‘I drink
‘I’ve got Toohey’s Old.’
‘That’ll do.’
I followed him down a narrow passage past a couple of rooms, through an eat-in kitchen and out to a built-in sunroom at the back. Sea grass matting, cane furniture. The yard beyond it was completely concreted with a Hill’s hoist sitting in the middle. Monkhurst had taken a can of beer from the fridge as we went through the kitchen, and now he threw it to me in a hard, underarm toss. I caught it, just. It jarred my hand and I glared at him.
‘You’ve got the look all right. Sit down, let’s have a chinwag.’
He was about fifty, middle-size, not fat but getting there with flesh under his chin and soft bulk to his upper body. I sat, opened the can, took a swig and pulled out my wallet. I put a hundred and twenty dollars of Ray Frost’s money on the table beside my chair.
He touched his eyebrows. ‘You’ve done some boxing.’
I nodded. ‘Amateur.’
He drank some beer. ‘Ex-cop?’
‘No. .’
‘Ex-something.’
‘Army.’
‘You don’t say much.’
‘I thought I was here to listen.’
‘Right. Listen and learn. I used to be like you. Thought I was a hard case with the world against me.’
‘Maybe it was.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I was wrong. The world doesn’t give a fuck, one way or the other. Understand that and you’ve made a start.’
It went on like that for a while. Monkhurst was glib, parroting things he’d probably picked up from self-help books. Some of it made sense, some didn’t. When he started mentioning group sessions and role playing I began to detect a move towards his sliding scale of fees. I continued to keep my responses to a minimum, wondering how I could introduce the subject of Bobby Forrest.
Eventually I said, ‘Any notable successes, Barrie? People I might have heard of?’
His eyes went shrewd and he hesitated. ‘Well, I don’t like to. .’
Before he could finish the sentence the front door banged. A young woman came bustling into the house and headed down to the sunroom.
‘Dad, I. .’
She looked at me and her hand flew up to her mouth. She almost sagged against the door frame. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
‘Don’t talk like that, Chloe. Sorry, Cliff, this is my daughter, Chloe. She’s not usually so bloody rude. Chloe, this is a client, you shouldn’t-’
‘He’s not a client, you idiot. He’s that fucking private detective.’
She bore an unfortunate, heavy-featured resemblance to her father. Not drunk now, she was just as aggressive as at the Balmain party. She wore a tank top, jeans and boots. Her left arm was tattooed from the shoulder to the wrist. Her face was set in an angry scowl as she kicked one of Monkhurst’s empty cans across the floor.
Monkhurst stared at me. ‘Private detective? What. .?’
‘He’s the one that was on TV when Bobby Forrest got killed. Don’t talk to him, you dumb pisspot.’
Disrespect for a parent isn’t uncommon but this was something much more than that. She was close to hysterical.
‘That’s me,’ I said quietly. ‘Why’re you so upset?’
She glared at me and clenched her fist. ‘You know, don’t you, you fucker? You know!’
‘Know what?’ Monkhurst barked. ‘What’re you talking about?’
She glared at me as she pulled a mobile phone from her pocket. ‘You’ll never find him.’
‘I’ll find him.’
Monkhurst shook his empty can. ‘Find who?’
‘Make it easy on him, Chloe,’ I said. ‘Tell me where he is.’
‘Easy! Nothing’s easy. Fuck you!’
She ran from the room, down the passage. The door banged again. An engine started up and there was a roar as a car took off at speed.
Monkhurst crushed his beer can in those big hands. He glared at me.
‘Private detective?’
‘That’s right.’ I showed him my licence, taking care to keep out of his reach. Anger was building in him slowly but surely. His face was turning red and a vein in his forehead was throbbing.
‘Calm down, Barrie. Your blood pressure’s rising. I’m looking into the death of Bobby Forrest. He was my client like he was yours.’
‘I ought to. .’
‘You shouldn’t. I was punching people while you were practising your putting. You’d get hurt. Try some of your own medicine.’
‘Fucking get out.’
‘No chance. That daughter of yours is in trouble and you’ve got some explaining to do if you want me to keep the cops out of this.’
He went to the fridge and got himself another beer. He applied the cold can to his flushed face. He hadn’t mentioned that particular anger management strategy. He threw himself down in the chair, opened the can and took a long pull.
‘That girl’ll be the death of me.’
He realised what he’d said and suddenly looked more worried than angry.
‘I was leading up to asking you about Bobby.’
He shrugged. ‘Poor bugger. What did Chloe mean by saying you know something? What d’you fucking know? I don’t understand any of this.’
‘I think she meant I know who killed Bobby. I don’t. That’s why you’re going to talk to me about you and Bobby and everything about him you told Chloe.’
It took a while and more beer before I finally got it all from him. He’d gone through his usual routines with Bobby and claimed to have had some success.
‘He was in a bad way with it. Hair-trigger temper, know what I mean? Like I used to have. He’d had this fight and hurt a bloke. Felt real guilty about it. Then he got better.’
‘When?’
‘Few months back.’
‘You kept seeing him, though.’
‘Yeah, I persuaded him he needed reinforcement sessions.’
‘You’re a con artist, Barrie.’
‘It’s legal.’
I was willing to bet that Bobby’s improvement had more to do with Jane Devereaux than Monkhurst’s games but I didn’t say so. I didn’t want to antagonise him any more than I had to.
‘Okay, now how much about Bobby did you pass on to Chloe?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you tell her about this business he felt guilty about?’
‘Well, yeah, I suppose. We talked about it a bit. I mean, it’s fucking hard to find anything to talk about with kids these days. They don’t seem interested in sports or nothing. Chloe reckoned she was a fan of Bobby’s. Watched him on telly and that.’
‘Did he tell you who the fight was with?’
‘Yeah, Clement somebody. He was real sorry about it. Came close to crying. Bit of a wuss.’
‘Did you tell Chloe about Clement?’
