It had been a fairly long day with a few miles covered and many words spoken. I could have worked up a bit of impatience myself, but I held it in check. ‘Could I have a look at the log sheets for the Lasers, Bob?’
He pointed to a stack of thick loose-leaf binders. I flicked through the top sheets in the first binder. The logs showed times, mileage, fuel costs. I patted Anna’s desk and beckoned to O’Fear. ‘Job for you, mate. I want you to sort through these. Do every car. See if you can isolate the night in question and work out the radius of the area you travelled. Know what I mean?’
‘Jesus,’ O’Fear said. ‘Do I have to?’
I slapped him on the shoulder and he winced. ‘Sorry. I think it’s a good idea. Might jog your memory.’
‘And what’ll you be doin’?’
‘Checking on a demolitions man named Brown in St Peters. Think you could’ve been in St Peters that night?’
O’Fear shrugged. ‘A heavenly name for a hellish spot. Shouldn’t we be conducting a big search for the photographs and the bag?’ O’Fear retained the ‘g’ in upmarket words like ‘conducting’.
Tomorrow. Have you got somewhere to stay tonight?’
O’Fear had taken off his jacket and hung it over the back of Anna’s chair. He had the stack of binders in front of him and was clicking a ballpoint pen he’d taken from his pocket. He gave me one of his ingenuous smiles. ‘I thought perhaps your place, Cliff.’
I reminded him of the address and told him where the spare key is hidden. ‘Will you be all right?’
‘Is there drink in the house?’
I said there was.
‘Then I’ll be fine. If I can’t make me way from Botany to Glebe, then it’s time I retired.’ He clicked his pen. ‘I’m not too keen on this, though. I’m a man of action.’
‘We need a man of brains just now.’
‘Well, after all, I’m a graduate of Trinity.’
Mulholland looked up. ‘What pub’s that?’
O’Fear opened a folder. ‘I won’t be disturbin’ your good lady, then?’
‘You remember my wife, O’Fear. The blonde architect? She left ten years ago.’
‘She was never the woman for you, Cliff.’
I still had the log sheet in my hand. I crumpled it and threw it into a wastepaper bin. ‘Her sentiments exactly,’ I said.
16
Since small business people started installing answering machines, Commander phones and car phones, I’ve almost given up ringing to arrange appointments. There are too many ways they can duck you. A direct approach is best; most people aren’t rude, most are curious. It was late in the afternoon when I arrived in St Peters. Ashley Street was a nondescript thoroughfare, half given over to factories and half to houses that looked as if they had been squeezed onto blocks of land that were too small for them.
Brown amp; Brown presented a long, high brick fence to the street. I could see the superstructure of a couple of cranes and bits of earth-moving equipment poking up into the sky, and the outlines of some buildings that would not have carpet on the floors or paintings on the walls. I parked further down the street and walked back to give myself some time to rehearse what I was going to say. I had it worked out by the time I reached the wide main gate. Brown amp; Brown looked to be doing pretty well. Tyre tracks on the road and drive showed that a lot of traffic had passed through the gate. The brick wall was new. Reddish-brown stains on the cement marked where water had run for years down a rusty tin fence and across the footpath.
A smaller gate further along from the main entrance was set in a recess in the wall; it even had a skimpy overhanging roof. I pressed the buzzer and looked around for the closed-circuit TV lens, but the door swung open before I found it. I went up a cement driveway towards an office building that had a small flagpole standing outside it. The US and Australian flags hung listlessly from the mast. I went through double doors into a functional reception area where posters and photographs on the walls showed the sort of work Brown amp; Brown did. Brick towers were shown crumbling under the force of explosions; giant steel balls reduced brick walls to rubble. The man at the desk was about thirty; he had a tanned face and a mass of wrinkles around his eyes, as if he spent a lot of time squinting in bright sunlight. Big shoulders and neck, cropped brown hair.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
I gave him my card. ‘I’d like to see Mr Marshall Brown.’
He read the card and looked at me with interest. ‘Private detective, eh? Don’t think I ever met one before. Hold on, I did run into one when we were wrecking the brickworks.’
‘What did you run into him with?’
He smiled, showing teeth not as white as those of the workers in the posters. ‘He was from an insurance company.’ He looked down at a typed list on the desk. ‘I think Mr Brown has all the insurance he needs, if that’s…’
‘It’s not,’ I said. ‘Just for interest, if you wrecked a brickworks, what’re you doing here?’
‘Mr Brown thinks everyone should know every part of the business. I’m on a two-week stint here. After that I do vehicle maintenance. Then I can get back to the bulldozer. Have I been polite?’
‘Very,’ I said.
‘Mr Brown says we should be polite. What’s your business?’
‘I’ll be polite too. Please tell Mr Brown I want to talk to him about Barnes Todd.’
He made a note on a pad and then his big fingers with their blunt, broken but very clean nails punched buttons on the intercom system. I heard an American voice respond: ‘Yes, Wayne.’
Wayne? I thought. With luck, his surname.
‘A Mr Hardy here, Mr Brown. A private… investigator. He says he wants to talk to you about Todd Barnes.’
‘Barnes Todd,’ I said.
Wayne corrected himself. ‘Barnes Todd.’
There was a pause. Then the American voice again: ‘Show him in, Wayne.’
Wayne pointed to a door which had an exit sign over it.
‘Exit?’ I said.
‘A joke of Mr Brown’s. Just go through, Mr Hardy.’ I was three steps towards the door before he added, ‘Nice to meet you.’ At least he didn’t say anything about spending a pleasant twenty-four hours.
The room was as functional as the space outside. Big desk, a couple of chairs, low table, bookshelves and filing cabinets. Papers, maps and blueprints were spread or stacked on every surface. Marshall Brown was standing behind his desk; he didn’t wear a string tie or a jacket with piping on it, or cowboy boots. He wore a white shirt, dark tie and trousers and he was as bald as an egg. He was about five foot six, ten or more years older than me, and the pale skin on his face sagged around his jawline. He gave me a quick, moist handshake.
‘Sit down, Mr Hardy.’ His voice was high and light. I’m no expert on American accents. Southern, Hickie had said. Well, he certainly wasn’t from Boston or New York.
I sat, and he looked at me for a full half minute.
‘I think I’m a pretty fair judge of a man,’ he said, ‘if you say you’re a private eye, I’d be inclined to believe you. But I’d check up before I told you anything.’
I put my licence folder on the desk. ‘What would you do before you gave me any money?’
His laugh was a high whinnying sound. He glanced at the licence and pushed it. ‘I’d double-check. You mentioned Barnes Todd.
‘You knew he was dead?’
‘Yeah. I should’ve sent a wreath, but…’he waved his hand at the paperwork.
‘It was “no flowers”, anyway.’
‘Uh huh. Well?’
