that made it personal.
Welsh phoned, said the body could be released, and did I want to make funeral arrangements.
'Did you contact that company he owned?'
'Part-owned. Of course.'
'Anyone there know anything about his personal affairs- lawyer, will, that sort of thing?'
'I'm only responding because you seem to be the person closest to him. The answer is no. He scarcely involved himself in the business at all. Usually just when something big was on.'
'They must know something.'
'I've got no more to say. Are you going to make arrangements or not?'
Of course I agreed. I put a notice in the paper and arranged for the simplest disposal Rookwood could provide. Patrick hadn't gone to church during our trip and I'd never seen any signs of religious faith from him.
Megan phoned when she read the news in the paper and so did Frank and Hilde. They knew that I'd been fond of Patrick and his funeral wouldn't be easy for me. They each said they'd attend.
'Thanks,' I said to Frank. 'I wouldn't like to be the only one there for the poor bugger. Frank…'
'I know what you're going to say. Could I use my contacts to monitor the police investigation for you?'
'What's your answer?'
'I doubt it'd do much good. People in the service know about our connection. Anyone with information's liable to clam up if I get nosy.'
'Not everyone.'
I heard his groan. 'Okay, I'll do what I can but don't push too hard, Cliff. How's your heart?'
'Beating strongly, unlike Pat's.'
'I'll see you at the cemetery. There's something you should consider, if you haven't already.'
'What's that?'
'It could've been meant for you.'
I had thought about it, briefly. I had enemies who bore grudges-plenty of enemies, plenty of grudges. I avoided certain individuals and places, watched my back. There were people who'd want to get even, but I couldn't think of anyone who'd want it badly enough to go to this extreme.
Rookwood can be pretty bleak at the best of times, but the good weather spell had gone and the day of the funeral was overcast and damp. Not cold, though. It reminded me of Ireland, and it was a sure bet there were plenty of the Irish planted there. My father was there somewhere in a grave my sister, who was fonder of him than me, had looked after until she moved to New Zealand. Must've been pretty overgrown by now.
The ceremony in the crematorium chapel was the usual soulless affair and the mourners numbered seven-a man named Dan Munro representing Pavee Security, Frank and Hilde, Megan and her partner Hank Bachelor, me, and a police officer named Stanton who introduced himself and retreated into the background. Standard police procedure- they turn up at funerals of people whose deaths are being investigated just to see if anyone of interest is present.
After the business was over, Frank went into a huddle with Stanton, who smoked a cigarette and looked uncomfortable.
Frank spoke to me later when we'd adjourned to a back room in Kelly's.
'Pretty close-mouthed,' he said, 'but I gather they're not making much progress. One thing-they're suspicious of him, but they're not sure why. What d'you think, Cliff?'
I waited while Declan Donovan, a Glebe folk singer I knew, tuned his banjo. I'd asked him to play a few songs to give the event a bit of cheer and he agreed to do it for all the Guinness he could drink. That'd run up a fair tab along with what the rest of us drank, but it was the least I could do for Patrick.
With Declan strumming quietly, I said, 'I'm just going on instinct, but I don't see him as a big-time criminal player. A cutter of corners maybe, but…'
'Secretive?'
'We're all secretive. You are, I am. We have to be.'
'Philosophy, now?'
I shrugged as Declan launched into 'The Wild Colonial Boy', playing the upbeat Irish version followed by the slow Australian lament. He did 'Lily of the West' and 'Roddy McCaulay' to wring tears from your eyes, and a long rendition of 'With My Swag on My Shoulder' that had us all shouting the chorus line '… like a true-born Irishman'. Dan Munro left after one drink, but a few other people, like my doctor Ian Sangster, and Daphne Rowley, turned up.
It was a good bash-Pat would've loved it.
When I said we were all secretive I meant it. Circumstances sometimes demanded it. For example, if Welsh had been more forthcoming, less dismissive, I might have told him that Patrick had posted a package to my address from London. I'd done the same, just some books I'd bought in Charing Cross Road. I didn't know what Patrick had sent. He'd mentioned buying some DVDs and CDs of some fiddle players and I'd just assumed it was something like that. Maybe not.
You have to allow up to ten days for a package to arrive from the UK, so I had a few days to wait. Another thing was Patrick's mobile phone. He'd borrowed a jacket of mine and hung it back up in the cupboard under the stairs where it belonged. When I went to wear it, I found the phone in the pocket. Didn't tell Welsh for the same reason. The police hadn't asked about it-slack of them. That gave me two things to look into. I thought I might be able to get something out of the Pavee Security driver, Kevin, remembering his enigmatic remark. I wasn't expecting to nail the killer, just to give the investigators some lines to follow. Or so I told myself.
I like to think I'm not a complete Luddite, however the intricacies of Patrick's mobile were well beyond me, but they were Hank Bachelor's bread and butter. I took the phone to his Newtown office, the one I'd vacated in his favour after losing my licence. Hank, an American who found it impossible to live in a country run by the Bush administration, had been what he called my apprentice. He'd acquired his own PEA licence and was doing well.
'Thought you'd turn up,' Hank said when I arrived.
Hank is a caffeine addict and I'd brought along two King Street long blacks to smooth my path.
'I'm your de facto father-in-law. Why shouldn't I drop in?'
Hank took a long, appreciative sip of the coffee. 'Couldn't leave it alone, could you?'
'I'm planning to assist the cops.' I put the mobile on the desk.
Hank moved it around with a pencil. 'Top of the range. Patrick's?'
'Yep.'
'Unknown to the police?'
I nodded and drank some coffee. 'I'm wondering what might be stored in there-numbers, photos, passwords, codes
That's the thing about digital technology freaks; whereas most of us yearn for the simple and straightforward, they revel in the cryptic and the unrevealed.
'I'd like you to put it through your mental sieve, mate,' I said. 'Make it give up all its secrets.'
6
I phoned Pavee Security and asked to speak to Kevin Barclay. When I was asked who I was I told the truth. When asked in what connection I wished to speak to Mr Barclay, I said he'd driven me to the boxing some weeks back and that I wanted to continue the interesting conversation I'd had with him then. That seemed to be satisfactory, and I was given a mobile number. I rang it.
'This is Kev.'
'Mr Barclay. My name's Hardy. You drove me to the Moody fight.'
'I remember. The spitting image of poor Pat.'
'That's right. I wonder if we could meet? I'd like to talk to you.'
'What about?'
'Face to face. I'd make it worth your while-say a hundred bucks for twenty minutes.'
