got very far.’
‘Have you heard the latest theory?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Don’t you read the tweets and blogs, keep up with Facebook?’
‘No.’
‘Better catch up if you want to stay in your game.’
We were walking down Parramatta Road away from the Glebe coronial court. The morgue was in the same building and it was a precinct I’d spent a bit of time in over the years.
‘What’s the theory?’
Rockwell laughed. ‘Publicity stunt gone wrong.’
‘Come on.’
‘It’s the latest thing. You claim you were shot at. Generates publicity, wins sympathy.’
We stopped at the lights. Rockwell pressed the button to allow him to cross.
‘That’s bullshit,’ I said.
The light changed. ‘It’s as good as anything you’re likely to come up with.’
It was an empty feeling. The inquiries I’d made, which had looked promising for a while, had come to nothing. I was still holding a fair bit of Ray Frost’s money but without any idea of how to use it. A couple of minor jobs came my way-bodyguarding, money minding, process serving. I went about them efficiently enough but my mind was still on Bobby Forrest. I hadn’t asked Mountjoy about it because there didn’t seem to be any point, but someone had sent that warning text message. I had no idea who.
I concentrated on getting myself fully fit. People who hire someone like me prefer to see a physical specimen better than themselves. I went to the gym four or five times a week and worked harder. The shoulder healed completely and the small scar was nothing compared to some of the others I had.
‘Looking good, Cliff,’ Wesley Scott said. ‘Who is she?’
‘Sorry?’ I said.
He chuckled. ‘Most guys your age getting themselves in shape are doing it to attract or hold a woman. I’m all for it.’
‘No woman, Wes. Just trying to look the part of the capable ready-for-everything private detective.’
‘Which you are, my man. Just don’t overdo it.’
That’s how things stood when I got a call from Sophie Marjoram. She told me she was co-producing a film starring one of her clients and that the production was held up because the armourer had got sick.
‘You’ve done it before, I know,’ she said. ‘Can you help us out, Cliff? It’s only for a couple of scenes over a day or two. Good rates. I can arrange the union side of it and the insurance.’
I had done it a couple of times. It’s time consuming and ticklish. You have to get permits to use the weapons, arrange the hiring and inspect them very closely to make sure they’ll operate the way you want. Sometimes you have to supervise the installation of sugar glass windows or windscreens that’ll shatter in the right way. You have to liaise with the special effects and stunt people. And you have to teach the actors to keep their hands away from the parts of the weapons that get hot, even when firing blank ammunition. A bad burn and the production company is up for medical costs and can cause the director’s worst headaches-injuries and delay.
The film was a police drama set around Sydney and the scenes I was involved in concerned a shoot-out after a robbery and a shotgun suicide. The shoot-out was pretty straightforward but close work with a shotgun is dangerous and needs care. It was a change from my usual line of work and a chance to relate closely with other people. I threw myself into it and enjoyed the whole thing. The waiting around is boring. ‘I spent twenty years as an actor,’ Gary Cooper once said. ‘That’s one year acting and nineteen years waiting to act.’ But the money’s good. Coop should have added that.
My scenes were near the end of the film and, unusually, they were shooting in sequence, so I was around when the director called it a wrap and I was invited to the wrap party.
The party was held in a house in Wharf Road, Balmain. The house was owned by Sophie’s co-producer, not by any of the actors, still less by the writer. It was a big sprawling place that ran down to the water where there was a small jetty. I was told that the producer speed-boated himself to his office in Rose Bay and to as many of his meetings as he could get to by water.
The credits at the end of a film seem to roll forever and the names run into the scores if not over a hundred. Not all of them are invited to the party but a lot are and the house was pretty full by the time I arrived. Going to parties solo isn’t much fun and I wasn’t planning to be there very long. Have a couple of drinks and something from the catered buffet, chat to the chief stunt man, say hello to the special effects girl who’d helped with the shotgun scene.
They were talking on the ground floor, dancing on the first floor to music I’d never heard and doing other things on the top level. I got a scotch, ate some canapes and wandered about nodding and smiling. I was relieved to find Sophie Marjoram on her own in a corner but not so relieved when I saw how drunk she was. She grabbed my arm and pulled me down into a chair beside her.
‘Cliff, darling,’ she said. ‘Isn’t this great? Nicky’s so happy.’
‘Nicky?’
‘The star, the bloody star. My boy. He’s over there. Look at him. Is he cool or what?’
I looked where she pointed. A tall, slim young man was leaning against the wall talking earnestly to an older man. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt-no tie and the shirt hung outside his trousers. Cool.
‘He looks a lot like Bobby Forrest,’ I said.
Her face was flushed and her eyes were sparkling until I said that. Her expression changed as she grabbed a glass from a circulating tray. ‘Why’d you have to say that? Why’d you have to bring me down? Poor Bobby, he could’ve had all this. He was better than that. .’
She was speaking too loudly, possibly loudly enough for the young actor to hear, so I put my hand on her mouth.
‘Shush, Soph, too loud. You’ll do yourself out of your commission.’
She grabbed my hand and held it in a sweaty grip. ‘You think I only care about money. I don’t. I love them. I love ’em all, ’specially poor Bobby.’
A young woman in jeans and a silk shirt stained by red wine and with the sleeves rolled up to reveal some interesting tattoos on her left wrist, came across and almost jostled Sophie aside. She was drunk.
‘Heard you talking about Bobby Forrest,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘What was he to you?’
‘Sorry, that’s my business. Who are you?’
‘I’m Chloe.’
‘Chloe what?’
‘Just Chloe, just poor Chloe. You shouldn’t talk about him, not worth talking about.’
Sophie bristled and Chloe looked ready to get physical when we were interrupted.
I’d been introduced to Earl Carlswell, the director, when I arrived. He came across now and spoke quietly.
‘Sophie’s not herself,’ he said. ‘She’s had some bad news. I wonder if you’d be kind enough to take her home?’
Sophie was still gripping my hand and trying to get her head onto my shoulder. Her makeup was smeared and her loose top threatened to slide down and reveal more of her than she’d have wanted. I helped her to her feet and she draped herself around me.
‘You’re nice,’ she said. ‘Let’s have a drink together.’
