‘I’ll need a photograph,’ I said.
‘Oh yes. I’ve got one here of John on the yacht. He’s got a few days growth, but…’ She dug in the bag, which rustled and clinked the way women’s bags do. ‘Damn! I thought I had it.’
‘I suppose I could get a newspaper photo.’
‘You’d be lucky. John didn’t go in for publicity.’ She looked at her digital watch. ‘I wanted to meet you here because it’s quiet and I didn’t want to broadcast my business. My flat’s a bit public’ She put her cigarettes and matches away. ‘But I feel a bit better just from talking about it.’
She pulled out her purse and a sheet of typing paper came out with it. She looked at it like an actress studying her lines. ‘Here’s a list of some of John’s interests, the places where he spent some time. It might help.’
I took the paper and she put money on the table.
‘Run me home,’ she said. ‘I’ll get the photo.’
I escorted her out to my Falcon with a touch of pride. My last case but one had been a moderately fat job and I’d had some money to spend on the car-mechanical overhaul, paint, fresh upholstery in the front. The last case was better forgotten, a foul-up that had cost me money. All the more reason to open the car door smartly for Mrs Marion Singer and not to shut it too roughly after she’d glided her nice, neat legs inside. It costs nothing to be a gentleman, as old Jack Dempsey used to say.
She directed me north up the hill and around a couple of turns that brought me out in a street I didn’t know. It ran along the side of a cliff that dropped away down to water, rocks and a little sand. There were four apartment blocks. Chez Singer was in a ten-storey block that boasted the name The Reefs. None of the residents would be victims of life’s shipwrecks. The building soared up and was placed to give a maximum view of the water; the balconies were long and deep and the acres of glass were tinted. I guessed that a title for one of the apartments would change hands for around a quarter of a million. I steered the Falcon towards a car park with more potted plants than Vaucluse House. Mrs Singer turned, looked out the back window and prodded my arm.
‘Bugger it,’ she said. ‘Mac’s here. Stop a bit further on.’
I drove past the entrance to the car park, rolling gently. ‘Who’s Mac?’
‘My business partner, sort of,’ she said. ‘I’ll mail you the photo. Sorry.’ She clutched at her bag, nervously I thought. ‘I’ll have to think of some story if he saw you.’
‘You could say I was your long-lost cousin from New Zealand.’
‘God forbid. Please do your best, Mr Hardy, and keep me informed.’
She got out and walked back to The Reefs. She walked well, head up, tummy in, as befitted someone who filled in her time with tennis and golf. I drove on to the end of the street, past The Main, turned and came back. Through the entrance I saw Mrs Singer talking to a man who stood with one hand almost possessively on her arm. I stopped and looked at them among the potted palms. He was stout, no taller than she, and built wide, like an all-in wrestler.
2
Hey!’ The call came from the other side of the street and a little behind me. It came from a car, not an ordinary car like a Bentley or a Saab, but from a silver Cadillac. Why I hadn’t spotted it until then I don’t know. With its gleaming chrome and tinted glass it was like a peacock in a chookyard. A thin white arm reached out of the window in the front of the car and on the road side. It beckoned to me and I got out and went across to it and the car. The Cadillac was like one of the old, Gothic models that had been put on a diet. It was lower and sleeker but a longish walk would still be required to get round it. It carried cheeky gold and blue Californian number plates with the New South Wales plates mounted above them. The customised plate was MAC 1.
The arm belonged to a blonde. She had makeup in every place it could be applied and her almost white hair was curled and twisted in ways that cost money. She put a cigarette in her mouth and narrowed her eyes. At a distance, she’d have passed for eighteen, up close she looked as if she should be in the third form somewhere doing domestic science.
‘Can you give me a light, please?’
I shook my head. ‘You’re too young to smoke.’
‘I’m too young to do a lot of things,’ she giggled. ‘Doesn’t stop me.’
I glanced back towards The Reefs. The wrestler was laying down the law to my client but she shook her head and puffed smoke and didn’t seem concerned. The blonde didn’t like being looked away from.
‘Hey, are you sure you haven’t got a match?’
‘I’m sure,’ I said. ‘There’ll be a lighter on that flight deck somewhere.’
She shook her head. ‘There’s so many switches, and Mac won’t ever leave me the keys. He’s afraid I’ll just drive away.’
‘Can you manage a left-hand drive?’
‘Huh?’
‘Never mind. What’s Mac’s game? Hamburgers?’
She laughed. It was a sound she hadn’t worked on unlike her voice, which was stage-throaty. The laugh was clear and girlish and suddenly it all felt sad and smutty-the schoolgirl with the cigarette in the big, arrogant car. She was wearing a pink top and tiny shorts, spike heels and a thin gold chain around her right ankle. She saw me looking and poked her tongue out between her little white teeth.
‘You’re in trouble,’ she purred. ‘Here comes Bob.’
I swung around to see a big man moving fast around the back of the car and coming towards me. I stepped away from the Caddy and heard the blonde giggle again.
‘On your way, mister,’ Bob said. He was six foot three and under the tight tennis shirt he had wide shoulders and a flat middle.
‘Just chatting,’ I said.
‘He said he wanted to fuck me,’ the blonde said. ‘He said he wanted to suck my tits.’
I felt a small wave of panic rising. Bob looked like just the sort of boy you’d hire to stamp out unwanted tit sucking. He kept his hands low and put his back gently against the car. It was a good position in which to duck or from which to launch an attack. Bob knew his business and I just wanted to mind mine.
‘The lady’s overwrought,’ I said. ‘She reads too much.’
‘That little twat can’t read,’ he said. ‘And you’d need the mouthwash handy if you were going to suck her.’
‘He wanted to show me his dick,’ the blonde chirped.
‘If he did, you wouldn’t know whether to lie down or open your mouth.’
‘You’re a shit, Bob. I know what you want.’
He sighed. ‘I want to keep Mac happy and draw my pay. That means keeping sluts like you unbruised. You won’t be the last, Sharon.’
‘Look,’ I said, ‘it’s been exciting talking to you, but I think I’ll be going.’
‘You do that.’ He rubbed against the car like a cat. ‘I’m a bit disappointed. Thought you might have a go.’
Sharon wriggled in her moulded bucket seat and pulled her top down an inch.
‘Get rid of him, Bob,’ she hissed. ‘Mac’s coming.’
I turned and saw the bull-like man heading towards us with his head down and his shoulders hunched. He kicked savagely at a can in his way and it screeched and clattered across the concrete.
Bob had straightened up like a guardsman awaiting inspection. I grinned at him. ‘Another time,’ I said. I backed across to my car, got in and drove away before Mac made it out to the street. In the rear vision mirror I saw Bob pull open the kerb-side door so that Mac could settle in behind the left hand drive steering wheel.
3
My habit is to run a good check on the client before pounding the pavement and knocking on doors, otherwise a man could end up working for a white slaver or a politician. The little I had on Singer was from one source only-a friend in the credit rating racket. I needed more, so I called Harry Tickener at the News and got temporary researcher status, which admitted me to the paper’s first-class library.