great many journalists have tried over the years and failed.
I know that, I said. But when you tell her what Ive told you, she may feel differently.
Youve told me almost nothing, but I take your point. He stood up, indicating closure, and to give himself the height advantage. Ill be in touch with you, Mr Hardy. I assume Mrs Horsfield has the number?
I stayed in my seat, denying him the advantage and hoping to make him feel just a little abrupt and foolish. Mrs Horsfield has a beautiful voice, I said.
He looked surprised, thought about sitting down again, decided against it, rested his hands uncomfortably on the desk in front of him. Yes, she does indeed. She was an opera singer. A contralto. Do you like opera, Mr Hardy?
That was the opening Id been waiting for the chance for the broadsword thrust. I stood up quickly and buttoned my jacket. I despise it, I said. Silly stories, boring music and lousy acting. I hope you dont waste too much money on it. I look forward to hearing from you soon, Mr Cavendish.
I made the route march to the door, feeling Cavendishs shrewd grey eyes boring into my back. That never hurt anyone. I flashed a smile at the contralto and took the stairs instead of the lift. Muy macho.
Id parked near my office and walked down to Martin Place. As I strolled back I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. Its not every day you put a high-priced lawyer on the back foot and maybe, just maybe, get to go where fearless journalists have failed to tread. Cavendishs unwillingness to be fully frank about the reward, his relationship with the widow, and his remark about the distance between her and her stepchildren interested me. I pondered these things as I walked up William Street, keeping my breathing as shallow as possiblethe less of that sort of air you take in the better.
There was no-one in the corridor this time and not much action in the building as a whole. The other commercial tenantsa desk-top publisher of pornography, a mail-order coin and stamp merchant, an acupuncturist and a South African whose business Im not sure oftend to be late arrivers. The few residential occupants on the floor below me, where renovations happened, but petered out, sleep late. I went into the gloomy office and saw the message light blinking on the answering machine. I hit the button as I shrugged out of my suit coat. Two callers. The first was from the bank telling me that a cheque Id been having some trouble with had finally been represented and cleared. The caller gave the time as 11.39. Just ten minutes back. The machine played the next message. Barry Whites agitated voice, sober and high-pitched, cut through my complacent mood like a chainsaw through pine.
Hardy! Hardy! Where the fuck are you? Im in trouble. Jesus Christ! Get here. Rose Street. Quick as you can.
8
The boarding house looked peaceful enough. A couple of residents lounged at the gate yarning to anyone who would stop. They stepped aside to let me pass and went on talking as if I didnt exist. I went up the steps and in the front door to the familiar smells neglected and neglectful men generatea compound of sweat, tobacco, beer, fast food, urine and dirty socks. There were two occupied rooms on the ground floor along with a kitchen and a sitting room, and I guessed three or four on the two levels above. That put Barry Whites room, number 4, one floor up.
I dont know where White had lived when he was riding high as a corrupt copper, but it must have been a million times better than this. The stairs were narrow and dark with gaps in the uprights and a rickety railing. The carpet was worn and lifting, a hazard to anyone with poor eyesight or a load on board, and that most likely applied to many of the residents. I went up quickly and reached a landing dimly illuminated by a small window that hadnt been cleaned since the end of World War I. I knocked on number 4; I got no answer but the door swung slightly inwards.
I went in and at first noticed only that the room smelled cleaner than the hall and the stairs. My eyes had adjusted to the poor light and the brightness in here made me blink. Whites room must have been one of the better ones in the establishment. He had, as well as the room itself, a glassed-in balcony, and light was flooding in from there through closed French windows with clean panes. White had made an effort. The bed was neat; some books and magazines were neatly stacked on a dresser beside it. On a small table there was a toaster, a loaf of bread and a tub of margarine. A carton of long-life milk, a packet of tea and one of sugar and a jar of instant coffee were lined up precisely on a shelf.
I opened the French windows and saw my client. He was sitting in a cane chair and he was wearing the same shirt and tie Id seen him in on the previous two days. The only difference was that the tie and the front of the shirt were stained dark brown with his blood. His head had flopped forward towards his chest but hung there, as if he might lift it at any minute. But he wouldnt. I didnt need to feel for a pulse or put a mirror to his mouth. The blood was in a pool in his lap below his paunch and had soaked down the length of both trouser legs. When you lose that much blood youre history.
I let out the breath Id been holding and took a look around the balcony. There was almost nothing to see. Lino on the floor, a couple of struggling plants in pots on a shelf and a packet of Drum and a lighter with an ashtray on the floor. Three butts. The windows were fixed except for a small louvred section which stood partly open. This was evidently where Barry sat when he smoked, thought his thoughts and dreamed his dreams. He didnt have to worry about giving up the grog and the smokes and losing weight and eating lettuce now. A slight breeze came in through the window and ruffled his freshly trimmed hair.
On closer examination it was clear that White had been shot twice at close range. One of the bullets must have hit an artery that pumped out the blood. Perhaps the second shot came later, as insurance. It had taken me about forty minutes to get to the boarding house and White must have made his call after 11.39 from a phone box nearby or somewhere in the house. He couldnt have been dead for more than about half an hour before I got there. There was no smell of cordite in the air but with modern weapons there isnt necessarily. And a silencer can take care of the noise. The police could question the residents about comings and goings but from the indifference Id encountered at the front gate, it was unlikely that theyd glean much.
I had questions of my own, particularly about Whites mysterious backer. I did a quick search of the room and his belongings, poking through the drawers in the dressers, checking the pockets of his two jackets and three pairs of pants in the wardrobe, looking under the bed and flicking through the books and magazines. All the search told me was that someone else had done the job before me. Several of the pocket linings were displaced the way they get when the pockets are gone through, and the socks and underwear had been disturbed. There were no personal papers insurance documents, letters, bills, photographs but he could have had another storage place for them. The clincher confirming the previous search was that there was no wallet, no address book, no credit cards, no moneynone of the things a person needs to get through the day.
There was a pay phone in the hallway near the kitchen, perhaps the phone White had used to call me. I dialled the emergency number, asked for the police and told my tale. I was instructed to stay where I was. There was no point in going anywhere. Frank Parker and Max Savage knew of my dealing with Barry White and would put two and two together when they heard of his death and theyd expect me to play it straight. I could expect some unpleasantness from the police but nothing I couldnt handle. Theyd try to make me tell them what White and I were up to and I wouldnt. Our contract was locked in my safe and theyd need a pretty strong court order to get at it. Theyd threaten me with obstruction and Id tell them to see my lawyer, although I didnt actually have one. Perhaps Id give them Wallace Cavendishs name.
The uniforms arrived first, then the detectives, then the forensic guys and lastly the body-movers. They took over the sitting room and I showed my PEA licence and other ID to just about all of them it seemed, and told my story at least three times. They made me turn out my pockets and took the keys to my car for a look-see, but in general I was treated with more respect than usualmaybe because of the suit. The residents of the house were stirred up by the activity, some got agitated and there was a certain amount of anti-police aggression displayed. As my patience was stretched by the repetition, I began to enjoy that. Detective Sergeant Fowler eventually gave up a half-hearted effort at pressuring me and produced a pocket tape-recorder.
How about you give me your statement, Mr Hardy? You seem to have the gift of the gab. Ill get it typed up and you can come in and sign it. Then well see what happens next.
Fair enough, I said. I rattled off a strictly edited version of the events of the past few days while Fowler
