Peter Corris: The Reward

Due back when? I asked.

Tonight.

Id like to see him tomorrow.

That may not be possible, said honey-voice. If I may have your number Ill advise you when Mr Cavendish will be free.

And that was the best I could do. I drove down William Street and parked in College Street at one of the meters that had become free as the earliest of the commuters on flexi-time started to move out. I walked through Hyde Park and St James Park to the Supreme Court. Level 5 is always busy with bonds, bail and other matters being settled. It was a relief to get the nod from my contact and bypass the people clutching their tickets and waiting for their numbers to show up in big red figures. Things are quieter on Level 6. I paid over the ten dollars necessary to get a copy of a will probated between 1850 and 1986. The public can get a look at any will but only an executor can see the full list of assets and their disposal. For the purpose of this exercise, and for a price, I was an executor. After a fairly short wait the documents were produced. A probated will can be a file as slim as a magazine insert or a hefty document. Joshua Becketts was somewhere in between. I flicked through it as I rode down in the lift.

The bulk of the estate, which was valued at 6.8 million dollars, went to Becketts wife. There was a bequest of seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars to Sean Ian Beckett and sizeable shares in several companies. Estelle Lucy Beckett got half a million dollars and some smaller stock packages. A few charities came in for a whack and a couple of people who sounded like long-term domestic servants also did OK. No mention of the first Mrs B. The sum of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars was invested in a portfolio to be jointly administered by James Hills of Hills and Associates, accountants, and Wallace Cavendish, solicitor. The funds were at all times to be available at call, and Cavendish and Mrs Beckett jointly were authorised to dispense them to any person or persons whose information leads to the conviction of those responsible for the death of my dear daughter, Ramona Louise Beckett. Good on you, Josh.

Mrs Horsfield, Wallace Cavendishs secretary, was a dumpy, homely woman with a beautiful voice. Shed phoned me at 8 a.m. to say that her lord and master could see me at ten. Meaning shed communicated with Cavendish some time late yesterday and hed agreed to a meeting virtually as early as it could be set up. That was interesting. I wore my best, that is to say my only suita dark blue lightweight double-breaster that hadnt gone out of fashion, although the lapels were possibly not quite exactly the right shape for this year. Mrs Horsfield seemed to approve of my appearance. Shed probably been expecting a leather-jacketed thug, which I would have easily provided in a different context.

Just one minute, Mr Hardy, she said in a voice that would have lured most sailors onto the rocks, except that her second chin wobbled. Please take a seat. Mr Cavendish is dealing with a tiny detail, then hell be with you.

I nodded and sat down in a deep leather-covered chair that seemed to swallow me up. The magazines on the table beside me catered for just about all tastes Golf Today, Tennis Australia, Australian Business, Australian Bride, Home and Garden, Best Investments Guide. I leafed through the tennis magazine skeptically, wondering what effect it would have had on Rod Laver if hed been called the new Lew Hoad at nineteen, the way they were calling Mark Phillipousos the new Pancho Gonzales. Darren Cahill had been the new Roy Emerson; Patrick Rafter the new John Newcombe…

Mr Cavendish will see you now, Mr Hardy. She showed me into an office not quite as big as a tennis court. The walls were book-lined but leaving plenty of room for paintings, framed degrees and awards of one sort or another. You could do at least four different things in that room work at the big teak desk, hold a conference at the big table, have a chat and coffee around a low table or have a sleep on the wide sofa. I assumed that there was a bar somewhere, so make that five things; if there was a TV, six. The blinds were set to allow in enough morning light to read by but not too much. The air-conditioning, keeping the room at a comfortable temperature, was a faint whisper in the background.

Cavendish stood up behind his desk as I came in. He was taller than me, getting on for 190 centimetres, and he looked fit in his blue shirt, dark trousers and red tie with braces to match. The braces were a jaunty touch in an otherwise very serious-looking man. He was somewhere between fifty and sixty, impossible to be precise because his smooth skin had a slightly artificial look as if hed had a facelift, but that could have just been good genes and good dietary habits. His hair was thick, worn long and with plenty of grey in it. Id have been willing to bet that his teeth were good and his prostate likewise. He took off horn-rimmed reading glasses as I moved across the room and I could see what a good prop theyd be in meetings when making a play with those deep-set but large grey eyes put em on for something serious, whip em off when going for a laugh.

Mr Hardy. His handshake was firm, his accent what used to be called educated Australian.

Mr Cavendish, thank you for seeing me.

Sit down, sit down. I cant give you very long, but I must admit I was intrigued by what you told Mrs Horsfield.

I unbuttoned my jacket and sat down, wishing I had some red braces to show. I think I can be a little more frank with you. My client has information that may throw light on Ramona Becketts disappearance.

Cavendish nodded. So I gather. This is very late in the day. May I know the name of your client?

No.

Well…

Id like to ask you some questions.

Go ahead. Ill try to be more forthcoming than you.

Is the reward of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars still on offer?

He hesitated and I watched him closely. Would he tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth? He didnt. Yes, he said. It is.

Not quite a lie, but an interesting understatement to say the least. Can you tell me whose idea it was to post the reward?

He picked up his glasses and fiddled with the arms, bringing them together and separating them, as if one was the no comment arm and the other was the name.

The left arm was folded in. I believe Mr Beckett conceived the idea.

Did the other members of the family approve?

The position of the arms reversed. I really couldnt comment on that. I cant quite see where your questions are leading. Perhaps you could be more specific about this information.

Fair enough. And I couldnt see any harm in stirring the possum. Only a little, I said. It seems to suggest the involvement of a member of the family in the… disappearance.

Thats preposterous!

I had a feeling that I didnt have much more of his expensive time and there was no point in fencing with him. He was smart, experienced and looked utterly secure. It was time for the broadsword. She was a blackmailer, Mr Cavendish. I know because I frustrated one of her scams. She must have been an embarrassment to the family, perhaps even a threat. Maybe she went too far…

That is ridiculous. Absurd. If you go about saying these things

Shes officially dead. Anyone can say what they like about her.

I mean… implying that Gabriella or…

The first slip and my tactic was not to notice it. I dropped my eyes, took out my notebook and made a play of checking a few things off. Cavendish glanced at his watch. Then I tried for my most winning smile, flipped the notebook closed and tucked it and the pen away in the inside pocket of my suit coat. All that took a second or two. I know youre busy. So am I. Like me, you must have a lot of things on your plate. Did you know Cy Sackville, by the way?