and you can be in on it from the start. Meanwhile I’d dig up all I could on Brave’s background if I were you. You’re going to need that sort of stuff for your story. And keep quiet about Jackson, he’s a small fish. How are you fixed in there? Is Barrett around?”

“No, still in the ACT.”

“Good, do you know Colin Jones, the photographer?”

“Yeah, a bit.”

“Line him up and be there at eight.”

He said okay and for his ego I told him to be sober and to have a full tank of petrol in the FB. That wrapped things up in that direction as far as I could see. I was sure that Costello was at Brave’s clinic. Jackson was covering the police inquiry end and Dr Clyde was doing the face job. They’d been alarmed when I’d blundered into the clinic and seemed to have held some sort of conference the following night. But they hadn’t moved Costello yet and perhaps they couldn’t. It mightn’t be medically advisable. If they were going to move him it would almost certainly happen at night and I had plans to head that off. I wished I had a man to watch the clinic in the daytime but I didn’t and there was no use lamenting it.

All this planning was thirsty work and I left the office to repair the damage. Before I took off I put a handful of shells for the Smith amp; Wesson in my pocket and added a plastic wallet of easily assembled burglar’s tools. I had a licence for the gun but no one has a licence for skeleton keys and lock slides.

I drove to a pub near the University where you can sit in the shade, drink old beer and eat passable rissole sandwiches. I took my street directory into the pub and looked up the addresses of Haines, Pali and Chalmers while I worked on the food and drink. Students around the place were talking in their derivative argot and preparing themselves to fall asleep in the afternoon lectures. One hairy intellectual studied me for a while and then announced that I was obviously in real estate — so much for higher education.

The addresses were more or less on the same side of the city. Geography determined the order of my visits — Pali, Haines, Chalmers. I finished my drink and got up. The pub was emptying but the vocation spotter seemed to be putting off the evil hour. He was rolling a cigarette from makings he’d bludged from one of his fellow seekers after truth. I caught his eye as I stood up and pressed a finger to my lips. As I passed his table I dropped one of my cards, face up, into the beer puddles.

Naumeta Pali’s flat was in a six storey red brick building which was a wound in a wide street flanked by neat terrace houses. The flats were built over car parking space and there was a wide expanse of those smooth white stones that are supposed to replace grass around them. The whole set-up was modern, tasteless and medium expensive. The parking area was divided into bays of white lines; each bay had a flat number painted on it and there were a couple of signs around warning the public that this was private space. The space allotted for flat 6 was empty. I went into one of the lobbies in the building and located the flat. It was three floors up. In Glebe there’d have been milk bottles and cats on every landing and you’d have to fight a gang of kids for every inch of territory. Here there was nothing.

I knocked on the door of flat 6 and heard the sound echo about emptily inside. After a second try a woman put her head outside the door opposite.

“She ain’t in,” she said.

The voice jarred with everything around and I turned around to take a good look at its owner. She was fortyish, fat and a good advertisement for cosmetics — black circled eyes, rouged cheeks and fire engine red lips. She’d had a few drinks but not enough for her to forget that she had to hold herself together. She had some help from corsets and a bra that pushed her breasts up out of the tight floral dress towards her loose chin. She wore gold, high heeled sandals. I looked closely for a cigarette holder but she didn’t seem to have one just then.