2
By mutual agreement we didn’t sign a contract there and then. I undertook to read the letters and the trial transcript and ask around about Master while his wife made arrangements for having the money available in New Caledonia. She made it clear that if I refused the job she’d look for someone else, which tapped straight into my competitive instinct.
‘You can keep the transcript,’ she said, ‘but not the letters. I only brought the originals to show you they’re genuine. You don’t have a photocopier?’
I waved my hand. ‘As you see. There’s one in William Street close by.’
‘Low overhead.’
‘That’s right. Do you mind telling me how come you’ve got a hundred grand going spare?’
She stood up to a full 180 centimetres in medium heels. ‘Yes, I do mind. But I’ll tell you this-it’s not Stewart’s ill-gotten gains.’
I put the transcript in a drawer, she picked up the bundle of letters and her bag and we went out and down the stairs into St Peters Lane. Her looks and the white suit turned heads as we made our way to the motor showroom where they let me use the copier. I wondered why she wore something like that on a dull day with rain threatening. Maybe she liked turning heads.
I copied the letters and we shook hands. We exchanged cards. Hers said she was a business consultant and carried an office phone number, a mobile number and an email address. I hadn’t got around to putting the email address on mine. She left the showroom. At a guess, her BMW-a Merc maybe-was in a nearby car park.
Chris Rowley, a salesman I sometimes have a drink with and who’s never quite given up on the idea of selling me one of their Saabs, wandered over and gave a low whistle.
‘Client?’
‘Yep. Maybe.’
‘Looks well heeled. Are you on a good earner, Cliff?’
‘Could be, with travel.’
‘Ah, time to replace that clapped-out Falcon with something more reliable?’
‘Overseas travel.’
‘Good luck to you. Don’t forget to pay for the copies.’
I did some calculations as I walked back to the office. If I took the job on it’d be a few weeks at least before I could expect to show any results or admit failure. At four hundred dollars a day plus expenses the cost would rack up pretty high, and New Caledonia was bound to be expensive. Everything French is. But funds didn’t seem to be a problem for our Lorraine. I realised that she’d told me nothing about herself. I was intrigued and it was a fair bet that was part of her plan.
In the office I tidied up a few things I’d left hanging-sent off a few emails, a couple of invoices and paid some bills. I realised that I was clearing the decks for the Master matter. No contract, no retainer-not best business practice, but then I’ve never been known for best practice at business or anything else.
I copied Lorraine Master’s phone numbers and email address into my notebook and looked at the sheets of photocopy paper. There were six letters spread out over a month or so. The handwriting was a big, loopy scrawl, easy enough to read. Immature perhaps. For some reason, maybe because I wanted to get a more objective view of Master before encountering him directly, I put off reading the letters. But I was still detecting. Because you have to see both sides to get the full message on an airmail letter, I had the Masters’ address-Double Bay, and a house not an apartment. Nice. And another thing-the letters probably didn’t contain any passionate endearments or improper suggestions or she wouldn’t have handed them over so readily. Of course there could be others, she might have culled them, but six letters in four weeks wasn’t bad for a bloke.
I put the photocopies and the transcript in a shopping bag and locked up the office. As I went down the stairs I caught traces of Lorraine Master’s perfume and I wondered about the condition of the marriage. A hundred thousand was a lot to spend on someone. Was it an investment? I was going to have to do some digging. I remember a historian telling Phillip Adams on ‘Late Night Live’ that although it was nice to have letters it was better to have them to and from, otherwise you only had part of the picture. In a way, this game is like being a historian or an archaeologist. The whole story isn’t on the surface.
Early spring in Sydney isn’t much different from late winter, which can be pretty much the same as autumn. In the hour or so since I’d been on the street the wind had picked up and was colder. New Caledonia beckoned all the more strongly. I had to walk quite a few blocks before I reached the car and I was glad to get inside. It still held some of the earlier warmth of the day. I drove home to Glebe looking forward to parking a big scotch by the computer and searching through newspaper files on the web for Stewie. Well, looking forward to the scotch.
When I got inside the phone was ringing. I let the machine pick it up.
‘Mr Hardy, this is Bryce O’Connor. I’m Mrs Master’s legal representative and-’
Quick work, Lorraine. I picked up. ‘This is Hardy.’
‘Good. I gather you want to visit Stewart Master?’
‘Well, yes, I-’
‘Would tomorrow suit?’
‘Tomorrow! What’s the rush?’
‘Mrs Master is anxious to get things moving.’
‘Just bear with me a minute, Mr O’Connor. You say you’re Mrs Master’s lawyer?’
‘Correct.’
‘Did you defend Master?’
‘I did. Unsuccessfully.’
‘This is probably a silly question to ask, but d’you think Master’s innocent?’
‘Usually I wouldn’t answer such a question, but yes, I do. This was entirely out of character for him.’
Marvellous how some people can be such accurate judges of character. I should be so cluey. ‘Did you recommend this course of action to her?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Not to put too fine a point upon it, I don’t have a high opinion of private detectives. Now, my time is valuable, Mr Hardy. Would a 10.30 am appointment at Avonlea prison suit you?’
From the tone of your voice I’d rather it was you inside to be visited than Stewie Master, mate, I thought, but I agreed and he hung up first to save spending another valuable half second. I dropped the receiver and listened to two other calls that didn’t amount to anything important and went to get the scotch. I like a brisk pace generally, but this was starting to feel like a flat out sprint. Lorraine Master had a no doubt high-price lawyer and a medium-price private detective jumping through hoops. Good going.
I poured the drink and took it upstairs to where I keep the computer in the spare bedroom. I made a mental note to check on Bryce O’Connor because I felt sure I’d have further dealings with him, and on Lorraine Master, naturally. Then I began my trawl for the dope on Stewart Master. In the old days this would have meant visits to newspapers or libraries and fiddling about with microfilms or, still worse, microfiche. Now it’s a comfort-of-your- own-home job with a drink to hand. In one way I like it, in another I don’t. There was something about getting out, rubbing up against people to get what you wanted, that felt good, gave you a feel for things.
The subscription to the Sydney Morning Herald database is another overhead, but a valuable one. I turned up the paper’s coverage of the Master trial and read through the reports carefully. I also studied the photographs and saw that the lensmen hadn’t missed an opportunity to get pictures of Lorraine. She turned up every day in a variety of outfits. Nothing flashy, all designed to show, firstly, how mature and respectable she was and, secondly, how attractive. Would a man smuggle drugs, risk gaol, risk losing me? her appearance seemed to say.
It didn’t do any good. Master, born in Melbourne, arriving in Sydney in his twenties, was a career criminal, the amount of heroin was large and he’d been ‘uncooperative’ with the police. O’Connor, giving him his due, had stressed Master’s non-involvement with drugs and his relatively clean record in recent times. A family man, happily married, a sportsman.
