‘You heard me.’
‘Heard but don’t believe. Cassie’s been kidnapped? Christ help the poor bastard stupid enough to do that.’
This was a violent man who’d learned to control his violence. It’s impressive when you see it up close, especially if you’re the beneficiary. It was a snap judgement, but everything about Crabbe’s voice and manner told me he wasn’t the kidnapper.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We should talk. Hang on a minute while I find Chloe’s bloody book.’
We were both wary. I stepped away and Crabbe kept an eye on me as he resumed his search.
‘Got it,’ he said. ‘She can’t finish the day without it.’
‘What is it?’
‘ The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.’
Inside the house and he introduced me to Wendy and Chloe. He gave Chloe the book and she took off with it. Wendy returned to the television and Crabbe and I went through to the kitchen. The house was in that pleasant state between renovated and left alone. It was tidy without being obsessively so. Crabbe opened the fridge and took out two stubbies.
‘Sit down.’
He gave orders to the manner born and I wondered what rank he’d held in the army. I took a few steps and looked at the row of cooking books before sitting down and accepting the beer-it never does to do what you’re told straightaway. We twisted off the tops and drank.
‘You really thought I’d kidnapped Cassie?’
I shrugged. ‘It was a line of enquiry. I was told you had a grievance.’
‘I did, but I’m over it. The thing about writing is that you can move on to another book and forget about the last one and any shit that might’ve gone down. The next one’s always going to be better.’
‘Okay. I’m in a spot here. I’ve told you something of what’s going on. Apparently the budget for Haxton’s picture isn’t quite settled. If news of this trouble got out it could be scuppered.’
Crabbe thought that over. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, maybe a bit older. Like me, he’d had his nose broken more than once, and there was a scar on his forehead not quite concealed by the dark hair falling near it. Ruggedly handsome was an apt description with an emphasis on the rugged. He drank as if he enjoyed the beer rather than needed it.
‘I couldn’t give a shit about Haxton’s crappy film,’ he said, ‘but I’m interested in anything to do with Cassie.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘It so happens that the book I’m writing uses her as a model for the main character. I’m thinking of having her kidnapped-art imitating life. Not that my work’s art exactly.’
My look must have been sceptical.
‘I’m told it happens from time to time to writers,’ he said. ‘This is the first time for me, but it’s kind of…’
‘An endorsement?’
He shook his head. ‘Come on, Hardy, what sort of a prick d’you think I am? The woman’s a bloody nightmare, but I don’t wish her any harm.’
He told me that he’d had a brief affair with Cassie when doing stunts for a Haxton movie and that she’d worked him over emotionally in ways he didn’t care to describe. He’d almost lost Wendy and Chloe due to the affair, and now, quite a few years later, he was projecting his feelings into his book.
He drained his stubbie. ‘So now I’ve told you things I shouldn’t and we’re even.’
‘Right. My feeling is that whoever has Cassie, or is pretending to have her, or is being put up to it by her-if you follow me-isn’t a hundred per cent serious. Has a grievance maybe, wants the money maybe, but isn’t quite fair dinkum.’
‘Fuck, I should make notes. I didn’t realise you investigators worked so much on instincts.’
‘Some do, some don’t. But from what I’ve told you about the state of the picture’s finances, can you think of anyone with anything to gain by sinking it?’
‘Take me through it again.’
I did, mentioning every name that had come up in my conversations with Haxton and Ingrid and showing him the names on Haxton’s list. The only thing I held back was Haxton’s financial plight.
‘You say he’s negotiating,’ Crabbe said. ‘Is he that mean?’
‘It’s a ploy to gain time and try to find some leverage.’
By this time Crabbe was taking notes, on the back of a magazine, as he listened. He put his finger on the spot. ‘This name’s interesting-Ben Corbett. He was a stuntman and an extra. I was in a few things with him then he went off the rails. He was caught trying to hold up a service station. He bashed the woman attendant and got a few years. I reckon he’d be out by now.’
‘Haxton didn’t mention anything like that.’
‘Directors live in a world of their own. He probably wasn’t in the country when it happened.’
‘Did he work on one of Haxton’s pictures?’
‘I think so. I could check.’
‘Did he have an affair with Cassie?’
‘Who didn’t?’
I’d given him my card and he looked at it to refresh his memory of my name. ‘I’d like to help you with this if I can, ah… Cliff
‘Why?’
Peter Corris
CH32 – The Big Score
‘For the most selfish of reasons-to get material for my book.’
‘Not to get back at Haxton?’
‘Wouldn’t hurt, but no. It was that producer bitch that dudded me. As I said, I’m over it.’
I finished my beer. ‘I admit I’m a bit out of my depth with this-not the crime, if there is a crime, but with the relationships of the people. I’d be grateful for any help I could get.’
Crabbe nodded and held up a hand in a comradely gesture. ‘I wonder how I would’ve gone up against you.’
‘I’d back you,’ I said. ‘Ten years ago it might’ve been even money. This Corbett, reckon you can track him down?’
‘Yes.’
He made some phone calls, explained to Wendy that he had to go out, said goodnight to Chloe and we were on our way.
‘Which d’you reckon makes the better impression, my SUV or your clapped-out Falcon?’ Crabbe said after I’d pointed out my car.
‘Depends whether we want to be frightening or comforting.’
‘Frightening.’
‘We’ll take yours.’
Crabbe drove expertly but without flourishes. ‘I’m told he’s living under a shop in Marrickville, probably selling dope and speed. He had a bikie period, not sure if he’s still into that.’
The shop in Addison Road was boarded up but lights were showing in the flat, more or less underground, below it. There was a ramp to the door.
‘Bit weird,’ Crabbe said.
We went down and Crabbe knocked on the door. After a short wait we heard a sound inside and then the door opened. If this was Ben Corbett, he wasn’t doing any kidnapping in person because he was in a wheelchair.
‘Hello, Ben,’ Crabbe said.
‘Fuck me, big Tom Crabbe and a mate come to do me harm. I heard you was on your way.’ He produced a pistol from under the blanket over his knees.
Crabbe’s move was as quick as I’ve ever seen. Almost like a conjurer, he plucked the pistol from Corbett’s grasp and pointed it back at him.
‘No need for that, Ben. I think we got the wrong end of the stick. Sorry to see you like this. What
