was doubtful about riding. I felt crook from wasting, but I decided I was jake right at the last minute.’
Tommy accepted another coffee with brandy and lit a cigarette. He brushed at the grass stains and smiled. ‘I don’t know what Sharon’s going to say about my suit. Have to get it to the dry-cleaners before she notices. Trouble is, it’s just come back from the bloody dry-cleaners.’
‘Tommy. You know this game better than me. We’ve got these suspicions and theories and a bit of evidence on tape if you want to see it our way, but it’s not solid. What do we do now?’
He sucked in smoke, drank some coffee and pulled the telephone towards him. ‘We talk to all the right people,’ he said.
Tommy set up a meeting with the owners and trainers of horses involved in the two races and certain of the jockeys. The meeting took place at his flat and Sharon had laid on the works- drinks and eats, cigarettes and cigars. Tommy had a huge video screen and he’d run the race film so many times he could pause, reverse, freeze frame and slow advance like an expert. The trainers and owners ate and drank heartily; the jockeys smoked and drank coffee. Everybody swore a lot. They listened to me and they listened to Tommy. I’d been back to the park and collected a couple of the bird shot pellets.
The upshot was a report to the stewards by two owners and their trainers and an enquiry to which the four jockeys who’d accused Tommy were summoned. Bruce Bartlett was also requested to appear but he happened to be out of the country at the time, likewise his son. The processes that followed were slow and secretive. The racing game was in the midst of a major shake-up involving jockeys ‘tipping’ and being paid for their tips. The authorities didn’t need a major race-fixing scandal and nothing about it leaked out. Rex Goot announced his retirement from riding owing to weight problems. The other three jockeys found rides hard to get and two of them relocated to Singapore.
Bruce Bartlett was prosecuted for tax evasion. He was fined, received a suspended sentence and his bookmaking licence was revoked. Tommy’s suspension was reduced to a minimum period and he confided that he had received a generous ex gratia payment by way of compensation and in return for an agreement to keep mum. He did and pretty soon afterwards he gave up riding to go into partnership as a trainer. He’s got a two-year-old called Cross My Heart that he keeps urging me to back, but for some reason I’m not betting these days as much as I used to.
Christmas Visit
‘They’re letting him out for Christmas. Jesus, I can’t believe it. Christmas Day for Ronnie was just an excuse to get more pissed earlier than on the other 364 days. I need help, Mr Hardy.’
Fran Phillips had phoned me on 20 December and made an appointment for the next day. She didn’t have to tell me that I wasn’t her first choice as a private detective. The big agencies and most of the smaller ones closed down or didn’t accept new business that close to Christmas. I had no plans for the festive season beyond a few days off, some time at the beach and Christmas lunch with Frank and Hilde Parker and their son Cliff, named after guess who. I was trying to persuade an old girlfriend to go with me but so far not succeeding.
Ms Phillips was thirtyish, blonde with an intelligent face and a good figure. She had married ‘Flash’ Ronnie Phillips ten years before when she was a fashion model and he had told her he was a banker. The only business Ronnie ever did with banks was robbing them, along with armoured cars, grog shops and anything else worth his while. He was reckless and lucky for quite a while and he and Fran lived well on the proceeds. They had twins, a boy and a girl. Then a job went wrong, Ronnie lost his nerve, drank too much and knocked his wife about. He was drunk on the next job, a factory payroll snatch. He wounded a policeman, took a bullet or two himself and got twelve years, of which he’d served four.
‘I should’ve divorced him but I never got around to it,’ Fran said. ‘And I can’t shoot through because the kids are in a pageant thing got up by the parents of one of their friends. They’re looking forward to it like mad.’
‘You could get some sort of injunction,’ I said. ‘He abused you…’
She shook her head. ‘It’s years ago and I never reported it at the time. He’s convinced some idiot social worker that he’s reformed. They say he’ll be eligible for release in a year or so and this visit is a step towards his rehabilitation. It’s incredible! He shot a policeman, for Christ’s sake. What d’you have to do to serve ten years?’
I knew a lot of people who’d agree with her. I did myself in a way. Most of the people in gaol don’t belong there at all, and those that do should be there longer for the protection of the community. Fran Phillips wasn’t whingeing, she was angry, an emotion I can sympathise with.
‘So, what’ve you got in mind?’
The look of relief that came across her strong, handsome face made it worthwhile saying something I hadn’t intended to say.
‘Apparently he’s got some sort of twelve-hour pass. I’ve agreed to be at home at nine to say hello to him. The kids’ll be up at six for the tree and the presents and then they’ll be off to the pageant. I want you to be there when he arrives. He can think what he likes. It’s just a ploy for him. He’ll go off and get drunk and with any luck they’ll put him back where he belongs. I’ll get a divorce and move somewhere.’
“Won’t he expect to see the children?’
‘They’ll stay at their friends’ place and sleep over. He never showed any interest in them before-except as things to shout at and give an occasional whack.’
‘You’re not going to this pageant?’
She shook her head. ‘That’s not the deal. They’re going to video it and the kids want me to see the final edited version. That’s what’s real to them these days, isn’t it?’
‘I haven’t got any children. I wouldn’t know. And after he goes, then what?’
‘I don’t trust him. I’ll need you to stay with me the rest of the day, until 9 o’clock or whatever.’
She’d told me that she’d given up being a clothes horse after she’d had the twins and that she’d qualified as a computer programmer after Ronnie went inside. She was a freelance-desktop publishers called her in to trouble-shoot for them. It was interesting and paid well. She said that to convince me I’d get paid. It did more than that-it told me she was bright and steady and to be taken seriously. I liked her.
‘I’m due to have lunch with some people. A senior policeman as it happens. You could come with me.’
She looked at me, no doubt taking in the greying hair, the crow’s feet, the broken nose. I could only hope she was seeing the sense of humour, the sterling integrity.
‘Yes, I’d like that,’ she said.
I was at her house in Rozelle at eight-thirty on Christmas morning. I’d seen three kids on their new Christmas bikes and was feeling cheerful. The house was a weatherboard double-fronter that had recently had a coat of paint. It sat on a wider block with more space in front and back than at my place in Glebe, but then you couldn’t see the water the way you can by standing on my back fence. I prowled around in professional fashion and was satisfied that there were only four ways an intruder could approach from.
‘Merry Christmas,’ Fran said when she opened the door.
I said the same and presented her with a bunch of flowers.
‘A prop?’
‘As you like. You’ll be interested to hear that your house is a security nightmare.’
The morning was warm and she looked good in a short white dress that left her strong brown arms bare. I wore chinos and a short-sleeved shirt. I had a Smith amp; Wesson. 38 in the pocket of my linen jacket. I stepped inside onto polished boards with light flooding in from enlarged windows. There was an old-fashioned coat and hat stand by the door. I hung my jacket up and arranged it so I could stand in the doorway and reach the gun.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No gun.’
‘Probably not.’
She nodded and looked away.
Ronnie arrived in a taxi at ten-fifteen. As he opened the gate and came up the path Fran opened the door
