‘I can’t afford to hire you. I just hoped you’d be interested enough to look into what I’ve told you. See if there’s any way to sheet it home to Michael Tennyson. I know it’s a lot to ask.’
I thought about it while she closed the box and put it back in her briefcase. She smoothed her skirt down with those fine hands and looked out through the window on the left side. It was the first time in a long while I’d had an office window clean enough to look out of. From the expression on her face she wasn’t seeing the city skyline; she was looking at something shrouded and much further away-her future.
‘In a way it isn’t that much to ask,’ I said. ‘I’ve got several lines of inquiry to follow and yours is just one more. It’s all part of the same thing. What happens if I find Tennyson wasn’t involved?’
She shrugged. ‘Then at least I won’t feel responsible, and I’ll deal with it more easily.’
I told her I’d do what I could. I made a note of the partial description of Alexander Mountjoy, some details of Tennyson’s habits and interests and her own details. I advised her to upgrade the security of her flat and to get in touch with me if Tennyson approached her directly. She thanked me and left. It had all taken something over an hour. My back was stiff and sore from sitting and I was thirsty and hungry. I used the rail to help me get down the stairs and got an odd look from someone bounding up the stairs the way I used to bound. And would again, I told myself.
Pyrmont has sprouted cafes and coffee shops the way a gentrifying area will and I only had to walk half a block to find one. I was able to sit outside in the sun, sheltered from the wind by a heavy plastic sheet. I had a glass of wine and a Greek salad. I’d been in the place once before and was back because it was one of the few cafes that didn’t overload the Greek salad with cucumber. Plenty of feta-the way I liked it.
As I’d told Jane, I had three lines of inquiry to follow-the Miranda/Mary Oberon stream, where it was a matter of trying to locate a Fijian-Indian prostitute and her white Commodore-driving assailant; there was Anton Beaumont from Sterling who drove a white Commodore and might be bearded; and there was Michael Tennyson and Alexander Mountjoy, neither of whom was bearded. Tennyson probably drove a BMW or some such, and what Mountjoy drove was anybody’s guess. Tennyson probably wouldn’t employ anyone close to him as a hit man, but he’d need a go-between.
The question was, which line to follow? I made the decision over a cup of coffee, breaking my rule about doing the hard stuff first because my back was sore. I decided to go the easy route and take a look at Beaumont. If he was clean-shaven and not jut-jawed behind the wheel of his Commodore, I could probably forget about Sterling. Let the boys play out whatever game they were up to.
I wasn’t sure how to go about it but as things turned out part of it at least was made easy. I walked back towards the office and noticed a white Commodore parked rear-to-kerb across the street. It was a parking spot I coveted but rarely won. A man got out of the car, watched for traffic, crossed the street and came towards me. He was tall and solidly built and looked purposeful. I tensed. He came on and stuck out his hand.
‘Cliff Hardy, I presume.’
He had an engaging smile and there were no visible weapons. I shook his hand.
‘I’m Anton Beaumont from Sterling. I’d like to have a talk with you.’
We went up to the office and I tried not to make heavy weather of the stairs. Beaumont was at least ten years younger and fit. He didn’t exactly bound up, but he could have. He wore a lightweight grey suit with the jacket unbuttoned over a blue shirt, no tie-no beard and no sign of one recently removed. I got him seated. Jane Devereaux’s damp, crumpled tissues, slightly marked by her eye makeup, was still on the desk. I tossed it into the wastepaper basket.
‘Upset female client?’ he said.
‘You’re a detective. Why’re you here, Mr Beaumont?’
‘Anton, please.’ He crossed his legs and got comfortable. ‘One of my jobs at Sterling is to review the CCTV footage. You showed up. I recognised you from your. . appearance on television a little while ago.’
I nodded.
‘Mind telling me why you were there?’
I shook my head.
‘Right, as expected and it doesn’t matter. Why I’m here is because neither Cochrane, nor Salter nor Pollock mentioned your visit to me or to Phil. They don’t know that I know you were there. I’m wondering why.’
‘Perhaps they’ll get around to it. They must’ve seen the footage. Maybe they’re just waiting for you to ask.’
‘Nope. They haven’t seen the footage because they don’t know the cameras have been installed.’
‘Just you and Phil?’
‘Just Phil and me.’
‘For a reason. Those three bastards are plotting to take over Phil’s company. I’ve got the job of stopping them. That’s why I need to know why you were there. If you’re involved with them I’m giving you the chance to tell me what you know and stay clear of the shit that’s going to come down. Because they’re finished and possibly going to gaol.’
So bang went one of my lines of inquiry. Without going into much detail I told Beaumont that my interest in Sterling had nothing to do with whatever the gang of three were plotting. He was equally reticent about what the plot involved and what measures he was going to take to stop them. We fenced for a while, batting cautious admissions back and forth, until he was satisfied.
We shook hands again.
‘I hope you can resolve your client’s problem,’ he said, pointing at the wastepaper basket. ‘I was on my own in the game for a while but I found it too tough. Needed a corporate structure.’
‘Now you’ve found that tough.’
‘In its way, yes. But more comfortable generally speaking.’
‘By the way, how did you know where I’d be just now?’
He grinned. ‘I’ve had someone following you since yesterday.’
‘Didn’t notice. I’m slipping.’
‘She’s very good.’
He left and I sat looking out the window Jane Devereaux had stared through. I was left with a problem. I was holding close to five thousand dollars of Ray Frost’s money and I was just about certain his suspicions were unfounded. End of job.
I rang Frost’s business number, spoke to his secretary and made an appointment to see him the following morning. I spent the rest of the day and the early part of the night on the computer researching Michael Tennyson. There was no way to read everything that came up on Google and if there’s a way to determine what’s important and what isn’t, I didn’t know it. I floundered around in the websites until I felt I was drowning in information.
I ended by printing out the best of the photographs and the basic biographical material. He was born in Sydney forty-two years ago. He was educated at private schools and Stanford University. He inherited a pile of money and a thriving real estate business from his father and he diversified quickly and adventurously, never putting a foot wrong until he’d assembled the interlocking companies that went under the name of Tennyson Enterprises. He was married to Samantha nee Miles-Wilson and had a son aged nine and a daughter aged seven. His Sydney residence was in Bellevue Hill but he maintained apartments in several capital cities in Australia and overseas and a country property on the central coast of New South Wales.
Jane Devereaux had said he was attractive in his way and I could see what she meant. He was tall and, at a guess, gym-toned, with dark hair and perfect teeth. His eyes were a little too close together and his nose a bit sharp, giving him a foxy look. He played golf and tennis, fished and collected vintage cars. A list of his involvement in boards relating to money, sport and the arts would fill a foolscap page. He was a big donor to the conservative parties at state and federal level.
There was nothing about Alexander Mountjoy. The web, and especially Google’s ‘Images’ site, picks up even very obscure people, but there wasn’t a trace of him.
