Win, Lose or Draw Read online

  There were only two banks—Westpac and the Commonwealth. I had long-standing issues with the Commonwealth for its arrogance and intransigence and St George, which was part of the Westpac system, held my mortgage. It wouldn’t do any harm for the bank to register that I had dollars to play with, however briefly.

  ‘Will I be able to withdraw ten thousand dollars in cash?’

  The female clerk looked alarmed. ‘I’ll have to check, sir.’

  A few minutes later she returned. ‘The money can be issued to you in forty-eight hours on the presentation of your card and ID.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Have a nice day.’

  I nodded and left. I had the feeling that she watched me all the way, maybe thinking I was some kind of high roller, although as far as I knew there was no casino in town. I hoped it had made her day.

  I spent some time walking around the town to familiarise myself with the place—where to eat and drink, where money was and where it wasn’t, and when to be friendly and when to be businesslike. From long habit, I located the police station, hoping I wouldn’t have to have anything to do with it.

  By late afternoon it was time to go back to the Seafarer and make contact with Colin Campbell—if that was his real name, which I doubted. There was certainly no C Campbell in the local telephone directory, but with so many people only using mobiles that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

  ‘Do you have a Mr Colin Campbell staying here?’ I asked the receptionist.

  The place was half-occupied at best and she didn’t need to check.

  ‘No, sir. There’s a Mr Colin Cameron.’

  I snapped my fingers. ‘That’ll be him.’

  ‘He’s in room nine, just along the balcony from your room.’

  ‘Is he in at the moment?’

  ‘I believe he’s in the garden. He’s a keen photographer and he seems to find things to interest him there.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll look him up later.’

  Getting into room nine was child’s play. It was a duplicate of mine and the occupant had put his bag where I’d put mine and distributed his things in much the same way. To judge by the clothes, he was about my height but heavier. Not a book reader; a newspaper and magazine man. Not a smoker but definitely a drinker. There was extra wine in the fridge and a bottle of scotch on a shelf. His passport identified him as Christopher Colin Cameron, born in London forty-four years ago. I was wrong about his height; at 189 centimetres I had three centimetres on him. Hair and complexion fair, very English looking.

  A couple of cameras, photographic equipment and a folio of published work certified him as a freelance photojournalist—perhaps, judging by the dates on the pieces, not doing as well lately as he had in years gone by.

  The shadows were forming. I turned on just one light, made myself a generous scotch and ice from his Dewar’s and settled into a comfortable chair to wait.

  He came in, T-shirt and shorts, camera around the neck, a bit sweaty, heading straight for the fridge. He stopped dead when he saw me.

  I lifted my glass. ‘Don’t say, “Who the hell are you?” or you’ll make me think we’re in a film. You must have a pretty good idea who I am.’

  His accent when he replied was southern English, not top-drawer but not working class. The sort you hear from English actors on television, which I’ve heard described as ‘mockney’.

  ‘From Fonteyn.’

  ‘Right. Why the pseudonym?’

  ‘I’m quite well known in some quarters. I just wanted to keep my identity hidden until I saw what happened.’

  He opened the fridge, took out a stubby of beer, twisted off the top and swigged it. He was flabby with a double chin getting underway. The passport photo dated back a while. With the bottle half empty he slumped into a chair.

  ‘Have you come here to hurt me?’

  I couldn’t resist the cue. ‘No, Mr Cameron, I’ve come here to pay you money, if I think you deserve it.’

  ‘I’m not a blackmailer. I made no threats.’

  ‘True, and I’m not hired muscle. I’m a private detective working for Gerard Fonteyn, investigating the disappearance of his daughter.’ I showed him my licence and Fonteyn’s business card. I also showed him the printout I’d made of my account balance, with the recent deposit of twenty thousand dollars, and told him it was a retainer from Fonteyn. I wanted him relaxed, at least for now. But it all had the wrong effect. He finished his beer, unhooked his camera and placed it carefully on the bed. Then he made himself a scotch with ice and a few drops of soda before sitting again and crossing his freckled legs.

  ‘And you feel free to break into my room and look through my belongings, possibly to steal things?’

  I waggled the printout at him. ‘Get off your high horse, mate. I’m authorised to pay you or tell you to fuck off.’

  He got up and turned on the ceiling fan. With the sun gone the room seemed to get hotter. He sat and worked on his drink.

  ‘Yes, that would seem to give you the upper hand. But Gerard is clearly desperate. I’ve no idea what your rates are—steep I imagine from your attitude—but hiring you and sending you here and so on is a sign of that.’

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘The man is so rich he could hire me for a year and put me up in New York and not feel the pinch.’

  ‘I see. I had no idea. These plutocrats are very good at hiding their wealth. I should have asked for more.’

  ‘You’re looking at a whole lot less until you start providing some information.’

  ‘The printout shows a deposit of twenty grand.’

  I shrugged. ‘Ten of it’s for me. I get it whatever happens. It’s your ten that’s on the line and I think you need it, Col.’ I pointed to his folio, which I’d left on the bed. ‘Been a while since you did a big money shoot.’

  ‘True, very perceptive of you. What was your name again?’

  An old trick to win a point but I let him have it because I could see that his brain was working overtime and I wanted to know the results. ‘Cliff Hardy.’

  He smiled, showing yellowed teeth. An ex-smoker. I’d wondered why the ashtray from the table on the balcony had been tucked away somewhere.

  ‘It sounds like an assumed name to fit your profession.’

  ‘It isn’t. Let’s stop the bullshit and get down to business.’

  He leaned forward and studied me. He touched his eyebrows and ran a finger down the centre of his chest. I realised that my shirt was open enough to show the top of my bypass scar.

  ‘I’m betting that’s not the only scar you have.’

  ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘I’m wondering how tough you really are.’

  ‘I don’t advise you to find out.’

  ‘Quite. And it’s more important to know how smart you are. You see, I lied when I said I didn’t know how rich Gerard Fonteyn really is and I did expect an intermediary, though not exactly someone like you.’

  He was suddenly sounding very sure of himself. I nodded, waiting to hear why he thought he had my measure.

  ‘This was just the bait, Mr Hardy.’

  7

  Controlling situations or trying to is my forte, but I felt this one slipping away. Cameron refreshed his own glass and mine and sat back, after making sure his camera was secure on the bed.

  ‘I propose that we work together,’ he said.

  ‘At what?’

  ‘This was a very high-profile case in Australia, right? It even went a bit global.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Now here I am with some information and here you are like a bloodhound on the scent. Now I know you’ll pay me for the information I have and you’ll pay my … informant too, but that’s not my priority. I want to do a deal with you.’

  ‘Unlikely, but try me.’

  ‘I’m on my uppers, more or less, and I’m stuck here. I’ve got a return ticket to New Zealand but I don’t want to go there for reasons I’ll keep to myself. I want a ti
cket out of here and a guarantee of an interview with the girl if everything turns out well.’

  ‘I can’t guarantee that.’

  ‘No deal, no info.’

  ‘Only Fonteyn could okay that and I don’t think he would.’

  ‘He would if that’s my condition for telling you what I know. I’m not a fool, Hardy. A chance like this comes along very rarely. I have to make the best of it.’

  I drank some whisky and thought about it. ‘Are you sure what you know can lead somewhere?’

  ‘You’re fishing and I shouldn’t answer, but yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘If you’re thinking about the reward, forget it. I asked Fonteyn to let it be known that it’s been withdrawn.’

  This was true but it didn’t faze him.

  ‘I don’t care about the reward. I care about my professional reputation and my future. I’ll make it easy for you. Hold off on the ten thousand until you get a result. No result, no money. You just meet my expenses until we get to Australia and then come through on the interview.’

  ‘So we’re looking to Australia?’

  ‘That was a slip on my part, but yes.’

  ‘You’re pretty sure your information’s that reliable.’

  ‘I’m gambling on it and I’m gambling on you. You’ve shown a bit of dash so far and, staking you as he has, Fonteyn must think you’re the goods.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘My offer could lapse, or be directed elsewhere.’

  That was obviously a bluff, but I decided I needed to spend some more time with him to weigh him up. There was a chance he was an experienced con man. It’s hard to tell from a brief meeting. Without responding to his proposition one way or another, I surprised him by suggesting we have dinner together for further discussion.

  ‘On me,’ I said, ‘at a place of your choosing.’

  ‘On Moneybags Fonteyn in fact.’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘There are a couple of good places, rather pricey.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Give me time to shower and change.’

  I felt I’d gained some ground. I finished my drink. ‘Bring your camera,’ I said.

  The restaurant was walking distance away, attached to one of the hotels. It was air-conditioned, white tableclothed, with muted music and skilled waiters—the kind who left you alone but were there the second you wanted them. It was half full. Clearly it was foreign territory to Cameron, whose regular eating places would be further down the scale. We’d both had two solid whiskies, then a shower and a short walk. It’d be interesting to see how he handled the alcohol from here on.

  We got a table for two away from the other diners at my insistence. Cameron wore a white business shirt tucked into grey slacks. Black slip-on shoes. He didn’t bring his camera. I stuck with my drill trousers and canvas boat shoes but had a long-sleeved shirt—sleeves casually rolled up.

  The menu was extensive rather than adventurous. Cameron ordered quail with rosemary, garlic and red wine sauce for a starter and barramundi as a main. I went for whitebait and swordfish. He ordered a Heineken to wash down his little birds. We shared a bottle of Clare Valley riesling I’d vaguely heard of.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, tapping the elegantly shaped beer stein against my wine glass. ‘To a happy collaboration.’

  ‘Maybe. When I find out a bit more about you.’

  Over the food and the wine, both of which were good and well served, Cameron told me that he’d been born in Wimbledon, had been to grammar school and studied photography at a polytechnic. He said he was divorced with no children and that digital photography had knocked the stuffing out of photo-journalism.

  ‘They don’t want well-researched, carefully photographed material anymore. They’ll print stuff taken on mobile phones as if it was professional material. The old editors are spinning in their graves.’

  I had a certain amount of sympathy for this line. The private inquiry business had been corporatised and computerised into something entirely different from the way it used to be. I said something of the sort to Cameron, but he shook his head.

  ‘Not the same thing. The print media’s fucked. It pays peanuts and the online mags use junk, full of happy snaps.’

  I was sure there were a lot of sour grapes in this. I didn’t know about online publications, but I knew National Geographic and some travel and sports magazines published quality photographs. Some of the evidence was in his room. I must’ve looked sceptical because he waved his fork with the last chunk of his fish on it and swore when the forkful fell into his lap. He was a sloppy eater and the tablecloth was spattered.

  ‘Not the same. Look at you, getting ten grand or more for a job. The last time I earned money like that … fuck it, what about some pud?’

  ‘I’ll settle for coffee. You go ahead.’

  He pushed the dessert menu away.

  ‘Better not. We might have to do some walking tomorrow.’

  ‘Walking?’

  ‘Yes. Are we going to get down to tintacks?’

  ‘Not now,’ I said. ‘We’re going to go back to the guesthouse and you’re going to talk and I’m going to record every word you say. If I’m satisfied with what I hear I’ll let you know whether I’ll take you on or handle you in another way.’

  His pinkish face flushed a deeper shade than before. He seemed to be about to protest but the bill arrived and he leaned forward and saw the total. I laid an Amex card on the docket and he sat back and said nothing.

  We settled ourselves on the balcony between our two rooms with a citronella candle burning against the mosquitoes. Cameron with a mug of tea and me with more coffee. I switched on my recorder.

  ‘I was on the jetty at Cascade Bay taking pictures. Freighters have to anchor a kilometre offshore because the water is treacherous and the coast is so rocky, and the cargo comes on lighters pulled by cables. I thought it might make an interesting story. Same for yachts; people wanting to just stretch their legs or who have business to do there come in by rowboat or outboard. I saw this boat, rowed very expertly by a woman, come through the breakers and head for the jetty.

  ‘She tied up and climbed onto the jetty and sort of stretched and pointed at something and that’s when I took the picture you’ve seen.’

  ‘Because she was so good looking,’ I said, ‘not because she fitted into some scheme that occurred to you?’

  ‘Fuck you. No, I’m not that fast a thinker. Yes, she was incredibly good looking but I’m not a cradle snatcher. Too many people in my game have got into trouble that way. Something about her clicked in my memory. I didn’t know what it was but I wanted her picture. I hung around and she got into conversation with a guy who was the only person on the jetty not working—a fisherman or something. I’ve got bloody good hearing. She said she was from a yacht called the Zaca 3 and she’d rowed in because she wanted the exercise and thought there might be somewhere to swim. The local told her there wasn’t anywhere to swim and she used an unladylike expression, threw a plastic bag into a rubbish bin, jumped back into her boat and rowed off. It all happened in a couple of minutes.

  ‘As I say, something about the girl struck me but as I turned away and got ready to go, more or less out of the corner of my eye, I saw the fisherman, or whatever he was, take the plastic bag out of the rubbish bin. I headed off to my car and thought about it as I drove back to Kingston. The more I reran it the more what she’d said sounded … stagey, rehearsed.’

  ‘I can see where this is going.’

  He threw the dregs of his tea over the rail into the garden. ‘Who couldn’t? I poked around a bit. I’ve done a few stories on yachties and I knew how to find the right registers. The Zaca 3’s owned and skippered by a man named Lance Harris, who bought his way out of a marijuana trafficking charge in Vanuatu a couple of years ago. I got this from a journo here who could tell you more, much more.’

  ‘Could?’

  ‘Could, just as I could. For example, I could tell you about t
he Zaca’s next port of call.’

  ‘That’s something I could probably find out myself.’

  ‘Take some time, though, and you’ll never find the bloke I’m talking about. All we need to do is make a little trip tomorrow and you’ll be convinced. That’s all I’ve got to say for now, but there’s more. Switch off. Goodnight.’

  8

  Cameron told me he’d come to Norfolk Island from New Zealand, where he’d been based for the past few years. His coverage of the 2010 Pike River mining disaster had been his last decent commission. He said he’d been ‘picking up bits and pieces’ since and thought he might be able to organise a feature piece on the writer Colleen McCullough, who had a new book coming out. She’d responded positively but when he’d arrived he learned that she was very ill and she’d died soon after—leaving him, as he put it, ‘on the beach’.

  I got this the next morning as we made a trip into the interior of the island to visit his journalist contact.

  ‘Why not meet him in town?’ I asked.

  ‘His wife won’t let him come to town. He’s a drunk and she keeps him under house arrest. She’s one of those Bounty descendants. A very tough customer.’

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  ‘In town. He’d sneaked away and was drinking where I was drinking. He’s all right until he gets too sozzled. I’ve got a few things from the mini-bar in a camera bag just to get him oiled. I trust you’ll pay for them.’

  ‘Depends on results,’ I said.

  The Mitsubishi was handling the hills and the below-average-standard roads easily enough. Every so often a breathtaking view of the land and the sea would sweep by us. We passed a few not very prosperous looking farms and a collection of houses that could have just qualified as a village. After an hour or so we branched off onto a steep dirt road and climbed to a clearing where a log house stood with a backdrop of towering pines. Not far away was a stretch of the Pacific Ocean with some rocky outcrops, producing as dramatic a seascape as you’d ever wish to see.