Peter Corris - Comeback

‘They tell me you’re a mate of old Frank Parker.’

‘Less of the old. He’s only got a year or two on me.’

‘He was a good copper. He gave a lecture once at the Academy. Impressed me.’

‘He’ll be glad to hear it.’

‘You talk things over with him?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘I’m sure he’d advise you to cooperate with us.’

‘Usually, yes.’

He couldn’t quite bring himself to ask; that was as far as he’d go, but his meaning was clear.

He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. ‘A few things you’d better fix on the Falcon if you don’t want an unroadworthy certificate. We’ll be in touch, Hardy. Make sure you’re available for the inquest.’

I drove out of the yard and noticed that the petrol tank needle was on empty. I was pretty sure the tank had been at least a quarter full when I’d last looked. I spent an anxious ten minutes driving around looking for a service station and found one when the tank must have been close to bone dry. It looked like a spot of petty punishment and Rockwell’s last comment about the car sounded more like a threat than a friendly gesture. After filling the tank I looked at the document I’d been given. The car had a cracked rear tail-light cover and a loose rear vision mirror on the passenger side. Hardly reasons to be taken off the road.

I spent the next two days at the computer, on the telephone and in pubs, offices and cafes, teasing out all the information I could about Frost’s three names. It felt like old times and brought back to me why I enjoyed the work so much-the movement, the variety in the characters and situations and the way in which one piece of information led to another, or didn’t. I felt alive.

Charlie Long of the Allied Trades Union didn’t shape up as a likely candidate. He’d had run-ins with various people in the construction game, including Frost, but for some years he’d been keeping his nose clean. He was on track for an Upper House parliamentary seat and a likely ministry and was being scrupulously careful of his associates and his image.

Ben Costello, the merchant banker, had refused Frost a loan he’d badly needed a few years back and had financed one of Frost’s competitors. Frost had struck back by buying a company Costello was in negotiation with on a financing deal that would have netted him a massive commission. Costello had a reputation as a vicious and vindictive operator who’d been mentioned in several ICAC inquiries although no action had ever been taken against him.

The shares in Costello’s holding company had suddenly gone down, I was told by Tony Hunt, a blogger who specialised in inside information on the big players. That information cost Ray Frost some of his money.

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Silly question,’ Tony said.

‘Doesn’t there have to be a reason?’

‘Not really. The whole thing is a pack of cards house built on sand, to mix metaphors. A fantasy. That’s what makes it so enjoyable to watch.’

‘Could it be that ICAC is closing in on him?’

‘You’re no fun, Hardy. I like to think of it all as beyond reason and rationality.’

‘That’s not what you say when it comes down to paying you for information.’

‘Sad, but true. You want me to find out what’s scaring the market about Ben? It’ll cost you.’

‘Do it. Please.’

It sounded promising but it fizzled.

‘Sorry,’ Tony said when he rang back two days later.

‘About what?’

‘That I couldn’t bleed you for more money. The cat’s out of the bag.’

‘I don’t like paying for metaphors.’

‘Like I said, you’re no fun. Ben’s got leukemia and is on the way out. It was supposed to be a secret while he shifted the money around but it leaked out. Would you mind telling me why you’re interested, Hardy? Information is a two-way street, you know.’

I declined.

I met Dominic O’Grady at the Botte D’oro restaurant in Leichhardt. O’Grady was a former private inquiry agent who’d turned to journalism. He’d worked for Sterling Security Inc and now wrote for the online investigative newsletter The Sentinel , run by my old friend Harry Tickener. O’Grady was a gourmand who’d undoubtedly order a massive and expensive lunch. I put in a long workout session at the gym in preparation for the meal and the wine that were bound to tempt me.

O’Grady was there before me, sitting massively in his chair by the window. He’d taken his jacket off and rolled up his sleeves, preparing for some serious eating. His belly kept him back from the table a fair way, but he was a big man with long arms. He was working his way through a bowl of olives and one of nuts. There was a bottle of white wine in the ice bucket and his glass was half full. The table napkin was tucked into his shirt below the first button and spread down towards, but not quite reaching, his gut. He looked up from the menu he was studying with the intensity of a stamp collector inspecting a penny black.

‘Hardy, you bastard,’ he rumbled. ‘Good to see you. You did say you were paying, didn’t you?’

‘Gidday, Dom. My client is.’

We shook hands and I sat. He poured me a glass. I almost winced when I saw the bottle-French, of course.

‘Ah, they were the days. Expense account lunches, padded out to buggery.’

‘You don’t look as though you’re wasting away.’

He patted his stomach affectionately.

‘Now, why I wanted to see you-’

‘No, no, you philistine. First things first.’ He smiled at the waitress who approached with another menu. She was dark and attractive, spike heels, tight skirt, lacy top. O’Grady emptied his glass. The waitress filled it and the bottle was empty.

‘Antipasto, large,’ O’Grady said. ‘I think then the swordfish. I’ll cogitate on the dessert.’

‘Chips and salad or vegetables, Dominic?’

‘The former and another bottle of course. Hardy?’

‘Swordfish good here, is it?’

‘Everything is good, but the swordfish is superb.’

I ordered the swordfish with vegetables. The wine was cold, dry and fresh tasting-about as much appraisal as I can give the stuff.

‘I understood Bobby Forrest was your client, but I hardly think he’s paying for our lunch.’

‘Another client.’

‘Just back in business and two well-heeled clients already. I’d offer congratulations, but. . Ah. Here we are.’

The waitress put a large platter of antipasto on the table in front of O’Grady. She showed him the wine bottle and opened it expertly on his nod. She produced a fresh glass; he tasted the wine and nodded again. He scooped up the few remaining nuts and olives and ate them before using a small fork to spear pieces of meat and cheese which he gobbled. He dived in again.

‘Won’t you spoil your appetite?’

‘Age shall not weary it nor the years condemn. Just let me savour this for a few minutes before getting down to the no doubt distasteful business you have in mind. Do you want to share?’

I shook my head.

‘Good.’

‘Can we get started?’

‘Always in a hurry, that’s you, Hardy. Wait until I’ve had my first bite of fish. Have some more of this fine wine. Relax a little.’

With someone like O’Grady there’s nothing else to do. It was late in the week, a popular time for lunching, and the restaurant was filling up. We were at a table for two with no other table really close. Ideal for a private talk. O’Grady was an old hand. I drank some wine and ate some bread. The fish came.

‘Cracked pepper, Mr Hardy?’

I looked at her in surprise. I hadn’t been in the place for years and had never seen her before. O’Grady chuckled.

‘Fame, Cliff, fame. She saw you on television. It’s the only thing that matters these days, unfortunately.’