his book’s not even acknowledged as a source, let alone earned him a payment.’
‘And who would that be? Not one of your clients?’
‘No, but as I told you, I’ve got a stake in this movie. Is what you’re investigating more or less likely to make it happen?’
Good question. Needed consideration. The light was dimming outside and at that elevation I could see a bank of fog moving in from the east. I quite like fog-the headlights, the honking at intersections, the lack of definition.
‘Cliff?’
‘It’s hard to say.’
Ingrid let out a sigh. ‘You’d never make it in this game. Too honest. The writer’s name is Tom Crabbe. He was on my books for a while as an actor until he punched a director and now no casting agency will look at him. He worked on one of Bruce Haxton’s films a while back. He turned to writing and had a few things published. I can give you his address and phone number. I know he’s still there because I phoned him about a residual payment.’
‘Thanks. A wild child, is he?’
She flicked open a teledex and scribbled something on the back of a card which she passed across. ‘You could put it so. Except that he’s ex-SAS, a black belt, and at least as big as you and younger. I’m not sure boxing with him would be a good idea.’
‘I think you’re right. Many thanks, Ingrid-keep me in mind for jobs, eh? Easy stunts, bit of driving. I’d be okay as an armourer.’
She smiled. ‘Perhaps you could shoot Tom Crabbe in the leg to subdue him. Or in both legs?’
Crabbe’s address was in Newtown in a street I knew running down towards the park in Church Street. I’d fancied buying around there when Cyn, a North Shore girl, and I got together. She resisted the inner west with all her might, but eventually gave in to me and agreed to Glebe. She said it would go ahead faster than Newtown and for a time she was right. Not now, though. I checked in the Gregory’s that I had the street right and was about to start the car when my mobile rang.
‘Cliff, he’s been in touch. Jesus, this is weird.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘I should’ve said that it’s an electronically modified voice. He sounded very reasonable. I made the pitch like you said and he listened and said he’d think about accepting two fifty. Made me repeat the figure. I said I’d need time to get close to that.’
‘Good. Did he offer any proof that he had her?’
‘He described some tattoos, but Cassie did a shoot for an article on body decoration for an art magazine a while back. He could’ve seen that.’
‘Nothing else from her-a voice, a recorded message?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t suppose you got the number he was ringing from?’
‘I tried that but it didn’t come up.’
‘It wouldn’t, probably a stolen phone ditched straight off anyway. How are you feeling-more alarmed or less?’
‘That’s a funny question.’
‘It’s a funny business.’
‘Okay, well less, I suppose, given his manner.’
‘He said he’d be back in contact?’
‘Sort of. Yeah.’
‘Sit tight. I’ve got something to check. What’re you doing tonight?’
‘Going to a fucking party thrown by one of the worst actors who ever drew breath. Naturally enough, he’s in my picture.’
‘Hard to crash? Black tie?’
‘Shit no, the more turn up, the more the ego gets fed.’ I got the address and told Haxton I’d get someone to keep an eye on him to see if there was anyone else doing the same. I knew Hank Bachelor wouldn’t be able to resist a celebrity bash. I phoned Hank and lined him up. I was working the case and free to try my luck with Tom Crabbe. From the sound of him, I’d need some.
The house was a single-fronted, one-storey terrace-the sort of place I should have instead of my crumbling pile. Night had fallen and the street was dark. A newish Toyota 4WD, black with tinted windows, was parked in a bay in the front yard. Someone, not an urban purist, had created the spot out of the limited space available, destroying the original look of the house. The vehicle was ideal for transporting a kidnap victim. What was left of the skimpy front garden was reasonably well cared for and, unlike a few others in the street, there were no sagging armchairs or bottle-filled milk crates in evidence. Tom Crabbe was keeping up appearances.
You don’t knock on the front door of a suspect, you scout about. A lane ran behind the terraces. Sometimes people put their house number on the back fence or gate, some deliberately don’t. I’ve known some whose house looks immaculate facing the street and scruffy behind a high fence at the back to deceive malefactors. Mind you, they have state-of-the-art alarm systems in their elegant back courtyards.
There were no numbers along the lane and I had to count rooftops and TV aerials to work out which was the house of interest. A few cats prowled the lane, but it’s no use asking a cat anything. They wouldn’t tell you if they could. I was fairly sure I’d spotted the right house and I craned up to look over the fence. Lights on, music playing, or perhaps the television.
I went around to the front again and tried to think of a strategy. Nothing came. I crossed to my car to sit while I thought. The door to the house opened and a man came out, used a remote to unlock the 4WD, and rummaged in the back. He left the door open, swearing as he failed to find what he wanted. A woman and a child came to the door. The child laughed and ran out to help. A girl of about ten. You don’t put a kidnap victim in a house with a woman and a child, but maybe you put her somewhere else. There was nothing for it but to front him.
I crossed the street and stood beside the car. ‘Mr Crabbe?’ I said.
‘That’s my daddy,’ the girl said.
Crabbe straightened up as he pulled away from the open door. He looked at me and didn’t like what he saw.
‘Who’re you?’
‘My name’s Cliff Hardy. I’m a private detective working for a man named Bruce Haxton. I’d like to talk to you.’
‘Go inside, Chloe,’ Crabbe said.
‘Did you find my book, Dad?’
‘In a minute, love. Hop inside and close the door. I have to talk to this man.’
The kid scampered away and Crabbe gave me his full attention. A well-trained man, he’d been giving me ninety-nine per cent of it while instructing the kid. He wore jeans, sneakers and a pullover. He was about my size, as Ingrid had said, and looked, from the way he held himself, ready for anything. So was I.
‘What about Haxton?’ he said.
‘What about his wife?’
‘Cassie? What about her?’
‘You know her?’
‘Knew her. Wish I didn’t. Goodnight.’
He half turned to dismiss me. That was a mistake, a small one but enough. I took advantage of the split second he was off balance to hit him with a shoulder, making him grab at the roof of the car for support. I stepped back.
‘Let’s not get off to a bad start.’
‘We already have. Gotta admit you’re quick, but I can hurt you.’
‘I believe you, but if you kidnapped Cassie Haxton you’re in enough trouble already.’
He dropped the hurting hands. ‘What?’
