‘He probably shouted me a drink sometime or other with what you gave him.’
That’s when Fowler apparently started to feel the cold. He hailed a taxi. ‘Let’s go somewhere and have a drink. Jerry told me about you more than once and he spoke about you recently. That’s why I want to talk to you.’
The taxi took us to Fowler’s hotel-the Novotel at Darling Harbour. We installed ourselves in a warm comfortable bar and Fowler bought double scotches, putting them on his room account.
‘Jeremiah Fowler,’ he said as he raised his glass.
We drank the toast. Fowler unbuttoned his suit coat and leaned back in his chair. As a man in late middle-age, he was comfortably padded but not fat. Probably worked out a little when he had the time. He took another pull on his drink and got ready to talk.
‘About six weeks ago, when I was just back from the States, I found out where Jerry was living and went to see him. In Glebe, of course. That’s where the family had been for a couple of generations.’
The scotch was smooth-bound to help talking and listening.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’m a comparative newcomer. Jerry filled in the background for me.’
Fowler nodded. ‘He would. It was his only interest apart from a quick easy dollar. Well, I went to see him and found him pretty close to the edge financially, and health-wise. I told him about this caravan park that I’ve got an interest in. Well, I own it really, but I didn’t tell Jerry that, and I said he could have one of the mobile homes to live in rent-free. He seemed interested and the next thing I know he rings me and asks how much to buy the unit. I told him forty-five thousand just to name a figure and he said he thought he could raise it. Next thing I know I get the news that he’s dead.’
‘Did you tell any of this to the police?’
‘No, I knew the detective I talked to wasn’t interested. The only way Jerry could have got hold of that sort of money was through something criminal. He must have stepped on somebody’s toes and got himself killed. I want to know who killed him and I want to see them in gaol. Jerry spoke very well of you, said you’d helped him out a few times. One of the Glebe people pointed you out to me at the service and here we are.’
‘Where are we exactly, Mr Fowler?’
‘I’m trying to enlist you to find out who killed Jerry and I’m happy to pay your going rate. More if necessary.’
‘What makes you think I’d be able to do that?’
Fowler shrugged. ‘I feel that I let him down. I have to do something and this is all I can think of
‘You sent him off nicely. Isn’t that enough?’
‘No. I haven’t told you anything about my business, have I?’
‘I’d have got around to asking you.’
‘I run a freight company that operates here and in Europe and the United States. Not huge, but big enough and profitable. When I got started with a few trucks I ran into trouble with a competitor who wouldn’t play by the rules. Jerry rounded up a few blokes he’d met inside and it got sorted out. But Jerry was up on charges again at the time and I didn’t do enough for him: I was battling, short of time and money. He went away for a long, hard stretch and I prospered. As far as I could tell he didn’t hold it against me, but I felt I’d let him down. That’s why I made the caravan park offer. I didn’t want to look patronising or superior… But Jerry threw me with his claim to have the price. Does any of this make sense, Hardy?’
Of course it did, almost too much sense, and I felt obliged to tell Fowler what had happened between Jerry and me. It didn’t reflect well on Jerry-given the price Zack had named for the mobile home, Jerry obviously was going for the whole bundle and planning to cut me out-or on me for not coming down harder, telling him to leave it alone. Over another couple of drinks I laid it all out.
Fowler listened intently, forgetting his drink. When I finished he shook his head.
‘That’s Jerry all right. Too proud to accept charity from me but ready enough to diddle you out of your share of the reward. He was my brother and I was fond of him, but he couldn’t lie straight in bed.’
‘Perhaps I’ve wronged him. Maybe when I was lukewarm about his proposition he decided to just go it alone.’
‘I’d like to think so, but I doubt it.’ He took a small notebook from his coat pocket. ‘When did he come to you?’
I told him and it became clear that Jerry had spoken about having the fifty thousand Sanderson had on offer before he spoke to me.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Fowler said. ‘I was starting to feel encouraged that you knew something of what he was up to. That means you wouldn’t be starting from scratch. But now you know that he intended to cheat you I suppose you’re not inclined to help.’
With the scotch working, I smiled at him. ‘Mr Fowler, you don’t imagine that I approve of all the people I work for, do you? Let alone like them.’
‘Then you’ll do it?’
‘Got your cheque book handy?’
Knowing that Jerry had planned to cut me out of the deal made it easier in a way. I could be objective about the job and not feel any obligation to him. The other thing was that I was in the loop already, although I hadn’t told Fowler about the attack on me. I wanted to sort out who had me in their sights and I figured I might as well get paid while I was doing it.
A while back I’d done some work for a bookmaker named Tim Turnbull. A missing daughter case that didn’t turn out too badly for all parties. I’d stayed vaguely in touch with him and had backed a couple of his tips successfully. I phoned him and arranged a meeting.
Tim lived in Paddington in a three-storey terrace with all the wrought iron, white pebbles and native garden you could wish for. He’d demolished a smaller house beside his own to provide garage space with a swimming pool and a lavish entertainment area. Tim’s parties were legendary.
I penetrated the layers of security and Tim led me into his den-cum-bar. The chairs were deep and comfortable, the bookshelves held a mix of racing books and hardback best-sellers, and the bottles of liquor were seductive in the subdued concealed lighting. It was mid-afternoon.
‘What’ll you have, Cliff?’
‘Light beer.’
‘Jesus, a couple of hundred grand’s worth of booze and you want light beer.’
‘If you have it, Tim.’
‘Smartarse. Of course I’ve got it. No one drinks seriously anymore.’
Tim was out to prove his point. He gave me a stubbie of Cascade Light and a glass and let some cognac glide into a crystal balloon for himself. I sniffed the air.
‘What happened to the Havanas?’
Tim, forty pounds overweight with a purple nose and florid complexion, scowled. ‘Had to give them up. Doctor’s orders.’ A reminder of this injunction damaged his sociability. ‘What can I do for you?’
I spun him a line about a client being unhappy after his dealings with Charley Sanderson. I said I wanted Tim’s opinion of Sanderson and how heavy he was likely to come down on anyone who got in his bad books. Turnbull had started out as a runner for his fathers SP book and he knew a bit about the rough side of the game. He seemed to enjoy letting his mind work along these lines.
‘Charleys a wimp,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t have the guts to come down hard.’
‘What about getting someone to do the business for him?’
‘Nah. He’s afraid of the law. That’s one of the three things he’s afraid of.’
I had to play along. ‘The other two are…?’
‘His missus. A real dragon. Keeps him on a very tight leash. She’d be afraid of what might happen if he got into bad company like that Rivkin. Charley’s wife likes to move in respectable circles. The other thing he’s afraid of is going broke.’
‘Any risk of that?’
Tim looked around the room, at the wood panelling, teak bookcases, chromium and glass bar-signs of wealth too solid ever to be lost, you’d think, but he said, ‘It can all go down the gurgler really quick if things go
