Win, Lose or Draw Read online

  PETER CORRIS is known as the ‘godfather’ of Australian crime fiction through his Cliff Hardy detective stories. He has written in many other areas, including a co-authored autobiography of the late Professor Fred Hollows, a history of boxing in Australia, spy novels, historical novels and a collection of short stories about golf (see www.petercorris.net). In 1999, Peter Corris was awarded the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Crime Writers Association of Australia and, in 2009, the Ned Kelly Award for Best Fiction for Deep Water. He is married to writer Jean Bedford and has lived in Sydney for most of his life. They have three daughters and seven grandchildren.

  Peter Corris’s Cliff Hardy novels include The Empty Beach, Master’s Mates, The Coast Road, Saving Billie, The Undertow, Appeal Denied, The Big Score, Open File, Deep Water, Torn Apart, Follow the Money, Comeback, The Dunbar Case, Silent Kill, Gun Control and That Empty Feeling. Win, Lose or Draw is his forty-second and final Cliff Hardy book.

  He writes a regular weekly column for the online journal Newtown Review of Books (www.newtownreviewofbooks.com.au).

  Thanks to Jean Bedford, Sofya Gollan, Vincent Hawkins, Gaby Naher and, for yachting information, Mark Killeen and Dr Philip Nitschke.

  Also a special thanks to Patrick Gallagher, Angela Handley, Jo Jarrah, Ali Lavau, the publicists and the sales and marketing team at Allen & Unwin for being so helpful and supportive over many years.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First published in 2017

  Copyright © Peter Corris 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available

  from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 9781760294786

  eISBN 9781952535840

  Cover design by Emily O’Neill

  Cover photography by Lori Andrews / Getty Images

  Internal text design by Emily O’Neill

  For Jean

  The first one was for her and so is the last

  And the losers now will be later to win.

  —Bob Dylan, ‘The Times They Are a’Changin’’

  Contents

  Part One

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  Part Two

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  Part Three

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  part one

  1

  I’d read about it in the papers, heard the radio reports and seen the TV coverage and then forgotten about it the way you do with news stories. For a couple of weeks or so the image of fourteen-year-old Juliana Fonteyn was never out of the heads of anyone who paid attention to the media.

  Juliana attended an exclusive private school, Chelsea College, in the eastern suburbs. With her father, businessman Gerard Fonteyn, and stepmother Sonja, nee Bartholomew, and her brother Foster, eighteen, she lived in Vaucluse in a waterfront property that had its own beach, wharf, pool and spa, and five-car garage. At fourteen, Juliana stood 178 centimetres tall, had the face of a fashion model, was a high-performing athlete, and a talented musician with an IQ of 150. She was, by all accounts, a friendly, unassuming, rather serious-minded girl.

  One day in December, during the school holidays, she disappeared while her father was at his office, her stepmother was attending a charity event and her brother was doing whatever eighteen-year-old boys on holiday do. None of the servants—maid, cook or gardener—was live-in. Her father, first to come home, found her gone. Her mobile phone and iPad were still in the house; her bicycle was in the garage. Her three swimming costumes were in her room and the clothes she’d been wearing when her father last saw her—shorts, a T-shirt and sandals—were missing. She’d announced her intention to ‘veg out’ for the day.

  Juliana had scarcely had a day’s illness in her young life. She’d received ten dollars a week pocket money when she reached ten years of age and she’d had two five-dollar increments since. She paid for her own iPad downloads and the DVDs she bought or hired. She had perfect vision and perfect teeth.

  Naturally, I didn’t absorb all this from the media. I hadn’t paid that much attention at the time and more than a year went by after the disappearance before the matter came my way. I got this information and a lot more from Gerard Fonteyn OA when he hired me to find his daughter.

  ‘I won’t pretend you’re the first investigator I’ve approached, Mr Hardy,’ Gerard Fonteyn said when we met at his office in Double Bay. He’d phoned the day before and we’d agreed on the time and place. My business was in a slump and I’d had to give up my rented office in Pyrmont. I was working from home and had moved a desk and filing cabinets into the upstairs front room. I’d cleaned the carpet and the windows and had the room painted. But it reeked of STO—small time operation—and I was glad of Fonteyn’s suggestion of where to meet.

  ‘I don’t imagine so,’ I said. ‘I’m not on the A-list and probably barely make the B-list.’

  We were sitting around a coffee table in a sort of alcove to his spacious office—wood panelling, air-con, discreet lighting. A slim young woman, impeccably dressed, had served us coffee. Fonteyn waved my response away.

  ‘One on the A-list, as you call it, tried hard with no result; another charged me for doing nothing. A third, I suspect, intended to exploit me in some way. They had nice suits and offices. You have a reputation which is worth more than … the trappings.’

  When he said that I couldn’t help looking around the room. I drank some of the excellent coffee and didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

  Gerard Fonteyn was forty-nine and the CEO of a company that bore his name. My quick research following his initial phone call told me that he owned various interlocking enterprises: beauty parlours that related to fashion boutiques and high-end catering services; holiday resorts that tied in with an interest in cruise ships, recreational boat and plane operations and ecotourism.

  ‘I’m a very wealthy man,’ he said after this silence, ‘but since my daughter disappeared I’ve felt like a pauper. Can you understand that?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘I understand you have a daughter.’

  ‘I do,’ I said. ‘But I didn’t know about her until she was almost an adult. We’re very close now and I have grandchildren, but it all feels more like … a fri
endship than the kind of attachment you’re talking about.’

  Juliana had got her looks from her mother, who had died of cancer when she was five. Fonteyn was barely of medium height and heavily built with a high colour. At a guess he kept the flab under control with exercise, diet and steam baths and would always have to. He had a good head of hair above a fleshy face that sagged in spots.

  ‘You may be lucky in that,’ he said. ‘But my situation is very different. I couldn’t believe that a creature as wonderful as Juliana could be created by me and I cannot accept her loss.’

  I nodded. He must have spent thousands on having flyers printed and distributed and on full-page newspaper ads and television spots. He’d announced a $250,000 reward for any information leading to the whereabouts of his daughter.

  ‘Other than that … inability to accept,’ I said, ‘is there any solid evidence that she’s still alive?’

  He hadn’t touched his coffee. Now he picked up his cup and drained it in two gulps. ‘I’m encouraged,’ he said.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Every other investigator I’ve spoken to has been so eager to get the commission that they haven’t asked that sort of basic question. The answer is no. I established a website people could contact with information but all I’ve had are crank theories, false sightings and foul accusations.’

  ‘Accusations?’

  ‘Of course. As you must know, the first suspect in a case like this is the father. I don’t know how often that turns out to be true, but you wouldn’t believe some of the unspeakable suggestions sick minds out there have made.’

  ‘Juliana showed no signs of disturbance … dislocation?’

  He hesitated. ‘A couple of years ago I would have said none. She was a happy, well-adjusted child who got on well with me, her brother, Foster, and her stepmother. There were the usual mood swings at puberty, tiffs with friends, food fads and the like but nothing … troubling. But then she seemed to become moody and bad-tempered all the time. Nothing we did was right. We didn’t worry too much about it, just waited for her to grow out of it …’

  ‘I’ll be honest with you, Mr Fonteyn. The likelihood is that your daughter was abducted opportunistically and has been killed and disposed of.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘But just perhaps not. Just perhaps something else happened. The trail, if there is one, is very cold and well-trodden but I’m willing to make a preliminary … provisional investigation.’

  ‘Provisional?’

  ‘If I think I can’t make any progress I’ll tell you so the minute I decide, and I’ll only charge you pro rata.’

  ‘You can’t imagine that I’m concerned about your charges.’

  ‘No, but I am. I don’t exploit people and you’ve laid yourself wide open for exploitation from your … emotional attitude. It’s no wonder you’ve come under suspicion. You’ll remain that way while this case is open.’

  ‘D’you mean you’ll regard me as a suspect?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Jesus, you’re direct.’

  ‘There’s no other way. Have you changed your mind?’

  Despite the air-conditioning he was sweating in his collar and tie with his suit coat buttoned. He reached for a napkin that had come with the coffee and blotted his forehead.

  ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘You’re a difficult man to deal with, but I suppose that’s a good thing in your profession.’

  ‘I think so,’ I said. ‘I have to tread on toes, starting with yours.’

  For the first time he smiled. ‘I think I can see how that plays out. Keeps you off the A-list though.’

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  2

  I told Fonteyn I’d send him a contract that’d stipulate my usual retainer and daily rate plus expenses and the terms I’d outlined. Before I left he went to a filing cabinet and pulled out the largest set of material—notes, photographs, newspaper clippings and DVDs of television treatments of Juliana’s disappearance—I’ve ever received from a client. It was all in a box file, centimetres thick, with a padded section for the discs and photographs. A quick glance showed me that the list of addresses and telephone numbers that began the file covered two closely typed sheets.

  My first stop on the way home was the Fonteyn house in Vaucluse. It was a warm day in February and I stood on a high point north of the house and used binoculars to get the details. Two storeys of white brick on a large block, most of an acre in the old money, with trees, shrubs and flowerbeds all artistically placed. From my vantage point I could only get a glimpse of the edge of the balcony that afforded the residents a view of the water. It looked to be wide enough to have a game of table tennis without risk of losing the ball.

  A metal staircase zig-zagged down the cliff to the jetty and the beach. A motor launch, modest in size compared to some you see and with a dinghy attached, was moored at the jetty. Bordered by rocks at either end, the small, white-sand beach was inaccessible except via the house or by water. That water, this being Sydney Harbour on a perfect day, was similarly perfect.

  The house had the usual high brick wall with a wide security entrance—a booth with a heavy gate was set into the wall. It had a tiled roof and no doubt everything needed in the way of intercom connection and CCTV. Getting in there wouldn’t be easy unless you were wanted.

  I drove to Chelsea College in Bellevue Hill. The property sprawled along a stretch of high ground a couple of blocks back from the bluffs. Again, top security all around and high maintenance: tennis and basketball courts, a hockey or soccer field, and if that long, low building sparkling in the sunshine didn’t house a swimming pool, a gym and a squash court I’d be very surprised. The school itself seemed to comprise several buildings connected by covered breezeways. Architect-designed structures, no demountables of the kind I’d spent the greater part of my schooldays in.

  My meeting with Fonteyn had been at 11.30 so after that and my check on the house it was past 1.30 and school was back in. I made my surveillance quickly. These days, checking out a school through field glasses is a sure way to attract attention and trouble.

  Fairly or not, in the current climate of anxiety about child abuse, teachers come under scrutiny. I thought it likely that some would be mentioned in earlier investigators’ reports, and I wanted a look at their work situation.

  There was a large car park shaded by trees and difficult to see in detail. After some fiddling with the focus I realised that it was divided into two sections—one for staff and one for students. I laughed out loud when I saw this. About a dozen or so boys in my final year, including me, drove cars to school. No girls did. We parked them well away from the school because we were all unlicensed, we were all under age, and at least half of the cars were unregistered. The rest were ‘borrowed’ without parental permission. I drove a battered Falcon a mate and I had ‘restored’. We shared it until it suffered a fatal collapse. I’ve been a Falcon man virtually ever since.

  The teachers’ section held mostly family sedans, SUVs and station wagons. The students’ area, containing about twenty vehicles, featured new looking VWs, hatchbacks and sporty models of one kind or another. I couldn’t help wondering what kind of car Fonteyn would have bought Juliana when she got her P plates—maybe a modest little Alfa.

  Driving home I admitted to myself that I’m prejudiced against the rich. They are too few to have so much when so many have so little. I didn’t really want to take the Fonteyn matter on, even though I’d liked him well enough and his treatment of me had been fine. But I needed the work and the money. Then there was the elephant in the room. Fonteyn had made it clear that the reward was still on offer. Two hundred and fifty grand would make me solvent and able to pick and choose my jobs. The rich have their uses.

  It was a Tuesday. A lot of my cases have begun on Tuesdays. The client thinks it over hard on the weekend, makes the call on Monday and sets up a Tuesday meeting. Rich or not so rich, the pattern is the same. I’d been to the gym on Monday as us
ual and felt virtuous. I’d taken my grandsons Jack and Ben for an early dinner in Newtown at the Italian Bowl: spaghetti bolognaise for them with heaps of parmesan cheese, pesto gnocchi for me and gelato after—for them. One glass of white with the food and a short black while they wolfed down the gelato. Then I took them back home to receive the gratitude of my daughter Megan and her partner Hank for having given them an hour and a half off. More virtuous feelings and so to bed, as whatsisname said.

  Next day, I spent the morning cleaning the decks for a clear field to look at the Fonteyn case. I spread the contents of the box file out over the desk, covering most of the surface, pushing the Mac screen and keyboard aside to make space. There were several photographs of Juliana, including the one that had appeared in the press, on letterbox flyers and on TV. It was a full-length shot of her in mid-stride wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, carrying what looked like a gym bag and with her mane of honey-blonde hair slightly disturbed by her movement and the wind.

  It was a spontaneous, unstudied picture that somehow captured the essence of her beauty—her youth and yet the beginnings of something else, her innocence but also a potential for experience. She was a young Charlotte Rampling, a junior Maria Sharapova.

  Reports by other investigators bulked large along with hundreds of newspaper clippings, printouts of blogs and transcripts of radio reports. There were printouts of messages on Fonteyn’s web page, some of which had been followed up to no result. There were printouts of several rancid tweets speculating about Juliana’s lubricity and Fonteyn’s sexual predilections.

  Particularly offensive was something I imagine must have given Gerard Fonteyn nightmares. A photo of a life-sized cardboard model of Juliana, based on the familiar photograph, had been erected at various points around the eastern suburbs. One of these had been graffitied and mutilated in a way that could only be described as demented. Accompanying the picture of this atrocity were police statements about their investigations of what they termed an ‘incident’, meaning deposits of sperm on the cutout, which had been analysed without anything being learned. Following this, the models had been quickly withdrawn.