my responsibility to report findings and termination arrangements. Frost read it through very carefully. The space for the amount of the retainer was blank. He put a big, blunt, nicotine-stained finger on it and looked at me.
‘Negotiable,’ I said.
He nodded, took out his wallet and peeled off ten hundred-dollar notes.
‘Give me your bank details,’ he said. ‘I’ll transfer five grand today. Will that do?’
I filled the amount in on the form. He nodded, took a silver ballpoint pen from his breast pocket and signed both copies. I signed and gave him one copy. I wrote the bank account information on the back of one of my cards.
‘I’ll need names and any relevant information about the people you suspect,’ I said.
He flicked the card before tucking it away with his Ray-Bans. ‘I’ll put it all in an email.’
‘Just a few more things. Bobby’s mother?’
‘Died ten years ago. The usual, breast cancer. We were separated.’
‘Have you met Bobby’s girlfriend, Jane Devereaux?’
‘Once. Nice girl.’
‘That’s all?’
‘It was a very brief meeting. I’ve got to go. Arrangements to make when they release Bobby’s body. Shit, have you got any kids?’
‘One, a daughter.’
‘Try not to outlive her.’
‘Let me know the arrangements,’ I said. ‘I’d like to be there.’
‘I will. Thanks, Hardy.’
We shook hands and I saw him out.
I phoned Frank Parker. He was in the city and we arranged to meet for a drink at a pub in The Rocks. I walked. I had two solid measures of brandy inside me on an empty stomach and the last thing I needed was a DUI problem. I enjoyed the walk through Walsh Bay and the sound and sight of the harbour always gives me a lift. The pub had a colonial theme but it’s not overdone-no leg irons, no cat o’ nine tails. I got there first and settled inside with a middy of light. In fact the theme was more nautical than correctional and I studied the paintings of tall ships as I waited.
Frank appeared carrying a stubbie. ‘Got any convict ancestors, Cliff?’
‘A couple, I believe.’
‘Me, too. Cheers. Okay, exploit me.’
‘Ray Frost, what do you know?’
Frank almost choked on his drink. ‘Ray Frost-you’re not in trouble with him, are you?’
‘No, he’s a client.’
Frank shook his head, took a drink and cleared his throat. ‘I thought you’d have more sense.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s a crook. He’s also a ruthless bastard.’
‘He said he hasn’t been in trouble for years.’
‘All that means is that he hasn’t been caught. He’s seen off a few people who got in his way. Not that they didn’t deserve it.’
I remembered Frost’s phrase,
‘Don’t touch it.’
‘He thinks it could be something to do with his business. Some kind of payback.’
‘I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. He’s bad news, Cliff. He’s a standover merchant. He puts pressure on people to accept his bids for jobs. Not only on the construction people, on the contractors and sub-contractors as well.’
‘What kind of pressure?’
‘Every bloody kind-financial, political, physical.’
‘Wouldn’t it be standard practice in that kind of game?’
‘Frost took it to a new level. He’s been up before a few Royal Commissions.’
‘When?’
‘The last one was only a couple of years ago.’
I drank some beer and wished I’d bought it full strength. ‘I must’ve been overseas. When before that?’
‘Back a bit. He’s cunning and he’s got some protection. What has he told you?’
‘Not much. He says there’s a few people who’d be capable of hurting him in that way. He’s sending me the names.’
Frank finished his beer. ‘I’m driving, that’s all I can have. Don’t take him on, mate. You’d be out of your depth. He’ll be using you for sure. That’s what he’s good at.’
‘He seemed genuine.’
‘He would. Well, that’s my advice. You’d be smart to take it.’
He patted me on the shoulder and left. I drank the rest of my beer and resented its thin taste. I bought a scotch and a sandwich. Graham Greene said the main function of food was to blot up alcohol. He had a point.
Frank’s advice was usually good, but he shouldn’t have said I’d be out of my depth. I was already wondering whether I was too old for the business and I didn’t need my best friend to be expressing the same doubts. It made me determined to find out who killed Bobby Forrest and why.
On the walk back I thought about the lines of inquiry available to me. There was the matter of Mary Oberon and the bearded man in the white Commodore, and the payback possibility relating to Ray Frost. That seemed like the most promising order to tackle them in but there were two problems. The money said the last possibility was the one to work on, but was it the most likely? And who was to say that all three matters weren’t related in some way?
It was dark when I got to Pyrmont. I was under the limit by then and could have driven but I decided to go up to the office and do some thinking. I turned on the computer and found I had three emails. Two offered me things I didn’t want, the third was from Ray Frost. He was nothing if not succinct. All the message contained was three names: Charlie Long, Allied Trades Union; Ben Costello, MacMillan Bank; Philip Tyson, Sterling Security Inc. Tyson was the only one I’d heard of. He ran a service that provided armoured security vans with armed guards, bodyguards and nightwatchmen. He also provided training for these occupations and for staff for privately run prisons. He had a reputation for being a hands-on boss, possibly just the type to be in a conflict with Frost.
It would have helped to have some idea of what their disagreements with Frost involved, but he’d elected not to tell me. Anyway, I’d find that out when I probed into their affairs. I knew unionists, clients, at least, of bankers and I even knew of one of Tyson’s former employees. There were things I could do to earn Frost’s money.
The phone rang.
‘Hardy.’
‘Sean Rockwell. You can collect your car.’
That was a surprise. I’d been expecting a longer wait and an official letter. He told me it was in a police yard at Botany and that I could collect it there at 10 am the next day.
‘Don’t be late,’ he added.
‘How’s that?’
‘I’ll see you there. We have things to talk about, like Mary Oberon and a house in Hood Street, Burwood.’
6
In the morning I took the hire car back to Leichhardt and caught a taxi to Botany. The police yard was a large bitumen expanse overlooking one of the container terminals. A chill wind was coming off the water and it looked and felt like just the right place for confiscated, neglected or abandoned vehicles. I showed ID and my receipt at the gate and walked across to where Rockwell was standing next to my Falcon. He tossed me the keys; I caught them,
