Peter Corris - Comeback

Clement made threats against Bobby during the legal and financial negotiations. The documentation Sophie held ended with a copy of a statement signed by all the major parties pledging confidentiality as to the details of the settlement.

I worked through the rest of the material but the only thing of interest I found was a note from Bobby to Sophie telling her that he’d seen a psychiatrist at her suggestion and thought he might be some help with his problems. What problems? He didn’t say. I knew that Sophie had been in therapy for years, so it would be natural for her to refer Bobby to her guy. I found him in Sophie’s personal teledex-Dr Lucas Kinsolving. I made copies of a few of the documents on Sophie’s photocopier and tried to put the office back the way I’d found it. Sophie was still asleep, with her hand now tucked under her head. I put her keys back in her bag and left.

On the way home a memory kicked in: Chloe Monkhurst, who the fight between Bobby and Clement had been over and who’d been drunk and aggressive at the party, was the woman who’d given me the evil eye at Bobby’s funeral.

I was energised and at the computer early the next morning. Dr Kinsolving was easy to find. He had consulting rooms in Bondi Junction and Chatswood-a both-sides-of-the-harbour guy-and he was an honorary member of staff of a couple of hospitals. He had a string of degrees and was the editor of a leading international journal of psychiatry.

There were a number of photographs of him posted. He was bald and bearded, impeccably dressed, and looked self-satisfied in shots of him in the company of distinguished people in the sciences and arts.

Jason Clement was more elusive. The few entries on him dated back in time and weren’t much more than notices of his minor roles in minor films. He was a NIDA graduate and had briefly attended the Australian Institute of Sport as a hurdler before acting lured him away from athletics. A still from one of his film roles showed him as dark and passably good-looking. Back numbers of Showcase , the directory used by casting agencies to pick actors, was online and Clement appeared in two of the issues. He was represented by the Barton amp; Baird agency.

I phoned Barton amp; Baird and asked to speak to the agent who’d handled Jason Clement. There was a pause as the receptionist tapped keys.

‘I’m sorry. We don’t have a client of that name.’

‘I know. He was on your books about four years ago.’

She sounded young. Four years probably seemed like a long time to her.

‘Could you hold for a minute, please? I’ll ask around.’

I waited, listening to music I couldn’t identify.

‘Are you there, sir? I think Tim Stafford might be able to help you.’

‘Could I speak to him?’

‘It’s a she.’

‘Tim is a she?’

‘Her name is Timpani. I’m afraid not. She’s out of town on location and won’t be back for two days.’

‘Could I have her mobile?’

‘We don’t give out numbers and anyway it wouldn’t help, she’s on a boat out at sea.’

‘Is there no one else?’

‘No. I’m sorry, I have calls waiting.’

I thanked her and said I’d ring again in a few days. Next I tried Dr Kinsolving but that was like picking your way through a minefield. I got an answering machine message at the Chatswood number advising me of the times the doctor would be in attendance. At the Bondi Junction number I actually got a living person but not much joy.

‘You need a GP referral to see doctor,’ the receptionist said.

‘I’m not a patient. This is a different matter.’

‘I can put you through to doctor’s business manager.’

‘I don’t want his business manager, I want to speak to the doctor in person.’

‘Doctor is very busy; if you’re not a patient and it’s not a business matter, I don’t see. .’

‘Can you give him a message?’

‘Of course.’

I told her I was a private detective employed by Ray Frost who was the father of Dr Kinsolving’s client, the late Robert Forrest. I heard her gasp.

‘Oh, Bobby.’

‘Yes, Bobby. Tell the doctor it’s very urgent that I speak with him.’

She was helpful now and took down my numbers and those for Ray Frost and said she’d get the message to doctor just as soon as she could. I wondered how long that would be but didn’t press my luck by asking. I rang Ray Frost and told him a psychiatrist would be calling him to check on me.

‘What psychiatrist?’

‘Bobby’s psychiatrist.’

‘I didn’t know he had one.’

‘There’s a few things about him we didn’t know.’

‘So you’re still working on it. Are you getting anywhere?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Good. Stay with it and remember, any help you need I’m here.’

Kinsolving called an hour later and said he’d be happy to speak with me and he could give me some time at his Bondi Junction rooms at 2 pm that afternoon.

‘Did you call Ray Frost?’ I said.

‘I had someone call him, yes.’

That’s the way top people handle things. He sounded poised and confident and as if I should feel privileged to be talking to him in person. I hadn’t met any of the people in Kinsolving’s photo lineup, but then, he’d probably never met Brett Kirk or Jimmy Barnes. Remembering the doc’s sartorial style, I wore the suit. I didn’t think I’d need the gun.

Kinsolving’s rooms were in a street close to the shopping centre but not too close. The street featured a row of elegant terrace houses with tiled porches reached by tiled paths and steps. Well-maintained iron fences, tasteful gardens, imposing teak doors. I mounted the steps and pressed the buzzer. A click told me a surveillance camera had taken a look at me. Then the door opened and I walked into a carpeted passage that smelled of money.

A discreet sign pointed me to a waiting room halfway along the passage. Wide marble stairs with a polished handrail mounted to the heavens.

I went into the waiting room where a woman sat behind a desk. I agreed that I was Mr Hardy and she got up and opened a door. I went in to a large room with muted lighting. Bookshelves, a couple of armchairs, no desk, no couch. Dr Kinsolving came towards me with his hand out.

‘Mr Hardy, so glad to meet you. Please sit down. Would you like anything-tea, coffee?’

‘No thanks, doctor.’

I sat in one of the chairs. He remained standing for a few seconds-good manners or a little dominance strategy? He was about fifty, getting a bit portly but tall enough to carry it for a few years yet. His shirt and tie were blue, restful colours. His voice was quiet and his manner was confident.

‘Never met anyone in your profession before,’ he said as he sat. ‘I imagine you’re the sorts of fellows who can handle their own problems. Would you say?’

‘Possibly. In my case, so far.’

‘Good. Now I don’t have a lot of time. How can I be of help? I have to warn you, the constraints on what I can say about a client are severe.’

‘Even if he’s dead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you tell me, in very general terms, what problem Bobby Forrest came to you with?’

‘No.’

‘I know he had sexual problems. He told me about them. I’m not interested in that. I’m wondering if he had. . fears.’

He smiled. ‘Sexual problems generate possibly the worst fears of all.’

‘Okay. I’ll be direct. I’m trying to find out who killed him. I’ve got a possible candidate but not much information on the circumstances. I’ve been told there was a person who threatened him. I’d like to know whether Bobby took the threat seriously.’

‘I’ve never had a client murdered before. It’s left me with a very uneasy feeling. I’m wondering whether I could have done more for him. Perhaps prevented this from happening.’