The report went on to give more details about Bobby’s career and included several clips from his television appearances. I worked on the drink and let it all wash over me. Megan turned the set off at the end of the item. Ben was building a tower of cardboard blocks. He had it up nearly as tall as himself and when he put the last one in place he gave a whoop and knocked it down.
‘I hope you weren’t his bodyguard,’ Megan said.
‘I wasn’t.’
I sketched in some of the details while I helped Ben rebuild his tower a few times.
‘The police don’t really suspect you, do they?’
‘No. But they’ve warned me off having anything more to do with it.’
‘If I know you. .’
‘He gave me a solid retainer. I’m honour-bound to work it off.’
‘Yeah, yeah. You can’t afford to step too far out of line.’
‘Never could.’
‘And it never stopped you. Do you have any idea who killed him?’
‘No. It was a nasty, tricky business, but I had no idea it was this serious. Have to think about it.’
We dropped the subject, picked it up again for a while when Hank came home. These days he’s mainly doing electronic security work, and when I told him the police had taken my SIM card he looked worried.
‘Means they’ve got all your contact details and data.’
I shrugged. ‘No data to speak of, not at this stage, and I’ve nothing to hide, really. But does that mean I’ve lost all that stuff?’
‘No, dummy. When I set up your phone I fixed it so your contacts would be stored in the phone itself. Let’s have a look.’
I handed him the phone, he fiddled with it and nodded. ‘Yep, all there. I’ll put in a new SIM card and you’re up and running.’
Ben went to bed. Megan made dinner. I cleaned up. I slept on the couch, soundly, with two solid scotches and half a big glass of white wine inside me. I distracted Ben for a while in the early morning while Megan got things done and then walked home. No media, but cigarette butts, a couple of crumpled tissues and the open lid of my letter box showed that they’d been there.
I reviewed what I had on the computer file and added the one thing I hadn’t told the police-that I had a forwarding address and a name for ‘Miranda’ from the serviced apartments’ concierge. If they followed up my interview with her they’d find that out, probably, but it might take them some time. I could see if there was anything to be learned at 26 Hood Street, Burwood, just to feel that I was still earning Bobby’s money. And because I don’t like being told what and what not to do. If I found out anything useful I’d probably tell the police. Not necessarily. A one-man, unpaid hunt for a murderer still held an attraction for me, at least theoretically.
Before shutting down the computer I tried again to mentally recreate the driver of the white Commodore. I’d told the police I’d only registered that it was a male-from the build, the set of the head on the shoulders. Now I pushed myself to see if there was more. I’d mostly seen him from the back, only fleetingly from the side when he jerked his head sideways as he jumped lanes. There was something. But what? I couldn’t dredge it up. Something.
I showered, shaved and took my medications plus some of those I’d missed the day before. Not recommended, but medicos who lay out rules for you don’t anticipate things like being hauled in by the cops. Ben had spilled ice cream on the suit trousers. I changed into drill trousers, a casual shirt and a leather jacket. I hadn’t told Megan and Hank about Bobby’s mobile being missing. That meant the killer knew about me. Might care, might not. But I felt better with my new Smith amp; Wesson.38 in my armpit.
I walked to the ATM in Glebe Point Road, drew out a few hundred dollars and caught a taxi to a car hire place in Leichhardt. I opted for a blue Holden Astra which looked like about a hundred thousand others. It had the hands- free mobile phone attachment and GPS. After consulting the manual and getting it all wrong a couple of times, I got it to function with a pleasant female Australian voice. I entered the Burwood address and resolved to follow the instructions even if I thought I knew a better way.
I didn’t know much about Burwood. I had an impression there were sets of medical clinics in the main drag and I seemed to remember something about citizens protesting against plans to open a brothel. I had a vague recollection that the argument was the brothel was too close to a church and a school. Can’t remember how it came out, but to my mind churchgoers should be able to resist temptation or try to redeem sinners, and no brothel owner I knew would ever admit a schoolchild. They might have employees dressed up as schoolchildren but that was between them and their clients.
The GPS instructions got me to Hood Street more efficiently than I could have done. Spent almost no time on Parramatta Road. The house was a big Federation job on a corner. Biggish block, neat front garden, car access at the side. The area was quiet with an almost oppressive feeling of respectability. I parked outside, opened the low gate and walked up a tiled path to the front porch. The porch was tiled as well and the house carried a brass plate with the name ‘Sherwood’ in elaborate script. Some kind of joke. The brass was polished to a high shine.
I rang the bell. Footsteps sounded on a wooden floor. I had my licence and the photo of Mary Oberon or ‘Miranda’ at the ready. The woman who opened the door checked that the screen door was locked before she looked at me.
‘Yes?’ she said.
She was middle-aged, dumpy, overdressed in expensive matronly clothes. I showed her the licence and told her I wanted information about the woman in the photograph. Her heavily ringed hand flew up to her mouth.
‘Oh my God, is she dead?’
‘Why would you think that?’
She shook her head. ‘Please go away, I don’t want to have anything more to do with her.’
‘This is important. I gather she’s not here. Can I come in and talk to you?’
‘No. Go away.’
‘This could be a police matter.’
Her hand against the screen door trembled and I took a punt.
‘Or a tax matter.’
The trembling increased.
‘I don’t want to make trouble for you,’ I said. ‘I don’t even need to know your name. I just need to know everything you can tell me about this woman.’
‘You’d better come in.’
She unlocked the screen door and I followed her a few steps inside and then into the front room on the right. It was a big room, overfurnished, with a bay window. The shelf in the bay window was covered with knick- knacks.
‘Do you want to sit down?’ she said.
The big armchairs would have swallowed me. ‘No thanks.’
She subsided into one of the chairs. ‘I should never have taken her in. She was unsuitable.’
‘What name did she give you?’
‘Mary Oberon.’
‘Do you know what job she had?’
‘She didn’t seem to have one. She slept most of the day. She didn’t have breakfast or lunch as far as I could see. I asked her if she was dieting and she laughed. She went out for a little while in the evening, to get something to eat, I suppose. Then she stayed in her room playing dreadful music.’
‘She was hiding?’
‘Hiding? I don’t know. She seemed nice at first but she wasn’t. Wouldn’t give me the time of day.’
‘How long was she here?’
‘A few weeks.’
‘She paid her rent?’
