I grinned. ‘I’ve lived hard. I’m not as old as I look. Still, I should’ve kept an eye on him.’
‘Right, I know what you mean, but you can only do so much with a goer like Stewie. Still, it’s going to be a blow to the people here.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Stewie put in a bid to buy the place. Big, big bucks. Didn’t you know? I thought…’
I clapped him on his beefy shoulder. ‘It’s all right, mate. Just playing it a bit close to the chest. Melbourne boy being cautious in the big smoke. Well, you never know. It could all work out okay. See you.’
Time to go. I didn’t know whether I’d got away with it or not and wasn’t going to hang around to answer questions. It was something to show for the visit. Hard to interpret. There’d been no reaction to the surname from the receptionist but it’s not an uncommon name, and chances were she didn’t know anything about the business side.
I walked away and looked back at the building. Freehold, very big bucks indeed, and even the price of the lease and the business goodwill would be heavy. I drove back to Darlinghurst and went to the office. Lorraine Masters fax with the PIN for an account with the Banque de France had come through. The card would be with me tomorrow, she said. I folded the sheet and put it in my wallet after writing the number in my notebook. Under the number I jotted two questions: did Stewart Master have that sort of money? Did Lorraine know about his interest in buying the gym?
I went out for a sandwich and when I got back there was a message from Peter Lo. I made instant coffee and rang him, talking between bites.
‘Karl Knopf says he’ll talk to you, Cliff. He’s stationed in Darlinghurst so you could drop in and see him. Here’s his number.’
‘Thanks, Peter. He sounded interested, did he?’
‘He did when I told him about the customs guys.’
I was about to take a bite but I dropped the sandwich on the desk. ‘What?’
‘Verdi was posted to Brisbane and Baxter to Perth.’
‘Soon after the trial?’
‘Right.’
‘Something’s going on.’
‘Looks like it. Be careful, Cliff.’
‘Why d’you say that?’
‘Customs is federal. Don’t get caught in the middle of a state and federal fuck-up. It’s not a good place to be.’
I thanked him again and hung up. I finished the sandwich and the coffee without tasting them. Then I wet my finger and picked up the crumbs I’d dropped on the desk as I thought. In the old days I’d have smoked but now crumb-picking would have to do.
I dropped the sandwich wrapper in the bin and wandered to the window. St Peters Lane isn’t much to look out on unless you happen to like the feel of old Sydney, which I do. It’s narrow, trapped between the buildings that front onto William Street and the weathered sandstone of the church. It’s a sun-starved stretch, cold and windy in winter and shadowy in summer. There’s no parking and it’s never become a shooting gallery. It’s not a place to linger in, so why was a man standing down there, staring up at my window and ducking out of sight when he saw me?
I’m mates with Stephanie Geller, aka Madame Stephanie, who runs a mail order, and these days online, astrological business in the office adjacent to mine. I have her key and occasionally let people into her waiting room when she’s late.
‘Zay like to be kept waiting, Cliff,’ she once told me. ‘So zay can feel zee vibes.’
She wasn’t around, so I let myself into her office, which commanded a longer view of the lane than mine, and peeked out. No watcher. Had he followed me from Watsons Bay? Through all that traffic that’s slowly strangling Sydney? No way to tell.
6
I phoned Knopf but he wasn’t interested in having me visit him at his place of business.
‘I’d say it’s time for a drink, wouldn’t you?’
‘Sure.’
‘Know a place where there’s never any cops?’
‘Never? No.’
‘I do.’ He named a pub in Oxford Street with an almost exclusively gay clientele and said he’d be there in an hour.
‘How will I know you?’
‘I know you, Hardy. I was a shit-kicking constable when you used to hang around with Frank Parker. I was his driver for a while.’
‘Sorry, I don’t remember you.’
‘Why would you? One hour.’
I put the phone down and tried to remember when Frank had a driver. He’d risen to Deputy Commissioner and had certainly had a driver then, but before that, as a chief inspector and a super? There must have been a few of them and they all blurred into one. Knopf sounded resentful and almost hostile, and nominating a gay bar? Looked like I was in for an interesting interview.
Years on the job should equip you to know if you’re being watched or followed and to some extent that’s true, but if the watcher or follower is good enough, and has enough cutouts, it can be tough. I walked to where I’d parked the car, as alert as I could be for the false moves, the little slips, but there was nothing apparent. I started the engine and let the old Falcon warm up after sitting for a while on a cool day and busied myself with the choke while I looked around. I drove to within a couple of blocks of the hotel by a route that should have been tricky to track. Still nothing. Either not there or very, very good.
Friday night, early, but the buzz was starting to build. The difference in behaviour between gays and straights I reckon is not that much. Quiet straights and quiet gays go out early, drink and eat and go home. Party types go out late and drink, eat or don’t eat, and stay out. The Beaumont Bar in the Prince Regent Hotel was dark and sedate, with k d lang playing softly in the background and a few pokies whirring quietly.
A couple of dozen people were scattered around, some at tables, some at the bar, some playing the pokies. Men and women, couples and singles, one group of three. All quiet. The barman, a handsome Polynesian wearing makeup and a pearl necklace, was the only person advertising. I ordered a beer and took a stool at the bar. The barman served it with a small bowl of nuts.
‘You sure you’re in the right place, brother?’
I lifted my glass. ‘Sydney, Australia. You bet.’
He laughed. ‘You’re right there.’
A very tall, very slim man had walked in. Suede jacket, black T-shirt, earring. He nodded to a couple of people and to the barman. He shot out a hand that was thin and hard with rings on three fingers. ‘Karl Knopf.’
I nodded. ‘Cliff Hardy. I remember you now. You drove for Frank when he was a super. Too tall for the job, really.’
‘That’s right. He was a good bloke, Parker.’
‘The best. What’re you drinking?’
‘What d’you expect, creme de menthe?’
‘Let’s get this straight-no, bad choice of words. You’re gay and I couldn’t care less. Okay?’
He smiled. ‘Just having fun in a grey old world on a grey old day. Glass of red, Timmy, please. Bottle, not cask. Mr Hardy will pay. He’s on expenses from a rich client.’
The barman uncorked a bottle and poured. ‘Why can’t I meet someone like that?’
‘You mean Mr Hardy?’
