That Empty Feeling Read online

  ‘Cliff,’ he said. ‘Good to hear from you.’

  I could tell he meant it. When you’ve been sitting at a desk all day, a call from someone who’s been out on surveillance and eating a counter lunch on expenses could seem like a breath of fresh air.

  ‘How’s life, Frank?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it life, exactly. How’re you, mate?’

  ‘Okay. Working. Frank, d’you remember when you got that gong for putting the lid on the siege in Enfield?’

  I could imagine him at his desk, in his suit, worried about what I might say next and fidgeting with things in front of him. Like me, Frank was an ex-smoker and sometimes needed to be busy with his hands to keep himself clear of the weed.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You were there with that redhead . . . who was she again?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘Do you remember a female constable who was there sort of getting a best supporting Oscar and looking at you as if you were Clint Eastwood without the widow’s peak?’

  Frank wasn’t a vain man, or no vainer than most who can present respectably, but he’d notice open admiration when it came his way.

  ‘I think I know who you mean, yes.’

  ‘Do you have her name?’

  ‘You know better than to ask me that by now. You think I’m going to give out the names of members of the police force?’

  ‘She was just a cop on the scene, wasn’t she? I might be able to pick it up from the media.’

  ‘Why don’t you do that?’

  ‘Look, Frank, I’m not asking because I fancy her. If she’s still on the force I reckon she’s working undercover. If she’s left the force it would put a whole other slant on things and make a difference to what I do next in this case I’m working on. It’d help to know.’

  There was a silence while Frank digested this. A slow but very clear and clever thinker, he was annoyed that I’d overstepped the bounds of our friendship but I’d done that before and still kept his trust.

  ‘I don’t remember her name. I’ll ask around a bit, more in her interest than in yours,’ Frank said. ‘I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me who you’re working for?’

  ‘Client confidentiality.’

  ‘Bullshit, there’s no such thing in your game.’

  ‘Personal code of honour, mate.’ Then I thought it wouldn’t matter if Frank knew who I was working for and what I was doing. Trust works both ways, and I didn’t see there was any conflict of interest here. If this woman was an undercover cop it would add a whole other dimension to the case, and I didn’t think Frank would be cooperative unless I told him a bit more.

  ‘Okay. I’ve got a watching brief from Barry Bartlett. Nothing major, a personal matter.’

  ‘Supping with the devil, Cliff. I hope you’re using a long spoon.’

  7

  Brewer’s Gym was at the back of a building in Erskineville Road near the railway bridge. Rex Brewer had trained some Australian and Empire (in those days) champions and a few world-ranked fighters. His boxers fought three times in Japan and the US for world titles but never quite cracked it. Weight problems, biased hometown referees and judges, loaded gloves—trainers and fighters always have excuses.

  Boxing had been in the doldrums for years, waiting, as it has always done, for a new star to blaze in the firmament and re-excite the fickle public. Jeff Fenech had provided the crucial spark and suddenly tough young men were varying their football training with boxing workouts and some of them were opting for boxing as the quickest way to get what they wanted—which was cars, money and women, the order varying according to the individual. Sally Brewer, who’d had lean times after her father’s death, was now benefiting from the Fenech-inspired revival. She had three Australian champions, two with world rankings, and a number of young boxers, promising and hungry.

  I was late getting to the gym, delayed by the thick traffic in King Street as Newtown slowly shed its sleazy image and started its transition to metro chic. The Brewer gym was upstairs, the way a boxing gym should be, so a trainer can have a fighter run up and down a few flights fifty or so times. That peculiar smell these places have, a combination of sweat, liniment and cleaning fluids, drifted down to me as I climbed the stairs. In those days the aroma also included tobacco smoke.

  I walked in through the open double doors to a cacophony of leather hitting leather, rubber soles shuffling on canvas, shouted instructions and explosive grunts. A train roared past, adding to the noise. It was all pretty much as I’d expected, with twenty or so men going through their routines and Sally, the one woman, up by the ring watching a sparring session.

  ‘Hello, Sal,’ I said. ‘How’s it going?’

  She kept her eyes on the men in the ring after giving me the quickest of glances. ‘Gidday, Cliff. Not bad, thanks.’

  ‘Jeff Fenech’s done you a favour, eh? The amateurs paying their fees and the pros making you a quid?’

  She tapped the bell with a heavy ring on one of her fingers to end the round but she kept her eyes on the two fighters standing in their corners. She gestured to one of them to keep his guard up and circle left, away from a southpaw’s lead.

  ‘Wouldn’t mind having this guy in the string,’ she said, pointing at the other fighter.

  They were both wearing headguards and it took me a few seconds and a closer look to see that the man she was referring to was Ronny Saunders. The shorts were too tight for him and the singlet too loose. There were crude tattoos on both forearms and he banged his gloves together in a way that indicated he’d done it many times before.

  ‘Jesus,’ I said.

  Sally gave a harsh, cigarette-cultivated laugh. ‘Know him, do you? Jesus?’

  ‘No, but I know this guy.’

  ‘Fuckin’ Pom. Said he’s Barry Bartlett’s son. Barry’s got a share in this place.’

  ‘I thought it was yours.’

  ‘It was. Then the bank had a piece and now Barry has. This Ronny said he wanted to look the place over and then he wanted to have a go. Hold on.’

  She tapped the bell again and the fighters went into action. At a guess Ronny was a welterweight and his opponent was probably a middleweight. But Ronny was handling things easily, moving his opponent around and landing to the head and body.

  ‘Look at him,’ Sally crowed, ‘knows how to fight a southpaw. He knows to get his front foot on the bloody outside and keep it there.’

  ‘It’s not easy to do,’ I said.

  ‘It is if you do it straight off, which is what he done. Confused Merv right from the start.’

  I took another look at the man Ronny had manoeuvred into a corner and was peppering with punches. ‘Is that Merv Martin?’

  ‘Yeah, “Mighty” Merv. Don’t look so mighty now, does he? I’d better stop this before he gets hurt.’

  She pounded the bell a couple of times and the boxers dropped their hands. I noticed Ronny waited until he was sure Martin had moved first. They touched gloves. Martin was breathing heavily; Ronny seemed unstressed. He strolled across to where Sally stood and then appeared to notice me for the first time.

  ‘Cliff,’ he said and raised a glove. ‘Dad said you used to be pretty good. How about it?’

  ‘Not on your life,’ I said. ‘A few years ago, maybe, and I wouldn’t have let you bamboozle me with that anti-southpaw stance.’

  He leaned on the ropes. He had the sloping shoulders and the natural ease of movement of an athlete. ‘Were you a left-hander?’

  ‘When I wanted to be.’

  It was true I was more or less ambidextrous at sports but right-handed at other things. It was also true that Merv Martin was no slouch. He’d been a contender for the national middleweight title and had beaten some well-regarded fighters. He was also nominally managed by Barry Bartlett, though Sally Brewer did the work.

  ‘I’ll get changed and we’ll have a drink,’ Ronny said. ‘What brings you here, anyway?’

  I put my arm around Sally and she stiffened. ‘We’re old mates.
Well, I knew her dad.’

  Ronny nodded, holding out his hands for one of Sally’s minions to unlace his gloves. ‘Was he any good, Sal?’

  Ronny was one of those people who remembered names and used them easily on first acquaintance. Sally hip-bumped me away. ‘My dad said so. Or was it my grandad? Ancient history. I reckon he was probably better at the blarney than the biff.’

  ‘So Barry’s got you keeping an eye on me?’

  We were in the bar of the Bank Hotel with beers and a saucer of peanuts. Ronny was wearing an Arsenal cap and a scarf in the club colours.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ I said. ‘And what happened to “Dad”?’

  ‘Come on. You’re like a fish out of water at that poncy drinks party and then you happen to show up at the gym. You’re a private eye with some sort of connection to Barry. That’s how I prefer to think of him when he’s setting a dog on me. I’m not bloody stupid.’

  I drank some beer. ‘No, you’re not, and you can handle yourself in the ring. Where’d you pick that up?’

  ‘Where d’you reckon?’

  ‘Army maybe, but then there’s the prison tats.’

  He laughed. ‘Got it in one. Both places. I spent more time in detention than on the bloody parade ground.’

  ‘Did you tell Barry that? And don’t call me a dog.’

  The aggression vanished as quickly as it had come. ‘Sorry, no offence. I was upset that he didn’t trust me. I am his son, you know.’

  ‘I think I believe you. Be handy if there was a bit of solid evidence.’

  He took a handful of peanuts, munched them and washed them down with a gulp of beer. ‘There could be. My sister. Maybe I could get in touch with her. Maybe she could even come over here.’

  That’s what it’d take, I thought, until we link up telephones with television. ‘Do you have her address?’

  ‘Not exactly, but I might be able to track her down.’

  I remembered Barry telling me the sister’s profession. Plenty of work in that line in Sydney, but it all sounded iffy and I must have looked sceptical.

  ‘Have you ever had to prove who you were, Cliff?’

  ‘Often.’

  ‘No, I mean . . .’

  ‘I know what you mean. It’s difficult. The sister might be a help. Would she have her birth certificate? Did your stepfather adopt her as well?’

  ‘No. I dunno why. She was a bit older, she goes by Bartlett, or she did. God knows what . . .’

  ‘It’s all right. Barry told me about her.’

  He took a defiant gulp of his beer. ‘I’m not ashamed of her. Looking back, I reckon Len could’ve been fiddling with her. I didn’t do much better than her, when all’s said and done. I missed prison for assault and battery by a whisker. Did a small stretch for possession. That’s between you and me.’

  He was almost recruiting me. I knew it and somehow didn’t resent it. Maybe I’d been more impressed by the way he’d handled Mighty Merv than I should have been. I was most of the way to believing he was who he claimed to be, but still very uncertain about why he’d turned up now and what his agenda was. And I was factoring in the tall brunette with the long stride and the glasses.

  ‘Are you going to put in a report on me to Dad . . . Barry?’

  ‘I have to, eventually. It’d be good to know a few things first. Like why have you turned up just now?’

  ‘I always meant to come over, but never got around to it. Didn’t have the money. That’s all.’ His voice was raised by then, as if he was answering an unspoken accusation.

  Our glasses and the saucer of peanuts were empty. It was just me and him in a Newtown pub at eight o’clock on a Monday night with a light rain falling outside and the headlights shimmering through the raindrops.

  ‘What’ll your report say?’

  ‘I haven’t decided.’

  He got to his feet with those easy, fluid movements. ‘I’m going to see him. I’m going to tell him how we talked and . . .’ He was almost shouting by now.

  ‘Are you going to tell him how you handled Merv Martin? He’s one of Barry’s boys.’

  ‘Is he?’ he asked more quietly. ‘He needs to learn how to keep that southpaw advantage. I’ll tell Barry I might be able to get in touch with Barbara to convince him. I’ll tell him it was your suggestion. That won’t make you seem so bad.’

  I got up. A few people looked around at us. I hadn’t realised our conversation had seemed to turn into a confrontation.

  ‘Be careful, Ronny,’ I said. ‘Barry’s got a hell of a temper when things go against him. I don’t know if you’ve spotted it but he’s under a lot of strain. And his blood pressure . . .’

  He nodded and walked out.

  8

  I was in the office mid-morning when the phone rang. I let the answering machine pick up the call.

  ‘Cliff, this is Barry Bartlett. What the fuck are you doing? Ronny’s disappeared and I—’

  I snatched up the phone. ‘I’m here. What do you mean disappeared?’

  ‘What I say. He didn’t show up at the office this morning and I’ve rung his flat ten times and he’s not there.’

  ‘Maybe he’s having a haircut, finishing off something from yesterday.’

  ‘No. He came to see me last night after he’d seen you. He accused me of spying on him, not trusting him . . . We had a row, a big one, and we both said things we shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Shit, I said his mother was a slag and his sister was a slut. He said I abandoned them and let their mother fall into the hands of a fuckin’ paedophile and . . .’

  ‘Okay, I get the picture. We have to talk. Have you got a key to his flat?’

  ‘Of course I have.’

  ‘Meet me there as quick as you can and we’ll have a look and ask about. I wouldn’t worry too much. He’s been around, Barry; he can handle himself.’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s people . . .’

  ‘What people? As I said, we have to talk—you can’t go on being so fucking vague, Barry. I’ll see you in Paddington.’

  I got there first. Barry rolled up in a white Mercedes and came storming towards me as I got out of my car.

  ‘You couldn’t have been all that fucking subtle last night,’ he said. ‘He knew what you were doing.’

  ‘Take it easy. We were on pretty good terms when he left me, not like you. Let’s see how things look.’ I pointed to the vacant car bay. ‘His car’s gone.’

  ‘A detective genius.’ Barry dug in the pocket of his rumpled suit jacket and produced a keyring. He selected a large key and marched up to the main door with it held out in front of him like a knight with a lance. But he couldn’t get it in the keyhole. His hand was shaking. I took the key and unlocked the door.

  ‘Which flat, Barry?’

  ‘Number three, one flight up.’

  ‘How many of these flats do you own?’

  ‘I own the whole fucking lot.’

  We went up a short flight of stairs to a landing that was only dimly lit by a small window. Barry stabbed at a light switch and swore when no light came on.

  ‘Landlord responsibility,’ I said.

  ‘You’d make wisecracks at your mother’s deathbed.’

  ‘I did. She laughed.’

  He’d pulled himself together and this time he got the door open without any trouble. We went into a short passage leading to a central sitting room with three half-open doors leading off it. Barry waved his hand.

  An empty Great Western champagne bottle stood on the coffee table with two plastic glasses, one with a lipstick smear.

  Barry looked at the bottle and the glasses and shrugged. ‘Bedroom, kitchen and bathroom. All a bachelor needs. Two of the tenants are queers.’

  There were four flats—two on the ground level and two above.

  ‘What about the other tenant?’

  ‘Hard to say. I’ll have a look in the bedroom.’

  I went to the bathroom. Did Ronny shave wit
h a blade or an electric razor? Did he use prescription drugs? Did he wash his underwear in the bathroom basin? Detective work. Did a woman spend some time here? Lipstick smeared on the glass and on tissues in the waste bin said she did. A used condom dotted the i and crossed the t.

  I joined Barry in the living room.

  ‘Bedroom’s a mess,’ he said.

  ‘He had a woman here, obviously.’

  ‘I should bloody hope so. There’s makeup on the pillow. Though you never know in this place . . .’

  ‘I followed them here. Tall brunette he seemed to have met at your party.’

  Barry shrugged. ‘That’s what parties are for sometimes.’

  I went into the bedroom and kitchen, both messy. It was hard to decide when they were last used and by how many people. There were no clothes or shoes in the bedroom, no bags, but the soiled sheets hung half off the bed and two more dirty glasses lay abandoned on the floor, alongside a few used condoms. There were five coffee-stained mugs and a number of crumb-strewn plates in the kitchen. Ronny was better at footwork in the ring than at washing-up. Barry prowled around the living room; apart from the bottle and the glasses, it showed little sign of having been used.

  ‘Nothing here,’ he said.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  He looked enquiringly at me.

  ‘No sign of violence, no struggle. When we spoke on the phone you made some remarks about people. You were saying . . . ?’

  ‘Nothing. Let’s get out of here.’

  We went out onto the dark landing. Barry slammed the door shut and tried the light again without success. He knocked on the door of the adjacent flat and got no response.

  ‘You say you saw him with a woman?’

  ‘She homed in—targeted him, it appeared to me.’