Win, Lose or Draw Page 8

  ‘D’Amico been in touch?’ he said.

  ‘Fair go. It’s only been a few hours.’

  ‘It’s a bit of race, isn’t it? To see who comes up with the goods first.’

  ‘No, mate. I’ll pay you for your time and effort whatever the result, win, lose or draw.’

  ‘Still sounds like a race, but okay. I haven’t exactly drawn a blank but a precise name would’ve helped. You wouldn’t believe how many strippers have names starting with D, including one Dee Dee.’

  I laughed. ‘Is there a Desdemona?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I was told she might be an ex-stripper. That suggests a certain maturity.’

  ‘Yeah, I used that. You haven’t asked how much money I went through.’

  ‘I don’t care. It isn’t my money and I’ll let you in on something. The client once posted a reward of two hundred and fifty grand for information. I persuaded him to cancel it.’

  He stared at me. ‘You must be nuts.’

  ‘I wanted a clear field, no treasure hunters.’

  ‘I get it, but you’re still nuts.’ He took a good pull on his wine and finished off a length of breadstick. The beginnings of a smile spread over his face. I raised my glass to him.

  ‘Okay, let’s have it.’

  He pulled out a notebook. ‘There’s a couple of possibilities. First …’

  The relative quiet of the place was interrupted by the arrival of two men—both big, one in a suit, one in the uniform of the Queensland police force. The uniform adjusted the belt carrying his pistol as they approached our table. The suit stepped in front of him and produced a wallet. He flipped it open to show a warrant card. I had a sense of movement around me as some of the clients edged away.

  ‘Cliff Hardy?’

  I recognised him; I’d dealt with him before when I worked with Vaughan on the errant husband case. It hadn’t been a happy association.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and you’re Sergeant …?’

  ‘Detective Senior Sergeant Cantini. I want you to accompany us to the Coolangatta police station.’

  I opened my hands. ‘I’m here having a quiet chat and a drink with a professional colleague. Why would you want to interrupt us like that?’

  He was bulky, stubbled and looked tired. ‘Your so-called professional colleague is a nuisance, like you. You’re wanted for an interview on the subject of the murder of Paul D’Amico.’

  14

  I sat in an interview room for about an hour while telephones rang in the police station, people looked curiously at me through the glass panel in the door and no one brought me a cup of coffee. A civilian at the reception desk had asked politely for my ID and I handed it over. He tapped keys on his computer before handing it back. As Cantini escorted me to the interview room, I heard the desk man making a phone call and using my name.

  It was past 1.00 am and I was yawning, despite my late-afternoon nap, when a man in shirtsleeves and no tie came into the room carrying two take-away coffees on a cardboard tray. He was in his fifties, at a guess, with grey in his hair and stress in eyes that blinked too rapidly. He put the coffees on the table and sat, almost suppressing a relieved sigh.

  ‘Is this by way of apology?’ I said.

  ‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘You just happen to be one of the last people to see D’Amico alive and so you were … a person of interest. I’m Detective Inspector Horsfield. I hope Rafa didn’t give you too bad a time.’

  ‘Rafa?’

  ‘Senior Sergeant Raffaello Cantini. He gets toey when members of the Italian community come into focus.’

  ‘Hence the belligerence?’

  ‘If you like.’

  I sipped the coffee through the slit in the top—black, no sugar. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was badly beaten and then drowned.’

  ‘Where? When?’

  He gave a weary groan and did a joint-creaking stretch before drinking some coffee. ‘I don’t know how to deal with you, Hardy. What do you think this is—your fucking investigation?’

  I didn’t say anything, sensing that what he’d said had felt uncomfortably close to the truth for him.

  ‘I don’t like people in your game turning up and not reporting to us, but I’d like to cooperate with you as far as I can, for now. We won’t know until after the autopsy whether he was dead when he went into the water or if the water did the job. He was a mess either way.’

  ‘That’s tough. I only met him briefly today. He seemed, let’s say, more approachable than his brother.’

  ‘That’s it. We need to know everything about your dealings with the D’Amicos.’

  ‘What do you know already?’

  ‘You’re determined to play it tight, aren’t you? All right, we know you went to his place of business today and had a discussion. The receptionist said you were aggressive.’

  ‘At first, or after the discussion?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘You seem to have dropped out of sight. That’s why Cantini came on a bit strong.’

  ‘How did he get on to me?’

  ‘He picked up some information about Turnbull sniffing around. He knew you’d had dealings with him before and he knew his hangouts.’

  ‘That’s pretty good detective work.’

  ‘I’ll tell Rafa you said so. It might make him less antagonistic, although I wouldn’t bet on it. You’re up here working on something. What is it?’

  I took my time over the coffee and then shook my head. ‘It’s not that simple, Inspector. I have a client, an important one, and a colleague.’

  ‘We could make it difficult for you and your colleague to do a bloody thing.’

  ‘Not if you want useful information from me.’

  ‘Have you got useful information?’

  I shrugged and looked at my watch. ‘Could be. He was alive ten or so hours ago. There’s no rush. You need to get an autopsy report and trace D’Amico’s movements …’

  ‘And yours.’

  ‘Don’t bother—I went for a swim and a sleep and a feed. I kept the bill from the café. I need some time to talk to my client and Vaughan Turnbull. Let’s say by tomorrow afternoon I might be able to help you.’

  I thought he was going to explode but he held himself in. ‘I could charge you with obstructing a police investigation.’

  ‘You’d be a fool to do that. I’m willing to cooperate on certain terms. Your choice.’

  ‘You’re incredible.’

  ‘Inspector, I’ve been in business a very long time and I’ve had my ups and downs with the police. I don’t like the way things’ve shaped up here recently but that’s not my problem. I’ve got a job to do and a client to protect. Our interests might be the same in some ways, probably are, but … I hope I’ve made my point.’

  He stood, joints creaking again. ‘Tomorrow afternoon you said. Okay, right here, one o’clock sharp!’

  ‘Tomorrow’s Sunday.’

  ‘I’m not a churchgoer and I doubt you are either. Be here!’

  I nodded. I had to let him have a win.

  ‘Tell the front desk where you’re staying and leave your mobile number.’

  ‘I need a ride back to my car.’

  ‘All right, all right. Bugger off.’

  The Sunday morning newspaper carried an account of Paul D’Amico’s death. He’d been found floating in the water near a small jetty adjacent to the huge marina. He’d been identified by the documents he carried and by an employee. He was forty-two and was described as a manager of several adult services businesses and as a sportsman.

  I rang Vaughan Turnbull, who’d been reading the same newspaper. ‘That’s a nice description,’ he said. ‘I suppose he did hit the odd golf ball. Did the cops grill you? That Cantini’s a hard case.’

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘We came to an arrangement.’

  ‘With Cantini? You’re kidding. He’s pretty dirty himself and he sees us as part
of the general slime pool.’

  ‘With his boss, Horsfield.’

  ‘Ah, that’s different.’

  ‘What d’you know about him?’

  ‘Struggling to stay afloat, if you’ll excuse the expression, in the present circumstances, against the hard-liners the previous government pushed forward. He must’ve gone out on a limb for you.’

  It hadn’t seemed like that at the time but, if Vaughan’s assessment of the power play inside the police force was right, it could look that way and had implications.

  ‘So he’d be looking for a quick result?’

  ‘He needs one. I’ve got some mates in the lower ranks. The word is he’s after a job with the federal police. There’s some who don’t want him to get it, for obvious reasons.’

  ‘Knows too much and might get brave under the right conditions?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Jesus, this case was tricky enough without copper politics in the mix. I don’t want you to get in trouble with the locals. I know how hard that makes things.’

  ‘Good. I’m no hero.’

  ‘Okay, my line of enquiry ended with D’Amico. You were about to tell me something when Cantini came in. Give it to me now and I’ll run with it. I’ll see you right money-wise and you can take a holiday.’

  ‘Not on the phone, Cliff. Come to the office.’

  I checked out of the caravan park, which had begun to depress me. I was working on a big money case. I wanted a clean pool, air-conditioning, a mini-bar and no cockroaches, and there was no point now in hiding from Paul D’Amico.

  The day was warm and sticky. The forecast had promised a breeze but it hadn’t arrived yet. I drove to the marina, parked and strolled around. The small, basic, weather-battered jetty near where Paul D’Amico’s body was found was more than a hundred metres away from the upmarket part of the marina in a small, seaweed-choked cove. I wondered what the smooth-suited well-groomed man I’d met had been doing there.

  I asked a bloke working on his small yacht what the jetty was used for.

  He was mahogany-tanned with salt- and sun-bleached hair. His faded blue eyes took pity on a landlubber.

  ‘You can tie up here for a bit. It’s like short-term parking when you can’t afford the marina.’

  ‘Just you here now?’

  ‘The cops shooed us away after they found the body. I sneaked in this morning, happy to find a spot.’

  ‘You weren’t here yesterday then?’

  ‘Nope.’

  I wished him happy sailing.

  I drove to Vaughan’s office address and parked closer this time and in the shade. I climbed the stairs wondering what Vaughan had to tell me that couldn’t be said over the phone. Sunday and the building felt empty.

  The door to the small outer office was open and I walked in. Vaughan appeared in the doorway to his office.

  ‘I’m sorry, Cliff,’ he said.

  I felt a savage grip at the top of my neck. I shot both elbows back hard but there was nothing there and in the next instant there was nothing anywhere.

  15

  I came up out of it gradually and reluctantly. I felt as though I was swimming deep in dark water, unsure which way was up, and not wanting to get it wrong. The place I was in wouldn’t stay still; it was tipping and rocking and the darkness was shot through with flashes of light that I slowly realised were visual versions of the pain in my neck.

  I surfaced. I was lying propped up on a plastic and metal recliner on the deck of a yacht that was sailing through what felt like calm waters under a light wind. A canopy gave me shade from the bright sun, but when I tried to move I felt the plastic restraints that shackled me to the recliner.

  George D’Amico was sitting on a chair a metre away. The sleek suit and smooth grooming were gone; he wore jeans and a T-shirt, deck shoes without socks. Dark bristles sprouted with a touch of grey on his olive-skinned face.

  ‘Hardy,’ he said. ‘Good to see you back with us. I didn’t realise you’d had heart problems. I was worried for a while that you mightn’t make it. That carotid grip’s a serious thing.’

  I concentrated on blinking to rid myself of blurred vision, breathing deeply to slow my pulse and working my tongue around inside my mouth to get some saliva running. I didn’t say anything. D’Amico watched me and nodded.

  ‘Recovery techniques. Very impressive, but then, you’ve been through some tough spots in your time, haven’t you? We noticed a couple of healed bullet wounds as well as the zipper scar; not to mention the busted nose.’

  You can only maintain the initiative with silence for so long and the time had run out.

  ‘Nothing recent,’ I said.

  He shifted a little and gazed out at the water, visible to him but not to me. ‘But how would you go weighed down and dumped five kilometres out to sea?’

  I turned my head very carefully to look around. I knew nothing about boat maintenance, but everything I could see that I guessed should be scrubbed, polished and tied down was.

  ‘I don’t see an Early Cooker or a tub of cement.’

  D’Amico smiled. ‘You’re a piece of work, Hardy.’

  Another American expression, I thought. The boys have either been there or they watch a lot of television.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But I didn’t kill your brother, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘No? And what’s your thinking on the matter?’

  ‘I don’t think that well under restraint. With an aching head and a dry throat.’

  D’Amico raised his voice. ‘Serge! The tin snips.’

  I heard footsteps and felt someone bending over me. Tin snips will take a finger. I closed my eyes. D’Amico laughed; I heard the blades clip closed and my left wrist was free.

  ‘Get the man a couple of Panadols and a drink,’ D’Amico said. ‘Make it a Crownie. Sorry, we haven’t got any Little Creatures.’

  I opened my eyes and drew in a deep breath of the salty air. ‘You’ve done this intimidation stunt before.’

  ‘Right. The last guy pissed his pants, but they got a good wash after.’

  I flexed my hand and wrist. ‘You’re talking too much and too fancy. You’re worried, George.’

  The soft footsteps returned and two capsules dropped into my lap. A Crown Lager stubby was placed gently beside me on the recliner. I took a look at the pills and smelled and licked them. Then I swallowed them down dry.

  ‘Tough guy,’ D’Amico said.

  I lifted the bottle and took a small sip, letting it wash over the tastebuds. Then I tilted it up and drank half in a series of long gulps. I put the bottle down within easy reach.

  ‘To return to the original question,’ he said. ‘Who do you think killed Paul?’

  ‘Not interested in why?’

  ‘Learn who, and why’d become obvious.’

  ‘Not necessarily, but anyway I had two people in mind—you and Lance Harris.’

  ‘I wouldn’t kill my own brother.’

  ‘Been known to happen.’

  ‘Bullshit. The way I see it, you’re responsible. You got him looking for Harris.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘The room you were in at Classics is bugged. I heard the recording. If Harris killed him, you’re to blame in a way. I can find Harris, so you’re sort of surplus to requirements. Everything you have with you was in your car. It wouldn’t be too hard to make you disappear.’

  He was serious now. I was sure he was worried—threatening, but not as sure of himself as he pretended, but I didn’t know why. Had things with Paul got really out of hand? Had he sent someone to talk to him and it had gone wrong? It was a possibility. How deeply was he involved with Harris and did he have anything to fear from my finding him first? I had no answers and all the questions could easily add up to his point that there was no need for me. I tried hard to think of something that would convince him otherwise.

  I said, ‘Are you sure you can find Harris? I’ve been chasing him all over the fucking Pacific and
up the coast. He’s slippery.’

  I drank the rest of the beer. I could smash the bottle on the deck and cut the other restraint, but then what? D’Amico was younger and fitter than me and Serge obviously wasn’t the only crew member. Almost as if he’d read my mind, D’Amico stretched his leg and kicked the bottle across the deck.

  ‘I hear the cops pulled you in?’

  I nodded.

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  I briefly considered mentioning my wealthy client as a counterweight but decided against it. If he’d heard my discussion with his brother he’d know about him and apparently wasn’t concerned.

  ‘Not much,’ I said. ‘They’re expecting me to show up…’ I squinted down at my watch, ‘… in about a quarter of an hour.’

  D’Amico gave a bored shrug. ‘You’re not going to make it.’

  Off to one side there was the roar of an engine and a booming voice sounded above the slap of the waves and the sails.

  ‘Ahoy, Classic Belle. You are to change course. You will be escorted back to the police dock at Coolangatta. Acknowledge!’

  Serge was instantly on deck. ‘Boss?’

  D’Amico’s boredom changed to something like extreme anger. ‘You fucker.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me. I’m as surprised as you are. Relieved though.’

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Let me think. Anything hot on board?’

  ‘A Glock and some pills, I think.’

  ‘Make sure and ditch them. Then do as they say.’

  I jiggled my shackled wrist so that the recliner bounced a little. ‘Hey, Serge,’ I shouted. ‘How about those tin snips and another Crownie?’

  16

  It took three hours and some very unhappy and angry cops to resolve things. By the time the Classic Belle tied up at the police dock I was sitting in a chair on the deck chatting amiably to D’Amico. He’d given me back my wallet and keys. We were hauled off to the police station, where Horsfield informed me that a member of the public had seen me being taken forcibly on board the yacht and had contacted the police.