The Dying Trade (7 page)

I did. If I'd got any kick-backs when I'd had a wife I'd definitely have seen that they went into her Swiss account. But the only kick-backs I've ever had have been of the in-the-teeth variety. I finished my drink and signalled for another. Ailsa's had scarcely lost a drop.

She went on: “Sometimes he told me names, but not often. Sometimes it was obvious to me who he was talking about even if names weren't mentioned. It became a bit of a game with us, a sort of Mata Hari thing, a bedroom game. I'd probe and he'd be indiscreet.”

“It sounds like a bloody dangerous game to me,” I said.

“It turned out to be. Mark roasted me a couple of times when I let a name slip in company, when I'd had a bit to drink. I watched myself after that. Mark would say that he had things on everyone, there was no one who had anything on him that he didn't have something on in turn. When he was low he even told me that he had something on his children, he never said what, and something on me. I didn't understand and I didn't want to. I used to try to pass it off as a joke. That was hard because Mark didn't have much of a sense of humour, like Susan. He had a dramatic sense, our bedroom spy games showed that, but that's about it. Jokes for him were visible, practical things. You know what I mean?”

I nodded. “Yes. I'd say Bryn's a bit that way too. Speaking of the practical-minded, did Gutteridge keep records of his deals?”

“I'm not certain but I think so. I'll get to that.”

She drank down the tonic and lemon peel in a few gulps and refused another. I accepted the wine list, a little early perhaps, but busy people often eat early lunch I'm told. Ailsa sent the waiter for cigarettes and tore them open untidily as soon as they arrived. When she had one lit she went on.

“I used to see Ian Brave occasionally, have a drink with him. I didn't need him as I had before, but he was a confidant of sorts and I still didn't have any friends to speak of. I had problems with Mark's children and occasional bouts of depression. I went to the theatre with Brave twice. The second time he doped me.” She sucked in her cigarette and blew the smoke out in a thin, vicious jet. “He took me back to his place—not the clinic, a house he has on the beach. He put needles into me, he questioned me for hours and hours. You can guess what about.”

“Yeah. Where was your husband then?”

“Away on business, interstate. He often was. When I came out of it, some time early the next morning, Brave told me what I'd told him. That is, he gave me some snippets, about big names. He thanked me and told me to forget what happened. He said he'd leave me alone.”

“I don't follow.”

She stubbed the cigarette like it was her last and she was giving it up for life. Except that she lit another straight away.

“Oh shit. He had some pictures. Are you with me?”

“Photographs?”

“Right. He used them to keep me quiet and he used the information I'd given him to blackmail Mark to glory.”

“Did your husband suspect that you were the source of Brave's information?”

She fiddled with the cigarette and lined up a napkin, an ashtray and her lighter on the table. “I'm not sure,” she said, “I suppose so. He became morose and withdrawn. I couldn't reach him, no one could. My feeling is that Brave had him so cold he didn't care anymore.”

“His whole approach to things had been turned round on him?”

“Something like that.”

“Did he still see Brave? Socially I mean?”

“No, not to my knowledge. But they hadn't met regularly anyway.”

I was interested but there were lots of loose ends. I played with the menu while I considered them. The story had a ring of truth but it was a bit too close to the first episode of husband and betrayal for comfort. Her innocence looked to be stretched a bit thin. I tried to keep the scepticism out of my voice as I asked the question. “How do you know all this happened? You said you weren't aware of what Brave had done in the case of your first husband. Why are you so sure about all this now?”

The question was important. If she slid about on it the whole thing could be a pack of lies. Dancers can be actresses. Only another good serve of her directness would incline me to believe her. She was direct.

“Brave told me himself,” she said. “I went to him one day when Mark was black-minded and told him that I thought he was driving Mark crazy. I threatened to go to the police and accuse him of drugging and molesting me. I said I'd finish him professionally and in every other way.”

“What did he say?” It wasn't hard to guess.

“He laughed at me. He said there were good reasons why I wouldn't do what I'd said. He threatened to name me as an accomplice in the blackmailing of James. He said he had so much on Mark that he could play with him just as he pleased and that he could ruin him and put me on the streets. He didn't want to. Mark was making him rich and he was happy with things as they were. If I left him alone, he'd leave me alone. He said he'd ease up on Mark, but I guess he couldn't. He's a greedy bastard.”

“How's that?”

“He pushed Mark past the limit, he must have done. Mark was dead about ten days after I had this talk with Brave.”

“Are you sure he killed himself?”

“No, I'm not. But he was in a tortured state in the last few days and a gun was found near his body. The coroner's verdict was suicide but I'm sure such things can be arranged.”

She stopped when the waiter arrived to take the order. I called for half a dozen oysters naturelle and some grilled whiting. She said she'd have the same and took about half a glass of hock when that arrived. Waiters were hovering about and she smoked and made some small talk until we had privacy again. The golden brown fish fillets and potato chips hid among the salad like Dyaks in the jungle. We pushed them about and sipped the wine. I tried to fill her glass but she glared at me. I munched a few decent mouthfuls of fish and got on with it.

“You think the police didn't pursue the matter satisfactorily?”

She mashed up some fish and salad and pushed the mess aside. She hadn't eaten a single potato chip and I had to keep myself from reaching over and spearing them. I drained my glass instead and filled it from the bottle which was still healthy. She lit a cigarette and more smoke drifted into my face than seemed necessary.

“What are you so cautious about, Hardy?” she asked. “Your licence?”

I shrugged and took in a bit more wine. “You were talking about your husband's death,” I said. She nodded and did her cigarette flicking act again. The ash sprayed into the plates and I pushed mine aside.

“Look, this gets back to your question about Mark's records, if you're still interested. Mark died at his desk, in his study. The police found a secret safe in the study, one I didn't know about. It had been opened. It was empty. Maybe Mark kept the records there.”

I nodded. “That sounds like a lead for the police, didn't they take it up?”

“No, they didn't take anything up. They rushed on to the inquest and let it go at that. I don't have to spell out what I think?”

“No, you think Brave has the records, maybe killed your husband to get them. Maybe not. In any case he was on the scene pretty quick I assume?”

She nodded, “Very quickly.”

“You think he used the records to bring the shutters down on the case?”

She spread her hands quizzically and drew a deep breath. The coffee arrived and she dropped as many grains of sugar into it as you could balance on the head of a nail. I took a gulp of wine and popped the question.

“Your husband's been dead for four years and you've suspected Brave's hand in it all along. Why are you frightened enough to want to do something? To hire me? Brave hasn't threatened you directly has he?”

“Not yet,” she said, “but it's only a matter of time. I've done something with the money Mark left me—invested it, got a couple of companies going. I told you this?”

I couldn't remember, I looked non-committal. She went on: “I'm a worthy target for Brave now. He's a leech. But it's more than that.” She leaned forward. She had fine broad shoulders and her movements were athletic without being masculine. Her lips were a sculptured counterpoint to the vertical lines of her face. “I think Brave killed Giles. I think he's insane and obsessed with the Gutteridges. I think he's behind the threats to Susan and after Bryn now.”

“Bryn's certainly afraid of something, or somebody. I think it connects back to his father's death but I don't know how.”

“He's afraid of Brave I tell you. And if Bryn's afraid of him I'm bloody terrified.” She slapped down the coffee spoon she'd been playing with and jerked off her sunglasses. There seemed to me to be as much resolution as fear in her face. Her voice was unemotional, businesslike. “You drink too much, but you're intelligent and capable in your own field. I want you to do two things—investigate Brave's affairs and put him out of business, for good. And protect me!”

“It's tough doing two things at once.”

“They're two sides of the same thing. I'm sure of it.”

She smiled for the first or second time since I'd met her. It was a nice smile but under careful control. “I don't know why you wanted to come out here. The food isn't that good and the view is rather corny. I've been here before.”

“Why did you agree to come then?”

“To show anyone who might be interested that I've got protection.”

“I guess you hired me a couple of hours ago then.”

“Well, yes, I did in a sense. But are you interested in the complete job now you know what's involved?”

I gave it about half a second's thought. Handled right it would keep me clean of guard duty and the cheap rooms and caravan parks for weeks. I had too much good wine inside me to think of much else. I believed at least half of Ailsa's story and that was enough. I told her my rates and conditions of work. She pulled a chequebook from her bag and wrote words and digits on it with a gold pen. I put it in my wallet, not too far from Bryn's cheque so that the two of them could debate the ethics of it.

I had just enough cash to cover the bill and I was feeling clever and successful when we walked out into the parking lot. The sun was beating down hard and the shade had retreated from the Porsche leaving its rear bumper shimmering and reflecting like a white hot steel mirror. Ailsa stepped up to the driver's door, pressed the button in and pulled the door free. She had it three inches open before my half-stewed brain got the message. I took two rabbity leaps across the melting asphalt and swept her off in a diving football tackle. Her bag came adrift from her shoulder and flicked the car door full open as we hit the ground. The Porsche burst into flame like a Molotov cocktail on impact, the bonnet lifted and the windows cracked in quick succession like rifle shots. Hellish heat surged towards us as I rolled Ailsa over three more times in the gravel and tar.

“You should always lock your car,” I ground into her ear as we came to rest twenty feet away from the inferno.

CHAPTER 6

We were both shaking as we brushed the grit of the parking bay off our clothes. Ailsa's white pants were a ruin and her smock was smeared and torn. My trousers had a great three-cornered tear in the knee and blood from a bad graze was seeping into the ragged edges of the tear. The car was burning fiercely, the tyres were bubbling like lava and the vehicle was sinking slowly, lopsidedly onto the rims. There was a stench of burning rubber and vinyl and a cloud of dark smoke had settled in the still hot air over the parking area. I put my arm around Ailsa's shoulders and helped her across to the steps in front of the hotel. Staff from the place were thronging about and Ailsa accepted a woman's offer of help to a toilet where she could clean up.

The manager came out and mumbled about calling the police. I told him I'd do it myself if he could show me to the phone and produce some brandy. He seemed relieved to escape the job and took me into an office which contained a desk, chair, a telephone, a pot plant and a bar. I'd always wondered what hotel managers did in their offices. This one must have twiddled his thumbs and drank. He left me in the room telling me to help myself. I mixed a strong Hennessy and soda, sat down with it behind the desk and dialled a number. The voice at the other end was tired and unsympathetic. It had answered ten thousand telephone rings and never once heard good news.

“Police, Evans speaking.”

“Grant, this is Cliff Hardy.”

“Oh good, you're going to pay me the money you owe me and take me on a holiday to Coolangatta.”

“This is serious, I need your help. And I might be able to help you with something you've got on your plate.”

“Yeah? What would that be?”

“I can't tell you just now.”

“That's terrific. Well I'll just drop everything here. It's nothing much, a couple of murders and a multi-million dollar extradition job and hurry on over to your place. What shall I wear?”

“Stop joking, I've been bombed.”

“You're always bombed, tell me something new.”

“I mean really bombed, detonator, gelignite, explosion, flames. I'm OK and my client's OK but a Porsche is dead.”

“You've got a client and he's got a Porsche? Maybe you will pay me what you owe me.”

“She has one. It's dead now, but she'll have another tomorrow.”

“You sound more or less sober. Are you dinkum, Cliff?”

“Yes, blood oath I am. Here's what I'm asking. If you've got some cars that aren't busy picking up the take, send them over to the pub at Watson's Bay. The sightseers will need dispersing, the car will need towing to your forensic parlour, Miss Sleeman will be requiring a lift to Mosman and I'd like to come down and see you.”

“Charmed. Consider it done, anything else?”

“No. See you soon Grant.”

“Yeah. I don't like that crack about the take, Cliff.”

“That's because none of it ever reaches you, mate. You've got to put yourself forward, make friends.”

I hung up on his stream of obscenities. Grant Evans was ex-army, ex-Malaya, like me. His sense of humour wasn't his strongest point, but he was fairly honest like me. That made us mavericks in our respective professions and useful to each other. We were also old friends who'd been under fire and under the weather together too many times to count.

The manager was hovering outside the door. I told him the police were on their way and that I'd probably be able to see that the matter was kept pretty quiet. He looked pleased and showed me through to where Ailsa was sitting in a private room. She doused her cigarette and came up out of her chair to meet me. We put our arms around each other and stood together, not moving. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to do—coming that near to death seemed to draw us close.

“The police are coming,” I said after a minute or so, “they'll take you home.”

“You saved my life,” she said.

“And mine don't forget.”

She didn't move away. “The tough guy's tough guy.”

“Not really. I nearly spilt the brandy they forced me to drink.”

“You're a drunk, but you seem to be lucky for me. Will you stay with it? This doesn't change anything?”

I told her I would and it didn't and we were still patting each other like timid middleweights in a clinch when the manager came in to let us know that the Rose Bay cops had arrived. Ailsa continued not to do silly things. We walked out to the parking lot and she barely gave the burnt out wreck a glance. She answered a few basic questions from the senior uniformed man and then turned things over to me. Grant had clued the men up and they were willing for her to go home and for me to go down town and give a detailed account of the bombing. A cop picked up Ailsa's bag from where it had landed after being blown clear by the explosion of the petrol tank. He handed it to her and ushered her into the back of one of the patrol cars. She mouthed “Tonight” at me and I nodded. The cop slammed the door and the car took off. I was surprised to find that I wished I was going with her, but it was time to start earning her money by playing the “bumping pitch and blinding light” stuff with the law.

On the ride I tried to work out how to play the cards I had, or thought I had, but I found myself spending more time admiring the driving of the young detective at the wheel. He whipped the big Holden Kingswood through impossible gaps and caught every light from Watson's Bay to East Sydney. He didn't say a word on the journey.

“Great driving,” I said as I got out in front of the central police building. He looked at me and jerked his head at the steps. A specialist.

I went into the building and gave my name to the desk sergeant. He lifted a phone and spoke briefly to someone in Grant's inner sanctum. The sergeant lifted old, tired cocker spaniel eyes to me.

“You know the way?”

“Yeah. OK to go up now?”

He nodded wearily and turned his attention back to the stolen car sheet. He read it like a form guide maybe hoping that if he spotted a few on the way home he could get out from behind the desk. Then again, maybe it was just a stunt the police PR boys put him up to as something that would impress the public. I went up three flights in the creaking lift. The view from the corridor windows was dull, out across the commercial buildings of East Sydney. The park on the other side was a better eyeful. Grant was still on the dull side but I knew he hoped to go up a floor and cross over. I might be able to help him if I could persuade him at this point with nothing. I pushed open the door and went into the office he shared with two other senior men.

Grant was alone. He was sitting at a desk which was untidy with papers, coffee cups and full ashtrays. He pushed himself back from the desk and waved me into a chair. He took hold of his spare tyre and pinched it.

“I'm getting fat, Cliff, not enough action. Are you going to give me some?”

I sat down. “Could be Grant, could be. I'd better fill you in.”

I told him the tale, an edited version which left some things out and under-played others—especially the events at Brave's clinic. Grant listened closely, making occasional notes. He ran his hand ruefully across the thinning dark hair on his skull. He was one of those men who took the disintegration of his body hard. His wife still appeared to think of him as the twenty-five-year-old paratrooper she'd married and his three daughters thought the sun shone out of him, but he bemoaned each lost hair and extra ounce. He'd been a superb fighting machine in Malaya and he'd killed three men on active duty as a cop, three hard men. He'd saved my life once in the jungle and kept me out of jail a few times since then. I usually played court jester to his gloomy king.

“Well, you seem to have yourself a nice case,” he said when I'd finished talking. “Well-heeled client, real Lew Archer stuff. What do you want from me?”

“Can you sit on the bombing for a while, keep it quiet?”

“Yeah, I think so. No one really wants to know about car bombings. Everyone assumes they're about crims and punters welshing on debts. Mostly they're right. No reporters there?”

“No, not that I saw. The management won't talk, that's for sure.”

“Naturally. All right, quiet it is. What's in it for me?”

I rolled a cigarette and offered him the makings. He hesitated then took them and expertly made a cigarette. We both blew smoke at the stained, cracked ceiling.

“I want to know something about the Gutteridge case. Four years ago, remember it?”

“Yep, I was on it for a while.”

“Did it get sat on? I hear there were some loose ends—an open safe for one.”

“That's right. He killed himself though. I was the first to see him and it looked real to me. I've seen a lot of dead men who got dead in different ways. I'd say this was an auto.”

“Or set up by an expert.”

“Maybe. Unlikely.”

“What about the safe?”

“Puzzling.”

“Look, was it a bloody cover-up?”

He stubbed the cigarette out and dusted his hands. It looked as if he was trying to stop smoking again. He'd tried it a dozen times to my knowledge and it always made him mean. His face set in one of its tough, bloody-minded official masks.

“You're asking everything and giving nothing. If you want to offer me something juicy out of the Gutteridge case forget it. I don't want to know.”

“No, it's not that. I'm working on something connected with the Gutteridge case and I want to know all there is to know about it. It might give me some leverage. I'm pretty confident I can put your name in lights over something which has nothing to do with Mark Gutteridge's death.”

“Give me a clue.”

“I can't. You wouldn't buy it at this stage.”

Grant sighed. He reached into his pockets, pulled the hands out empty and did an isometric exercise against the edge of the desk.

“You weren't in Sydney when this thing came up?”

“No, I was on a country job, Broken Hill and Melbourne after that. I had a holiday in Fiji on the proceeds, I must have missed it all.”

Grant looked sour, I shouldn't have mentioned the holiday, but he went on: “OK, well it made a fair splash in the papers. The open safe was hinted at in one of the papers, but that was as far as it went.”

“Who called you?”

“Servant, an old one, she'd been with the Gutteridge guy for years, nothing there. Nothing much for her in the will.”

“Who else was around?”

“The lot, from memory, a driver, two gardeners as well as the old housekeeper—that's the underlings. Then there was the wife and a son and daughter. Probably ran out of places to spend their money in and had to stay home.”

“Now Grant, don't be bitter. They have their troubles just like you and I. The fix came in, did it?”

“Yeah, the photographer arrived fast and fired off a few but the support squad had some heavies in it and they took over—OK Cliff, you've got the inside dope. Make me feel good about it within twenty-four hours,” he said, “or I'll call it all square, all round.”

The pressure of his job was getting to him, or maybe it was some other trouble. Whatever the case, now wasn't the time to sketch out my suspicions. Just now he'd rather fight than think.

“I think I can promise you that,” I said.

“Lovely,” he gave me a tired smile. “Now, I got something off my chest and I've got your promise, my day is made. Shoot through Cliff. I'll be expecting to hear from you.” I got up and patted him on the shoulder. He faked a collapse into his chair and picked up the top file in his IN tray.

I walked down the corridor and took the lift again. From the noise it made I might just have caught it on its last journey. The desk sergeant called me over and handed me the phone. It was Grant.

“I forgot to tell you to take care of yourself,” he said.

“Why do you say it now?”

“I keep up with what's going on. Bryn Gutteridge's chum was shot once, close in but very neat. Whoever did it had done it before.”

“I'll sniff every hand I shake and watch for bulges under jackets.”

“If you meet him you probably won't have time for one wisecrack.” The phone went dead. I hung on to it for a second listening to nothing.