feature writer on the Sydney News, a paper I'd never heard of. It carried her work and mobile phone numbers, and her email address. I put the card aside and made a mental note to check on her with Harry Tickener, who knows everything worth knowing about journalism and journalists in Sydney. She'd shown a lot of courage fronting Clement like that and I liked her feistiness. I thought I might give her a call and ask how her arm was. She was on my mind as I went up to bed-thirty-five or thereabouts, no wedding ring, black Irish looking with the pale skin, dark hair and blue eyes. Why not?
As it turned out she paid me a visit in my Newtown office later that morning, making her one of the earliest clients in my new set-up. When the renovators moved in on St Peters Lane, Darlinghurst, where I'd had my office since I'd got my PEA licence, all us low rent types moved out. I worked from home for a while, didn't like it, and took over an office in Newtown at the St Peters end of King Street. St Peters cropping up again was a coincidence but I liked it and took it as a good omen. Gentrification hadn't reached there, at least as far as commercial space was concerned, and the office was one floor up at the front overlooking the street. The stairs were sound, if narrow, and not well lit, and the windows facing King Street were grimy. But who needed to watch cars and buses and trucks go by?
My office had room enough for a desk, a chair each for me and the client, a couple of filing cabinets and a bookcase. There was a small alcove off it where a coffee maker sat on top of a bar fridge, sharing a double adaptor. A phone-fax and computer and printer needed a power board to run from the single power point in the office. I'd been there for three quiet months. Parking was a problem. So far the government's terror alerts hadn't brought me any business.
There were two other offices on this level. One unoccupied and the other bearing a stencilled sign that read 'MIDNIGH T RECORDS'. So far I hadn't seen anyone go in or out, but maybe that figured. Toilet at the end of the hall with washbasin and tap. Pretty basic. Some clients like it, thinking that low overheads mean low fees; others take fright. Louise Kramer wouldn't have taken fright in Pamplona running the bulls. She plonked her backpack down on the floor and sat in the clients' chair. My coffee maker was emitting the croak it does when the brew is ready.
'Is that drinkable?' she said.
'Usually. Want some?'
I fixed her a mug with long-life milk and no sugar, like mine, and watched her try it. The spiked hair of last night was flattened down and she wore jeans and a V-necked, long-sleeved cotton top, sneakers. All business. The earrings and necklace had gone, of course, but her makeup was carefully applied and she was bright-eyed, close to hyper.
'That's good, thanks. I live on this stuff. You?'
I shrugged. 'Plus alcohol, adrenalin, carbohydrates.'
'I did some quick research on you, Mr Hardy, and I'm puzzled by your presence at that party.'
'I told you, I was filling in for a friend.'
'Mmm, I wonder if I believe that.'
'Look, Ms Kramer-' I waved the card I'd put on my desk to get the phone number-'I'm pleased to see you looking so up, but I'm puzzled by your presence here. How's the arm, by the way?'
She touched her upper arm. 'Bloody sore, but it would've been worse if you hadn't stepped in. That bastard Thomas grips like a bolt cutter.'
I drank some more coffee, not knowing how to play this. 'You talk as if you know him.'
'I know of him, like all Clement's functionaries. He was a steward at Randwick until he got sacked for doing things he shouldn't. He got the grip from controlling horses.'
'Interesting,' I said.
'Meaning, again, what am I doing here?'
'You're drinking my coffee with enjoyment apparently, and saying interesting things. I'm not busy, as you can see. I'm not grizzling.'
'Like I say, I've looked into you. For someone in your game you stack up pretty well. I'm thinking of hiring you.'
'Well, we'd both have to think about that. You'd have to believe me that I was a fill-in at that event and I'd have to know what you're on about.'
She nodded. 'I believe you.'
'That's a start.'
She drew in a deep breath. 'I'm writing a book about Clement. An expose.'
'What's to expose?'
'A hell of a lot. Know how he got his kick-start capital?'
'No.'
'He puts it out that he got it speculating in stock in the dot com boom.'
'Sounds possible.'
'But he didn't. I've searched the records.'
I shrugged. 'They can run and they can hide.'
'Not from me. He got his start from some huge brokerage fees arranging loans. One was from the Niven- Jones bank, which was run by crooks, to Blue Rock Mining. As everyone knows, they went bust. There were a few others like that, but the really interesting one is from Tasman Investments to Peter Scriven. Twenty-five million, five million brokerage.'
That got my attention. I didn't follow the financial news but everyone able to watch TV had heard of Scriven. He'd been one of the media moguls of the nineties who'd slowly got in too deep and had skipped the country owing tens of millions and ruining many small businesses in the process. He'd left scores of employees high and dry and what he owed the tax office would put a dent in the current account deficit.
Louise Kramer enjoyed watching my reaction. 'I reckon he helped Scriven get away and got well paid for that, too.'
I finished my coffee. 'Hard to prove. Scriven's vanished.'
'There're others around who know things. If I could get some details from one person in particular, I could pull the plug on Clement.'
'Sounds personal.'
She drained her mug and put it on the desk where it made a ring to join all the other rings. 'No. Professional.'
'Was last night professional? Taking him on at his party? What did you have to gain?'
'When word got around that I was doing this book, Clement at first tried to buy me off. Offered me a job and all that. When that didn't work he threatened me and the publisher. Legal bullying. Followed by more direct personal stuff.'
'Like?'
'Slashed tyres. Heavy breathers. Creeps hanging around. I put my head down and got on with my research.
Just in case he might've thought I'd gone away, last night I was showing him I hadn't.'
'Well, it's very interesting, Ms Kramer, but-'
'Lou.'
'Okay, Lou, but I can't see how I can help. I use the finance pages to wrap the fat from the griller.'
'Ever hear of Eddie Flannery?'
'Of course. Private investigator, or was until he got delicensed.'
'Right. He worked for Clement as a bagman, fixer, minder. Got himself killed a few months back. Took a tumble down the McElhone steps at the Cross. I reckon Clement had it done because Flannery was blackmailing him.'
'Any proof?'
'I had it, sort of, but I lost it. I got on to Flannery's de facto wife, Billie Marchant. She told me she knew about some of the things Eddie had done for Clement and that she had proof Clement had Eddie killed. She was going to tell me more but she got scared and took off. That's where you come in, Mr Hardy.' 'Cliff.'
She nodded. 'I want you to find Billie Marchant so I can talk to her again. I need to know that inside stuff about Clement's business.'
