The Black Prince Page 4

  ‘She couldn’t have done anything worse, period.’

  ‘Of course. That’s very sad. You say she’s going to die?’

  ‘Soon. It looks as if Clinton cut himself off from the girl’s family as well as his own. They seem to have got on very well before that.’

  A silence again while he absorbed the information that his son had been close to people he had chosen to keep separate from his family. When he spoke there was hurt and mystification in his voice. ‘A few years back Clinton had a mate who got leukaemia. Clint was a tower of strength to that family—nothing he wouldn’t do. I don’t understand this. I don’t understand anything. Why he wouldn’t tell us about the girl. Why he’d cut off from her people. What d’you make of it?’

  ‘It’s too soon to say. I’m talking to Clinton’s basketball coach tomorrow. He might have some ideas. I should see Angela’s mother too, for the woman’s perspective. Can’t say I’m looking forward to that.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do, Cliff?’

  ‘No. How are Mandy and Pauline bearing up?’

  ‘It helped when I told them I’d hired you. I thought it would. We’re counting on you, man.’

  Just what you want to hear when all you’ve got is a few unconnected threads and some worrying suspicions. I didn’t know anything about the emotional storms children can stir up or how adults cope with them. Maybe you need to be married with three kids to understand how life really is. If so, I’d missed the bus all along the line. I didn’t know anything about the trade in steroids, but if it was a big money business then an angry kid blundering in could come to serious harm. I didn’t admit any of this to Wesley. I told him I’d stay in touch. Then I made my drink and went to bed.

  I carry shaving tackle, a toothbrush and a change of shirt in the car so I was able to scrub up reasonably well the next morning. I had orange juice and a packet of nuts from the minibar along with two cups of coffee for breakfast, paid my bill and headed back to the university. I passed the hospital on the way and thought about the young woman lying there with machines keeping her alive, technically. She evidently knew nothing about what had happened and was most likely already at peace. But she was leaving a lot of pain and distress behind her.

  Leo Carey was in the middle of a coaching session with his players when I arrived. I sat at the side of the court and watched them going through the set plays, off-fence and de-fence as the language is, dribbling and practising all the other skills of the game. I used to play it at the Police Boys’ Club when the hoop seemed to be halfway to the roof. The giants in this squad slam-dunked and took rebounds in the stratosphere.

  The coach moved restlessly up and down the sideline, shouting and punching the air with his fist. Occasional collisions seemed to inspire him to greater fury and I couldn’t tell whether he was glad his players were bumping the shit out of each other or deploring it. He was a tallish man in his forties, bald with the beginnings of a belly but with the old athlete’s lightness of step. He wore a tracksuit and sneakers and looked as if he spent his entire life dressed like that. A stray ball bounced towards him and he scooped it up and returned it like a rocket while still bellowing.

  The session ended and Carey despatched the various players to further tortures in the gym and pool and on the running track. He’d noticed me watching and came over to me when he’d completed his tasks.

  ‘You a spotter?’ he barked.

  I was puzzled. ‘What?’

  ‘Talent spotter. Looking over my boys.’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’ I produced my credentials. ‘I want to talk to you about Clinton Scott.’

  The name seemed to take the aggression out of him. He slumped down on a seat in the row in front of me and stared at the court. ‘Lost three out of four since he went missing.’

  ‘He was good then?’

  ‘Bloody good and could’ve been better if he wasn’t so flaky and if he’d give that fuckin’ ping-pong football away. Surefire way to do your knees, that game.’

  ‘Flaky?’

  Carey shrugged. ‘Not the most regular at training. Missed a game when it suited him: Kinnear told me to give him plenty of rope so I did. Too much, maybe. The other boys didn’t like it much.’

  ‘Have you got any idea where he might have gone?’

  He swivelled round to look at me. For a moment it seemed he wanted to say something, then he shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘I know about Angie Cousins.’

  ‘What d’you know?’

  ‘That she was on steroids.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Come on. I know it’s not widely known and I’m not going to broadcast it. I’m just interested in so far as it concerns Clinton. Look, I talked to Angie’s father last night. You can call him and confirm that if you like.’

  ‘No, I’ll take your word for it. Shit of a thing, that. I once saw the two of them playing a bit of one-on-one. Sheer poetry. That’s the story of this country—plenty of talent around but so much of it goes to waste. In America a kid like Angie’d have a scholarship, personal trainer, counsellor, lots of help to get through the rough spots. Here, it’s just sink or swim.’

  ‘Have you got any idea where she got the steroids from?’

  He shook his head. ‘Naw, could be anywhere. They’re fuckin’ available.’

  ‘Is it a big business? I mean, money involved?’

  ‘You bet it is. How many of those footballers use ’em d’you reckon? I’ll tell you, a hell of a lot. And this stuff that’s going on now won’t stop it. Plus the runners, rowers, gymnasts, weight-lifters, hockey . . .’

  ‘I thought there were tests?’

  ‘There’s ways to dodge the tests. There’s a quid in all that as well.’

  ‘But you don’t know of a source?’

  ‘I wouldn’t piss on anyone connected with it if they were on fire. Clinton asked me the same question and I gave him the same answer. Tell you what, I wouldn’t like to be in the shoes of whoever gave Angie the stuff when Clinton catches up with him.’

  ‘You say when he catches him?’

  ‘Clinton said he’d destroy whoever was responsible and I believe him. That boy was ripped apart.’

  ‘So why isn’t he around looking, asking questions, helping the police?’

  Carey shrugged. ‘Search me. Maybe he is. Maybe he had to go interstate or to New Zealand. Some of the stuff comes from over there. I’ll tell you one thing though, he was fair dinkum.’

  ‘I’m told he was drinking a bit after Angela went into hospital.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you? Yeah, the time I had this talk with him he’d had a few, but he wasn’t cracking up. He was white-hot angry. I could’ve used that anger on the court and I was sorry I couldn’t tap into it. Bloody sorry. My job depends on results.’

  ‘He wasn’t suicidal?’

  He looked at me as if I’d asked him to spell cat. ‘Clint? Never! Murderous more like. You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve got to try and turn a couple of these lunks into point scorers.’

  He jogged off and I left the court after a quick glance at the hoop. It still seemed a long way up. I waved to Kathy and walked out into sunshine that made me hot in my leather jacket. I stripped it off and breathed in the rain-cleared air. The running track was away to the left and I could see figures in bright singlets circling it at a steady pace. I wondered what it was like to go to university on a sports scholarship. A lot of fun, probably, but there was no such thing in my day, and they still wouldn’t offer them for surfing and boxing.

  I began to walk towards my car and a young man jumped in front of me with an upraised hand like a traffic cop, ‘Mr Hardy?’

  I didn’t like being stopped like that so I kept walking, forcing him to step aside and trot beside me. That was better.

  ‘Mr Hardy?’

  ‘That’s right. Who might you be?’

  ‘I’m Mark Alessio. I’m the editor of the student paper here. Also the chief reporter and sports reporter.

&
nbsp; I slowed down. ‘And who put you on to me, Mr Alessio?’

  ‘I can’t say. Could you stop for a minute. I’d like to talk to you.’

  I slowed down. ‘Friend of Kathy’s, are you?’

  He smiled. ‘Ah, a journalist can’t reveal his sources.’

  I laughed and stopped. He was around twenty, tallish with long blond hair. Definitely Kathy’s type. He wore jeans, sneakers, a windcheater and a sleeveless denim jacket. The motorcycle helmet and backpack he carried had slowed him down. He reached into the backpack and took out a notebook.

  ‘What’s that for?’ I said.

  ‘I want to interview you.’

  ‘Want’s one thing, doing it’s another. I don’t think I have anything to say to the student press just now, Mr Alessio.’

  ‘I’m researching what happened to Angela Cousins.’

  That was a pretty good line. He got my attention. I slung my jacket over my shoulder and looked him in the eye. ‘And I’m looking into the disappearance of Clinton Scott, although that statement’s not on the record so don’t write it down.’

  He clicked his ballpoint instead of writing. ‘I know you are. D’you think the two things are connected?’

  ‘Good try.’

  ‘I want to help.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Find out who supplied Angie with the steroids.’

  ‘That’s not supposed to be public knowledge.’

  ‘It isn’t, but I can find things out.’

  He said it without boastfulness and I gave him points for that. ‘Did you know Angie well?’

  ‘Not as well as I wanted to, but any hopes I might have had went out the window when the Black Prince came along.’

  ‘You don’t like him?’

  ‘He was bad news for women. I could name you three or four he dumped—what’s the word?—unceremoniously. And now he’s gone. No, I don’t like him. Maybe he gave Angie the drugs.’

  ‘Is that your theory?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m considering it while I scratch around.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Talking to the jocks, hanging out around the gyms, picking up gossip. Maybe that’s what you should be doing. I thought perhaps we could pool our resources.’

  ‘My job’s to find Clinton Scott. Nothing more than that.’

  ‘Well, good luck and thanks for nothing. One thing’s for sure, you won’t find him around here today.’

  ‘Oh, why’s that?’

  He sneered at me. He didn’t sneer very well. It’s hard to do. All it did was make him look very upset and very, very young. ‘Hadn’t you heard? They’re switching Angie off today.’

  6

  There was no way I was going to front up to Mrs Cousins now. The contradictory assessments I’d been given of Clinton Scott’s character didn’t bother me too much—people are complex and present different facets to different parties—but they certainly didn’t help me to get a line on what might have happened to him. There was some kind of agreement that he was out to get those responsible for what had happened to Angela, but also a scepticism about whether he was sincere or capable. There’d been no passport in the house at Helensburgh. I’d have to check with Wesley as to whether he had one. If so, Carey’s suggestion about New Zealand might have some merit. If he’d gone interstate why not take his car? Unless he intended to leave no tracks.

  I’d have to find out about his bank accounts and credit cards—routine stuff that I’d jumped over in the hope of hitting on something solid right off. Bad procedure. At least there was no bad news to confront Wesley with—no signs that he was suicidal or that he’d come to harm. He’d been emotionally shattered, that was clear. It wasn’t unusual for a Don Juan to fall hard when he fell. His behaviour had altered, as evidenced by the drinking and he’d vanished, apparently of his own accord. It wasn’t comforting for the Scott family but it could have been worse.

  Since serving a gaol sentence for tampering with evidence and other offences and since the retirement of Frank Parker, my stocks with the New South Wales police department have fallen. I used to be able to invoke Frank’s name to get at least grudging cooperation at fairly senior levels. Not anymore. The clean-up of the force has worked to a degree which means that the corrupt are more covert, the honest are more careful, and everyone is more secretive.

  I drove to the Campbelltown police station where I was treated politely by some young uniformed men and women but made to kick my heels for an hour waiting until Detective Sergeant Morton Grace could find the time to see me. I reflected that in my day cops had names like Frank Parker and Col Williamson. As I sat in the station I tried to work out what was different about the atmosphere. The decor was drab, the noticeboard was untidy and the floor was scuffed and in need of a mop. Then it came to me—the air smelled of sweat, dust and damp but not of tobacco smoke. The old-time cops worked in a fug that would have put this new breed in an oxygen tent.

  Eventually Grace came down the stairs and beckoned to me. He was blocky in build with a thick, dark moustache and cropped hair. Neither his shirt nor his tie nor his suit pants looked expensive—that’s something the plain clothes men avoid these days. We shook hands and I followed him upstairs to his office. It was a cubby-hole off a big room where several detectives sat about using telephones and computers. Again, no smoke. There was just room in the office for a desk, two chairs and a filing cabinet. Grace waved to a chair, sat down himself and looked at his watch.

  ‘I can give you fifteen minutes, Hardy,’ he said. ‘If you need that long.’

  I’d rehearsed what I’d say while I was waiting and I gave him the spiel, emphasising the possibility of a connection between the disappearance of Clinton Scott and Angela Cousins’ misadventure. Grace had some papers on his desk which he referred to as I spoke. When I finished he looked up.

  ‘That occurred to me when I was looking this stuff over,’ he said. ‘But there’s not much to go on, is there? No sign of Scott and of course we couldn’t even talk to the girl, poor kid. No one had any idea where she got the stuff.’

  ‘Did any of your people talk to Clinton Scott at the time?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? They were an item.’

  ‘No one told us. Fact is, we didn’t get a whole lot of cooperation. The parents were too upset and the sporting fraternity closed ranks. The mere mention of steroids scares the shit out of them.’

  ‘And you’ve got no clues on the source?’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s a very private business. Not like dealing dope or smack. It could’ve been any one of a number of sports trainers, or a doctor or a vet.’

  ‘A vet?’

  He flicked through the papers. ‘The chemical analysis suggests that some of the stuff she used was intended for animals.’

  ‘Jesus. Did you know that they’re turning off the life support today?’

  He clicked his tongue. ‘That’d make it a very serious charge if anything could be proved. Any chance that Scott was involved?’

  ‘None, I’d say.’

  ‘But you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ He looked at his watch again and shifted in his seat. ‘I’m busy, sorry. Look, a description of Scott’s been circulated and the usual processes put in place. You know what they’re worth. I’m sorry about the girl. It’ll depend on what the Coroner says as to what further action goes on there, but again, I wouldn’t hold my breath for a result.’

  I thought I’d save myself one piece of work anyway so I asked if Clinton Scott held a passport. Grace said he didn’t know, and that, along with the feeble attempt to interview Noel Kidman, gave me an idea of how thorough the investigation had been and what justification Wesley had for his scepticism. I thanked Grace for his time and left.

  My car was a block away. I walked it without taking any notice of my surroundings or the people in the street. It looked as if I’d come to a dead end and had nothing to offer my client. Not a comfortable feeling. I tried to tell myself that the peopl
e I’d use to track Clinton’s paper and plastic trail would come up with something, but I didn’t convince myself.

  Mark Alessio was sitting sideways on his motorcycle parked behind my car. He held a mobile phone in his hand and tears were rolling down his cheeks.

  He looked up and saw me. ‘She’s gone,’ he said.

  I echoed Morton Grace. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He closed up the phone and shoved it into the pocket of his jacket. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Would you mind telling me what you’re doing here?’

  ‘I followed you. I wanted to see if you were serious about this. Did you talk to the police about Angie?’

  I felt intensely sorry for him. To lose someone you care deeply about at that age is hard. I’d seen that sort of experience twist and distort young people, make them violent or reduce them to ciphers. It all depended on the strength of the character under stress. Mark Alessio seemed to be resourceful, a big point in his favour in my book. I told him I had talked about Angela Cousins and also that the officer had suggested, as he had done, that Clinton Scott had been the culprit.

  Alessio shook his head. ‘That was just malice. I don’t really think so. I don’t know what to think.’

  ‘Neither do I. Did Angie have any close friends, women say, who might have some idea of where she was headed?’

  ‘I don’t think so. She worked very hard at her courses, so her teachers tell me. She was a journalism major. I tried to get her to write for the paper but she wouldn’t. She trained like a demon, Tanya Martyn says. Work and training, that was it, until the Prince came along. But, like I say, he wasn’t a sports sleaze.’

  ‘Who gave him that nickname—the Black Prince?’

  Alessio almost grinned, the first non-grim expression I’d seen on him. ‘I did, in the paper. Inspired by jealousy, but accurate enough. I’m totally unco, can’t throw a Coke can into a rubbish bin at three paces, especially if there’s someone watching me. But I’m not quitting the way fucking Clinton did. I’m going to follow this through.’