‘You opened it,’ Melanie said as I handed the envelope over.
‘Sure, wouldn’t you in my position? This isn’t a time for good manners. Just be glad I didn’t copy it.’
We were on her little balcony, drinking coffee and looking out towards Victoria Barracks. ‘You’re very serious all of a sudden, Cliff. Is it that hot?’
‘It is, if he can back it up. If he can’t, it’s defamation city.’
‘Not our problem right now. What did you think of him?’
‘What I’ve always thought-corrupt, devious.’
‘And the minister?’
‘I wanted to wipe my hand after we shook.’
She nodded. ‘Me too. But he makes a good character in the book. How about the cancer?’
I shook my head. ‘Don’t know enough about it. He’s lost some weight and the beard ages him. I’d like a couple of medical opinions, but we’re not going to get them.’
She leaned back in her chair and drew in a breath. She was barefooted, wearing a halter top and loose pants, and her shoulders were tanned and shapely. Her nipples showed through the fabric of her top, and her toenails were painted red. There had been some chemistry between us I’d thought on our first meeting and it was fizzing now.
‘Do you sleep with your clients?’ she said.
I reached over and twisted her cane chair towards me. I lifted her feet from the floor and let her legs stretch out in my direction. I gripped the arms of her chair and slid it closer.
‘No. But my clients more the publisher than you, right?’
The floor was pushing up at my back through the thin futon. I rolled over onto my side, propped, and looked down at her. She was one of those women who look younger and prettier after making love. Her hair fanned out on the pillow and she smiled up at me with her eyes, her mouth and everything else. The manuscript lay on the floor beside her. Great security, although neither of us had given it a thought for a while.
‘Nice,’ she said. ‘I like older men.’
‘Thanks a lot. Why?’
‘They usually don’t look as pleased with themselves as younger blokes. More grateful.’
‘I am.’
She pulled me down and kissed me. ‘You’re welcome.’
We showered together in a stall that could barely hold us. We dressed and went for a walk. When we turned back into her street, she said, ‘What’re you thinking?’
‘Why can’t the publisher keep it all under wraps?’
‘Doesn’t work that way. People in-house have to see the manuscript: the lawyers, the possible editor. It has to get accepted by a board with a few members. Input from what they call the media liaison arm these days. Word will get out.’
We went into the house and she opened a bottle of wine. Something was niggling me about the whole business and I tried to sort it out as I drank the good dry white. Melanie did some work in her study and I wandered around looking at her books. Some were obviously by her clients, judging from the multiple copies, others were more familiar. I took down a bestselling sports autobiography and what I’d been searching for hit me. I fumbled and almost dropped the book.
Melanie looked up from her desk. ‘What?’
‘Who’s the ghost writer?’ I said.
She stared at me. ‘I assumed… Shit.’
‘Andy Piper couldn’t write stuff like that to save his life. It’s hard to tell from the outline and the chapter headings, but you have a look at the stuff he handed over today. I’m no judge of literature, but this reads like at least pretty fair journalism to me.’
She grabbed the envelope from her bag, slid the pages out and began reading. I put the sport bio back on the shelf and drank some wine.
‘You’re right, Cliff. It’s rough and it’ll need editing, but this is from an experienced writer.’
‘Piper hasn’t mentioned anyone?’
She shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t have to, necessarily. If he made a private arrangement with someone for a flat fee, it wouldn’t have to involve me or the publisher.’
‘Wouldn’t come cheap, a ghost writer?’
She put the manuscript back together neatly. From the way she handled it, it had taken on a new meaning for her. She drank some wine.
‘Depends on who it was and his or her circumstances. Writers don’t make much money, even the good ones. Especially the good ones. I’ve steered through a few as-told-to jobs. Ten thousand and a share of the royalties and Public Lending Right’ll do it mostly.’
‘Andy says he doesn’t have any money. Gave it to the sect.’
‘Right.’
‘So he’s either got someone doing it for free or he’s lying about being skint.’
‘You’re getting me worried, Cliff.’
I went over and stroked her frizzy hair. ‘Didn’t mean to. It’s more my problem than yours. Either way, what it means is that he’s got someone he trusts, apart from you and me.’
She took my hand and brought it down to close over her left breast. ‘And what do you think about that, you detective you?’
‘Interesting,’ I said.
Over the next few days I dealt with routine matters. Melanie and I talked on the phone a few times and exchanged some emails. She’d keyed in Piper’s manuscript.
‘That’s a lot of typing,’ I said.
‘I’m a gun typist.’
On Friday she rang to tell me that the contract with Bradley Booth, the publisher, was being signed as we spoke, and the advance would be electronically deposited in her account.
‘Have you cleared the extra expenses with the publisher?’
‘Yes. Bradley’s excited about the book.’
‘That’s good because those costs cut in big time now. I’ll send you our contract by fax, Mel, and leave you to sort it out with the publisher. Probably won’t be able to see you till this is over. Better security for you.’
‘Put a rocket up the writer, whoever he or she is.’
I rang Piper. He gave me the address of a flat in Edgecliff. The block was middle-range expensive. The upkeep of the building was good-clean stairs and landings, smoke detectors, fire extinguishers. I rang the bell at Piper’s door and could feel him looking at me through the peephole. He opened the door. He was in his shirt sleeves and had a pistol tucked into the tight waistband of his pants.
‘Gidday, Hardy. Come in. What did you think of my book?’
‘What makes you think I read it?’
‘A snooper like you? No risk.’
I let that pass and allowed him to shepherd me down the short passage into the flat. The room we entered was big and light. At a guess there were three bedrooms, two bathrooms and a kitchen. Not bad for a man who’d given his all to Jesus. The big balcony, accessible through full-length sliding glass doors, worried me. I was about to say something about it when a man came in from one of the other rooms. He was a replica of Piper, thirty years younger-not as fat, dark hair, no beard.
‘This is my son, Mark,’ Piper said. ‘He’s helping me write the book. Mark, this is Cliff Hardy’
Mark Piper looked as if he could’ve done a fair enough job of protecting his father himself. He wore a loose T-shirt, jeans and sneakers. His forearms were tattooed and there was nothing effeminate about the ring in his left ear. His manner was wary and his look close to hostile as we shook.
‘Nice place,’ I said to Andy.
‘Mark’s. He’s by way of being a bit of a journalist.’
‘I don’t like the look of the balcony.’
Piper smiled. ‘Out of bounds for me.’
They had it pretty well set up. Mark Piper had an iMac computer in one of the rooms and was taping Andy’s recollections. The father slept in one room and the son in with his computer. The other bedroom was for me and for Reg Lewis, an ex-army guy I’d hired to spell me. Food was on tap from a local restaurant. No alcohol and no smoking. No women. Monkish.
Over the next few days we settled into the routines. Piper spent some time taping, not that much, and Mark tapped his keyboard. I stayed awake while they slept and slept when Rex Lewis was on duty. Andy insisted on going out to Bible study in Lewisham on Friday night and hymn singing in Marrickville on Sunday. I had to sit in on these sessions. I wasn’t converted. Andy and Mark weren’t good company. They watched a lot of cable and commercial TV.