Peter Corris: The Reward

Ramona Beckett, Harry said, propping his Nikes on the desk in front of him and wrapping his pale, freckled hands around a coffee mug. Sure, I remember. I was still at The News then, protecting incompetent arses. Didnt work on it myself.

Were there any whispers?

Like what?

Barry White has suggested that perhaps not all the cops were playing with straight bats.

You shock me. Dealing with Barry White. No, not that I remember. Wasnt she some kind of blackmailer?

Allegedly. Yes, she was.

Harry shrugged. How hard would anyone try to find her then?

Dont forget the reward. Id like to know what was in her dads will

Would you now? Well, it wouldve been filed for probate. Youd have your ways of getting a squiz at that, wouldnt you, son?

Yeah, Ill take a look, but Id also like to talk to the lawyer, get the flavour of the thing as it were. Thats why Im here taking up your time. I thought that if you were to ask nicely, that librarian in at The News who used to fancy you would probably look up the cuttings and get the lawyers name.

Seventeen years. Chances are hes dead.

Youre not, Im not.

True, surprisingly. Harry punched buttons on a phone. I drank some more coffee and got, or thought I got, a lift from it. I wandered around the suite of small offices. The Challenger does well and is always threatening to grow. When this happens, Harry does what he calls a pruning. He wants it to stay on a scale he can control. Also he hates sacking people, so he keeps the staff at the same size. Their loyalty is fierce. I knew all of them slightly and exchanged a few words as I made my tour. Maddy Allbright, Harrys chief assistant, was chuckling over a piece of copy.

What? I said.

Heres a six-foot four-inch lesbian who wants to be a priest. She claims shes being discriminated against on grounds of sex, sexuality and height.

Thats a tall order.

Go away.

Harry waved at me. Got it, he said. It seems old Beckett married a younger woman and he took her lawyer on. Not a wise move to my mind, but there you are. Names Wallace Cavendish. Ive written it all out on a Post-it so you can stick it somewhere.

I put the mug on the desk where the ring it would make would join a thousand others. Thanks, Harry.

I also asked Marjorie for copies of the main cuts on the Beckett case. Ill fax them to you if you like.

Forever in your debt. I must make sure theres some paper in the machine. Its all been a bit slow lately.

If you turn up anything interesting

It goes without saying, I said.

I walked out into the early-afternoon sunshine, completely sober, my mood much improved by the meeting with Harry, but very hungry. My first stop was a sandwich bar much patronised by Harrys people, where they build elegant structures that somehow hold together and dont drip on you. I ate the sandwich sitting on a bench in one of the little paved squares that have been carved out in the middle of the residential and industrial busyness. I shared the space but not the sandwich with some disappointed pigeons and seagulls. The weather had improved as the day went on and, professionally, the outlook wasnt too bad either. I had a police consultant to consult, a lawyer to meet, newspaper cuttings to read and a widow to visit at the Gold Coast. Ive had much worse starts.

I drove the short hop to Darlinghurst, parked in my usual spot, and headed for my office. The way Harry Tickener worked, the faxed cuttings could be spewing out of the machine right now. The area around St Peters Lane has changed a hell of a lot since I first lobbed there, but the change seems to have stalled, which suits me. I used to like the accretion of posters on the wallsrock gigs, religious meetings, political ralliesdating back years. The bill posters tended not to overlay them exactly, or they peeled off and you could trace history on the walls the way archaeologists read stratified deposits. Nowadays, the council employs someone to strip them off. Sad.

I went up the stairs humming some Sinatra song or other and was embarrassed when I saw a man waiting outside my door. Im not a tuneful hummer, as several women have told me. At least I have the sense not to sing. The man looked unthreateninglate middle-aged or more, stocky with thinning grey hair, a slightly rumpled lightweight suit to match, briefcase. Still, nothing to say there wasnt a pair of brass knucks in the briefcase at his feet. I slowed down to give him time to make the first move. Someone pretending to be passive, but intending to be active, sometimes betrays the intention by body language. Sometimes. This guy was harmless stillness itself.

Mr Hardy? he said loudly, taking a step away from the wall and leaving the briefcase where it was.

I stopped humming. Thats right.

He stuck out a surprisingly big, meaty paw. Glad to meet you. Im Max Savage.

The name registeredFrank Parkers consultantbut this was all very disconcertingly premature. I shook the hand and dug for my keys. Youve jumped the gun, I muttered.

What was that?

The volume of his voice forced me to look at him. I said youve jumped the gun.

He nodded. Jumped the gun, thats right. Im afraid I have. Ill explain when we get inside.

The light wasnt good in the corridor, a matter of dirty windows and low wattage in the bulbs, which was why I hadnt noticed the small hearing aids in both ears. I unlocked the door and ushered him in. He bent easily to pick up the briefcase and stepped smartly past me. For a mature-age citizen he moved pretty smoothly. The office has a tiny vestibule, about big enough to hold a bicycle, and then the room itself. Max Savage went in, put his briefcase down and stood by the client chair. I had the odd feeling that he was directing the traffic, willing me to get behind the desk to my allotted place. Instead I went over to the fax machine and examined the long roll of paper that had come through. Good old Harry.

I looked straight at him. Sit down, Mr Savage, I said.

Thank you. He sat, and the contrast with the last man whod sat there couldnt have been more extreme. Whereas Barry White had been a mass of tics and fidgets and habitual gestures, Savage was a model of harmony and control. He waited for me to sit down and looked as if it wouldnt worry him if he had to wait an hour or so. I tore off the fax paper and let the roll settle. Then I sat down.

I dont want to be rude, but Frank Parker was going to give me some time to get back to him, I said. This is all a bit premature, isnt it?

It is and Im sorry. But as you can imagine, the telephone is a difficult instrument for me. I have to use a relay service or get someone to interpret, as it were, for me. Thats cumbersome and people tend not to want to go through the rigmarole. I find face-to-face meetings much more productive. As to the rush, Ill be frank with you, Mr Hardy. The police service takes a dim view of me on the whole. Frank is one of my few supporters. Ive had bugger-all to do since I was approached and this is the first chance for me to get my teeth into something. Im excited by it. So, as you say, I jumped the gun.

I realised that I liked him. He was direct and honest, not common characteristics in the people I meet, and he seemed to treat his disability matter-of-factly, so that I felt comfortable with it. Still, you have to know exactly who youre dealing with.

How deaf are you? I asked.

Very, but not totally. I get a fair bit in on some frequencies and next to nothing on others. In a quiet setting like this I can hear your voice more or less. You speak very clearly. Of course, I dont really need to hear it.

Hows that?

Im a very good lip-reader. You open your mouth when you speak and you havent got any facial hair so I can pick up what youre saying pretty exactly. Then theres the body language.