Win, Lose or Draw Page 5

  ‘How come you know the way here if you met him in town?’

  Cameron fussed with a camera and some accessories. ‘A relative of his wife’s drove him home. She asked me to go along to make sure he didn’t throw up all over the upholstery.’ A set of rickety wooden steps led up to the veranda in front of the house. A heavily built, dark-haired woman stood at the top of the steps like a sentinel.

  ‘Who’re youse?’ she said.

  ‘You remember me, Mrs Blake. I brought Rory home with your cousin a while ago.’

  ‘After getting him pissed.’

  ‘He didn’t need any help for that, Missus. Could you tell him I want to see him?’

  ‘Why?’

  Her bulk made her virtually impassable; she was just this side of obese in a shapeless cotton dress and her Polynesian ancestry showed in her features. Cameron was not deterred; like me, he was experienced at getting his way with hostile people.

  ‘There’s a quid in it for him.’

  ‘How come?’

  Cameron hefted one of the bags on a shoulder strap. ‘I want him to write something. I’m here to take the pictures.’

  She pointed at me. ‘Who’s he, then?’

  ‘He’s the man with the money.’

  ‘I’ll get him,’ she said. ‘Better stay out here. House is a fuckin’ mess.’

  She turned and went inside.

  ‘Charming woman,’ Cameron said.

  We climbed up and moved along to where a table and some chairs were set up in a spot to optimise the view. Cameron carefully arranged his bags on the table.

  ‘Her bark’s worse than her bite.’

  ‘How about you make that the last cliché of the morning?’

  ‘Don’t get shitty, Hardy. You’re going to be interested.’

  A man came out of the house. He was tall and thin, wearing only a pair of shorts. Barefoot. He had a wildly tangled beard that covered the upper part of his chest. He was deeply tanned and smelled bad.

  ‘Hi, Rory. Remember me? Colin Crawford.’

  Rory sat down and pulled the makings and a lighter from his shorts pocket.

  ‘Vaguely,’ he said in a surprisingly cultivated voice. ‘The bitch said something about money.’

  ‘Mr Hardy here’s willing to pay for information.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About Lance Harris and the Zaca 3.’

  ‘Useful information,’ I said. ‘My name’s Cliff Hardy, Mr Blake. I’m a private detective from Sydney. How’re you going?’

  ‘Downhill. How much money?’

  ‘Depends.’

  I’d been to the ATM and drawn out a thousand of my own money. I put two hundred dollars on the table. ‘That’s for your kind hospitality.’

  ‘A smartie,’ Blake said. ‘Nobody likes a smartie.’

  ‘Come on, Rory. There’ll be more. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’

  Blake gave me his full attention for the first time. ‘Have you noticed how he talks in clichés?’

  I nodded. ‘I’ve warned him about it.’

  Blake smiled, showing discoloured, neglected teeth. ‘You crack the whip, do you? Fuck, it’s catching, but that’s good to know.’

  He’d taken a lot of time to make a perfect rollie. He worked on it until he was satisfied and then lit up. He took a deep drag, exhaled and suddenly the pristine, pine-scented air was no more.

  Cameron glanced back towards the door, unzipped one of his bags and pulled out a few of the miniature bottles from his mini-bar—a gin, a scotch, a vodka.

  Blake lifted a grizzled eyebrow. ‘No mixers?’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Cameron said. ‘Here I am, trying to do you a favour and …’

  ‘Take it easy.’ Blake screwed the top from the scotch and drank half of it in a gulp. ‘I was just having a lend of you, to use an expression.’

  I was becoming impatient. ‘Let’s have fewer expressions and more information.’

  Blake had consumed most of the cigarette in a few long drags. He snuffed it out between thumb and forefinger without appearing to feel any pain and put the butt in his pocket. He fiddled with the little scotch bottle instead, seeming to need something to occupy his hands.

  ‘Lance Harris has gone by a few different names in his time.’ He winked, letting me see he knew or guessed that Crawford, the name he knew Cameron as, was an assumed one. ‘He’s done quite a few things—been a soldier of sorts, a journalist, which is where I first ran into him working for the Pacific Islands Monthly. Now he’s a drug runner.’

  Cameron took the top off the vodka and had a swig, glancing at me with a look of satisfaction.

  Blake ignored him but drew the gin bottle closer. I’d turned on my recorder in the top pocket of my shirt as soon as Blake appeared. Cameron pulled out a camera and did the things photographers do. Blake drank the rest of the whisky.

  ‘What’s this all for?’ he said.

  ‘It’s just for Cliff ’s records. He has to report to the man with the real money.’

  Blake nodded, apparently unworried by the figure he cut. He seemed eager to talk now. ‘Lance, let’s call him Lance, sails about here and there providing a service. Mostly gunja, but probably other things too. I heard he did well out of kava at one time when it was fashionable.’

  ‘Is this a one-man operation?’

  ‘Not on your life. Lance always has a female companion aboard the Zaca 3.’

  ‘It’s a strange name,’ I said.

  Blake took out his butt, lit it, and opened the gin. He gestured to Cameron. ‘Got your photo?’

  Cameron took out a photograph, or rather a printed out image. It showed a huge sailing boat with two masts and a lot of sails.

  ‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘That looks like something from the Sydney to Hobart. You’d need a crew for that.’

  Blake chuckled, expelling smoke. ‘That’s the Zaca 2, Errol Flynn’s boat. Lance thinks of himself as Errol reincarnated. In fact I once heard him claim to be his illegitimate son, which is bullshit. You only have to check the dates. Flynn died around 1960 and Lance is only in his late forties at the most.’

  ‘Nineteen fifty-nine for Errol,’ Cameron said. ‘Aged fifty. A lesson to us all.’

  Blake shrugged. ‘Whenever. No, Lance’s boat’s just a ketch, thirty foot or thereabouts. Well fitted out though. He looks a bit like Errol, I must admit; handsome, spivvy moustache, good build on him, too. And behaves like him.’

  ‘How?’ I said.

  ‘Terror with the women for one thing. Do you know what David Niven said about Flynn?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘He shared a house with him and a couple of other actors. In Malibu, I think, when they were all bachelors gay, in the old sense. Niven said, “You could rely on Errol, he’d always let you down.” That’s Lance, especially with the women. Bit of a crook, our Errol in his New Guinea days, diddling the natives and so on. Again, a bit like Lance.’

  ‘You’ve stayed in touch, obviously,’ I said.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly. A postcard or two perhaps.’

  I was sure he was lying but there was really only one question I wanted an answer to at this point. ‘So where’s he going next?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Not your concern.’

  ‘It’s the girl, isn’t it? I remember Crawfie here saying something about a girl. I was too pissed then to take much notice.’

  ‘As I say, not your concern. He was here a short while ago. Where would he go next?’

  Blake flicked the fag end into the shrubbery and sipped gin. ‘Fiji, where he got the kava and the Solomons and the Torres Strait Islands, where there was a market. New Zealand, the Cooks. Who knows?’

  ‘I do,’ Cameron said.

  I paid Blake another three hundred. He took it without thanks and we left.

  ‘Useful?’ Cameron said as we got into the car.

  ‘I suppose. Certainly was for you to get shots of us both for your big story.’

  Cameron gav
e a self-satisfied grin.

  ‘He was lying about not being in contact with Harris,’ I said as I drove off.

  ‘That’s right. I should be in your game. I did some sniffing around and I learned that our Rory moves a bit of grass himself. Do you know anything about the murder of that young woman here a few years back?’

  ‘Just what was in the papers. I’ve got a book that deals with it but I haven’t got that far yet.’

  ‘Dope was involved. There’s quite a few cone-heads on the island, I gather.’

  I decided to play Cameron along a little before tackling the question of where the Zaca 3 was heading. ‘While we’re talking about lying, what’s the reason for the false name?’

  He smiled. ‘Just a bit of fun and games. I thought I might look over the person who asked about Campbell before I saw him, but you headed me off there. Cameron’s the name they know me by at the guesthouse. By the way I pay them by the day in cash. I might ask for a little help there, Cliff.’

  ‘You’re getting ahead of yourself. You haven’t convinced …’

  I rounded a bend and swore when I saw a ute slewed across the road with one front wheel in a ditch. Two men were inspecting its front end and talking excitedly.

  ‘Looks like they could use some help,’ I said. ‘Come on.’

  We got out and approached the men, both wearing singlets, shorts and thongs. I was only a metre away when one of them produced a machete and the other a flick knife. I sensed Cameron backing away.

  Machete said, ‘Wallets and keys and no one gets hurt.’

  ‘Keys are in the car,’ I said. I moved right up close so he couldn’t swing the machete—and what use is a machete if you can’t swing it? I drove the heel of my right hand hard against his nose and felt it collapse. He staggered and dropped the machete. I picked it up and slammed it flat against the side of his head and he went down. Flick Knife didn’t know what to do as I came towards him, moving the machete to and fro.

  ‘Throw the knife as far as you can into the bush.’

  He did it.

  ‘Pick up your dumb mate and dump him in the tray and get the ute started and park it out of our bloody way.’

  He was a big guy but fat and slow and he couldn’t take his eyes off the machete as I kept it flickering at him, chest-high. He heaved the other man into the tray, got in the ute and revved it hard so that it bullocked free of the ditch and bucked to a stop at the side of the road, where it stalled.

  ‘That’ll do.’

  Cameron was standing open-mouthed and shocked, either by the threat or my actions. I clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  We drove off. I put the machete on the floor of the car. ‘Souvenir,’ I said.

  Cameron was silent for most of the drive back to Kingston. When the town was in sight he said he needed a drink.

  ‘Me too. And then we’ll have a little talk.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, of course.’

  9

  In a dim, cool bar in the first pub we came to, Cameron and I sat over beers with me paying. It was obvious I was going to be doing a lot of that with him along so it was time for him to convince me of the value of his involvement.

  ‘Okay, let’s have it,’ I said. ‘What else do you know about Harris and specifically where’s he going next and how do you know about it?’

  ‘Good questions.’

  ‘Don’t bugger me about.’

  ‘All right. For one thing I’ve met Harris and I know what he looks like. I also know his weakness.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘Women.’

  ‘That doesn’t make him unusual.’

  ‘Young women, very young, again like Errol Flynn. Got him into trouble a few times. Ms Fonteyn’s what, fifteen?’

  ‘Sixteen now.’

  Cameron grinned. ‘Getting a bit old for Lance, perhaps.’

  ‘What happens to them when they get too old?’

  ‘No idea. Nothing good, I suspect. He hooks them on something from what I saw.’

  ‘What did you see? Where and when?’

  ‘Go easy. Get me another beer while I remember.’

  It wasn’t a comfortable association. He’d recovered from his shock at the road incident and was in an assertive mood. I knew I’d have to pull him into line again soon, but for now I played along and bought him another drink.

  ‘Now,’ I said, ‘you and Lance.’

  ‘A restaurant in Auckland, say a couple of years ago. I was doing photographs of a wedding party. Pissy little job, but there you are. I noticed this bloke sitting off to one side taking care not to let himself get in a picture—turning his back, putting his hand up to his face, that kind of thing. We notice stuff like that.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I was curious. Anyway, the groom, who was as pissed as a fart and unlikely to get it up that night, I reckon, gave me a bottle of champagne when I finished. Good stuff. I took it across to where this bloke was sitting with a chick. You couldn’t miss his resemblance to Errol Flynn—the features, the mo, the cigarette in a holder. I forget what name he gave but it wasn’t Lance. I put that together after my chat with Rory. The girl was very pretty and very young and either pissed or stoned, probably both.’

  ‘And?’

  Cameron shrugged. ‘We shared the bubbly and chatted. I forget what about. He mentioned a yacht. The girl mostly giggled.’

  ‘Did you ask him why he avoided being photographed?’

  Cameron almost choked on his beer. ‘Are you kidding? He was big, about your size, and he had the same look as you, not as battered, but … in the eyes.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Fucking dangerous, the way you were back on the road.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that. D’you reckon Blake could’ve alerted them?’

  ‘You’re a suspicious bastard, aren’t you?’

  ‘Always. Don’t forget it. Well?’

  Cameron scratched his unshaven chin where ginger whiskers were beginning to show. ‘Maybe, if they were on their way to buy some dope and had a mobile.’

  ‘All right, Col,’ I said. ‘Now we get to it. Where’s the boat going?’

  He sucked in a deep breath, marshalling sobriety after the slug of gin and two schooners, and courage. ‘When I have my ticket to Oz in my hand.’

  I went to the bank and drew out five thousand. Cameron, tipsy, watched this without comment.

  I took him to a travel agent and booked a flight to Sydney for the day after tomorrow. He said he had an entry permit, which I knew was true because I’d seen the stamp in his passport. I paid in cash. He reached for the ticket but I kept hold of it and we went to a café and ordered coffee. Cameron’s confidence had evaporated.

  ‘What’s this about?’

  I waited until the coffee came. He spooned sugar into his cup while I made a show of packing together one-hundred-dollar notes to the amount of two thousand. I flapped the ticket and the money at him without anyone else seeing.

  ‘The destination of the yacht?’ I said.

  ‘Fitzroy Heads, in northern New South Wales.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  He slurped coffee, spilling some. ‘Harris went ashore at Kingston. He said he was having trouble with his GPS and radio and he wanted to report his next port of call just in case.’

  ‘Could he have been lying?’

  ‘How would I know? Probably not. Yachties are supposed to notify maritime officers of their schedule. I suppose if they’re carrying contraband they don’t always do it but if their equipment’s dodgy—no point carrying a hundred grand’s worth of gunja and going to the bottom with it.’

  ‘How long does it take to sail there from here?’

  ‘I asked the coastguards about that,’ he said. ‘They said it was hard to say and talked about nautical miles and knots per hour and stuff I didn’t understand. All I gathered was that it’d be a week or so, give or take.’

  ‘And when di
d the Zaca leave?’

  ‘Eight days ago.’

  I handed him the money. ‘Two thousand on account. More to come as things develop, trust me.’

  He seemed about to complain but thought better of it.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘That’ll easily handle your bill at the guesthouse, including the mini-bar and other expenses.’

  He reached for the ticket again but I kept it away from him. ‘The other information about Harris you said you had. Like you said, Col—no info, no ticket.’

  ‘Fuck you, Hardy.’

  I made as if to tear the ticket in two.

  ‘All right, all right. The guy I met in Auckland said he had a wife living on the Queensland Gold Coast.’

  ‘Name?’

  He shook his head.

  I handed him the ticket. He looked at it and swore. ‘This is for Thursday; there’s a plane out tomorrow.’

  I handed him my card. ‘When you get to Sydney send me a text or an email telling me how I can get in touch with you if things work out in your favour.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m on tomorrow’s plane. Don’t try to change your flight, Col. I’ll be annoyed if I see you. Give yourself twenty-four hours’ holiday, all expenses paid.’

  ‘I don’t want a holiday.’

  ‘Yes you do,’ I said.

  part two

  10

  I flew back to Sydney not dissatisfied with my progress. While I hadn’t actually confirmed that the girl in Cameron’s photograph was Juliana, the odds—given the resemblance, the athleticism and the left-handedness—were good. At one point Cameron had told me that she spoke with an educated Australian accent and that her left arm was slightly more developed than her right—a sure sign of a left-handed tennis player; he noticed such things from years of photographing sports people. I remembered that Rod Laver’s left arm was like a tree branch.

  I felt I had enough of a lead to convince Fonteyn that I should continue. There was one question though that was uncomfortable. How would Harris have induced Juliana to go with him? I thought I might have the answer, but it’d need diplomatic handling and not yet.