The Dying Trade ch-1 Read online

  “That’s good security,” I said. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” She lowered the gun to her side and took a step towards me. I took three or four and put my arms around her. She pressed in close and we kissed expertly and carefully. She pushed me away gently and handed me the gun.

  “Put it down please, I hate it.”

  I thumbed forward the safety catch and put the big automatic down on a chair.

  “You looked like business.”

  “I’ve never fired it, I don’t think I could.”

  We circled around each other for a while in the kitchen and living room while she made me a drink and tea for herself. She’d spent the afternoon in bed and had taken it quietly in the evening, fixing herself a meal and watching TV. She was wearing a silk chinese-looking robe, all red and black with wide sleeves. It suited her, she looked rested and good. We sat side by side on the floor of her den which was book-lined and comfortable. The wind whipped some branches against the window. The soft, warm rain pattered down and I sipped my drink while telling her about my comings and goings in her service. Some kissing spun the story out and after two drinks, with her head on my shoulder and my hand on her breast inside her robe, I was feeling miles away from coffee coloured girls in red Volkswagens and rainy vigils outside hospitals. She brought me back to it with the big question, or one of them.

  “Who do you think the woman with the French accent could be?” I stroked her breast drowsily, it seemed the right thing to do when considering French-accented women and was very nice for its own sake too.

  “Brave has Canadian connections you tell me. Maybe that’s the answer, some French Canadian woman. But since talking to Tickener I’m not so sure. She put him on to Brave. They could have fallen out I suppose, but I’m not wild about the whole theory.”

  “Why not?”

  “Brave and bombing don’t go together, he’s more subtle. Still, there’s Giles’ death to consider. Can’t rule Brave out on that and therefore he could be involved in the bombing.”

  “It’s getting very complicated, isn’t it?”

  “It is, that’s why you need a specialist in complicated criminal cases.”

  “Like you?”

  “Like me.”

  Her breast was warm under my hand and her fingers on my thigh reminded me that it had been a long, long time. I pulled her to her feet and we did some more kissing and eye gazing. She broke away and led me off by the hand — it felt like the fifth or sixth time, when you know enough to take it slowly and be touched by it. We undressed each other in her timber-beamed, white-bricked bedroom and closed like tired but healthy and experienced animals. She finished before me and opened up warmly beneath me. I went down and around and moaned out my gratitude.

  She seemed to feel the same thing — a gratitude and release and we each smoked a cigarette and made mildly dirty remarks in each other’s ears. It was an exchange of needs, strengths and weaknesses and both of us knew that was all it was for now. She rolled away from me and slipped her hand between my legs.

  “Go to sleep.” Her hand soothed me beyond the power of food, drink or money. “I might catch you again before morning.”

  We woke soon after first light and moved in on each other urgently and hard. It was a different event, less tender, more athletic and she got out of bed almost as soon as we’d finished.

  “Tea or coffee?”

  She wrapped a cheesecloth cloak around her and ran her hand over her hair. I wanted to pull her back into the bed but the look on her face told me she wouldn’t be playing. She looked preoccupied, withdrawn and anxious to get on with some task to divert her from the reality of a man in her bed.

  “Coffee, black please.”

  “Do you want anything to eat?”

  I pulled the sheet up over my head. She snorted and went out. I unsheeted and looked around the room. It was austere with built-in wardrobes, a low camphorwood chest with a lamp on it and some paperbacks, and a full length mirror. The outlines were muzzy in the early half-light, softening down the lines of the neat, not self-indulgent decor. It was a fine room to wake up in. I got up and pulled back a little of the curtain. The pool was immediately outside — you could dive into it from the decking if you were good enough or drunk enough. I wandered around the room and into the compact ensuite bathroom. There was a man’s shirt, several sizes too big for Ailsa, hanging on the back of the door. It was slightly soiled and monogrammed RH on the breast pocket. It was silk, very expensive. I took my empty bladder and the little puzzle back into the bedroom.

  Ailsa came in with the coffee on a tray as I was riffling through one of her books — The Day of the Jackal, good stuff by a guy who wrote passably and had something good to write about. She kept the cloak on and sat down on the bed away from me. She handed me the coffee which was strong and hot.

  “I suppose you want brandy in it?”

  “It has been known. What is the H in RH for?”

  She put down her cup and looked away from me, at the mirror.

  “That’s it,” she said, “I was waiting for the thing you’d say that would be all wrong, and you come out with that.”

  She reached for her cigarettes but I checked the movement and pulled her down beside me. She didn’t resist, didn’t comply. I stroked her hair.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “That was a question to ask a suspect at midnight. I’m sorry love, I’m off on this case again. I didn’t think.”

  “It’s all right, you don’t have to soothe me. I’m not going to cry or anything like that. But you’re not being completely truthful. You saw Ross’ shirt, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, what does it mean to you?”

  “Jesus! Not a ‘what does it mean session’ this early.”

  She pushed herself up and away from me angrily.

  “You’re a ripe bastard this morning, aren’t you? Is this your usual style? Do you fuck your clients and piss them off in the morning and keep the retainer? Nice work.”

  She got the cigarettes this time and lit one shakily. I recovered my coffee and drank some trying to work out how to calm the storm. Maybe she was right, I’d woken up with clients before and worked my way out by the shortest route. But I wasn’t feeling like that this time.

  “Ailsa, it isn’t like that. There’s loose threads hanging everywhere in this case. I saw your fight with this guy Ross. I just want to fit him into the picture a bit more clearly. If he’s in the picture.”

  She tapped ash off her cigarette and drank some coffee, not looking at me.

  “Very well,” she said tightly. “Yes I suppose Ross is in the picture, or was. He’s been my occasional lover for a year or so. Mostly we fight, sometimes it’s nice…was nice. I don’t expect it to be any good again. That fight was beyond the limit.”

  “What was it about?”

  She drew on the cigarette and looked at me, her head nodding slightly.

  “You know men aren’t all that attractive in the morning,” she said. “Bristly, stinking a bit of tobacco and bad teeth. You’re no major exception Cliff Hardy. You’ll have to warm up a bit to get anything more out of me. Would you admit to being jealous?”

  “Under pentothal.”

  She finished her cigarette and coffee, dropped the butt in the dregs and slung herself down on the bed beside me. She put her hands behind her head and drew her knees up until she was sitting in a sort of yoga posture.

  “OK, the full story, for your files. Ross came to me a few months after Mark’s death. He had some references, pretty impressive ones. I was just getting around to thinking I’d have to do something with the money Mark left me. Ross had ideas.”

  “Like what?”

  “He knew about setting up companies and minimising taxes and quite a bit about the share market. He made some nice killings for me there, early on. I’ve got a fashion business, manufacturing and retail, I’ve even gone international with it in a small way. I’ve got a vineyard — that’d inter
est you — and some outlets for the wine. I’ve got a company to co-ordinate things and Ross is second in charge.”

  “Who’s in charge, you?”

  “No, only nominally. The real boss is a man called Chalmers. He’s a chartered accountant and the dullest man in the world. He’s ultra-cautious and he’s never lost me a penny. That’s why he’s in charge.”

  “Ross has lost you pennies?”

  “A few. A couple of times, that’s why he hasn’t got the job. I work on old Sophie Tucker’s dictum, ‘I been rich and I been poor…,’ you know it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Most people just take it on faith. I know it’s true. But I’m not a maniac about it. I just like being rich and I don’t intend to get poor by going into wildcat schemes.”

  “That’s Ross’ style?”

  “Yes, it is now. He wants to be in charge of everything or failing that to play a few hands without Chalmers’ interference. I don’t feel like staking him.”

  “And that’s what the fight was about?”

  “Yes. He’s been getting very pushy lately. He was pressing me to go into a mining deal and I’m not interested. He got nasty and started putting me down. I’m a lot older than him and he pointed it out. You saw how it went.”

  “You were doing pretty well, you might have won it on your own. How’s it going to be, business-wise, if you break with him?”

  “He’ll just have to accept it or move out. He hasn’t got a contract and I know he’s not short of women. He gets a good salary and the usual perks. He’s useful, he knows people. I think he’ll stay.”

  “The silver spoon?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m not sure. He’s never told me anything much about his background.”

  We’d got over the hump and she relaxed letting her long legs slide down the bed. We kissed for the sheer pleasure of it. She rubbed her hand over my face.

  “Bristly, black-bearded bastard.”

  “Virility,” I said. “Tell me about Chalmers.”

  “Christ, you like your work don’t you. What do you want to know?”

  “Just one thing, was he connected in any way with Mark Gutteridge?”

  “Yes,” she spoke slowly, beating her hand in time to the words on the bed. “He was Mark’s chief accountant for many years.”

  I did the same. “And how did he come to work for you?”

  “He approached me. I don’t know exactly why he picked on me. I do know that he couldn’t get on with Bryn.”

  “In what way?”

  “I don’t know. Ross once said something about Walter being a repressed homosexual, that could have something to do with it. But Ross isn’t reliable on the subject of Chalmers.”

  I thought about it. There were more connections back to the Gutteridge trouble for Ailsa than I’d realised. I still felt that the car bombing related back to the harassment of Susan Gutteridge, but I didn’t know how. Ailsa had given me some more people with possible motives, but Brave was still out in front and my main concern as well as hers. He was Harry Tickener’s concern too.

  “I’m going to be very busy on your behalf today love,” I said, planting a firm kiss on her shoulder.

  “And your own. Your rates are moderate verging on extortionate. Do you make a lot of money?”

  “No. Overheads are high and I have long slack periods. Most of what I makes goes on booze and books anyway.”

  “I can imagine. And on women?”

  I disengaged myself and rolled off the bed. “Very little on women. Use your shower?” she nodded. “Are you married Hardy?” she said. “Was. Tell you about it sometime.” I started for the shower and turned back. She was sitting up again and lighting a cigarette. With the cream coloured fabric draped around her she looked like a young, scared Christian about to go to the lions. I walked back and put my fingers in the hair at the nape of her neck. I massaged her neck gently.

  “We’ll have lots of time to talk,” I said. “Today I’ve got ten men to see and six houses to break into. Can you write me down the addresses of Chalmers and Ross… what’s his other name?”

  She rotated her head cat-like under my fingers. “That’s nice. All right. Ross’ other name is Haines.” She got up, crossed to the wardrobe and got out a thick towel. She tossed it to me and I caught it and went into the bathroom. When I came back into the room she handed me a page torn from a notebook. The names and addresses were written in neat capitals. She made a grab at the towel around my waist and I backed off. She looked amused and got out another cigarette. I pulled on my clothes, bent down over the bed and kissed her on the head.

  “You could have typed it out,” I said.

  “Can’t type, never learned.”

  I nodded. “What are you going to do today?” She blew smoke at the mirror. “Since I evidently can’t stay here with you,” she said, “I’ll go into the office and check a few things. I might go to the library. Where’s my protection by the way?”

  “You should be safe enough if you stick to doing what you say. Take taxis and stay with other people. You can do it all the time if you try.”

  “Taxis, OK. That reminds me, what about the police and my car? Will I have to talk to them again do you think?”

  “I don’t think so, I’ve squared it for the time being.”

  “Fully insured, I’ll get someone in the office onto it today. Good car, I think I’ll get another one the same.”

  “You do that,” I said.

  She flared. “Don’t be supercilious with me. I employ a lot of people, I spend my money. I do the best I can and I’m not hypocritical about it.”

  “Like Susan Gutteridge?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve got a point. I’ll call you about six, maybe we could have dinner, then I’ll have some things to do.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah, it could be all over tonight if things go right.”

  “You’re being mysterious.”

  “Not really, if I told you all about it you’d think it was so simple you wouldn’t feel like paying me.”

  She laughed and came up to me. I pulled her in and we kissed and rubbed together for a minute or two. I promised to call her at six, come what may, and left the house.

  10

  I took the first drink of the day in an early opening pub at the Quay. My companions in sin ranged from a tattooed youth, who was playing at looking tough and doing pretty well at it, to a grizzled wreck who was mumbling about the Burns-Johnson fight at Rushcutters Bay in 1908. He claimed to have been the timekeeper and maybe he was. I bought him a schooner and he switched to Sullivan-Corbett which was a bit unlikely. A scotch would probably have got me Sayers and Heenan. I had a middy of old and tried to anticipate the results of Tickener’s inquiries. The smell of toasted sandwiches interrupted this train of thought and I put the matter aside in their favour. I ate two cheese sandwiches and had a second beer. The rain had cleared and the day was going to be warm. Students and the unemployed would be on the beaches, accountants would be at their desks, private detectives would be peeling secrets off people like layers of sunburnt skin.

  I got a shave in the Cross at a barber shop where I’d once seen Gough Whitlam, before he became Prime Minister — I figured he’d know where to get a good shave. The Italian razor man was neat and economical and let me read the paper while he worked. He was coming on strong with garlic and aftershave but I fought back with beer and I guess the honours were about even. The News had put Costello on the second page and had splashed a government statement about unions across the front. There was a front page picture of a cricket player kissing a paraplegic girl to remind everyone that God lives and life is still all fun and games.

  I got to the office, checked the mail and the incoming calls with the answering service. There nothing of interest in either. I rang the number which Harry Tickener, newshound and wordsmith, had given me the night before. He must have been sitting on top of the phone because it was snatched up the second it ra
ng.

  We established identities, confirmed that we were both in sound health and got down to business. The records branch of the motor registry never shuts down to accredited people and Tickener’s contact had got what we wanted during the night. In a voice as thin and reedy as himself, Tickener recited the facts: “The Rover is registered to Dr William Clyde, 232 Sackville Drive, Hunters Hill, the Fairlane to Charles Jackson, 114 Langdon Street, Edgecliff, the VW to Naumeta Pali, Flat 6,29 Rose Street, Drummoyne.”

  “Good. Do you know anything about these people?”

  “Not a thing. The only Charles Jackson I know of is a cop, Detective Inspector, CID. I don’t know where he lives or what he drives. Never heard of the others, could find out though.”

  “Right, you take Clyde, call me in an hour.”

  I tidied my desk, throwing away bills and advertisements, and paid a couple of modest accounts with cheques I could cover by lodging Gutteridge money. I phoned Grant Evans at home. It was delicate but I was getting more confident.

  “Grant? Cliff, I’m getting closer but I need a piece of information.”

  “How big a piece? I’m feeling weak.”

  “Not big, but close to home. You have a colleague by the name of Charles Jackson?”

  “Yeah, what about him?”

  “Your assessment.”

  “No comment.”

  “What does he drive and where does he live?”

  “A Fairlane, he lives in Edgecliff somewhere.”

  That spoke volumes. Evans trusted me but not enough to give out information on anyone for whom he had any regard. I had a character sketch of Jackson from those seven words.

  “Anything else Cliff?”

  “Not until tonight. You on duty?”

  “Yeah, seven to three.”

  “Good men with you?”

  “Good enough.”

  “I’ll call you at eight.”