Kill Me Someone

By Peter Corris

‘I’m at my wits’ end, Mr Hardy. I know he’s serious about it. He’s tried twice with pills.’

Gabrielle Walker dropped her head so that I couldn’t see her red-rimmed, frantic eyes. Her thin shoulders heaved and she sighed. She was too tired to weep. I went past her, out of my office and down the hall to what the agent for the building refers to as a ‘kitchenette’. In fact it’s a couple of square metres of dead space beside the toilet fitted out with a sink and a power point. I’ve tried leaving a Birko and instant coffee and long-life milk in there to give the place a homey look, but the stuff always gets stolen. I ran the water until it cleared and took a glass back to Ms Walker. From the way she looked, anything stronger would have laid her out.

She thanked me and sipped the water. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

I said, ‘It’s OK. You’ve obviously had a rough time and you have a big problem. I’m not sure I can help you with it though. It sounds like something for counselling.’

She’d told me almost nothing. Just that her boyfriend was trying to kill himself. I didn’t even have his name. She was a thin, intense type, with a pale face and a mop of curly dark hair. The hair danced around her face now as she shook her head vigorously. ‘No. We’ve been through all that. This is different. I heard about you from Renee Kippax.’

Renee ran a sandwich bar and coffee shop in Palmer Street. I’d had a lot of breakfasts and lunches there, eaten on the run or taken away in paper bags, over the years. When she had a problem with some characters who were trying to persuade her that she needed plate glass, coffee machine and upholstery insurance, I helped her out by persuading them that she didn’t. She was a smart, tough, independent woman whose protective instincts would be brought to a high pitch by this helpless young woman. But she wouldn’t mention me without good reason.

‘Maybe you should tell me what you told her,’ I said.

‘Andrew McPherson’s his name. He’s a couple of years younger than me. I’m twenty-seven. He had a terrible life as a child. His father was a drunk who came back from time to time to bash him and his mother. She went mad. But Andrew battled on. He went to tech and he’s got a good job.’

I was scribbling to get this down. I interrupted her to give me time to catch up. ‘Tell me what you do first, Ms Walker. I gather you work around here?’

She nodded. ‘At the ABC. I’m a researcher and production assistant.’

I was back on the pace by this. ‘And what does Mr McPherson do?’

‘He’s an art designer for magazines. He works at…’

She stopped and looked at me. It’s something you get used to in this business. You’re a problem-solver and people want your help, but their first instinct is to mistrust you.

I said, ‘Ms Walker, if I went around telling people’s employers what I’ve been told in confidence, I’d be out of a job in a month.’

‘I’m sorry. Renee said you were very trustworthy.’

Not quite the point but what the hell. She told me that McPherson was the art director for Bigtime Publications, an outfit that published sporting and technical magazines. ‘It’s a smallish firm, really,’ she said, ‘despite the name. And it struggles sometimes when people don’t pay their bills. But it’s surviving and Andy has a future there. Except that…’

She didn’t have to complete the sentence. I’ve encountered a few suicides in my time, some successful and some near-misses. A version of the old Samuel Goldwyn line applies: if people don’t want to live you can’t stop them.

Desperation or the look on my face or maybe both caused her to blurt the next words out: ‘He’s hired a hit man to kill him!’

After that, we got to the guts of it. McPherson had last tried to kill himself two months ago. After he was released from hospital, he saw a counsellor, took some anti-depressants and seemed steadier. Ten days ago, Gabrielle Walker had heard him talking on the phone, using what she called ‘frightening language’.

‘I tackled him and he admitted what he’d done.’

‘Which was?’

‘He said he’d made an arrangement with this man to kill him some time within the next three years.’

I stared at her. This was a new one. ‘Go on.’

‘It’s terrible. He’s been wonderful ever since- cheerful, funny, happy. He’s done some great layouts and he did a freelance thing, a book cover, that was just brilliant. I’ve never seen him more… alive.’

‘What does he say?’

‘He won’t talk about it. He wants to make love all the time, but he won’t talk. All he’ll say is that he can’t face the idea of living for five or ten or twenty years, but he can face three years. And the knowledge that he might only have to face a week, or less, makes him feel good.’

‘He’s a very disturbed man,’ I said.

‘I know. But I’ve never seen him happier. He’s never been more… passionate. I’m sorry, this is embarrassing.’

It was, a bit. She was a rather proper young woman essentially-restrained, even conventional. As I talked to her, I sensed that she had found McPherson’s suicidal impulses understandable, almost acceptable. She was a little low on self-esteem herself. Maybe that was what had drawn them together initially. But this twist, this variation on the theme, really threw her. She would have coped better with a suicide pact, perhaps. These were very deep and murky waters for a simple boy from Maroubra. I resorted to the oldest gambit of all. “What do you want me to do, Ms Walker?’ I said.

Her head came up defiantly. ‘I want you to find this man and tell him not to kill Andrew. Tell him that you know all about it and if anything happens to Andrew you’ll tell the police. That should stop him.’

I nodded. ‘It would, you’d reckon. But this is a big city and there are a lot of dodgy people in it. Even if Mr McPherson’s not just romancing…’

‘He’s not. I’m sure.’

‘OK. But you can see why I’m doubtful. Maybe the idea of being killed makes him feel better. It doesn’t mean there’s reality behind it.’

‘I know the man’s name,’ she said.

That, of course, put a different complexion on it. She said McPherson talked in his sleep and that she’d heard him say, ‘Do it, Clark. Please do it, Clark,’ over and over.

‘Just Clark? Not Clark somebody or somebody Clark?’

‘Just Clark’

Ms Walker seemed to think that was enough for a halfway decent detective to go on, especially one who’d been recommended by Renee Kippax. I thought it was one notch above nothing at all, but, at least partly, we PEAs are in the reassurance business. I got her address and phone numbers, took a very small amount of her money and promised I’d look into it.

You could say I went through the motions. I talked to a few people - a cop, two other private eyes, a journalist and several drinkers in several places where some of the dodgy people I’d referred to hang out. The recession was biting down there too, otherwise I doubt whether I’d have got the nibble I did in the public bar of the Finger Wharf Hotel, Woolloomooloo.

‘Clark,’ Mick ‘the Dingo’ Logan said. ‘Seems to me I did hear of a guy who called himself Clark sometimes. What’s it about, Hardy?’

‘As far as you’re concerned, Dingo, it’s about thirty bucks-if your information’s any good.’

‘Heavy stuff?’

‘It could be.’

‘Clark, Clark.’ Logan lit a cigarette, puffed on it a few times and then limped off in the direction of the telephone. The Dingo had had some bad luck a while back and got both his legs broken. Then he served a stretch inside and the legs didn’t mend too well. His armed robbery days were over but he still knew what went on and was prepared to sell a titbit or too as long as it didn’t put him in any danger to do so. That was what the phone call was about. I sipped my middy of old and waited.

Logan came back, grinning and snapping his fingers. He stubbed out his cigarette and took a long pull on the beer I’d bought him. ‘It all comes back to me,’ he said.

I put a twenty and a ten under my glass and looked at him.

‘Hey,’ Logan protested, ‘you’re getting it wet.’

‘Dingo, you’ll just turn it into beer anyway. ‘What’s the difference? Let’s hear it.’

It was early afternoon on a chilly, windy day. The kind of day that turns the streets of the ‘Loo into cold wind tunnels. There were very few people in the bar and they were all minding their own business. Logan leaned closer to me, whispering out of long habit. ‘Word is, this guy Clark’s either a bit of a joke or an undercover cop.’

I lifted his glass, put the twenty under it. ‘Go on.’

‘Yeah, like he claims to have form in the west or South Africa or some fucking place. But no-one knows him over here. There’s a whisper he did a bank in Rockdale. Cowboy job. Could’ve been a come-on.’

There’s no body of men more paranoid than crims when they’re sober or more trusting when they’re drunk. Without the lubrication of alcohol, the clear-up rate of the NSW police force would only be half what it is. I put the ten on the bar between us.

‘And?’ I said.

‘It’s a joke for sure.’

‘If it’s funny, I’ll laugh.’

He took the money. ‘He’ll do a hit for five grand.’

I produced another twenty. ‘Tell me where to find him.’

* * * *

Logan, being the man he is, gave me three addresses and two names. Never in his life had he been known to deliver up information straight. In the old days, I’d have had to make a decision- would it be better to give him more money or lean hard and persuade him to be more precise? But everyone’s become more devious since those times, and more hungry lately. Besides, Logan was almost a cripple. I bought him another beer, thanked him and left the pub. I’m more devious nowadays as well-I positioned myself where I could spot the Dingo and follow him, whether he limped, drove himself or rode.

He came out of the pub and hopped into a taxi which he’d apparently called from inside. I was right behind him, up Bourke to Oxford Street and through to Paddington. Like I said, alcohol is the fuel of criminality. Logan paid off his cab outside the Five Ways Hotel and took himself, and my fifty bucks, inside. Trendy place, for the Dingo-restored to its former glory, painted in colonial colours and with as many vines growing out of pots as could be crammed into the available space. It wasn’t one of the addresses he had given me. I parked a few doors from the pub and walked back, fishing sunglasses out of my pocket and getting ready to do my imitation of a private detective on the job. In fact I knew that if Logan had another couple of beers it would be possible to belly up to the same bar and not be recognised.

The poet who said something about standing and waiting should be the official laureate of this trade. I watched men and women enter and leave the Five Ways for the next fifteen minutes. About half of the males could have been hit men or cops and a certain percentage of the females could have been males. When I judged that Logan would have absorbed two schooners, I went into the public bar. Logan was drinking at the far end, near the dartboard. He looked anxiously at his watch and lifted his glass with an unsteady hand. I got behind a pot-plant that seemed to have wandered in from outside and did some more watching. A big, beefy guy in a blue suit came in and spotted the Dingo. He had sparse blonde hair cut short, and a red face with a deep cleft in the chin. I didn’t know him and from the way he moved, as if he expected everyone to get out of his way, I didn’t want to.

He ordered a scotch and ice and appeared to be ready to give Logan about one minute of his time. The Dingo said something quickly in his ear and cleft-chin scowled. He grabbed a handful of Logan’s jacket and polo-neck sweater and hustled him straight towards the toilet door. The action was so quick and neat that I was the only person in the bar who noticed. I went after them. Steep steps dropped away immediately inside the door. I heard scuffling sounds and went down the steps fast and quiet. Cleft-chin had Logan bent forward over a hand basin. He was so big it was hard to see the Dingo’s body at all, but I could tell that his feet were scrabbling for a purchase on the slippery tiles and his head was getting wet. The big man was running water with his right hand and holding Logan’s head down with his left.

I came up behind him and jabbed my .38 Smith & Wesson hard into the base of his spine. His head lifted and he saw me in the wall mirror behind the basins. I ran the muzzle of the gun up a few vertebrae and then moved it away.

‘Let him go,’ I said, ‘or I’ll make you a worse cripple than he is.’

Logan spluttered, pulled free and headed for the door. The big man let him go and I could feel him ready to turn his aggression on me. I backed away and kept the gun steadied on his wide mid-section.

He shook water from his hands, some of it in my direction. ‘You’re not going to use that,’ he growled.

‘You can’t be sure.’

‘I’m sure.’ He moved forward, getting balanced.

The door opened and a man came in with his hand already dropping towards his fly. His jaw dropped when he saw the gun. ‘Hey,’ he said weakly, ‘what is this?’

‘Stand aside,’ I said. ‘I’m a police officer and I’m arresting this man. You’re coming with me, aren’t you, Clark?’

He swore, bullocked past the man at the door and went up the stairs. Three steps up, he kicked back savagely at me. I was ready for it. I grabbed his leg and jerked him down. He bounced against the wall, flailed his arms for a split second and then fell clumsily to the bottom. He landed heavily with his ankle turned under him. The would-be toilet user was gaping.

I grinned at him. ‘He slipped. You saw it, didn’t you?’

The man nodded.

‘He’ll probably claim police brutality.’ I gestured for Clark to get up. He did, testing the ankle gingerly. I prodded him with the gun. ‘Up you go and mind your footing. For a big man, you’re very clumsy.’

I put the gun away and we went through the bar without attracting attention. Clark limped convincingly, but I held myself ready to plant my foot in the back of his knee if he suddenly got mobile. There was no sign of Logan on the street. Everything looked normal-light traffic, pedestrians hurrying to keep warm. I was struck by the bizarre thing I was doing. Clark seemed to sense my confusion. He stopped in the middle of the pavement and jammed his fists in his pockets.

‘OK, hotshot,’ he said. “What’s this all about?’

‘Why were you heavying the Dingo?’

Clark grinned. The cleft in his chin flattened out and made him look even meaner. ‘He was giving me some bullshit about someone looking for me. He didn’t want to say who. I was persuading him.’

‘Me,’ I said.

‘Well, well. I can’t say I’m pleased to meet you. In fact, if I thought my ankle’d stand up to it, I’d punch your fuckin’ face in. What the fuck do you want?’

It wasn’t something to talk about there on the street. I grabbed his arm, jerked him off balance and propelled him a few steps towards my car. ‘C’mon. I’ll give you a lift.’

He swore and hobbled. I held him up, still pushing; he couldn’t get any leverage and had to go with the pressure. At the right moment, I shoved again. He lurched forward and had to grab at the car for support. I opened the door and pushed him in. He lifted his foot out of the way quickly as I slammed the door. I moved around and got into the driver’s seat, ready for him to try something nasty at close quarters. He didn’t. He was curious. He took out a packet of Camels and a lighter. He lit up and I wound down the window.

‘So?’ he said.

I told him who I was and the nature of my business. He smoked in short, jerky puffs. He nodded and grinned when I said the name Andrew McPherson. When I finished talking he took a last, deep drag and flicked the cigarette past me and out the window.

‘That Logan better crawl under a rock,’ he said.

‘Kill him, would you?’

He laughed. ‘I never killed anyone in my fuckin’ life. Never would. Mug’s game.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. So, it’s just a scam, is it?’

‘Yeah. Right. Look, Hardy, I don’t want you on my fuckin’ back, so I’ll tell you about it. I take ten per cent up front and I don’t do anything. What’s going to happen? Do you think Mrs Fucknuckle’s going to go running to the cops and say “This guy didn’t kill my shitface husband the way he promised”? Like hell she is.’

‘Wasn’t this a bit different? The hit actually hiring you himself?’

He waved one of his big hands dismissively. ‘Bullshit. All bullshit. Tell him from me he’s as safe as… what the fuck is safe these days? How about my lift?’

I leaned across him and opened the door. He laughed, eased himself out and hobbled off back towards the pub.

* * * *

I phoned Gabrielle Walker and gave her a suitably edited version of what had happened. ‘I don’t think you have to worry,’ I said. ‘How’s Mr McPherson?’

‘Cheerful. But he still thinks he’s doing something clever and solved his problem. It’s terrible for me. I don’t know what to do. But thank you for what you’ve done, Mr Hardy.’

‘Is he getting any help at the moment? Psychiatric help?’

‘No. Nothing like that.’

‘Maybe in time you’ll be able to talk about this. Tell him that he’s not going to be killed. It’s out of my line, but I’d talk to him if you think it would do any good.’

‘Perhaps. Not now. But thank you again, Mr Hardy.’

So, I left it there. What else was there to do? It was hard on the woman, but if McPherson had bought himself some kind of weird comfort for five hundred bucks, that was his business.

Two weeks later she phoned me at home, at five o’clock in the morning. ‘You bastard,’ she sobbed. ‘You bastard. You told me it was all right. You told me…’

It took me a few seconds to place the voice, distorted by grief and anger. ‘Ms Walker. What happened?’

‘He’s dead! Andrew’s dead. He killed him. God damn you, you bastard!’

She hung up. I gripped the receiver and tried to take in what she’d said. I was still half-asleep. Impossible. I started phoning and eventually got onto a Detective Sergeant Belfanti who was handling the investigation of the deaths of Andrew McPherson and Reginald Clark Cook.

‘Cook a big guy with a cleft chin?’ I asked.

Belfanti was terse. He told me to get down to the Edgecliff police station immediately. I was there in twenty-five minutes and shown into the detectives’ room. Belfanti was a young, well-groomed smoothie, learning to be tough.

‘Sit down, Hardy. How did you get onto this? It only happened a few hours ago.’

‘McPherson’s girlfriend.’

‘Tell me.’

He switched on a tape recorder and I told him. He listened impassively, scribbling notes with a gold pen. When I finished he looked up.

‘Really fucked up, didn’t you?’

I didn’t reply.

‘You’ve got contacts in the force. You didn’t think it’d be a good idea to talk to someone about this prick? This Cook?’

‘I thought I’d handled it.’

‘You handled it all right. Miss Walker and McPherson had a blue. She told him how you’d handled Cook’

‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘Tell me what happened.’

‘Simple enough. McPherson went after Cook with a gun-.22 rifle, if you want to know. The witness says McPherson got Cook out of bed and started blasting. Cook took seven bullets, but he got McPherson.’

‘Who was the witness?’

‘Some whore Cook had with him. McPherson winged her too. Pity you weren’t around, Hardy. He could’ve taken a shot at you.’