Comeback - [Cliff Hardy 37] Read online

  ‘I’m sorry, I was speaking loosely. I meant he had someone do it. Just as...’

  ‘It’s a very hard thing to prove. Do you have any kind of evidence?’

  She was composed again now, with her intelligence rather than emotion showing. ‘There’s a man who works for him. Michael told me he’d killed people before.’

  ‘And what’s his name?’

  ‘Alexander Mountjoy. I think he’s a very frightening individual.’

  The name didn’t mean anything to me. ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘Big, bulky.’

  ‘With a beard?’

  She touched her face. ‘Stubble. Michael used to boast about his criminal connections. I found it exciting. Briefly.’

  Jane Devereaux put the crumpled tissues on the desk.

  ‘You look sceptical, Mr Hardy. I’m no femme fatale, I realise that. Michael Tennyson’s an attractive man in his way. He could have the pick of attractive women. He has a glamorous wife, of course. I just thought...Robert spoke so highly of you on our last night. Perhaps I’m wasting my time. You think I’m a fantasist.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. Not at all. I’m trying to understand something else. I hope I’m not offending you, but you seem to be an extremely intelligent and well-qualified woman, and Bobby Forrest. . .’

  She smiled. ‘You thought he was dumb?’

  ‘No... limited, perhaps, in comparison.’

  ‘Yes, I see. You have to understand that Robert was beautiful from the day he was born. Really beautiful, not just in the way that people say babies are beautiful. And he had an array of talents. He’s ... he was naturally athletic, musical and charming. He told me he’d never had a day’s illness in his life. Not even a cold. I believed him. He never had to try very hard to be good at things and at the things that didn’t interest him he got by, easily.’

  She spoke with a firm conviction that was compelling. The attractive animation had resumed.

  ‘He was very quick-minded. And he found in me something that mattered more than great legs and big tits, if you can believe that.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And you really believe Tennyson would have him killed because he’d been trumped by him?’

  ‘Good expression. Yes, trumped by a dumb actor. All his money, all his power and influence. Trumped. He’s a wild man under the suits, behind the designer glasses. He does wild, dangerous things and pays to cover them up.’

  ‘Has he continued to... pursue you?’

  ‘Yes, subtly.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  She opened the briefcase and took out a slim box about ten centimetres long and three or four wide and deep. She leaned forward, put it on the desk and opened it. Inside, nestling in blue velvet, was a small, glittering object on a gold chain. ‘What is it?’ I said.

  ‘It’s a Fabergé egg.’

  I’d read about them in books but I had no clear idea of what they were or what they looked like. ‘I thought they’d be bigger.’

  ‘Some are. This is one of the very traditional kind, to be given as a gift at Easter and worn around the neck.’

  ‘Is it genuine?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘What’s it worth?’

  ‘Thousands. It can only have come from him. It’s his way of saying he still wants...no, demands me.’

  ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘Send it back, of course. Then there’ll be something else. He won’t stop. I remember him telling me how he went after a small business he was interested in. He persisted and persisted until he got it, even though he destroyed a few people along the way.’

  ‘I’m surprised you had anything to do with him.’

  ‘So am I, looking back. But I wasn’t myself and I was flattered.’

  I was trying to think what use I could be in the situation. ‘Are you afraid of him, Jane?’

  ‘Not physically, he wouldn’t harm me, but I’m sure he could bring pressure to bear on the company I work for. He could cause me to lose my job and that’s all I have to live for right now. I feel very vulnerable and I’m not sure I can cope with another loss.’

  ‘Ray Frost, Bobby’s father, thinks business difficulties of his might have caused Bobby’s death. He feels responsible...’

  ‘I understand. That’s part of my distress, too.’

  ‘...and he’s hired me to look into it—see if he’s right.’

  ‘I can’t afford to hire you. I just hoped you’d be interested enough to look into what I’ve told you. See if there’s any way to sheet it home to Michael Tennyson. I know it’s a lot to ask.’

  I thought about it while she closed the box and put it back in her briefcase. She smoothed her skirt down with those fine hands and looked out through the window on the left side. It was the first time in a long while I’d had an office window clean enough to look out of. From the expression on her face she wasn’t seeing the city skyline; she was looking at something shrouded and much further away—her future.

  ‘In a way it isn’t that much to ask,’ I said. ‘I’ve got several lines of inquiry to follow and yours is just one more. It’s all part of the same thing. What happens if I find Tennyson wasn’t involved?’

  She shrugged. ‘Then at least I won’t feel responsible, and I’ll deal with it more easily.’

  I told her I’d do what I could. I made a note of the partial description of Alexander Mountjoy, some details of Tennyson’s habits and interests and her own details. I advised her to upgrade the security of her flat and to get in touch with me if Tennyson approached her directly. She thanked me and left. It had all taken something over an hour. My back was stiff and sore from sitting and I was thirsty and hungry. I used the rail to help me get down the stairs and got an odd look from someone bounding up the stairs the way I used to bound. And would again, I told myself.

  ■ ■ ■

  Pyrmont has sprouted cafes and coffee shops the way a gentrifying area will and I only had to walk half a block to find one. I was able to sit outside in the sun, sheltered from the wind by a heavy plastic sheet. I had a glass of wine and a Greek salad. I’d been in the place once before and was back because it was one of the few cafes that didn’t overload the Greek salad with cucumber. Plenty of feta—the way I liked it.

  As I’d told Jane, I had three lines of inquiry to follow— the Miranda/Mary Oberon stream, where it was a matter of trying to locate a Fijian-Indian prostitute and her white Commodore-driving assailant; there was Anton Beaumont from Sterling who drove a white Commodore and might be bearded; and there was Michael Tennyson and Alexander Mountjoy, neither of whom was bearded. Tennyson probably drove a BMW or some such, and what Mountjoy drove was anybody’s guess. Tennyson probably wouldn’t employ anyone close to him as a hit man, but he’d need a go-between.

  The question was, which line to follow? I made the decision over a cup of coffee, breaking my rule about doing the hard stuff first because my back was sore. I decided to go the easy route and take a look at Beaumont. If he was clean-shaven and not jut-jawed behind the wheel of his Commodore, I could probably forget about Sterling. Let the boys play out whatever game they were up to.

  I wasn’t sure how to go about it but as things turned out part of it at least was made easy. I walked back towards the office and noticed a white Commodore parked rear-to-kerb across the street. It was a parking spot I coveted but rarely won. A man got out of the car, watched for traffic, crossed the street and came towards me. He was tall and solidly built and looked purposeful. I tensed. He came on and stuck out his hand.

  ‘Cliff Hardy, I presume.’

  He had an engaging smile and there were no visible weapons. I shook his hand.

  ‘I’m Anton Beaumont from Sterling. I’d like to have a talk with you.’

  We went up to the office and I tried not to make heavy weather of the stairs. Beaumont was at least ten years younger and fit. He didn’t exactly bound up, but he could have. He wore a lightweight grey suit with the jacket unbutt
oned over a blue shirt, no tie—no beard and no sign of one recently removed. I got him seated. Jane Devereaux’s damp, crumpled tissues, slightly marked by her eye makeup, was still on the desk. I tossed it into the wastepaper basket.

  ‘Upset female client?’ he said.

  ‘You’re a detective. Why’re you here, Mr Beaumont?’

  ‘Anton, please.’ He crossed his legs and got comfortable. ‘One of my jobs at Sterling is to review the CCTV footage. You showed up. I recognised you from your ... appearance on television a little while ago.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Mind telling me why you were there?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Right, as expected and it doesn’t matter. Why I’m here is because neither Cochrane, nor Salter nor Pollock mentioned your visit to me or to Phil. They don’t know that I know you were there. I’m wondering why.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ll get around to it. They must’ve seen the footage. Maybe they’re just waiting for you to ask.’

  ‘Nope. They haven’t seen the footage because they don’t know the cameras have been installed.’

  ‘Just you and Phil?’

  ‘Just Phil and me.’

  Good grammar, I thought. I said, ‘Aren’t you letting me in on some sneaky secrets, Anton?’

  ‘For a reason. Those three bastards are plotting to take over Phil’s company. I’ve got the job of stopping them. That’s why I need to know why you were there. If you’re involved with them I’m giving you the chance to tell me what you know and stay clear of the shit that’s going to come down. Because they’re finished and possibly going to gaol.’

  So bang went one of my lines of inquiry. Without going into much detail I told Beaumont that my interest in Sterling had nothing to do with whatever the gang of three were plotting. He was equally reticent about what the plot involved and what measures he was going to take to stop them. We fenced for a while, batting cautious admissions back and forth, until he was satisfied.

  We shook hands again.

  ‘I hope you can resolve your client’s problem,’ he said, pointing at the wastepaper basket. ‘I was on my own in the game for a while but I found it too tough. Needed a corporate structure.’

  ‘Now you’ve found that tough.’

  ‘In its way, yes. But more comfortable generally speaking.’

  ‘By the way, how did you know where I’d be just now?’

  He grinned. ‘I’ve had someone following you since yesterday.’

  ‘Didn’t notice. I’m slipping.’

  ‘She’s very good.’

  He left and I sat looking out the window Jane Devereaux had stared through. I was left with a problem. I was holding close to five thousand dollars of Ray Frost’s money and I was just about certain his suspicions were unfounded. End of job.

  I rang Frost’s business number, spoke to his secretary and made an appointment to see him the following morning. I spent the rest of the day and the early part of the night on the computer researching Michael Tennyson. There was no way to read everything that came up on Google and if there’s a way to determine what’s important and what isn’t, I didn’t know it. I floundered around in the websites until I felt I was drowning in information.

  I ended by printing out the best of the photographs and the basic biographical material. He was born in Sydney forty-two years ago. He was educated at private schools and Stanford University. He inherited a pile of money and a thriving real estate business from his father and he diversified quickly and adventurously, never putting a foot wrong until he’d assembled the interlocking companies that went under the name of Tennyson Enterprises. He was married to Samantha nee Miles-Wilson and had a son aged nine and a daughter aged seven. His Sydney residence was in Bellevue Hill but he maintained apartments in several capital cities in Australia and overseas and a country property on the central coast of New South Wales.

  Jane Devereaux had said he was attractive in his way and I could see what she meant. He was tall and, at a guess, gym-toned, with dark hair and perfect teeth. His eyes were a little too close together and his nose a bit sharp, giving him a foxy look. He played golf and tennis, fished and collected vintage cars. A list of his involvement in boards relating to money, sport and the arts would fill a foolscap page. He was a big donor to the conservative parties at state and federal level.

  There was nothing about Alexander Mountjoy. The web, and especially Google’s ‘Images’ site, picks up even very obscure people, but there wasn’t a trace of him.

  ~ * ~

  10

  Frost ran his operation from a huge yard, dotted with sheds and several sizeable demountables, in Alexandria. Like the Sterling set-up it was surrounded by a high cyclone fence but some effort at beautification—a few shrubs, a strip of grass, a bench seat under a shade tree—had been made. Unlike the Sterling compound there was no security at the gate. I drove in and parked among a number of utes, trucks and pieces of earth-moving equipment.

  The area was surrounded by light-poles connected by loops of heavy cable. At night the place could be lit up like a football field. A hand-painted sign stuck to one of the poles pointed me to the office in the biggest of the demountables. A few men in overalls bustled around the yard and I could hear the hum of generators. The office building was set on stumps a metre high. I went up a set of steps and in through the open door. The walls of the office were mostly covered with noticeboards holding pinned sheets of paper that fluttered in the draft from a fan.

  There were two desks. Frost got up from behind one and came towards me with his hand out. We shook. His hand was hard and callused. Ray Frost might tread a fine line from a legal perspective as Inspector Rockwell had said, but at some time he’d done his share of the hard yakka.

  I sat in the chair he indicated and he gave me a searching look.

  ‘What’s wrong with the back?’

  ‘Kidney punch from one of the people at Sterling.’

  ‘You get even?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  He grinned as he sat. His jacket was hung on his chair. His arms in the black T-shirt were tanned and meaty. ‘You’ve been on the job, then?’

  I told him how I’d come to focus on Sterling as the only likely candidate for what worried him and about the Sterling associates driving white Commodores. I outlined my encounter with them at their HQ. Then I told him about Anton Beaumont coming to see me, and what he’d said about the trouble at the senior level of the firm.

  ‘Sounds as if Phil could have a fight on his hands. Good. I’m relieved that you don’t think I brought it about. That helps a bit. But who killed him? I just don’t understand it.’

  ‘I haven’t come anywhere near earning the money you’ve paid me.’

  He waved it away. ‘Doesn’t matter. It’s only fuckin’ money. I’d give every cent to . . .’

  ‘I want to keep working on it. I’ve spoken to Jane Devereaux. She’s got a theory about what happened.

  He opened a drawer in the desk and took out an envelope. He handled it as if it was something precious. ‘She wrote to me. Explained why she wasn’t at the funeral. I could see exactly what she meant. It’s like they say—I could feel her pain. She can put things into words. Made me cry. It seems to me she would’ve been a terrific woman for Bobby. It’s fuckin’ unfair. They deserved better.’

  I nodded. ‘And there’s something else I want to follow up.’

  ‘You keep going, Hardy. Keep at it, and if you need more money just ask.’

  ‘I don’t want you to feel manipulated.’

  ‘Nobody manipulates me, mate. Nobody.’

  We shook hands again.

  ‘And not just money,’ he said. ‘Any other kind of help you might need.’

  ■ ■ ■

  I drove back to Pyrmont, still undecided about how to proceed. Jane Devereaux had been convincing, but tackling Michael Tennyson was a tall order. I’d have to do a lot of preliminary skirmishing to get a feel for the texture of his life and he obviously spent
a lot of time in places I couldn’t go. How to uncover his dark side, if he had one as Jane alleged?

  I was in the office and about to phone Harry Tickener to see if he could help and also to get his take on Jane, when the phone rang.

  ‘This is Cliff Hardy?’ A light voice, accented, female.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I saw you on television. I have information about the death of Bobby Forrest.’

  That’s the trouble with television, you’re exposed—it allows people to think they know you or can approach you. Just opening the conversation that way made me sceptical.