‘Six.’
‘What kind of cars, Dom?’
‘White Commodores. Phil never uses anything else. Creme caramel, I think.’
7
Sterling Security Inc’s website listed six senior associates: five men and one woman. No photographs. I thought it unlikely a woman would drive around disguised as a bearded man. I faced the prospect of getting a look at the five men to see if one was bearded. Not a strong line of investigation, beards come and go, but it was the best I could come up with.
I was back in the office. Frost’s money had been deposited so that the balance in my account that took a heavy hit from the cost of the restaurant lunch was nicely topped up. I wrote down the five names and did the routine checks to find out more about them, particularly their addresses. No luck with the telephone directory; they were just the kind to have silent landline numbers if they had landlines at all. Mobile phone types for sure. But there are other ways. I’d lost my valuable RTA contact, which isn’t much use for checking on people driving leased company cars anyway, but I still had one in a big credit checking outfit. The information was costly but reliable.
A phone call got me addresses for three of the names: Arthur Pollock, Blacktown; Stephen Charles, Randwick; and Louis Salter, Clovelly. Anton Beaumont and Ralph Cochrane were proving more elusive. But persistence paid off. Beaumont turned up in a newspaper report on a traffic accident in which he was involved and his address was given as Alexandria. He’d been taken to the Royal Prince Alfred Hospital for observation. I was pretty sure Hank could be persuaded to hack into the hospital records.
They say that there’s nowhere to hide these days, but Ralph Cochrane was doing a pretty good job of it. He didn’t appear on any of the databases I had access to and some discreet inquiries among people I thought might know yielded nothing. I could give him some thought. The procedure was going to mean a lot of driving around and trying not to be seen by people who presumably were good at not being snooped on.
There are people who do the easy stuff first. I understand the impulse but I’m the reverse. Get the hard stuff out of the way first. I’d always been like that-at school, in the army and in the profession I’d followed for so long. In the army it passed for keenness and efficiency. My reports spoke of ‘diligence’ and ‘initiative’. It wasn’t really, it was more a matter of doing the hard stuff while my energy level was high. I was easily bored and could get sloppy when I lost interest. As a detective the habit sometimes had benefits and sometimes not. Sometimes hard turned out to be easy and hard. You could never tell.
I wasn’t sleeping well. A matter of loneliness and a feeling that I wasn’t accomplishing as much as I should. So I was happy about making an early start. They say everyone is working longer hours these days and I assumed it applied to people in the security business, especially senior people if they wanted to stay senior. And why not me as well? I drove to Blacktown, setting off at 5 am, picking up the Great Western Highway at Five Dock and cruising through light traffic to arrive at the address a bit before 6 am.
Pollock’s place was on the fringes in a street that featured large houses on big blocks with lightly timbered scrubland not far away. It was a short street and every house had a driveway but there were three cars in some places that looked to have two-car garages and a couple had a car in the driveway and another out on the street. Kids still living at home. One extra car wouldn’t stand out too much. I parked on the opposite side of the street and about fifty metres away so that I’d get a clear view of Pollock as he backed out and swung around to face me before driving off.
The house was a two-storey job with white pillars, liver-coloured bricks and no eaves. Freezing in winter and stinking hot in summer, but presumably air-conditioned with a heavy carbon footprint. At 6.30 a roller door slid up and a white Commodore backed out. The driver obliged me by stopping before he reached the street, getting out and collecting the newspaper from the cylindrical holder beside the letterbox. He was small to medium sized with fair, thinning hair. No jutting jaw, no beard. He tossed the paper onto the passenger seat, got in and drove off without looking at me.
One down and four to go. I drove into the Blacktown CBD, found an early opening cafe and treated myself to a decent breakfast. I washed down my morning heart medications with some very passable coffee. Blacktown woke up around me. It appeared to be a busy, bustling kind of place with something of the feel of a country town as well as the big city.
The weekend interrupted the work. People follow different schedules, sleep in, go away and, anyway, a stakeout can look obvious. Monday was the day of Bobby Forrest’s funeral. As Frost had anticipated, it was a big event attended by a lot of people from the entertainment industry, friends and the media. The ceremony was secular, at the Rookwood chapel. I’d been there too many times over the years and too recently.
The modern style is to ‘celebrate the life’ rather than ‘lament the passing’, but it’s hard to do with someone so young. Frost did his best. He was impressive in his dark clothes.
‘My son Robert was the best thing in my life. He’s gone but all my memories of him are good. He never once disappointed me or let me down and I tried not to ever let him down. That’s what I mean by him being the best thing. He made me better than I really am and I’m grateful to him for that. I’ll always be grateful for that.’
Pretty good. He echoed the words Bobby had used in explaining his relationship with Jane Devereaux. I suppose Bobby had said the same to him and he’d picked up on it. It was appropriate, and I thought Jane Devereaux would probably appreciate it.
A few others, including Sophie Marjoram and people from the entertainment business, spoke briefly. Bobby had been an organ donor and what was left of him was cremated. Among those attending there was a clutch of young people-goths and emos and the like-who stood apart. At one point I thought I could sense someone looking at me. I glanced at the young group and saw a woman in semi-goth clothes fixing me with a malevolent stare.
There was a wake, which they called a wrap party, at a restaurant in Surry Hills. I stayed long enough for a drink and to recognise a couple of the stars and semi-stars, some looking better than on screen and some not so good. I didn’t get a chance to talk to Frost.
Over the next few days I went through the same surveillance procedure with Charles in Randwick and Salter in Clovelly with the same negative result. Neither man fitted the physical description of the one who’d followed Bobby and threatened Mary Oberon, though both were more impressive physically than Pollock. Hank was out of town on a job, which stymied me on Beaumont so I turned my attention to Ralph Cochrane. With no address available, the simplest way to get a look at him was to make an appointment to see him so that’s what I did. It was a strategy I could use only once without raising questions and now seemed like the right time. Wouldn’t hurt to get a close look at the Sterling set-up anyway.
Cochrane was described on the website as the ‘Personnel and Training’ manager. The obvious ploy was to inquire about the possibility of employment. The big security firms were swallowing the small ones continually and there was every reason for a senior personnel guy at Sterling to believe I was looking for a lifeline. I’d been head- hunted a few times in the past and had declined offers. That would have been known around the traps.
Sterling’s HQ was in Rosebery, fairly close to the airport. Handy enough for the eastern suburbs dwellers, long drive from Blacktown. The building was an example of 1950s brutalism-a three-storey red cube set on a major road with no landscaping or trimmings-just a large bitumen parking area, a high cyclone fence and a manned security gate.
I drove up to the gate and told the guard my business. He consulted a sheet of paper on a clipboard, presented me with a visitor’s pass on a lanyard and directed me to a parking slot. I parked, slung the lanyard round my neck and followed white arrows painted on the blacktop to a set of double glass doors. The doors slid open, admitting me to a foyer. A woman sat behind a desk working at a computer. She was young and good-looking. Her long nails clattered on the keys.
She looked up. ‘Mr Hardy?’
‘Right,’ I said, ‘to see Ralph Cochrane.’
