“Can’t type, never learned.”
I nodded. “What are you going to do today?” She blew smoke at the mirror. “Since I evidently can’t stay here with you,” she said, “I’ll go into the office and check a few things. I might go to the library. Where’s my protection by the way?”
“You should be safe enough if you stick to doing what you say. Take taxis and stay with other people. You can do it all the time if you try.”
“Taxis, OK. That reminds me, what about the police and my car? Will I have to talk to them again do you think?”
“I don’t think so, I’ve squared it for the time being.”
“Fully insured, I’ll get someone in the office onto it today. Good car, I think I’ll get another one the same.”
“You do that,” I said.
She flared. “Don’t be supercilious with me. I employ a lot of people, I spend my money. I do the best I can and I’m not hypocritical about it.”
“Like Susan Gutteridge?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve got a point. I’ll call you about six, maybe we could have dinner, then I’ll have some things to do.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah, it could be all over tonight if things go right.”
“You’re being mysterious.”
“Not really, if I told you all about it you’d think it was so simple you wouldn’t feel like paying me.”
She laughed and came up to me. I pulled her in and we kissed and rubbed together for a minute or two. I promised to call her at six, come what may, and left the house.
10
I took the first drink of the day in an early opening pub at the Quay. My companions in sin ranged from a tattooed youth, who was playing at looking tough and doing pretty well at it, to a grizzled wreck who was mumbling about the Burns-Johnson fight at Rushcutters Bay in 1908. He claimed to have been the timekeeper and maybe he was. I bought him a schooner and he switched to Sullivan-Corbett which was a bit unlikely. A scotch would probably have got me Sayers and Heenan. I had a middy of old and tried to anticipate the results of Tickener’s inquiries. The smell of toasted sandwiches interrupted this train of thought and I put the matter aside in their favour. I ate two cheese sandwiches and had a second beer. The rain had cleared and the day was going to be warm. Students and the unemployed would be on the beaches, accountants would be at their desks, private detectives would be peeling secrets off people like layers of sunburnt skin.
I got a shave in the Cross at a barber shop where I’d once seen Gough Whitlam, before he became Prime Minister — I figured he’d know where to get a good shave. The Italian razor man was neat and economical and let me read the paper while he worked. He was coming on strong with garlic and aftershave but I fought back with beer and I guess the honours were about even. The News had put Costello on the second page and had splashed a government statement about unions across the front. There was a front page picture of a cricket player kissing a paraplegic girl to remind everyone that God lives and life is still all fun and games.
I got to the office, checked the mail and the incoming calls with the answering service. There nothing of interest in either. I rang the number which Harry Tickener, newshound and wordsmith, had given me the night before. He must have been sitting on top of the phone because it was snatched up the second it rang.
We established identities, confirmed that we were both in sound health and got down to business. The records branch of the motor registry never shuts down to accredited people and Tickener’s contact had got what we wanted during the night. In a voice as thin and reedy as himself, Tickener recited the facts: “The Rover is registered to Dr William Clyde, 232 Sackville Drive, Hunters Hill, the Fairlane to Charles Jackson, 114 Langdon Street, Edgecliff, the VW to Naumeta Pali, Flat 6,29 Rose Street, Drummoyne.”
“Good. Do you know anything about these people?”
“Not a thing. The only Charles Jackson I know of is a cop, Detective Inspector, CID. I don’t know where he lives or what he drives. Never heard of the others, could find out though.”
“Right, you take Clyde, call me in an hour.”
I tidied my desk, throwing away bills and advertisements, and paid a couple of modest accounts with cheques I could cover by lodging Gutteridge money. I phoned Grant Evans at home. It was delicate but I was getting more confident.
“Grant? Cliff, I’m getting closer but I need a piece of information.”
“How big a piece? I’m feeling weak.”
“Not big, but close to home. You have a colleague by the name of Charles Jackson?”
“Yeah, what about him?”
“Your assessment.”
“No comment.”
“What does he drive and where does he live?”
“A Fairlane, he lives in Edgecliff somewhere.”
That spoke volumes. Evans trusted me but not enough to give out information on anyone for whom he had any regard. I had a character sketch of Jackson from those seven words.
“Anything else Cliff?”
“Not until tonight. You on duty?”
“Yeah, seven to three.”
“Good men with you?”
“Good enough.”
“I’ll call you at eight.”
“You’d better come through on this, Cliff. There’s a bit of flak about the car bombing and some bright boy has got on to the Gutteridge connection. I’m not sure how long I can sit on it.”
“Just hold the lid on until tonight. What I’ve got will be big enough to make you smell like a rose.”
He rang off without saying any more. Grant’s position in the force was secure, but it would add to his troubles if the promotions didn’t keep coming. If he got stuck on a rung too long he’d dry up with frustration and snap like a dead branch. He needed to get up to the top and get there soon. I hoped I could help him make it. Tickener’s call came through at 10.00 precisely. It tied things up.
“Dr Clyde’s a plastic surgeon,” he said without too much interest. “What about Jackson?”
“He’s the cop you’ve heard of.”
“Yeah?” He sounded keener. “What’s it all about?”
Suddenly I had doubts about telling him, not about his honesty but about his control of his tongue. If he went around talking to the wrong people for a day, word could get about and the whole thing could be blown. If Gutteridge’s files existed and were being put to use there could be prominent people in all sorts of places treading the high wire and alert to anything in the breeze about Brave and the Gutteridges. I decided not to risk it.
“It hasn’t quite come together yet,” I said, “but I expect it to tonight. I’ll call you at eight and you can be in on it from the start. Meanwhile I’d dig up all I could on Brave’s background if I were you. You’re going to need that sort of stuff for your story. And keep quiet about Jackson, he’s a small fish. How are you fixed in there? Is Barrett around?”
“No, still in the ACT.”
“Good, do you know Colin Jones, the photographer?”
“Yeah, a bit.”
“Line him up and be there at eight.”
He said okay and for his ego I told him to be sober and to have a full tank of petrol in the FB. That wrapped things up in that direction as far as I could see. I was sure that Costello was at Brave’s clinic. Jackson was covering
