‘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 happened?’
‘Come off me bike, what d’you reckon? What do youse want then?’
‘Nothing.’ Crabbe activated the safety on the gun and handed it back.
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘Mr Corbett, I’m a private detective looking for Cassie Haxton. I understand you-’
Corbett may have been a cripple but there was nothing wrong with his lungs. He threw back his head and let out a roar of laughter.
‘Bugger me. Cassie. You want me to tell you about her?’
‘Anything you can.’
‘Take a while. Come in. Truth is I’d be glad of the company. You’ve got no fuckin’ idea how many people avoid you when you’re crippled. Got anything to drink, Tom?’
‘I think there’s some rum in the car.’
‘Why don’t you go and get it while
‘Cliff Hardy,’ I said.
‘… him and me get comfortable.’
Corbett swung the chair around and I followed him into the flat-just a sitting room and bedroom as one space and a kitchenette tucked in a corner. If Corbett was selling dope as Crabbe suggested, he wasn’t doing very well at it. He looked as if he could have been passably handsome at one time, but confinement in the wheelchair had put flesh on him and blurred his looks. He sported a bikie ponytail, but the hair was thin and receding at the temples.
I heard the door close and Crabbe came in with a half-bottle of Bundy. Corbett had things arranged so as he could reach them. He got ice and a carafe of water and some glasses from the bar fridge and set them out on a battered pine table.
‘Pour us a strong one, Tom, and youse can have what you like.’
Crabbe obliged, half filling a glass and adding two cubes of ice for Corbett and making us two heavily diluted versions. Corbett took a long slug.
‘Jesus that hits the spot. These legs are fuckin’ useless but they hurt like hell sometimes. Nothing like a bit of Bundy to dull the pain. I remember when-’
‘We don’t need any of that, Ben,’ Crabbe said. ‘When did you last see Cassie?’
Corbett laughed. ‘That means when did I last fuck her-same thing.’ He brought his left fist down hard on his knees. ‘Before this. That’d be when I was in LA. She was hot, like always, and she reckoned she was going to take that stuck-up prick Haxton for fuckin’ millions. Crazy bitch had this plan-that what youse want to hear about?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Cost you.’
‘How much?’
I moved around the table, reached under the blanket and grabbed the pistol Corbett had tucked down beside him. I checked the load, jacked a shell into the chamber, and pointed the gun at the side of Corbett’s head.
‘You’re depressed, Ben. Drinking hard. It all got too much for you not being a king of the freeway. You ran yourself off the road one last time. It’s easy to arrange.’
Corbett lost colour. ‘You wouldn’t.’
‘I would,’ I said. ‘I’ve done it before.’
Corbett shot a desperate look at Crabbe, who shrugged. ‘He’s a hard bastard and there’s a lot of money at stake. But he doesn’t seem to want to share any of it with you.’
Corbett steadied himself with another belt of rum. ‘All I know is, she had this idea to show him up as a cheap bastard and then blackmail him. Said she’d lop an ear off like that fuckin’ mad painter if she had to.’
I cleared the magazine and breech and put the gun and the shells in Corbett’s lap. ‘Did she say anything about having an accomplice-a helper?’
‘I know what an accomplice is, you prick. Yeah, some dyke who has it in for Haxton.’
Crabbe and I left Corbett the rum and we drove back to Newtown, barely exchanging a word. He backed carefully into his parking bay.