Win, Lose or Draw Page 6

  I phoned Fonteyn and gave him a sketchy outline of how things stood. He was excited and agreed to meet me at the airport. If I was given the go-ahead I was on my way north.

  I was in the bar reading the Macklin book when Fonteyn arrived. Cameron had been right—marijuana had played a part in the death of Janelle Patton.

  Fonteyn bustled up, in a suit but without a tie and with the top buttons of his snowy shirt undone—his version of informal. We shook hands.

  ‘You’ve done well,’ he said.

  I shook my head. ‘There’s a lot to find out still, but I want you to listen to this.’

  I produced my voice recorder and paused it. ‘Can I get you a drink? It’s your money.’

  He nodded. ‘White wine spritzer, thank you.’

  I released the pause button and ambled across to the bar, where I waited longer than I needed to. I glanced back and saw that Fonteyn was leaning forward as if in supplication to the device and oblivious of all else.

  I returned with the drinks, mine minus the soda. I turned the recorder off after he’d heard the basic stuff about the girl, the yacht and its skipper. He leaned back and took a swig of his drink.

  ‘And do you know where the yacht went?’

  ‘Fitzroy Heads, if this Cameron, which is his real name, is to be believed.’

  ‘And is he? Did you pay him?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  I explained how Cameron was less interested in the money than in re-establishing his career and that he wanted to score an interview with Juliana. Plus his intention to make a big splash with the story.

  Fonteyn sipped his drink but I doubt that he tasted it.

  ‘I suppose that’d be all right, strictly supervised. It would depend on her … condition … her state of mind. Are you saying that the indications are that she’s with this individual willingly?’

  ‘That’s the way it looks. The question is, how did he snare her in the first place?’

  ‘Snare? Your informant didn’t know?’

  ‘No, but he suggested drugs could be involved. Harris has a reputation for … influencing young women that way and involving them in his dealings.’

  He received this like a man being told he has cancer, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. ‘So there could be criminal charges against her?’

  ‘It’s a side issue for now,’ I said. ‘With your agreement, I intend to go up north to follow these leads. Cameron will arrive in Sydney tomorrow. I recommend that he be followed and located. He might have further information if what he’s told me doesn’t quite work out. Or another agenda, say.’

  ‘You don’t trust him?’

  ‘Mr Fonteyn, I’ve been in this business a long time. My reserves of trust ran very thin many years ago.’

  He sighed. ‘I know what you mean. It’s an uncomfortable feeling. I … have confidence in you. Can you arrange to keep tabs on this man Cameron?’

  ‘Yes, and I need to ask something of you, too.’

  ‘Money? I …’

  I shook my head. ‘I have plenty of your money. Apart from revoking the reward, please don’t do anything at your end. And if that attracts any attention, say nothing.’

  He stood, leaving most of his drink.

  ‘I agree. Good luck, Mr Hardy. I’m relying on you and I suspect Juliana is as well.’

  He walked stiffly away. He’d gone further towards convincing himself that his daughter was alive than he should and I sensed that he was already planning a defence if trouble loomed for her. I felt the pressure. I drained my glass and Fonteyn’s—there’s nothing much in an eight-dollar-fifty glass of wine at the Sydney airport.

  I phoned Hank Bachelor and arranged for him to follow Cameron when he arrived and see where he put himself. Hank used to work for me, now he was on his own in the security business, doing well but too deskbound the way things are these days and he was happy to get out and about.

  I caught an afternoon flight to Ballina. Took a bus into Byron Bay, where I hired another Mitsubishi and drove to Fitzroy Heads. I hadn’t been in the area for some years and noticed a lot of changes. A new highway running north with complicated directional pointers and a sense that large stretches of what had been open land were now developed.

  Fitzroy Heads, where I’d once holidayed with a girlfriend, had seen some changes too, although with its estuary, seawall bridge across the river and extensive mooring docks it retained something of the old fishing and vacation feel. I checked into the Breakwater Lodge and had a swim in the pool. I hadn’t had any serious exercise for a few days and I pushed myself, swimming the short laps until I ached in all the right places. After a hot shower and then a cold one I felt as tuned up as I could expect to be at my age.

  I used the motel laundry to wash and dry some of the clothes I’d worn for the last couple of days and felt pretty fresh as I walked the short distance to where the water sparkled and the boats floated. The little artificial harbour had jetties lined with vessels of all kinds while a few others were at moorings in the middle and by the banks of the river. If the Zaca 3 was there, there was no chance of me spotting it.

  The Fitzroy Heads Yacht Club was the obvious place to start. Its building was the usual style, painted white and blue, low-slung, as if trying to look like a boat itself. There was a huge open shed with yachts set up on trestles inside and a slipway running down a ramp to the river. Various nautical types were working in the shed and standing, smoking, arguing and pointing as boats jostled for places at the nearby jetty. A set of weather-stained steps led to the clubhouse facilities, including the bar.

  Yachties are law-abiding folk on the whole; they’re governed by a lot of rules and regulations and they tend to be good at reading people. There was no point in me pretending to be anything other than what I was. I suppose I could’ve claimed to be wanting to charter a yacht but my ignorance of what was involved would soon be revealed. In my favour was Rory Blake’s assessment of Harris as someone who let people down.

  The club showed its age inside as well as out but it had a comfortable, well-used feel with carpet that had been spilled on more than once, tobacco-smoke-stained walls, although there was no smoking now, and a long bar. Tables and chairs were scattered about, mostly to take advantage of the view through the window that composed most of one wall.

  The visitors’ book required only my name and address and the name of any club I belonged to. I filled it in honestly and nominated the Redgum Gymnasium and Fitness Club; stretching things a bit. There were three men at the bar and perhaps a dozen sitting in twos and threes at the tables. I went up and ordered a middy of Pure Blonde.

  The barman, a veteran of the trade, said, ‘Getting popular, that.’

  I nodded, paid for the drink and jerked my head sideways, indicating I wanted a private word. He pulled the beer and shuffled to the right as if looking for a safe place to deliver it. I put twenty dollars and my licence on the bar.

  ‘I want the drink, all right—I’ve come a fair way—but I want information more.’

  I do a lot of work in pubs where the noise can be deafening at any time of the night or day. It was unusual to be asking questions in a quiet atmosphere with only muted conversation and the occasional laugh providing the backdrop. I forced myself to keep my voice low.

  ‘You look like you belong here,’ I said, picking up the licence but leaving the money.

  He plucked it from the bar. ‘Born and bred, mate.’

  ‘I’m looking for a man who sails a yacht called the Zaca 3. I’ve been told he was due to put in here—is that the expression? By the way, you are …?’

  ‘Hector. This a criminal matter?’

  ‘Hard to say.’

  ‘Bullshit. That cunt somehow got credit at the club bottle shop. I suppose the kid in charge was impressed by the yacht and Lance’s usual crap. He never paid up and he left owing money here and there. Shit, he was always slippery, but he’s gone a bit far this time. He’ll be lucky to get another mooring anywhere in thi
s state. The secretary here put the word out.’

  ‘When he was in here was he alone?’

  ‘Mostly.’

  ‘But not always?’

  ‘One time he had a girl with him—real young and pretty pissed. He was asked to leave. That was the last time he was here.’

  I produced the photograph.

  ‘That’s her,’ Hector said. ‘Poor thing.’

  ‘When were they here?’

  ‘Ten days, couple of weeks ago?’

  ‘Any idea where he might’ve gone?’

  Hector shrugged and went down the bar to serve another customer. I drank my beer and pondered my next question. I had another twenty for Hector when he returned.

  ‘The last place he was at he said his GPS and radio weren’t working properly.’

  Hector nodded. ‘Had ’em fixed here by an expert. That’s where he owes the most money.’

  ‘I’d like to talk to whoever did the work. He might know where Harris was headed.’

  ‘She,’ Hector said. ‘Old flame of Lance’s. That’d be why he put in here—to make use of someone he knows and rob her blind. The nerve of the bastard. Turns up with another bird in tow and does that.’

  ‘What’s this woman’s name? Where can I find her?’

  ‘Molly Featherstone. She’s got a workshop behind the hardware store in the main street. Treat her gently, eh?’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Molly and Lance’s chick got into it somewhat, and Molly came off worse.’

  ‘This’s not such a small place. How come you know all this?’

  ‘Molly’s my niece. If you do ever catch up with Lance, kick the shit out of him for me. You look like you could do it, but be careful, he fights dirty.’

  ‘So do I,’ I said.

  11

  I found the hardware store and the workshop behind it. The roller door was open. I went in and a woman looked up from the bench where she was working. An array of electronic apparatus was spread out in front of her.

  She was blonde with frizzy hair, mid-thirties at a guess but hard to tell because of a dressing fixed to the left side of her face. Her right cheekbone carried a fading bruise. She wore a sleeveless denim overall with a white T-shirt under it.

  ‘Ms Featherstone?’

  She put down what she was working on. ‘Yes.’

  I moved past boxes and more gear I didn’t recognise until I was up at the bench. I put my licence folder down in a space between the bits and pieces.

  ‘Your uncle Hector suggested I have a talk to you.’

  She touched the dressing. ‘Talking still hurts a bit. What about?’

  ‘Lance Harris and the woman who was with him.’

  ‘Woman! She’s just a girl and a vicious bitch at that. Why’re you interested?’

  There was a stool off to one side. I pulled it over and sat. ‘I’m working for the girl’s father. She’s a runaway, sort of. What name was she going by?’

  ‘Rich father?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Figures. Lance’ll find a way to bleed him.’

  I picked up the folder. ‘Not if I can help it. Tell me what happened.’

  ‘Why should I help her?’

  ‘You’ll be helping me put Lance in hospital before he goes to gaol.’

  She grinned and then winced as the movement hurt her face. ‘I like that. You sure you could do it?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Maybe you could, at that. Do you drink instant coffee?’

  ‘When there’s nothing better.’

  She stood, medium tall and strongly built, and moved to a corner of the workshop where she had an electric jug, a large tin of International Roast and mugs on top of a bar fridge. She boiled the water, spooned in the coffee and offered me milk and sugar. I took both.

  She talked for the next twenty minutes, only interrupted by a few questions from me and several phone calls that she handled briskly. She said that Harris had asked her to fix his GPS and radio and run a check on the Zaca 3’s generator. She’d agreed reluctantly because of the sour taste left by their break-up and the presence of the girl, who was introduced as Trudi.

  ‘He paid me a bit up front, so I took the chance,’ Molly said.

  Harris was in a hurry; Molly did the work quickly and the bill was heavy. She said he was having other things done to the boat but that he seemed to have plenty of money.

  ‘Did you know he was a drug dealer?’

  ‘Sure, grass—someone has to do it.’

  She said that when she presented Harris with the account he started to quibble about it, claimed she was overcharging him and had used second-hand materials. She got angry and accused him of trying to welsh on the bill and threw in things about his drug dealing and his liking for young girls.

  ‘Such as?’ I said.

  ‘You know—how young girls can’t tell the difference between a real lover and an everyday fuck. This Trudi came at me like a bat out of hell. She belted me here,’ she touched her cheek, ‘and she clawed my face. Dug in bloody deep. I’ll say this for her, she’s bloody strong for her age.’

  ‘If I can find her I’m pretty sure I can get her father to pay your bill and some compensation.’

  ‘I won’t hold my breath. She belongs in a cage. Just put Lance through the wringer and tell him it comes from me.’

  ‘To do that I need to know where he’s gone. Does he have to register his next port of call with someone?’

  ‘Should, but what Lance should do and what he bloody does are two different things. The word’s out on him along this coast but Queenslanders wouldn’t care. The Gold Coast’s a zoo. I’d say he’s gone to Coolangatta. Easy sail, big market there. He’d have contacts.’

  ‘I’m told he has a wife on the Gold Coast.’

  She shrugged. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘D’ you know her name?’

  ‘Deirdre, Drusilla, Diana, something like that. She’s a stripper, or she was. Look, to tell you the truth I’m a bit tired of thinking about that bastard.’

  ‘Understood. I’ll let you know if there’s a prospect of some money. I’m at the Breakwater if you think of anything else.’

  ‘You didn’t drink your coffee.’

  ‘Neither did you. It was all too interesting for instant coffee.’

  I walked back to the motel as the day cooled and a sea breeze sprang up, promising a pleasant evening for those on boats and on land. A man was leaning on my car outside my room. He wore a well-cut beige lightweight suit, pale blue shirt, no tie, Panama hat. He eased away from the car and opened his hands in a gesture that said no threat. Not a gesture to trust.

  ‘I’d like a word with you,’ he said in a voice carrying a faint trace of an accent. Italian? Greek?

  ‘And you are …?’

  He dropped the hands. ‘Just someone who happens to know you have an interest in Lance Harris.’

  ‘How would you know that?’

  ‘I was in the sailing club bar and I have very keen hearing.’

  I thought back to the scene in the club, the drinkers at the bar, the people at tables, some with their backs to me. It was possible.

  ‘A word, you said. Are you offering to help me find him?’

  He took off his hat and smoothed back thick dark hair. He fanned away some insects. ‘No. No, I wish I could. I just want you to deliver a message when you do find him.’

  ‘You think I will?’

  He nodded. ‘I got your name from Hector and checked you out, Mr Hardy. I think you’ll find him.’

  He was at least ten years younger than me, tall, very fit looking and keeping a calculated distance between us. Now there were a few other people around—guests arriving.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘What’s the message?’

  ‘Just tell him George is disappointed at not getting his delivery.’

  ‘George who?’

  He smiled, replaced his hat and moved away quickly in long, relaxed strides. I went into my room and sat down to
jot a few notes and think things over. In the space of an hour or two I’d found three people who wished Lance Harris ill. The man had a world-class talent for making enemies.

  It had been a long day with a lot of territory covered. I had a beer from the mini-bar and reread one of my favourite Maugham stories—‘The Fall of Edward Barnard’, about a man who remade himself.

  I ate in the restaurant attached to the motel and was just finishing up when Molly Featherstone walked in. She’d shed the overall and was in the white T-shirt and jeans. She came across to my table.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Mind if I talk to you? I feel I was a bit rude earlier on.’

  ‘You weren’t, but please sit down. There’s a bit of wine left. Would you like some?’

  ‘No thanks. I’m off it. Look, I’ve come to eat humble pie. You mentioned that there might be some money available and I pooh-poohed it. Well, the fact is that my business is struggling and Lance running out on me has dealt it a body blow. If Trudi’s rich dad is feeling generous, I’d be grateful for some help.’

  ‘I’ll make a point of asking him. I’m sure something can be done. And while you’re here, perhaps you can help with something else. A man named George approached me, a tall, well-dressed and -groomed bloke with an accent. He left a message for me to give to Harris if I catch up with him. Do you know who he could be?’

  She nodded. ‘George D’Amico.’

  ‘What is he? A yacht owner? A businessman?’

  ‘You could say he’s a businessman. He owns a couple of brothels up here in the Northern Rivers, and he provides … escorts for people going on yacht cruises.’

  ‘So he’s a pimp?’

  She smiled. ‘Yes, although I’m sure he’d have another name for his services. What was the message?’

  ‘Never mind. It makes sense to me now. There’s one other thing about Harris—does he read the papers, watch the news, use the Internet?’

  ‘Lance? He’s dyslexic. He never reads anything and all he watches on television is porn. He’s an IT-primitive except for sailing information.’