Peter Corris - Comeback

‘No, he’s a client.’

Frank shook his head, took a drink and cleared his throat. ‘I thought you’d have more sense.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s a crook. He’s also a ruthless bastard.’

‘He said he hasn’t been in trouble for years.’

‘All that means is that he hasn’t been caught. He’s seen off a few people who got in his way. Not that they didn’t deserve it.’

I remembered Frost’s phrase, I’m not asking you to drop him in a hole. I said, ‘He’s Bobby Forrest’s father. He wants me to help find out who killed his son.’

‘Don’t touch it.’

‘He thinks it could be something to do with his business. Some kind of payback.’

‘I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. He’s bad news, Cliff. He’s a standover merchant. He puts pressure on people to accept his bids for jobs. Not only on the construction people, on the contractors and sub-contractors as well.’

‘What kind of pressure?’

‘Every bloody kind-financial, political, physical.’

‘Wouldn’t it be standard practice in that kind of game?’

‘Frost took it to a new level. He’s been up before a few Royal Commissions.’

‘When?’

‘The last one was only a couple of years ago.’

I drank some beer and wished I’d bought it full strength. ‘I must’ve been overseas. When before that?’

‘Back a bit. He’s cunning and he’s got some protection. What has he told you?’

‘Not much. He says there’s a few people who’d be capable of hurting him in that way. He’s sending me the names.’

Frank finished his beer. ‘I’m driving, that’s all I can have. Don’t take him on, mate. You’d be out of your depth. He’ll be using you for sure. That’s what he’s good at.’

‘He seemed genuine.’

‘He would. Well, that’s my advice. You’d be smart to take it.’

He patted me on the shoulder and left. I drank the rest of my beer and resented its thin taste. I bought a scotch and a sandwich. Graham Greene said the main function of food was to blot up alcohol. He had a point.

Frank’s advice was usually good, but he shouldn’t have said I’d be out of my depth. I was already wondering whether I was too old for the business and I didn’t need my best friend to be expressing the same doubts. It made me determined to find out who killed Bobby Forrest and why.

On the walk back I thought about the lines of inquiry available to me. There was the matter of Mary Oberon and the bearded man in the white Commodore, and the payback possibility relating to Ray Frost. That seemed like the most promising order to tackle them in but there were two problems. The money said the last possibility was the one to work on, but was it the most likely? And who was to say that all three matters weren’t related in some way?

It was dark when I got to Pyrmont. I was under the limit by then and could have driven but I decided to go up to the office and do some thinking. I turned on the computer and found I had three emails. Two offered me things I didn’t want, the third was from Ray Frost. He was nothing if not succinct. All the message contained was three names: Charlie Long, Allied Trades Union; Ben Costello, MacMillan Bank; Philip Tyson, Sterling Security Inc. Tyson was the only one I’d heard of. He ran a service that provided armoured security vans with armed guards, bodyguards and nightwatchmen. He also provided training for these occupations and for staff for privately run prisons. He had a reputation for being a hands-on boss, possibly just the type to be in a conflict with Frost.

It would have helped to have some idea of what their disagreements with Frost involved, but he’d elected not to tell me. Anyway, I’d find that out when I probed into their affairs. I knew unionists, clients, at least, of bankers and I even knew of one of Tyson’s former employees. There were things I could do to earn Frost’s money.

The phone rang.

‘Hardy.’

‘Sean Rockwell. You can collect your car.’

That was a surprise. I’d been expecting a longer wait and an official letter. He told me it was in a police yard at Botany and that I could collect it there at 10 am the next day.

‘Don’t be late,’ he added.

‘How’s that?’

‘I’ll see you there. We have things to talk about, like Mary Oberon and a house in Hood Street, Burwood.’

In the morning I took the hire car back to Leichhardt and caught a taxi to Botany. The police yard was a large bitumen expanse overlooking one of the container terminals. A chill wind was coming off the water and it looked and felt like just the right place for confiscated, neglected or abandoned vehicles. I showed ID and my receipt at the gate and walked across to where Rockwell was standing next to my Falcon. He tossed me the keys; I caught them, just, opened the car and looked inside. It was pretty much as I’d left it-that is, fairly clean.

‘Let’s get out of the wind,’ Rockwell said.

I followed him across to a prefab office in one corner of the yard. We went in and a uniformed officer sitting at a desk stood up.

‘Borrowing your office for a bit, constable,’ Rockwell said. ‘Go and have a chat to your mate.’

The officer nodded and went out. Rockwell pointed to a chair by the wall and sat on a corner of the desk. Dominant position.

‘You must think we’re stupid, Hardy. Or slack. Didn’t you think we’d follow up on the address you gave us for the woman?’

‘I thought you might, but I knew I’d do it quicker.’

‘Despite being told to leave it alone?’

‘Forrest gave me a retainer. I felt I owed him a day’s work.’

‘Bullshit. You could be facing an obstruction charge, like the one you served time for.’

‘It was for withholding evidence.’

‘That, too.’

I was puzzled. He was being too mild about it all. Why hadn’t they just hauled me in to Surry Hills? The obvious answer was that they weren’t making any progress, which was bad news in a high-profile case. It suggested they hadn’t learned much at Hood Street. The obvious conclusion to draw was that the woman I’d spoken to wasn’t there. They needed me.

‘I want to know what you heard from the woman you spoke to at Hood Street-Mrs Thelma Harding.’

‘Was that her name? She never said. Tell me what she told you and let’s see how the stories match.’

Rockwell was an experienced cop, trained and practised at not displaying his feelings, but he looked embarrassed. ‘She wasn’t there. We found three Chinese students who’d overstayed their visas. You scared the shit out of the one who was there when you called. He thought you were from Immigration. Maybe you said you were.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘This bloke said you talked to Mrs Harding for a while and really put the wind up her. She packed a bag and pissed off, they don’t know where. She told them to leave as soon as they could. Poor buggers didn’t know what to do. Immigration’s got them now.’

It’s an old habit I’m unable to break-telling the police partial truths. They’d leaked the details of the Bobby Forrest murder to the media and would go on leaking. They suited themselves and my inclination was always to do the same. I told Rockwell about Mary Oberon being frightened of the bearded man in the white car. I told him about the attempt, real or not, to run her over. I didn’t tell him about the fifty-dollar Fijian note.

‘Is that it?’ he said.

‘That’s it.’

‘Not much.’

‘No.’

‘There must be thousands of guys with beards driving around in white cars.’

‘Thousands.’

‘Are you trying to be funny?’

I didn’t answer. Rockwell had to decide and I wasn’t going to make it any easier for him. He had to warn me off again or ask me to help. He wasn’t dumb; he’d dealt with people like me before and suspected that I still hadn’t told him everything I knew. He looked tired; he’d been working the case and getting nowhere. He eased off the desk.