Bobby.’
‘Well?’
‘No, there’s nothing. He is what he seems to be.’
Sophie had been an actress but apparently not a very good one. I thought she was acting now, but I couldn’t be sure in what kind of role. That’s the trouble with theatrical people. When are they acting and when are they being straight? If ever, either way?
‘Come on, Soph. Is there something?’
‘No, nothing.’
I simply didn’t know whether to believe her or not and I let it go. We talked a bit more. I thanked her and left her still stroking and bouncing her pencil. In books and movies the private eye seeking information lurks outside the door to listen to the subject pick up the phone and give the game away. I’d never done it and, anyway, in Sophie’s office there was nowhere to lurk.
The simplest way of meeting up with Miranda, if it worked, was to check whether she was following Bobby. I rang him on his mobile.
‘This is Cliff Hardy, Bobby. Where are you?’
‘I’m out at Fox Studios doing some voice-overs.’
‘What’re your plans for the rest of the day?’
‘I’m going to play a round at Anzac Park with a mate and then go home and read and then pick up Jane and go out to eat. Why?’
‘I want to check whether you’re being followed.’
I got a description of his car and the registration number. He told me where he was parked and how long before he’d be back at his car. I told him not to worry about feeling he was being followed because I’d be doing it.
He laughed. ‘Well, that’ll be a new experience. What will you do if someone else
He sounded much more relaxed than before, perhaps too relaxed. It happens sometimes. People feel better for just having talked the problem over and being offered some help, still to be delivered. It’s like the way an ailment can feel better after you decide to see a doctor.
I had time to get out to what used to be the showgrounds and take up a position within sight of Bobby’s red Alfa Romeo. Right car for a rising star. It was Tuesday and quiet at the complex. I spotted the Alfa and parked in a two-hour zone close by. Bobby came out within a couple of minutes of the time he’d suggested. He was dressed pretty much as before but carrying a slim briefcase. He opened the car from fifty metres away and looked around, but there were twenty or thirty cars parked in the area and he didn’t know which was mine. He tossed the briefcase onto the back seat, climbed in and drove away. I waited to see if any of the parked cars would follow him. None did.
He drove fast, too fast and aggressively for the amount of traffic. He cut in and out, skilfully but leaving little margin for error. After one manoeuvre the car he’d cut in on gave him a blast on the horn and tailgated him up to a set of lights. Bobby jumped out and strode back to the car. The other driver got out and stretched a 190-plus centimetre body with bulk to match. Bobby shouted at him and the driver shaped up to throw a punch. Bobby got ready to mix it. Cars were banked up at the lights and horns were blaring. I was two cars back. I got out and shouted.
‘Police!’
Bobby and the other man froze. I came up and jostled Bobby.
‘I’m not a cop, but look around. Half these people are on their mobiles and the cops’ll be here any minute. You two fuckwits better get back in your cars and piss off.’
The pair looked around. The big guy shrugged and got back in his car. Bobby did the same and drove off, just catching the green light. He’d mentioned his bad temper and now I’d seen an example of it. Pretty extreme. You could say it added shading to his rather bland character, but it was a dangerous addition.
I followed, hanging back, made the short run to the golf course and pulled into the car park. A Mazda pulled in next to him. A young man got out and shook hands with Bobby. They hauled their clubs and buggies out of their cars and squatted on the driver’s seats with the door open to change their shoes. Then they fitted the clubs to the buggies and strolled away. I rang his mobile. Golfers tell me you need a clear head, preferably an empty one, to play well. I wondered if Bobby was still seeing red.
‘Hardy,’ I said. ‘Jesus, Bobby, you need to watch your temper. That guy would’ve flattened you.’
He sounded calm. ‘I know. I’m sorry. It’s a problem.’
‘I’d say so. Anyway, you’re all clear for now. Enjoy your round. What time will you leave home to pick up Jane?’
He told me. That left me with eight empty hours. I drove back to Pyrmont and entered a few notes on my conversation with Sophie Marjoram into the Forrest file. I Googled Goldstein Smith Publishing and clicked on the name Jane Devereaux. The entry came up with another photograph, just an upper body shot showing her at her desk, and a list of her accomplishments. It was a formidable tally-honours degree and a Masters in comparative literature, a batch of literary criticism articles published, co-editorship of a literary magazine. The photograph showed her glancing up in the direction of the lens. The shy smile was there along with an expression that could only be called intelligent. It enlivened her face but left it a long way short of pretty. I wondered about the attraction between her and Bobby. On the surface it looked like an attraction of opposites, but that was probably too simple. I copied the entry and added it to the file. Still no more paper.
Sophie had given me the names of a few films Bobby had been in and I found three in my local DVD place. Action stuff mostly. Looked watchable.
I had lunch in a cafe and went to the Redgum Gym in Leichhardt to work off the lunch. Since my heart attack and bypass I’ve had to take quite a bit of medication and some of it has to be taken clear of food and clear of other medication. It irritates me having to swallow pills at particular times, but not as much as another bypass would. I put in a solid workout on the treadmill, the machines and the free weights and felt virtuous.
‘Going fine, Cliff,’ Wesley Scott, the proprietor, said as I completed the last set. ‘Looking more cheerful too, man.’
‘I’m back in business, Wes.’
‘God help us. So you’ll be coming in all bruised and battered again.’
‘No, I’m aiming for a better class of client.’
‘Won’t be hard to achieve. How’s your grandson?’
‘Thriving. How’s business?’
‘Would you believe I’ve signed up five politicians all keen to lose weight and look good for the next election.’
‘Which side?’
‘Both sides, man. Both sides.’
‘Must be hard to tell them apart.’
Bobby lived in Redfern in a street that was physically close to the Block, the area heavily populated by Aborigines, and a continual problem for people well disposed to the Aborigines and those hostile to them. But Bobby’s street was a million miles away in economic terms. Every house in it had been gentrified recently and the speed humps were new and the bricked footpath was even newer. It was on the fringes of Surry Hills and it was a sure bet the real estate agents advertised the houses as ‘suit Surry Hills buyer’ just as they used to say ‘suit Balmain buyer’ for overpriced ruins in the inner-west.
Bobby’s house was a neat, single-storey terrace. Good investment if he owned it, high rent if he didn’t. The Alfa was parked outside and I had about half an hour until Bobby emerged, slamming the door behind him and feeling in his jacket for the keys. He was more smartly dressed than before-white shirt, beige jacket, dark slacks, boots. I was parked just around the corner in a cross street. Not many of the houses had driveways and there were quite a few cars parked in the street. Bobby drove off, heading east, and no one followed except me.
He drove carefully and well, more like a solid citizen than a speedway performer this time. Maybe he’d learned his lesson or perhaps the thought of Jane had a calming influence on him, or perhaps it was just because he
