front-a red Commodore which also hadn’t been there when I’d parked.
I pointed at the Commodore. ‘He or she parked you in, mate, not me. Anyway, I’m off, so you’ll be all right.’
But he wanted a fight. ‘Your old heap wasn’t there when I got home last night.’
The Falcon is old by some car owners’ standards but not by mine, nor is it a heap. Everything works most of the time. I took in a deep breath. ‘You’re new around here,’ I said. ‘Parking’s a bit of a problem for all of us and we try to get along. Now I suggest you hop into your magnificent chariot and warm it up while I back up and give you all the room you’re ever going to need. OK?’
‘You think I can’t get out of there?’
I was in no mood for a mine’s bigger than yours session. ‘My friend, you said you were parked in…’
‘Stay there. I’ll show you.’
He opened the door, threw his briefcase inside, climbed in and started the engine. The 4WD gave out the sort of masculine roar he no doubt liked and I stepped across to the other side of the road to admire his technique. He turned the steering wheel hard, gunned the motor and put the Toyota into reverse. His judgment was lousy; the vehicle lurched back and the heavy rear bar thumped into the front of the Falcon. I didn’t have time to swear because the collision was followed by an explosion. The Falcon’s windshield and windows blew out; the front seat disintegrated and the roof bulged and then split with a shrieking sound that blended with the noise of the shattered glass. The Toyota driver panicked; he gunned the motor, shot forward and tore a rear panel from the Commodore as he rabbit-hopped away from the kerb. He stopped in the middle of the road and I could see his shoulders shaking as he held onto the steering wheel.
Suddenly the street was full of people, including the owner of the Commodore, who tore open the door of the Toyota, dragged the driver out and began to scream at him.
‘You fucker! Look what you’ve done to my car! You stupid cunt!’
He didn’t pay any attention to the Falcon, which looked as if all the air inside it had suddenly expanded a hundred times and burst the car at the seams. I told the people milling around to stay back in case the car caught fire, but after a few minutes it didn’t seem likely to happen. It wasn’t that kind of a device, but if I’d been behind the wheel when it went off I’d have been in several pieces on the road. A woman offered me a cigarette and I took it automatically. She lit us both up and said she’d called the police. I thanked her and smoked the cigarette. Some of the people in the street knew what I did for a living. Some were interested, some were amused, some disapproved. I could hear them muttering about ‘private eyes’ when the first of the police cars arrived. The Commodore owner had calmed down after taking in more of the scene. He and the 4WD man were apologetically exchanging information. Any minute they’d be asking me the name of my insurance company. I drew on the cigarette and wondered if I’d be able to prevent myself from punching the first one to ask.
The police performance was about average. They took down details, inspected my ID and various licences- driver’s, private enquiry agent, gun carrier. The uniformed men weren’t happy and the two detectives who arrived a bit later were even less so. Detective Senior Constable Deakin, a short, intense individual with an aggressive style, pressed me for details of the cases I was currently working on. I wasn’t forthcoming. We were over by my front fence by this time. The police had dispersed the crowd. The Toyota had driven shakily off and a tow truck was hoisting up the Commodore-the rear axle had suffered some serious damage.
‘You put these people’s life at risk,’ Deakin said, waving his arm at the houses in the street.
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘That was some sort of anti-personnel device. Very specific. Very clean.’
‘Clean!’
‘It would’ve killed me and no-one else, It was just bad luck the other cars were involved. My good luck.’
Deakin didn’t seem to like the idea of my having any kind of luck at all. He walked over and inspected the Falcon from stem to stern. ‘A write-off,’ he said. ‘This might be some kind of clever insurance stunt by you.’
I was over the shock by now although if there had been anything handy I would have broken my no grog before six rule on the spot.
Somewhere along the line I’d finished the cigarette and dropped it. Now I wanted another and the urge made me angry. This little pipsqueak was pushing too hard. I crowded him against the fence, not exactly shouldering him but almost. ‘What about you, arsehole? You’re a copper, you’ve arrested wife-beaters and nutters. What if one of them comes along and fire-bombs your joint? It happens. I’ve fuckin’ seen it. Now back off me.’
‘Easy, Cliff.’ I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to shake it off or hit its owner. Ian Sangster, the medico who’s patched and pilled me for years and whose practice was a block or so up Glebe Point Road, was smiling at me and easing me away from the detective.
‘I’m Dr Sangster, officer,’ he said to Deakin. ‘Mr Hardy is a friend and patient. Someone told me what happened and I came down just in case I was needed. The man’s in shock.’
Deakin slid around me and pulled himself up to his full height. ‘All right, doctor. I’ll leave him in your care. When he’s making sense, tell him to come to the station and make a full statement. We’ll send a technical team down here to go over the car.’
Sangster nodded and Deakin and the other detective and the uniformed men left. Sangster, an unrepentant smoker, pulled out a packet of cigarettes. I gestured for one and he obliged. We smoked for a few minutes before Ian took a close look at the car.
‘That would’ve been the end of a steady bulk bill,’ he said. ‘Let’s go inside and I’ll look you over.’
I took a draw on the cigarette, realised what I was doing and threw it away. Sangster grinned at me and I laughed. The tension I’d felt building up inside me broke. I gave the Falcon a pat and we went into the house. I heated up the breakfast coffee while Sangster tested my blood pressure.
‘Bit high.’
‘Two bloody cigarettes,’ I said. ‘I’m OK.’
‘Dare I say it, you’re getting a bit old for this sort of thing.’
I poured the coffee, black for me, white with three sugars for Ian. He had another cigarette going. ‘I haven’t had an attempt on my life for five or six years. Makes me feel young again.’
‘Hopeless case.’ Sangster drank his coffee quickly and left, telling me that if I needed a medical certificate for anything or a commitment order he’d oblige for a consideration. I hurried him out and called a cab. I wanted to be away from the house before any media got there. The cab came quickly and I rode into the office.
An idealist and deep thinker might have been concerned about how and when my presence in the Fleischman case came to be noted, but I was worrying about why someone would want to remove me from the matter so permanently.
5
Three flights of stairs can have a significant effect on your thinking, particularly after you’ve received a bit of a shock. As I walked along the lifting lino to my office door I realised that I was concentrating my thinking on Haitch Henderson. A car bomb was his style. If that was true the questions followed: was Henderson involved as a principal, for example as the ‘other man’, or was he working for someone else? If so, who and why? I stood outside my office door with the key in my hand and hesitated. The filing card taped to the door with CLIFF HARDY PRIVATE ENQUIRIES printed on it in my best Clovelly Primary School letters, was undisturbed. There were no unusual scuff marks on the floor or signs of illegal entry, but I was anxious. If you’re serious, why not go for a good old one- two?
I decided that was ridiculous and that whoever had set the high-tech bomb would have been confident of a result. I opened the door and went in to the accustomed smells of dust and No Frills disinfectant. The light was flashing on the answering machine and paper had spewed from the fax to form a slightly untidy pile on the card table I’d rigged up behind it. I ignored both forms of communication. First things first. One of my random thoughts in the cab had been about the Falcon. I was in business after all, and it was my habit to regard the economy, as far as it affected me personally, as being in permanent recession and bankruptcy a constant threat.
Ian Sangster had persuaded me to corporatise myself a few years back and I’d done so with considerable misgiving. So far I considered it a lineball between what I’d saved on tax and what accounting fees had cost me. My accountant had stressed to me that the Falcon was my chief piece of capital equipment and the necessity of
