deserter and Renshaw’s manner needed explanation.
I’d parked five or six levels up close to the fire stairs. I had my key in the door lock when the stair door opened and two men came out. I unlocked the door expecting them to go to their car but they suddenly swerved and jumped at me. They were big and quick; one hit me hard and low while the other grabbed my throat with his big, hard hand. He squeezed and I felt the darkness wrapping around me. He eased up and I fought for breath. He squeezed again; the puncher pulled me down so that we were squatting by the car. My knee hit the concrete. The darkness came and went again.
‘Let it go, Hardy,’ the squeezer said. ‘Do yourself a favour and let it go. Understand?’
I shook my head. He put his palm on my forehead and slammed the back of my head against the car door. I felt the metal give.
‘Forget about Guyatt or everyone’ll forget about you.’ He squeezed again and this time the darkness was thick and heavy and it didn’t lift.
‘The oldest trick in the book,’ I said.
‘What’s that?’ A man was brushing me down and helping me to struggle to my feet. I recognised my car; I didn’t recognise him.
‘You were really out to it,’ he said. ‘What are you, a diabetic or an epileptic or something? My aunt…’
I pulled myself up. ‘No. I’m all right. Thanks a lot. I just had a sort of turn. Not enough sleep lately. Working too hard.’
‘Better take it easy.’ He moved away, happy to have helped, happy not to have to help any more.
‘Thanks again.’ I leaned against the car, massaged my bruised stomach and felt my stiff, aching neck. It must have been the two car trick; let the subject see one car following him, drop that one off and keep him in sight from another. It’s not something I’ve had much practice at, seeing that I work alone and can’t drive two cars at once. But I should have thought of it.
I sat in the car for a while until I was sure my head and vision were clear. My attackers had cost Ambrose Guyatt some money by delaying me in the car park.
I reviewed the attack-very fast, very professional. If the fist that had hit my belly had held a knife and the hand that gripped my neck had gripped harder and longer, it would have been a classical jungle-fighting kill.
I drove home to Glebe watching for tails and not spotting any. The cat was outside the house which wasn’t unusual. But when I opened the door it didn’t march straight in ahead of me. That was unusual. I waited in the passage and listened to the erratic hum of my refrigerator, the dripping tap in the bathroom upstairs, the creaking from the loose piece of roofing iron. All normal. I went in and looked around. The place had been quickly but systematically searched.
I made myself a drink and sat down to assemble what I had. It was a fair bet that my office had been searched too and if they hadn’t found the file that carried Guyatt’s name, his cheque and two or three other entries, they should go back to searching school. I was in a unique bind: I needed more information on Renshaw, Guyatt, Cash and Petersen. With civilians you can always find a source-a neighbour, a relative, a lover-but these men inhabited a closed world.
The only lead I had into Julian Guyatt’s private life was his fondness for New Caledonia. There I had some room to manoeuvre. Ailsa Sleeman, an old friend, has sizeable business interests in New Caledonia and contacts to match. I called her, chatted about old times, and asked her to put out some feelers about Guyatt.
‘I’ll find out what I can,’ she said, ‘and you’ll have to have a drink with us, Cliff.’
‘Us?’
‘I’m nearly married again.’
‘Don’t do it.’
She laughed. ‘Maybe I won’t.’
I had other things to do for the next few days and I did them. I didn’t get in to the office for a couple of days and when I did I found the search had been rougher and more destructive than the one in Glebe. Papers were torn, things were broken and I got angry; my stomach was still sporting a dark bruise. I sat at my desk and brooded. Then I phoned Renshaw.
‘Here’s what I’ve got,’ I said. ‘A deposition from Mrs Guyatt that she was told her son was on leave. A taped conversation with the duty officer to the effect that Cash and Petersen are on leave plus taped conversations from their homes to say they’re not. I’ve got a witness to my being assaulted in the car park and the licence number of a grey Corolla. I’ve got a video tape of your people searching my office. What d’you say, Captain? Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’
Renshaw’s short, barking laugh sounded far too confident for my liking. ‘You amuse me, Hardy. I’ll tell you what you’ve got-nothing! You called Gundagai and Benalla from a public telephone. Neither of your phones, office or home, has a recording device so you’ve got no record of any call to the duty officer here. I’ve never seen you, of course.’
‘I’ve still got a client.’
‘Listen, Hardy, I’ll talk freely since I know you can’t record anything I say. I’ll admit that clumsy mistakes have been made. That’s all I’ll admit.’
‘I don’t think that’ll satisfy Guyatt.’
Renshaw was calm, almost courtly. ‘I think it will. I think his good lady’s satisfied too. Why don’t you ask them? Goodbye, Hardy.’
I’ve heard that tone of voice before; it’s the tone of the fixer, the smoother-out of things who feels that he’s done a good job. I drove to Guyatt’s place of business in North Sydney. It was a busy operation — warehouse, printery and machine division topped by an office space that seemed to be in the process of expanding. I fronted up to a reception desk and told the young woman in charge that I wanted to see Ambrose Guyatt.
‘Yes, he’s oh, have you got an appointment?’
Something about her manner and the bustle of the place suggested newness, innovation. ‘I’ve never needed an appointment to see Ambrose before,’ I said. ‘What’s up?’
She leaned forward confidentially. ‘You haven’t heard?’
‘No,’ I whispered.
The phone rang and she fumbled uncertainly with the buttons on the new-looking system. When she got the call properly placed she smiled at me. ‘New contract. Big one.’
I felt a lurch in my stomach, just below the bruise. ‘Oh, the army thing?’
‘Yes, isn’t it wonderful? Hey!’
I walked past the desk and pushed open the door she’d been guarding. Ambrose Guyatt sat with a phone at his ear in front of a paper-strewn desk. He was smiling as he spoke into the instrument. The smile faded as he saw me come into the room. He spoke quickly and hung up.
‘Hardy.’
‘Mr Guyatt.’
He reached into a drawer of his desk and took out an envelope. ‘What’s that?’ I said.
He beckoned me closer. ‘Cash instead of the cheque,’ he said softly.
I was standing beside the desk now, looking down at him. His thin, dark hair was freshly cut and he was wearing a new suit. I took the envelope. ‘Congratulations on the army contract.’
He nodded.
‘Want to tell me where Julian is?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Secret mission? Something like that?’
‘I can’t say a word.’
‘I understand his mother’s a proud and happy woman?’
His eyes widened as a faint doubt crept in. ‘I think you’d better go.’
‘I will. I’m sorry for you, Mr Guyatt. You’re going to be a very unhappy man.’
‘What… what d’you mean?’
I leaned close to him. I could smell his expensive aftershave and the aroma of cigar smoke. ‘They don’t make these arrangements for things that go right, Mr Guyatt. They do it for things that go wrong.’
