O'Fear 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 2009, Peter Corris was awarded the Ned Kelly Award for Best Fiction by the Crime Writers Association of Australia. He is married to writer Jean Bedford and has lived in Sydney for most of his life. They have three daughters and six grandsons.

  The Cliff Hardy collection

  The Dying Trade (1980)

  White Meat (1981)

  The Marvellous Boy (1982)

  The Empty Beach (1983)

  Heroin Annie (1984)

  Make Me Rich (1985)

  The Big Drop (1985)

  Deal Me Out (1986)

  The Greenwich Apartments (1986)

  The January Zone (1987)

  Man in the Shadows (1988)

  O’Fear (1990)

  Wet Graves (1991)

  Aftershock (1991)

  Beware of the Dog (1992)

  Burn, and Other Stories (1993)

  Matrimonial Causes (1993)

  Casino (1994)

  The Washington Club (1997)

  Forget Me If You Can (1997)

  The Reward (1997)

  The Black Prince (1998)

  The Other Side of Sorrow (1999)

  Lugarno (2001)

  Salt and Blood (2002)

  Master’s Mates (2003)

  The Coast Road (2004)

  Taking Care of Business (2004)

  Saving Billie (2005)

  The Undertow (2006)

  Appeal Denied (2007)

  The Big Score (2007)

  Open File (2008)

  Deep Water (2009)

  Torn Apart (2010)

  Follow the Money (2011)

  Comeback (2012)

  The Dunbar Case (2013)

  Silent Kill (2014)

  PETER

  CORRIS

  O’FEAR

  This edition published by Allen & Unwin in 2014

  First published by Bantam Books, a division of Transworld Publishers, in 1990

  Copyright © Peter Corris 1990

  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.

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  ISBN 978 1 76011 012 3 (pbk)

  ISBN 978 1 74343 794 0 (ebook)

  For

  Robin and Virginia Wallace-Crabbe

  1

  ‘Did you know a man named Barnes Todd?’ Cy Sackville asked me.

  ‘What do you mean, did? I do know him. Barnes Todd.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Cliff. You don’t know him anymore. He’s dead.’

  ‘Shit,’ I said. ‘Everybody’s dying these days. How come you and I aren’t dead, Cy?’

  Sackville smiled his expensive lawyer’s smile, the one that means we’re going to win but it’ll cost you. ‘I keep myself fit and I work in a profession known for the longevity of its members. Whereas you …’

  ‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘On both counts. Well, private eyes live longer on average than some people.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Astronauts. I’m sorry to hear about Todd. He wasn’t that old, was he?’

  ‘About fifty, bit more.’

  Depressing. But I was determined not to be too depressed, there had been too much of that in my life recently. ‘It’s always nice to see you, Cy, but why the sudden summons to your pricy presence? You weren’t Todd’s lawyer, were you?’

  Sackville shook his well-groomed head. He’s about my age, which is more than forty, and I rate him marginally brighter and about twenty times richer than me. At five foot seven he’s six inches shorter, and we both weigh about twelve stone. You can see what a good team we make. ‘You don’t seem very upset at my news.’

  ‘I didn’t know him well!’ I snapped.

  Sackville raised one eyebrow. He was sitting behind his big polished desk under a painting with a lot of clouds and light in it. It looked as if it could float off the wall any minute. Then it could float out the window, across Martin Place and maybe down the Pitt Street mall. Since the big stock market crash, I had been in a few plush offices where space had opened up on the walls. But Cy has always been careful and patient. ‘You seem to be under a lot of strain,’ he said.

  Usually Cy’s affluence, displayed in the wood panelling of his office and the cut of his suits, amused me; today it got under my skin. I shrugged and plucked at the fabric of the chair I was sitting in. I was pretty sure I could get a finger into the upholstery and do some damage. ‘I’ve got a few problems,’ I said.

  ‘Women?’

  ‘No woman. That’s one of the problems.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Ditto. What’s all this about Todd?’

  Sackville fiddled with a file on his desk. ‘It’s a bit weird. I got a call from Todd’s solicitor, name of Hickie. One-man show in Bondi Junction. Well, it’s not a bad location for certain kinds of work. Anyway, Hickie got a letter from Todd a couple of days before his death.’

  I suppose that’s when I took it in properly—that Barnes Todd was dead. I met him almost twenty years ago when I was happily married and looking for a cheap house. He dabbled in real estate, among a lot of other things. He found the Glebe terrace I still lived in, helped with the finance and a few other problems. I’d seen him perhaps two or three times a year since then—at the pub, in the street or in a restaurant. He was about ten years older than me and he’d served in the Korean war. We used to have a drink and joke about our wars. Mine was the Malayan emergency which had started earlier than Korea and gone on longer, to 1960. I’d been in on the very end of it. The talk drove Cyn, my then wife, nuts. This was years ago, of course. Until recently, war talk has excluded women in our society. Maybe it’s different in the Middle East. Nowadays you can meet female journos and photographers who know a bit about it, but Cyn knew war from books and films, which give you only a shadow of the physical and mental truth. Anyway, I’d liked what I’d seen of Barnes Todd.

  The memories didn’t improve my mood. ‘What’s this exchange between legal chaps got to do with me?’

  ‘You are in a bad way. Have you been playing tennis or doing anything for your body lately?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘My body’s been letting me down. It feels tired in the morning and it won’t sleep at night. Get on with it, Cy.’

  ‘I had to ascertain that you knew Todd. That you were acquaintances, at least.’

  ‘You’ve done that. He was a big bloke, bald and getting fat. He didn’t do much for his body either, but I would’ve expected it to last him a fair while longer. How did he die?’

  ‘Car accident. He went over a cliff down on the south coast.’

  I nodded. ‘He had a house down th
ere, I remember. I used to think he was lucky to have it.

  Sackville grunted. He has a house at Palm Beach, so I suppose he doesn’t think much of the south coast. ‘Wife. No children. Have you met his wife, Cliff?’

  ‘No. I thought he was a bachelor with girlfriends. I saw him with a few women over the years. Look, now I come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve seen him for a year or more.’

  ‘Hickie tells me he was married about a year ago. To … let me see …’ He opened the file and flicked over a page. ‘Felicia Armstrong. Younger than him. She’s now a fairly rich, fairly young widow.’

  I dug the finger under the binding on the chair and felt the stitching. It gave a little. ‘Cy,’ I said, ‘get to the point. As far as I know Todd was a good bloke. If I’d heard about it, I’d have gone to his funeral. Maybe. Like I’d go to yours, or Harry Tickener’s.’

  Sackville shuddered. ‘Don’t speak of us in the same breath. Tickener smokes forty Camels a day. It’s very likely you’ll get the chance to go to his funeral. I plan to outlive you.’

  ‘You’re risking a violent death by playing the close-mouthed lawyer on me. I could be out making money.’ I leaned forward and stared at his face. I saw no lines, good teeth, gold frame glasses and an even tan.

  Cy blinked. ‘I’m glad to see you can still clown. I was beginning to worry about you. You look as if you’ve just copped a ten-year sentence with no remissions.’

  I had had a few snorts of mid-morning wine and hadn’t stood too close to the shaver. I needed a haircut and my twice-broken nose has wanted straightening for twenty-five years. I let my tainted breath drift across his desk, sniffed loudly and stroked my stubble like Mickey Rourke. ‘What’s the bottom line, Cy?’

  ‘I remember when you used to play the alcoholic,’ Sackville said. ‘After Cyn left you. It went on too long and it wasn’t all that convincing, or funny. Barnes Todd has left you some money.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To find out who murdered him.’

  I sat back in the chair. Sackville unhooked his glasses and set them down gently on top of the file. He massaged the bridge of his nose and tried to look grave, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. It irritated me, the way a lot of small things had lately. What’s so funny? I thought. I’d been in this business for nearly fifteen years. I’d found murderers before, hadn’t I? Well, stumbled across a couple. ‘How much money?’ I said harshly.

  ‘Ten thousand dollars. His wife’s not too happy about it.’

  2

  A rock band was playing in the Martin Place amphitheatre when I left Cy’s office. The drummer and the bass guitarist had shaven heads; the singer and lead guitarist had hair to their waists and both wore leather skirts, high-heeled boots and heavy make-up. I suspected the singer was a man. Twenty years ago they would all have been arrested for creating a public nuisance, but now the shoppers and lunchers walked by or paused to listen while they ate. None was visibly corrupted. The singer screamed, ‘Fuck me!’ into the microphone, but no one did, at least not there and then.

  By the time I crossed Castlereagh Street the heavy, jolting music was a thin wail and by Macquarie Street the traffic was making more noise. I’d told Sackville the truth—business was bad and money was short. I bought a sandwich and shared a seat outside the Public Library with a young Japanese couple, clearly tourists, and a woman in a long overcoat who was muttering to herself as she crunched hard frozen peas from a packet. I ate the sandwich and considered the jottings I had made in my notebook.

  I had the addresses and telephone numbers of Michael Hickie, the lawyer, and Felicia Todd, née Armstrong, the wife. Barnes Todd had apparently lived in Coogee, which didn’t surprise me. I could see him as an ocean-views, early-swimming type. Hickie’s office was in Bondi Junction, which didn’t mean anything in particular. Cy had given me a report on the accident, if that’s what it was: Barnes Todd’s Holden Calais had failed to hold the road coming down Bulli Pass at 1 a.m. on 26 January. The car had fallen a long way and hit a lot of trees and rocks on the way down. It had exploded, and people at first had taken the noise and fire for a bit of Australia Day whoopee.

  I crumpled the sandwich wrapper and bag and tossed them into a bin. The tourists were bent over a guidebook, talking intently. The woman in the overcoat had started tossing the peas to the pigeons, which weren’t very interested.

  ‘Bloody pigeons,’ the woman said, ‘bloody buggers.’

  The Japanese man inclined his head politely. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  The woman looked as if she might shower him with the peas so I stood and moved around to block her. ‘She’s talking to the pigeons,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry about her. Enjoy your stay.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the man said. ‘Can you tell us where is Mrs Macquarie’s chair?’

  I gave them directions and explained that it wasn’t really a chair, just a rock.

  ‘This is a very strange country,’ he said.

  The woman with the peas had left the bench and was walking towards the street, dropping a pea with every step.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It is.’

  Since the media barons started selling their papers and magazines and TV stations to each other, it’s become harder for a man in my line of work to keep his press contacts in good order. For years I had relied on my friendship with Harry Tickener to gain access to the resources of the News. Now that paper was part of a package that might or might not be traded, and Harry had taken six months’ leave while they sorted it out. He was at home writing a book, with his door locked and his answering machine switched on, twenty-four hours a day. So I used the Public Library to check the newspaper reports on Barnes Todd’s death.

  I had barely glanced at the papers in January. The early weeks had been good or bad for crime, depending on your point of view. There had been several bank robberies and a spectacular payroll grab by seven men with shortened shotguns. That was a lot of firepower, but $1.2 million was a lot of money. Even if I had been reading the papers in my usual inattentive way, I could easily have missed the small item headed ‘“Bonfire” a funeral pyre.’ This wasn’t strictly accurate, because Todd had been thrown clear of the car and had died in Wollongong hospital soon after. Otherwise, the details were pretty much as Sackville had stated. Sergeant Anderson of the Bulli police had his say about the dangers of Bulli Pass. The report gave the names of three witnesses—Mr M. Simpson and Mr C. Bent had helped to put out the fire started by the exploding car after Mr W. Bradley had alerted them. I wondered why W. Bradley hadn’t fought the flames. ‘Mr Todd was alone in the car. He had attended a party in Sydney and was driving to Thirroul to join his wife for a holiday in their beach house.’ Implication—Barnes Todd had got pissed in the city and wiped himself out in the country. An old story.

  I flicked through the pages and found the funeral notice. Private, cremation, no flowers. No suspicious circumstances, no inquest. The accident was almost two months in the past. There was no sign that a man had been murdered except some sort of signal from the man himself. I was intrigued, and there haven’t been many days in my life when $10,000 wouldn’t have come in handy.

  I left the library and walked through the Domain and Woolloomooloo to my office in Darlinghurst. The morning had been cool with a southerly breeze and clouds banking up to the east; now the sky had cleared and the air was still. It was hot and I carried my jacket over my shoulder. I sweated freely but my wind was good on the upgrades. I wasn’t a candidate for the City to Surf, but I’d back myself for two lengths of the Bondi promenade against Cy Sackville any day.

  Thoughts of Bondi were much on my mind as I turned into St Peter’s Lane. You hear of people who have lived their whole lives in the one house and you shudder, but right now I was yearning for a little permanency. The building that houses my office was up for renovation. I didn’t want to be renovated or to pay a renovated rent. A few of us tenants—such as the painless depilator and the iridologist—had got together and made an approac
h to the owner. The result had been an avalanche of paper—notices from various bodies declaring the building unsafe and unsanitary, reports indicating how many provisions of the wiring and plumbing regulations were being violated, and the threat of a rent hike anyway. Since then the iridologist had left and my footsteps in the corridors were sounding more and more hollow. I didn’t want to move, but I had had a very attractive offer of a place in Hastings Parade, Bondi.

  ‘Afternoon, Cliff. Love your hours.’ The depilator, whose office was next to mine, was a fiftyish woman named Paula. Paula had dyed red hair, scarlet fingernails and a mouth painted to match. She always wore red clothes and if her throat got cut some day, it would be a while before anyone noticed.

  ‘Don’t get the wrong idea. I’ve been at work all night.’

  She rubbed hard at the dust on the glass panel in her door with her sleeve, got it satisfyingly dirty and gave me a broad wink. ‘That’s what I mean, lover.’

  I blew the dust from the business card that carries my name and is held in place by a drawing pin—my version of the professional nameplate—and bent to pull at a promising-looking envelope. It was stuck under the door. I straightened up, trying not to feel stiff. ‘Have you got any plans, Paula? About moving?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘They can pull it down around me. Don’t pin your dreams on the fat envelope, Cliff. I got one too. It offers you a chance to win a Fiji island, a stud racehorse and a speedboat. There’s a video of the horse and the boat in action.’

  ‘What d’you have to do?’

  She snorted. ‘I didn’t bother to find out.’

  ‘Maybe I can record over the tape. Get an episode of Miami Vice.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it. Buggers’ve probably fixed it so you can’t.’

  I shoved hard and got the door open. The offending envelope was just as Paula had said. To win one of the fabulous prizes you had to invest $10. I put the video cassette on my desk and threw the rest of the information away. There was no other mail, which didn’t surprise me. Things have changed in Darlinghurst: the white ants have made a couple of steps on the second flight of stairs hazardous unless you know them, which my clients naturally don’t, and Primo Tomasetti has moved his tattooing establishment several blocks away, so I no longer have a parking place. As a result, I’ve been doing most of my dwindling business from home, where I installed my only hired help—an answering machine.