O'Fear Read online

  ‘If he was killed by someone connected with the galleries, I want revenge,’ she had said. ‘If it was to do with his business, it should be exposed, shouldn’t it? And if it was just an accident, I want to know.’

  It was a firm enough foundation for me, firmer than some I had worked from. I told her that I’d use the tried and trusted techniques of my semi-profession—badger people in their houses and offices, knock on doors and use the telephone.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘What about O’Fear?’

  I was thinking about O’Fear as I drove back to Glebe. The rain had set in again and the rhythmic swish of the windscreen wipers helped memory and thought. Kevin O’Fearna had been born in Australia of Irish parents. I remember him telling me that he was distantly related to Gene Tunney, the heavyweight who had beaten Jack Dempsey and earned a fortune and the hatred of a generation of American sports fans. O’Fear had worked as a builder’s labourer and sung Irish songs on the Sydney folkie circuit in the 1960s. He made a record that no one bought and went ‘back’ to Ireland for ten years, where he expanded his repertoire, deepened his thirst for Guinness and became more Irish in accent and manner than the Clancy Brothers.

  Back in Sydney in the cynical 1980s, living in Glebe where he had always lived, he had done more labouring than singing and, possibly, more drinking than either. He served a term on the Leichhardt Council as a radical environmentalist, which brought him into contact, mostly antagonistic, with union bosses, businessmen and politicians. He had a son by one of his many women. Danny O’Fearna must be almost thirty by now, poor devil, I thought. Danny was a trial to his father, often in trouble with the police. Common opinion was that he was ‘touched’ or ‘a bit slow’.

  On the extreme militant wing of the Building Trades Union, O’Fear had been involved in a number of confrontations with heavies hired by the employers, as well as with the police. His adversaries had never heard of Gene Tunney or Joe Hill or Ewan MacColl or any of O’Fear’s heroes. Only a week or so ago I’d heard in the Toxteth Arms, one of his favourite watering holes where the Guinness was on tap, that O’Fear had taken on the cops and the bosses and was on remand in Long Bay for trespass and assault.

  I became aware of the tail when I made a late turn into Foveaux Street, Surry Hills. The car behind me slewed a bit as it turned, and its lights flashed in my rear vision mirror. It followed me along Eddy Avenue and up beside the railway. In better-lit Broadway, it dropped back professionally, but I got a good look at it—a dark sedan, Japanese. I got an impression of the licence number—K something M, 2s and a 3, or maybe 3s and a 2. I signalled, maybe a fraction early, and took the turn into Glebe Point Road. Come on, baby, I thought. Come on down to where it’s dark, and we can have a chat. I glanced in the mirror again before the first set of lights, and that was a mistake. The driver must have realised that I was onto him. Instead of following me down to Bridge Road, he swung left into St John’s Road. I swore and nearly hit a bus by turning abruptly right. I went down the hill until it was clear behind me and U-turned in front of a truck climbing slowly towards the intersection. I turned left against the red light, burned up to the St John’s Road crossing, went right and hit sixty on the straight stretch to Ross Street. No dark sedan; no Ks, Ms, 2s or 3s.

  Great work, Cliff, I thought. You signalled too early and looked when you shouldn’t have. It was the sort of sloppy behaviour that got you hurt in the streets these days. In Malaya, it got you killed. The guerrillas could read a lot into a dropped cigarette butt or a broken bootlace. You gave them nothing because it might cost your life. I remembered Barnes Todd saying it was the same in Korea, except that there it was marks in the snow you avoided, or signs that the oil in your Sten gun had iced up. Suddenly, I felt tired. The adrenalin that had flowed when I picked up the tail had burned out, leaving me disappointed, drained and weary. I drove to my house, which the real estate men have told me is ‘in demand despite its condition’. I felt more or less the same.

  The cat upped and left some time back, due, no doubt, to the irregularity of its feeding. I missed it but hadn’t got around to getting a replacement. Nor had I resolved the question of regular feeding—why wouldn’t the next cat do the same? Of course, if I moved office and house to Bondi there wouldn’t be so much of a problem. If you lived where you worked a cat could be fed that much more often. It was something to consider, but not much. No mail through the slot. I walked from the front of the house to the back, ignoring the soft spot in the floorboards two paces from the kitchen. The answering machine light was a steady glow—no calls. The radio I’ve taken to leaving on when I’m out, more so I won’t come back to a dead quiet house than for security reasons, was playing some soft postwar jazz. I twisted the dial savagely until I found some rock. I’m not a bloody pensioner yet.

  Under the shower I noticed that the mould was doing well in the bathroom and that the fibro strips holding the roof up were sagging. ‘That’d be white ants,’ the agent would say. ‘Big money to fix that, Mr Hardy.’

  Big money I didn’t have, yet. And with back taxes and a Bankcard account that walked the ‘credit available’ line like a tightrope, there wouldn’t be a hell of a lot left of the ten thousand, if I could earn it. I dried off, put on my towelling dressing gown that is shading down from white to grey and tapped the flagon in the fridge. I sat with the wine and my notebook intending to review what I had on the Todd matter, but other thoughts crowded the case out.

  Money and love are the great subjects for reverie; love and money. I remembered the big cheque Peter January had given me after I’d saved his neck and protected his political arse. I had had thoughts of buying land in Kempsey, near Helen Broadway’s husband’s property. After that idea went bust, I was going to open an office in Southport and live in Byron Bay with Helen and Verity, her daughter. That went bust too. The money ebbed away in airfares and payments to lawyers and champagne and nights in the Hilton.

  The love seeped out through the cracks opened up by late-night phone calls, midday telegrams and subterfuges—my sly drinking sessions with Frank Parker and Harry Tickener; Helen’s secret notes to Michael, her husband, and extravagant gifts to Verity. In the end, we had nothing to say to each other that wasn’t tainted by the experience we’d been through—the lies and deceptions and broken promises. In the end we didn’t even say goodbye. She left and I tidied up in her wake. I did a good job on the surface things—the Tamarama flat, the Honda Civic, the books left behind—but I had the feeling I’d be tidying up after her for the rest of my life.

  If I wanted it to be that way. I didn’t. I swigged some wine and jerked my mind back onto the tracks left by Barnes Todd. I tried to think of him as a soldier, slogging through hostile country, surrounded by enemies, with a limited supply of ammunition but with an objective in mind. I needed to know the objective to gauge the true nature of the threat …

  The words ‘break-in’ were scribbled on my pad. ‘Christ,’ I said aloud. ‘Whoever tailed me must have picked me up in Coogee.’

  I scrabbled through the notebook for Felicia Todd’s number. It was after midnight, but that hour means nothing to a true watcher. I dialled the number and the phone rang only twice before she picked it up.

  ‘This is Hardy,’ I said. ‘I want you to have a look out into the street. See if there’s a car parked within watching distance.’ I gave her the description of the car and the approximation of its licence plate.

  She was back on the line quickly, but not too quickly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘The street’s clear. That is, I can identify the cars I can see. The flats’ve got garages. We’re … I’m an exception. You sound pretty tense, Cliff. What’s wrong?’

  ‘I was followed. Probably picked up at your place. A dark sedan—a Datsun or a Toyota. You’re sure there’s no sign of it?’

  ‘No sign. Look, Cliff, the dog next door howls like a banshee if anyone comes within reach of these houses. And the police’ve been doing a special patrol since I reported the break-in. Barnes and the loc
al sergeant were on good terms. They went swimming together in the mornings.’

  I grunted. ‘Is there anywhere else you can go?’

  ‘Yes. There’s our studio.’

  ‘Do you go there much?’

  ‘Only once since Barnes died. Why?’

  I wanted to know the address, whether it was where she had put Barnes’ paintings, whether it had a phone and a bed, but I didn’t ask. I had given her my card. Now I told her to call me from a public phone in the morning.

  ‘You think I’m being bugged?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Around ten?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I will.’ There was a pause so long that I thought she might have hung up. Then she said, ‘I enjoyed it tonight. That sounds terrible, given what we had to talk about. But I did.’

  ‘So did I. Take another look for the car.’

  She was away briefly. ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Talk to you in the morning, Fel. Night.’

  I made lists of things to do as I finished the wine: talk to the Bulli cops, to the people at the party Barnes had attended, to the witnesses at the crash site. I had to get details of Barnes Todd’s business dealings from Michael Hickie and more from Felicia about his adventures in the art trade. Plenty to do to earn the money. It would take time and be hard on the nerves and tyres, but it was all comparatively straightforward compared to the tricky job of making contact with Kevin O’Fearna.

  7

  I hadn’t drawn the blind and sunlight, bright and glaring, woke me early. I pulled the sheets and blanket up as I got out of them, which is about all the bedmaking I do these days. I collected the paper from the doorstep and noticed a real estate agent’s leaflet I hadn’t seen last night. ‘Ready to sell?’ it asked. I looked up and could see the sky through a line of small holes in the rusty guttering above the porch. Well, are you ready? I thought.

  I had some coffee and toast, read the paper and took a walk around the streets and back lanes in the hope of seeing the cat. If I found the cat, I told myself, it meant I should stay in Glebe. I’d treat it better, feed it most days. I’d let it sleep on the couch. I wouldn’t let the milk get sour. I’d make my bed. People were hosing their gardens, sitting on their balconies, hanging out their washing. Gaps were opening up along the sides of the streets as the workers took their cars away. I wandered down Wigram Road, where the cars are parked half on the footpath. Very illegal but very necessary in such a busy narrow street, and the cops seem to have accepted the practice.

  I didn’t find the cat.

  By the time Felicia rang I was impatient to start work, and the O’Fear problem was nagging at me. ‘Hardy.’

  ‘You sound snappish,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry. Where are you?’

  ‘In a phone box close to home. I must say I quite like all this intrigue. No sign of the car you described last night, by the way.’

  ‘Good. I suppose you’ve got a few cameras?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Might be an idea if you sling one around your neck when you go out. It’s a nervy feeling, following someone who’s got a camera.’

  She laughed. ‘I can’t go around with a bloody camera all the time. Mind you, I haven’t taken any pictures for a while. It’s a great day. Might be a good idea.’

  ‘What’ve you got planned for today?’

  ‘Not much.’ The laughter went out of her voice.

  ‘I suggest you ring Michael Hickie and talk a bit of business with him. Can you tell me anything about the party Barnes was at?’

  ‘Yes. It was at a gallery in Paddington. Barnes was considering it for his exhibition. I’ve been to a million gallery parties. I couldn’t face another one. Also I was afraid he’d get violent, and that was the one part of Barnes’ personality I had trouble with. I went to the coast.’

  I got the name of the host and the address from her. I imagined her standing in the phone box or outside a shop. I wanted to see that brown hair in the sunlight. I wanted to see her. ‘I think you should go to this studio of yours tonight. Say before dinner. Leave your car and leave the house looking normal. Leave a light on, or the TV or something.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ll tell you tonight when I see you. Will you do it?’

  Her characteristic pause again. Then she said, ‘Yes. All right.’

  ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘Flat two, 505 Chalmers Street, Redfern. It’s opposite the park. There’s no phone.’

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can make it. Should I bring anything? Food, or …?’

  ‘No, it’s well stocked. Just a minute.’

  ‘What? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m just wondering why I’m letting you order me around like this.’

  I drew a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. There might be nothing happening or a simple explanation. I just think it’s wise to take a few precautions.’

  ‘You’re talking about the break-in and you being followed?’

  ‘Yeah. And O’Fear’s name coming up.’

  Another pause. Then her deep, breathy voice again. ‘All right. I’ll play along for a while at least. See you at the studio tonight.’

  I shaved, carefully and closely. I had already shampooed my hair. I found a clean shirt and some cotton pants still wrapped in dry cleaner’s plastic. Most of the wrinkles had dropped out of my jacket overnight. I’d pass muster in Paddington and Coogee. I might even get by in Redfern.

  I suppose I started at the Paddington end of things because I thought it would be the easiest. Talk to a few arty types, confirm that Barnes hadn’t been drunk at the party and get a sceptical opinion on his chances of making millions as an artist. Bad practice to prejudge the outcome of an enquiry, but I’ve never known an enquirer who doesn’t do it.

  The Toby Cornwall Gallery was in Gipps Street. The street bends sharply and the building that housed the gallery was built right on the dogleg, which gave it an odd, ramshackle shape. There was nothing shabby about it, though: outside it was all polished brass and heritage green paint; inside the walls and carpet were the same shade of just off-white. A soft light flooded down from a huge, tinted skylight. There were paintings on the walls and several more were hanging down into the open space, suspended on wires attached to the ceiling. Some sculptures sat on pedestals and there were things in glass cases I couldn’t identify.

  A few people were moving quietly around, looking at the exhibits and murmuring their appreciation. It looked like a good place to spend a lot of money, not much of a spot for a party. Felicia had told me that the director of the gallery was one Leon Willowsmith, who had eased out Toby Cornwall some time back. According to her, Willowsmith was a workaholic, never away from his shop. Has to have an office somewhere, I thought. Can’t do business out here. What if he spilled ink on the carpet? I walked purposefully forward, ignoring the art, except when I had to swerve to avoid one of the hanging pictures. At the end of the room was a desk set beside a passageway. The expensive carpet stopped here and some darker, practical floor covering began. The business end, spill all the ink you like. A young, darkhaired woman sat at the desk thumbing through a glossy catalogue.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Yes?’ She looked up reluctantly; the catalogue was about antique jewellery.

  ‘I’d like to see Mr Willowsmith, please.’ I gave her a card.

  She fumbled and dropped the card onto the catalogue. It didn’t look much on top of a gold bracelet with a diamond clasp. ‘I don’t, know …’

  ‘Tell him I’m working for Mrs Barnes Todd.’

  She took the card, got up and went down the passageway. Her stiff, full skirt swished and she didn’t hear me moving right behind her. She knocked on a door and opened it.

  ‘Mr Willowsmith, there’s a private detective working for Felicia Todd. His name’s …’

  I pushed the door further open, took the card from her
hand and went past her. ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  She grabbed my arm. ‘Hey!’

  ‘Cliff Hardy, Mr Willowsmith. Could you tell her to let me go? She might hurt me.’

  The man behind the desk had a pink, clean-shaven face and a pink, clean-shaven skull. He had massive shoulders inside a cream silk shirt. He smiled and something glinted on one of his large, white front teeth. ‘Mr Hardy,’ he said. ‘Come in. I’ve been expecting you. It’s all right, Judith. You can go.’

  Judith withdrew crossly and I walked towards the desk. Willowsmith held out his hand and I gave him the card.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said. His voice was a soft purr. ‘Do sit down. A fine entrance—have you ever done any acting?’

  I shook my head and sat in an uncomfortable chair made of canvas and tubular steel. The office was sparsely furnished with not an art object in sight. Willowsmith’s desk held the usual clutter of the man who either was busy or wanted to look that way. He was taking all the points so far, which wasn’t the way I’d intended things to go.

  His remark had put me off balance. ‘What d’you mean, you were expecting me?’

  He waved his right hand; the white, pudgy fingers carried at least three rings, maybe more. ‘You, or somebody like you. I knew Felicia would need some help. How can I be of assistance?’

  I looked at him, trying to tell whether or not he was lying. It was impossible to say. His pale blue eyes were very steady and his thin mouth was firm—not that that means anything. He looked like a man who hires people to do things for him. Maybe watch houses and follow cars, but only for a very good reason. ‘I’m investigating Barnes Todd’s death,’ I said. ‘I understand he attended a function here shortly before he died.’