Peter Corris - Comeback

One down and four to go. I drove into the Blacktown CBD, found an early opening cafe and treated myself to a decent breakfast. I washed down my morning heart medications with some very passable coffee. Blacktown woke up around me. It appeared to be a busy, bustling kind of place with something of the feel of a country town as well as the big city.

The weekend interrupted the work. People follow different schedules, sleep in, go away and, anyway, a stakeout can look obvious. Monday was the day of Bobby Forrest’s funeral. As Frost had anticipated, it was a big event attended by a lot of people from the entertainment industry, friends and the media. The ceremony was secular, at the Rookwood chapel. I’d been there too many times over the years and too recently.

The modern style is to ‘celebrate the life’ rather than ‘lament the passing’, but it’s hard to do with someone so young. Frost did his best. He was impressive in his dark clothes.

‘My son Robert was the best thing in my life. He’s gone but all my memories of him are good. He never once disappointed me or let me down and I tried not to ever let him down. That’s what I mean by him being the best thing. He made me better than I really am and I’m grateful to him for that. I’ll always be grateful for that.’

Pretty good. He echoed the words Bobby had used in explaining his relationship with Jane Devereaux. I suppose Bobby had said the same to him and he’d picked up on it. It was appropriate, and I thought Jane Devereaux would probably appreciate it.

A few others, including Sophie Marjoram and people from the entertainment business, spoke briefly. Bobby had been an organ donor and what was left of him was cremated. Among those attending there was a clutch of young people-goths and emos and the like-who stood apart. At one point I thought I could sense someone looking at me. I glanced at the young group and saw a woman in semi-goth clothes fixing me with a malevolent stare.

There was a wake, which they called a wrap party, at a restaurant in Surry Hills. I stayed long enough for a drink and to recognise a couple of the stars and semi-stars, some looking better than on screen and some not so good. I didn’t get a chance to talk to Frost.

Over the next few days I went through the same surveillance procedure with Charles in Randwick and Salter in Clovelly with the same negative result. Neither man fitted the physical description of the one who’d followed Bobby and threatened Mary Oberon, though both were more impressive physically than Pollock. Hank was out of town on a job, which stymied me on Beaumont so I turned my attention to Ralph Cochrane. With no address available, the simplest way to get a look at him was to make an appointment to see him so that’s what I did. It was a strategy I could use only once without raising questions and now seemed like the right time. Wouldn’t hurt to get a close look at the Sterling set-up anyway.

Cochrane was described on the website as the ‘Personnel and Training’ manager. The obvious ploy was to inquire about the possibility of employment. The big security firms were swallowing the small ones continually and there was every reason for a senior personnel guy at Sterling to believe I was looking for a lifeline. I’d been head-hunted a few times in the past and had declined offers. That would have been known around the traps.

Sterling’s HQ was in Rosebery, fairly close to the airport. Handy enough for the eastern suburbs dwellers, long drive from Blacktown. The building was an example of 1950s brutalism-a three-storey red cube set on a major road with no landscaping or trimmings-just a large bitumen parking area, a high cyclone fence and a manned security gate.

I drove up to the gate and told the guard my business. He consulted a sheet of paper on a clipboard, presented me with a visitor’s pass on a lanyard and directed me to a parking slot. I parked, slung the lanyard round my neck and followed white arrows painted on the blacktop to a set of double glass doors. The doors slid open, admitting me to a foyer. A woman sat behind a desk working at a computer. She was young and good-looking. Her long nails clattered on the keys.

She looked up. ‘Mr Hardy?’

‘Right,’ I said, ‘to see Ralph Cochrane.’

She pointed to an elevator. ‘Second floor, room twelve.’

I thanked her and waited for the lift. The decor was functional-a few generic posters, a couple of citations for Sterling’s creditable performance as an employer, a scale model of a projected new HQ. I rode the lift to the second floor and followed a corridor to room twelve. I could hear activity behind the closed doors-telephones ringing, machines humming. There were noticeboards along the wall bristling with pinned paper. Cochrane’s name was on the door. I knocked.

‘Come.’

I’ve never liked that response. Bad start and it got worse. There were three men in the room-one sitting behind a desk and two flanking it. As I entered one of the men moved behind me, closed the door and stayed there. The other standing man sat in the only other chair in the room apart from the one behind the desk. Not a friendly reception. The man sitting was Arthur Pollock of Blacktown, the smallish guy with the wispy hair. I didn’t think I’d have too much trouble with him. I turned and looked at the man at the door. Much bigger, much younger. It’s hard to judge the size of a man behind a desk but this one didn’t look puny. He was in his thirties, dark and tanned. Maybe just back from his holidays, maybe a spray job. None of the men was bearded.

‘I’m Ralph Cochrane, Hardy,’ the man behind the desk said. He pronounced it ‘Rafe’. ‘This is Arthur Pollock and Louis Salter you know.’

‘Do I?’

‘Well, not exactly, but you saw him when you staked him out in Clovelly a few days ago. More to the point, he’s seen you. Arthur seems to think there might have been a crappy blue Falcon like the one you drive outside his house, too.’

‘Arthur’s right,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think he’d noticed.’

Pollock smiled. ‘Subliminally,’ he said.

‘So you’ve shown a very great interest in us and we’re wondering if we should be flattered or worried.’

‘Flattered,’ I said. ‘I was considering trying to join your organisation and I was just checking a few of you senior people out before making an approach. That’s why I made this appointment. I have to say I’m having second thoughts.’

I heard a movement behind me but I was too slow. A punch hit me hard in the kidneys, drove the wind out of me and buckled my knees. I had to grab at the desk to keep my feet. Salter looked pleased with his result as he should have. The punch was expert, placed in just the right spot and with just the right force. Deep bruise but no rupture, probably. I fought for breath and almost gagged at the foul taste filling my mouth.

‘Let the man sit down, Arthur,’ Cochrane said. ‘He needs the chair more than you do.’

Pollock stood and I collapsed into the chair and concentrated on sucking in air. It felt thin and insubstantial and as if it wasn’t going to last.

‘You’ve got a reputation as a tough guy, Hardy,’ Salter said. ‘I thought you’d be able to take it a bit better than that.’

My voice was a thin wheeze. ‘We’ll see how it goes next time, when we’re face to face.’

‘I’m off,’ Pollock said. ‘You can handle it from here. Let me know what he tells you.’

Cochrane nodded. Pollock took a step and I stuck out my foot. He stumbled and fell flat on his face. Pretty pathetic taking on the little guy but I had to do something. Salter stepped forward but Cochrane stopped him.

‘Cool it, Louis. You okay, Arthur?’

Pollock got up, straightened his clothes and gave me a look meant to be venomous but it’s hard to be venomous when your tie’s crooked and your comb-over’s been disturbed. He pushed past Salter and left the room.