The big score

By Peter Corris

J

erry Fowler came up to me in the pub on a cold winter night. He was drinking rum and smelled of it.

‘Cliff, my man, I’ve got something you’ll be interested in.’

At that moment I was mainly interested in my pint of James Squires—first drink of the day and it was well after six. I was feeling proud of myself for my restraint. Something to boast about to Lily when I got home while we had a few more. Quite a few.

‘What would that be, Jerry?’

‘Money, of course. What else is there to be interested in when you come right down to it?’

That was Jerry’s philosophy all right, plain and simple. He’d been in and out of gaol for most of his life—worked up from car theft to B & E to small-time holdups. No violence, no drugs as far as I knew. He was a Glebe character who always returned to the suburb when he was released. He’d picked up a lot of history from his father and grandfather, who went way back, never living more than a stone’s throw from Glebe Point Road. I enjoyed Jerry’s stories and I liked him. I switched off when he got onto cricket, a passion I do not share. There was no harm in him. He was about seventy, on the pension, doing other bits and pieces, and just getting by.

‘Money’s good,’ I said, ‘but what about family, friends, health, sex?’

‘Money’ll buy you most of them. Seriously, I’ve got something to talk over with you and I can’t do it here. Where’s your office these days?’

That was a surprise. I hadn’t figured Jerry as the appointment-making type, but his whole attitude seemed to have undergone a subtle change in a more serious direction.

‘Newtown,’ I said.

‘What’s the address?’

I reached for my wallet. ‘I can give you a card.’

His voice was a hiss as his eyes darted around the bar. ‘Don’t give me a fucking card. We’re just a couple of old mates talking.’

I drank, he drank. I told him the address.

‘Nine o’clock tomorrow,’ he said. He finished his drink, slapped my arm and walked out. I turned away and looked across at the pool players. You don’t watch an old mate leave a pub after a casual conversation, even if you can scarcely contain your curiosity.

* * * *

Gentrification is spreading along King Street in Newtown like a grassfire. An African restaurant recently opened next door to the boarded-up shop my office sits above. Renovation and rent rise are inevitable and not welcome, because my business is shrinking as the private enquiry corporations with HQs in LA and NYC take over. For as long as it lasts, the office has the right feel for me—plain, reasonably clean, functional and cheap.

Jerry was precisely on time, meaning that he was waiting outside the door when I arrived a couple of minutes late.

‘Time is money, Cliff,’ he said. ‘I oughta know, I did the time for the money I stole.’

I’d heard it before but it was still worth a laugh. I opened the door and ushered him in.

‘I can make coffee, Jerry. No milk though.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t want coffee, mate, I want your ear and your help.’

I sat behind the desk and he took the client’s chair. ‘Okay, you’ve got the first, the other depends.’

Jerry cleared his throat to make his pitch. ‘Charley Sanderson had a ... home invasion. Three guys broke in and tied up Charley and his wife and got Charley to give them the safe combination. They took a little over half a million in readies.’

Jerry still uses old BBC cop show slang, which is one of the things I like about him. He paused to pull out a pipe and stuff it. I’ve never minded the smell of pipe tobacco and I pushed an almost clean ashtray towards him for the several matches I knew it would take him to light it.

Sanderson was a bookie, a big one. His reputation was better than some, not as good as others. I hadn’t picked up anything about the robbery in the media and I told Jerry so as he struck matches and puffed.

‘You wouldn’t,’ he said when he had the pipe drawing. ‘Reason’s obvious.’

‘Sanderson’s readies aren’t something he’s ready to declare.’

‘This is serious stuff, mate—half a million.’

That was one too many ‘mates’ for comfort. Jerry and I weren’t that close—a few drinks, a few pool games, chats about the boxing, such as it was, and the history of Glebe.

‘Get to the point, Jerry.’

‘Sanderson’s offering a reward for anyone who can ... help. Fifty grand.’

Jerry is nothing if not an actor, probably from watching all that TV in gaol. He let the figure hang in the air like a balloon while he cast a look around my basic fittings. ‘How does that sound, Cliff? Twenty-five thou.’

‘You know who did it, do you?’

‘Not exactly. But, you know I do a bit of consultancy for this security firm. Me having certain experience.’

‘So you told me. So what?’

‘It’s not much, peanuts really. But I heard a whisper and I think I know how to go about finding out who did the business.’

It was starting to sound thin. ‘To answer your question, Jerry, it looks bloody dangerous. If Sanderson wants to keep everything quiet, what plans does he have for the ones who did the job? They’d know how much money was involved and they could sing an interesting song to the tax people and the bookie licensing board. Sounds as if they’d be expendable from Sanderson’s point of view.’

Jerry’s pipe had gone out. He shook his head as he fiddled with it. ‘Charley’s not that sort of a bloke.

‘Think about it. And think how he’d feel about anyone who fingered them. His whole future’s on the line. From what I know of him he could probably gee himself up to take drastic measures. You’re in danger just knowing about it. How come you do?’

‘Can’t tell you while you’re taking this attitude. Look, Cliff, this is my last chance for a big score and I need it bad. All I’ve got’s the fucking pension and you must know what a room costs to rent in this fucking city. I’ve gotta eat, have a drink, and I’ve got health problems.’

‘You’re healthier now than if you were dead.’

‘Ah, that’s you all over. Always fucking joking. Look, I’ve got a brother who’s getting a good deal on a decent-sized caravan in a park up on the Hawkesbury. Twenty-five thousand’d get me a half-share. I could live up there rent-free on the pension. Fish, breathe clean air. Give me another ten years.’

‘You’d miss Glebe.’

‘Fuck Glebe. What’s Glebe ever done for me?’

I had to laugh at that. Jerry laughed too and got his pipe going. The mood changed.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t much like the idea of playing according to Charley Sanderson’s rules, but if you want to let me in on how you know about this and the way you’re thinking, I could perhaps give you some advice. Help to keep your nuts out of the blender.’

‘Don’t talk like that.’

Jerry puffed his pipe and thought about it. Hard to tell what he was thinking. As an experienced but not very successful card player, he could keep a blank face. Maybe he was thinking of a way to lock on to the whole fifty thousand. He got up from the chair, old joints creaking.

‘You could give me one of them cards now, mate. I’ll be in touch when I’ve had a bit more of a think.’

I gave him a card and he left.

* * * *

The call from the police came two days later. I was told to drop in at the Glebe station and ask for Detective Sergeant Johnson. Johnson came down from upstairs, suggesting that he wasn’t going to take me up to the interview room for the third degree. We’d met before and treated each other with a certain amount of respect. We talked in the space between the door and the reception desk.

‘Just a word, Mr Hardy,’ Johnson said. ‘You know a man named Jerry Fowler?’

‘Yes.’

‘What would you say was the nature of your relationship?’

‘We have the odd drink together, have a yarn. He’s a Glebe identity, knows a lot about the place. Why?’

‘He was shot and killed last night.’

‘Jesus! Who by?’

‘I thought you might have some ideas. We found your card in his wallet. Was he your client?’

‘Come on, I know I don’t command top dollar, but Jerry couldn’t afford me.’

‘Card looked new. When did you give it to him?’

I shrugged. ‘Can’t remember. Put a card in a wallet and it stays looking new, doesn’t it?’

It was his turn to shrug. ‘I suppose. Well, just asking. No idea yourself about who’d want to kill him?’

‘Not a clue. When did you say this was?’

‘Last night. Well, early hours.’

‘I’m sorry, really sorry. He was a character.’

‘He was a habitual criminal.’

‘Not lately.’

‘Once a crook, always a crook. Get in touch if anything occurs to you.’

He gave me his card and I brushed it clean and made a show of putting it away carefully in my wallet. He knew what I was doing and didn’t like it. Probably not a smart move on my part.

* * * *

I went in to the office to deal with routine matters, thinking that the last person who’d been there with me was Jerry. I was genuinely sorry about his murder and I resolved to go to the funeral, if there was one. But I didn’t feel a strong sense of responsibility. Jerry had been in the criminal world for a very long time and he knew the risks he was taking dabbling in the murky waters of rewards for snitching.

Of course I’d lied to Johnson. From the little I knew, Jerry’s killer could have been associated with the people who robbed Sanderson or with Sanderson himself, who might have thought Jerry less than helpful. I’d leave it to the police to sort out if they could or if they wanted to. The murder of an old lag like Jerry wouldn’t make them put their best foot forward.

The stairs up from the street to the first floor in my building are narrow and pretty dark. My habit is to take them three at a time as a little bit of aerobic exercise before sitting at the desk. That’s what saved me. Two men were waiting on the landing where the stairs take a turn. I came barrelling up, bent over a little, and the swing one of them took at me missed. He lost his balance and went down a step or two. His mate was obviously hoping to deal with someone incapacitated and he was surprised when I straightened up and slammed a fist into his gut. Soft gut. I grabbed his arm and swung him against the banister. It caught him in the kidneys and he went down.

The first guy came up with a baton at the ready but I was above him and balanced. I kicked him in the face; he dropped the baton and tumbled to the bottom. I was breathing hard and in the seconds I took to suck in some air the soft-gut scuttled past me. I collected the baton and went down to the door. Holding the baton behind my back I looked up and down the street. Nothing.

‘You’ve still got it,’ I said to myself as I went back upstairs.

I was undamaged, which is not always the way you come out of a two-man attack. But I didn’t kid myself— they weren’t very good, and it was lucky that I hadn’t just climbed the stairs normally. Of the two other offices on this level one was unoccupied and the other, allegedly the home of an independent record company, Midnight Records, was unused until late at night. To my surprise a young man in black jeans and T-shirt opened the door.

‘Hey, what?’ he said, flicking back long locks.

‘Hey, nothing,’ I said.

‘Cool.’

I went in to the office and made coffee as an aid to thinking. There was really only one line of thought—who hired them and why?

For the rest of that day and the next I kept an eye out for trouble but nothing happened. Lily was away interstate working on a mining story. She’s the one who reads the papers closely, I just skim them, so I missed the notice of Jerry’s funeral. Daphne Rowley brought it to my attention that night in the Toxteth after a game of pool.

‘You going?’ I said.

‘Wish I could but I’ve got a full day. Just can’t get away. I liked Jerry.’

‘So did I. Where is it?’

Daphne told me that the service would be held in the Unitarian Chapel in Darlinghurst and that Jerry was to be buried at Waverley Cemetery. That surprised me. I thought the cemetery was more or less full and that only people who’d booked plots could still get in. I didn’t see Jerry as someone who’d invest in that way.

I was late getting to the chapel after wasting time looking for a parking spot. The service was coming to an end. There were five people present. Four I recognised as Glebeites, the other I didn’t know, but he bore a striking resemblance to Jerry. Younger, better preserved, well dressed, but clearly of the blood. The coffin was put in the hearse and I was wondering how I was going to follow it to Bondi when the look-alike came up beside me.

‘You’d be Cliff Hardy.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Zack Fowler, Jerry’s brother.’

We shook hands. ‘I guessed that,’ I said. ‘You’re a lot like him.’

‘In some ways, not all. I’d like you to ride along with me, if you don’t mind. There’re things I want to discuss with you.’

You don’t say much in a funeral car. Something about the fittings, the driver, the pace keep you quiet and leave you with your own thoughts. The car was followed by another carrying the other mourners. The burial was conducted smoothly and efficiently. When it was done Zack Fowler went to the Glebe people and handed them some money. Then he came back to me.

‘I thanked them for coming and asked them to hold a bit of a wake for Jerry at his watering hole.’

‘I’m sure they’ll do that,’ I said. ‘I’d be in it. Shouldn’t you be there?’

‘No. Hold on.’

He spoke to the two drivers and the cars pulled away. It was then that I noticed the quality of his clothes—the suit, the shirt, the shoes. He’d obviously paid for the whole thing and the burial plot. This man had money.

‘We can get a taxi back. I’m hoping you’ve got some time.’

I nodded and we began to walk between the rows of graves and the ornate tombs as the early afternoon wind took on an edge.

‘A wake for Jerry’d be okay,’ Fowler said. ‘I always expected I’d go to his rather than him coming to mine. But I’ve got more serious business. I want to hire you to find out who killed my brother.’

* * * *

Fowler told me that Jerry had been the black sheep from the start, always in trouble for thieving and fighting. The parents were religious—hence the names Zachariah and Jeremiah—but it didn’t take with Jerry.

‘I was a couple of years younger,’ Fowler said. ‘I thought it was all bullshit, the religion, but I played along to keep the peace. Jerry was causing them so much trouble they needed something to make them feel worthwhile.’

‘How did you get along with him?’

Fowler shrugged. ‘Okay, what I saw of him. He was in and out of reform schools from his early teens and then he graduated to gaol. As I say, I toed the line, did okay at school, Fort Street, got a commerce degree, started a business that did well. Mum and Dad didn’t live to be very old but I helped make them comfortable for the last few years. Mum always said Jerry broke her heart, but there’s nothing to that. They were cowed, frightened people who clung to their religious delusions and then just sort of faded away.’

We walked back towards the gate. I had a pea jacket over a sweater and the cold didn’t penetrate too much. Fowler just had his business shirt and suit coat but he didn’t seem bothered. Reminiscing had removed him physically from the scene.

‘It’s a funny thing,’ he said, ‘how unforgiving Christians can be. They never forgave Jerry, wouldn’t have spoken to him more than half a dozen times since he became an adult.’

‘I’ve seen that,’ I said, ‘churchgoers shunning their unmarried pregnant daughters.’

‘Yeah. Anyway, I stayed in touch with Jerry as best I could, but my business took me overseas a lot and when he was out of gaol he was always in some rooming house or other—hard to track down. I gave him a helping hand when I could but

‘He probably shouted me a drink sometime or other with what you gave him.’

That’s when Fowler apparently started to feel the cold. He hailed a taxi. ‘Let’s go somewhere and have a drink. Jerry told me about you more than once and he spoke about you recently. That’s why I want to talk to you.’

The taxi took us to Fowler’s hotel—the Novotel at Darling Harbour. We installed ourselves in a warm comfortable bar and Fowler bought double scotches, putting them on his room account.

‘Jeremiah Fowler,’ he said as he raised his glass.

We drank the toast. Fowler unbuttoned his suit coat and leaned back in his chair. As a man in late middle-age, he was comfortably padded but not fat. Probably worked out a little when he had the time. He took another pull on his drink and got ready to talk.

‘About six weeks ago, when I was just back from the States, I found out where Jerry was living and went to see him. In Glebe, of course. That’s where the family had been for a couple of generations.’

The scotch was smooth—bound to help talking and listening.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’m a comparative newcomer. Jerry filled in the background for me.’

Fowler nodded. ‘He would. It was his only interest apart from a quick easy dollar. Well, I went to see him and found him pretty close to the edge financially, and health-wise. I told him about this caravan park that I’ve got an interest in. Well, I own it really, but I didn’t tell Jerry that, and I said he could have one of the mobile homes to live in rent-free. He seemed interested and the next thing I know he rings me and asks how much to buy the unit. I told him forty-five thousand just to name a figure and he said he thought he could raise it. Next thing I know I get the news that he’s dead.’

‘Did you tell any of this to the police?’

‘No, I knew the detective I talked to wasn’t interested. The only way Jerry could have got hold of that sort of money was through something criminal. He must have stepped on somebody’s toes and got himself killed. I want to know who killed him and I want to see them in gaol. Jerry spoke very well of you, said you’d helped him out a few times. One of the Glebe people pointed you out to me at the service and here we are.’

‘Where are we exactly, Mr Fowler?’

‘I’m trying to enlist you to find out who killed Jerry and I’m happy to pay your going rate. More if necessary.’

‘What makes you think I’d be able to do that?’

Fowler shrugged. ‘I feel that I let him down. I have to do something and this is all I can think of

‘You sent him off nicely. Isn’t that enough?’

‘No. I haven’t told you anything about my business, have I?’

‘I’d have got around to asking you.’

‘I run a freight company that operates here and in Europe and the United States. Not huge, but big enough and profitable. When I got started with a few trucks I ran into trouble with a competitor who wouldn’t play by the rules. Jerry rounded up a few blokes he’d met inside and it got sorted out. But Jerry was up on charges again at the time and I didn’t do enough for him: I was battling, short of time and money. He went away for a long, hard stretch and I prospered. As far as I could tell he didn’t hold it against me, but I felt I’d let him down. That’s why I made the caravan park offer. I didn’t want to look patronising or superior ... But Jerry threw me with his claim to have the price. Does any of this make sense, Hardy?’

Of course it did, almost too much sense, and I felt obliged to tell Fowler what had happened between Jerry and me. It didn’t reflect well on Jerry—given the price Zack had named for the mobile home, Jerry obviously was going for the whole bundle and planning to cut me out—or on me for not coming down harder, telling him to leave it alone. Over another couple of drinks I laid it all out.

Fowler listened intently, forgetting his drink. When I finished he shook his head.

‘That’s Jerry all right. Too proud to accept charity from me but ready enough to diddle you out of your share of the reward. He was my brother and I was fond of him, but he couldn’t lie straight in bed.’

‘Perhaps I’ve wronged him. Maybe when I was lukewarm about his proposition he decided to just go it alone.’

‘I’d like to think so, but I doubt it.’ He took a small notebook from his coat pocket. ‘When did he come to you?’

I told him and it became clear that Jerry had spoken about having the fifty thousand Sanderson had on offer before he spoke to me.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ Fowler said. ‘I was starting to feel encouraged that you knew something of what he was up to. That means you wouldn’t be starting from scratch. But now you know that he intended to cheat you I suppose you’re not inclined to help.’

With the scotch working, I smiled at him. ‘Mr Fowler, you don’t imagine that I approve of all the people I work for, do you? Let alone like them.’

‘Then you’ll do it?’

‘Got your cheque book handy?’

* * * *

Knowing that Jerry had planned to cut me out of the deal made it easier in a way. I could be objective about the job and not feel any obligation to him. The other thing was that I was in the loop already, although I hadn’t told Fowler about the attack on me. I wanted to sort out who had me in their sights and I figured I might as well get paid while I was doing it.

* * * *

A while back I’d done some work for a bookmaker named Tim Turnbull. A missing daughter case that didn’t turn out too badly for all parties. I’d stayed vaguely in touch with him and had backed a couple of his tips successfully. I phoned him and arranged a meeting.

Tim lived in Paddington in a three-storey terrace with all the wrought iron, white pebbles and native garden you could wish for. He’d demolished a smaller house beside his own to provide garage space with a swimming pool and a lavish entertainment area. Tim’s parties were legendary.

I penetrated the layers of security and Tim led me into his den-cum-bar. The chairs were deep and comfortable, the bookshelves held a mix of racing books and hardback best-sellers, and the bottles of liquor were seductive in the subdued concealed lighting. It was mid-afternoon.

‘What’ll you have, Cliff?’

‘Light beer.’

‘Jesus, a couple of hundred grand’s worth of booze and you want light beer.’

‘If you have it, Tim.’

‘Smartarse. Of course I’ve got it. No one drinks seriously anymore.’

Tim was out to prove his point. He gave me a stubbie of Cascade Light and a glass and let some cognac glide into a crystal balloon for himself. I sniffed the air.

‘What happened to the Havanas?’

Tim, forty pounds overweight with a purple nose and florid complexion, scowled. ‘Had to give them up. Doctor’s orders.’ A reminder of this injunction damaged his sociability. ‘What can I do for you?’

I spun him a line about a client being unhappy after his dealings with Charley Sanderson. I said I wanted Tim’s opinion of Sanderson and how heavy he was likely to come down on anyone who got in his bad books. Turnbull had started out as a runner for his fathers SP book and he knew a bit about the rough side of the game. He seemed to enjoy letting his mind work along these lines.

‘Charleys a wimp,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t have the guts to come down hard.’

‘What about getting someone to do the business for him?’

‘Nah. He’s afraid of the law. That’s one of the three things he’s afraid of.’

I had to play along. ‘The other two are ... ?’

‘His missus. A real dragon. Keeps him on a very tight leash. She’d be afraid of what might happen if he got into bad company like that Rivkin. Charley’s wife likes to move in respectable circles. The other thing he’s afraid of is going broke.’

‘Any risk of that?’

Tim looked around the room, at the wood panelling, teak bookcases, chromium and glass bar—signs of wealth too solid ever to be lost, you’d think, but he said, ‘It can all go down the gurgler really quick if things go wrong.’

‘That’s interesting. Not that this business my client’s pissed off about is that big a deal, but what would Sanderson do if his finances collapsed?’

Tim swilled his brandy and took a sip. ‘He’d wriggle out of it somehow.’

I finished my beer and got up. ‘Thanks, Tim. This is all between us, of course.’

Thinking about the old days and getting a sniff of a competitor’s problems had restored Tim’s good mood. He got to his feet and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘I remember how you played things so sweetly when I had that trouble with Kirsty. You protected all our arses. Whatever you say’s okay with me.’

* * * *

I was flying by the seat of my pants, but I had to start somewhere. I could have trawled through some of Jerry Fowler’s mates, or people I knew in what they’ll probably soon call the criminal industry, to try to get a line on who might’ve knocked over Charley Sanderson’s stash. That would have taken time and expense. An approach through Charley Sanderson himself, stamped by Tim Turnbull as unlikely to have anyone killed, seemed the better option.

Big bookmakers are on the web with office phone numbers supplied. I made contact and arranged a meeting with Sanderson by posing as a journalist wanting a story. My mate Harry Tickener, who runs the Searchlight web newsletter, would cover for me. Searchlight operates on a shoestring and its motto is ‘We name the guilty men’. It does, too, and Harry has all his minimal assets protected from libel suits.

Important people, or people who think they’re important, don’t make same-day appointments, even if they’re publicity prone like Sanderson. My appointment was for late morning the following day.

I’m not a keen or constant punter and I couldn’t have named more than one or two horses then in the news. I bought a couple of papers just to acquaint myself with something of the racing scene and went in to the office. No assailants lurking.

I looked through the papers and then picked up the baton I’d left on my desk. It was about 70 centimetres long and retractable, the top half sliding into the bottom section which had a rubberised handle. Portable. It was ceramic and weighed about two kilos. It had four or five notches filed into it near the top. I slapped it against my palm quite softly and it hurt. I looked forward to returning it to its owner—the hard way.

* * * *

For two men in the same profession, Tim Turnbull and Charles Sanderson couldn’t have been more unalike. Where Tim’s lifestyle fitted the image of the ‘colourful racing identity’, Sanderson’s was more like that of a chartered accountant. Tim’s operational centre was somewhere in his grand pile, Sanderson’s was in a Randwick office complex. Sterile was too warm a word for it. I was shown by a neatly dressed and scrubbed female secretary into a room that had all the personality of an empty stubbie. No books, no bar, just a desk and filing cabinets. It only lacked an eye chart on the wall to feel like a medical office.

Sanderson was a grey man in a grey room. He wore a grey suit and he barely acknowledged me as I walked in. Then he surprised me.

‘You’re not a journalist,’ he said.

‘How d’you know that?’

‘I’ve met too many of them over the years. I never saw one who looked like you. You’ve got the half-decent clothes but not the look or the manner.’

“What’s the manner?’

‘Stealthy. You don’t look stealthy. Have a seat and tell me quickly what you want before I have the security people up here.’

I sat in a well-worn chair and looked at him more closely. He was bald and freckled; he wore rimless glasses and his shoulders were narrow in the padded suit jacket. He looked as though he’d made a decision to remove colour from his person, his surroundings and his life. Except for his eyes behind the lenses. There was something alert, almost predatory about them. No red glow like in those of Anthony Hopkins’s Hannibal Lecter, but not dissimilar. This wasn’t a man to fool with and I wondered how Tim T had got it so wrong.

‘I’m a private detective,’ I said.

‘Why am I not surprised? I’m a busy man, Mr Private Detective. What do you want?’

He had me on the retreat, feeling for the ropes. I could take it on the arms like Ali against Foreman, or come in swinging. I decided against the Ali option.

‘I’m wondering if you had anything to do with Jerry Fowler’s murder.’

‘Who’s Jerry Fowler?’

I studied him. It was a critical moment. If he genuinely didn’t know who Jerry was I’d eliminated one of the ‘possibles’. He’d put the question neither too quickly nor too slowly. Delivered it flat, with all the appearance of ignorance mixed with indifference. I had to make a decision and I made it.

‘Jerry Fowler was a small-time crim of my acquaintance. He came to me a few days back with a story about you having been robbed of a certain amount of money and offering a reward for the identity of the people who robbed you.’

I was watching him closely and he didn’t react beyond a blink and a slight tightening of the jaw, which could have meant something or nothing. ‘Story’s not right,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been robbed of anything.’

‘Haifa million, hidden from the ATO.’

‘No.’

‘I’m not sure I believe you.’

He tried to hold my gaze, couldn’t, and looked down at his empty desk as if he thought something useful might appear there. ‘Believe what you please. I’d like you to leave. I’m busy.’

After a pause I shook my head. ‘You’ve overplayed your hand. Do you know the meaning of the word disinterested?’

That caught his vanity. ‘Yeah, I’m disinterested in everything you have to say.’

I stood. ‘You’ve got it wrong. Look it up. It means uninvolved, having no stake in something. You’re not disinterested in this, Charley. You’re up to your balls in it.’ I dropped a card on his desk. ‘I couldn’t care less about you or your stash or any reward. I cared about Jerry. Get in touch when you’ve thought it over.’

I walked out, nodded to the secretary and left the building. I thought I’d accomplished something, but I wasn’t sure what.

* * * *

The answer came before I reached my car. My mobile rang.

‘This is Sanderson. We have things to talk about. Come back.’

I wasn’t going to let him get away with that. I told him I had other matters to attend to and that if he wanted to talk he could see me in my office that afternoon. He didn’t like it but he agreed.

I’d left the Falcon in a multi-storey car park—the kind where bad things happen in movies. I was watchful and I had my pistol and the baton in a light satchel that I kept unzipped. Quick-draw Hardy.

A man stepped down from a huge fire-engine red 4WD parked next to my car. Big guy, dark suit. I dropped the satchel and took the baton in one hand and the pistol in the other. He threw his hands in the air.

‘Hey, hey, what’s the problem?’

His pale, flabby face was a mask of innocence. His car keys dropped from his hand and I could see that he was shivering. But you never know. I kept the pistol pointed at him and put the baton on the ground as I picked up his keys.

‘If you want the car, take it. Just don’t hurt me.’

There was a sob in his voice and tears in his eyes. I threw the keys about twenty metres. They clattered against another car. I picked up the baton and the satchel and put the weapons away.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘My mistake.’

He stood rooted to the spot, his hands still half raised. I unlocked my car, reversed out and drove away. A quick glance in the rear vision mirror showed him slowly walking to recover his keys.

I knew I’d overreacted and I wasn’t happy about it. I hadn’t even come close to shooting the guy or bashing him, but I should have read the signs earlier—the face and figure, the car. No one intent on mischief drives such a distinctive vehicle. Not for the first time I reflected that I needed a break, a holiday. Maybe Lily and I could go to the Maldives, snorkel in crystal-clear water, eat and drink whatever they ate and drank there, send postcards.

I did some routine stuff in the office, drank coffee, tried not to think how much I’d have liked a couple of glasses of wine. I used the baton as a paperweight—I was starting to get used to having it around. I was standing by the window looking down into the street when Sanderson arrived in a white Mercedes and found a park on the far kerb. He waited for a break in the traffic and crossed quickly and anxiously, moving his head from side to side. He stumbled a little on gaining the footpath. He was a clumsy man with a lot on his mind.

He was breathing hard when he made it up the stairs and was grateful to sit down, no matter how plain the surroundings and uncomfortable the chair.

‘I’m not a well man,’ he said. ‘Heart trouble. I’m in line for a transplant.’

‘Should be out in the fresh air doing something healthy that you like, not sitting in offices.’

‘I like sitting in offices. Let’s get down to it. I asked around about you, Hardy. The word is you’re fairly honest.’

‘Is that the best I rate?’

‘In your game it’s pretty high. You had it right. I was robbed. Close to half a million that I was keeping from the tax hounds. Looking around, I don’t imagine you go out of your way to pay tax.’

‘I pay as little as I can get away with.’

‘Right. Well these bastards who broke in threatened me and the wife and took the money. I couldn’t make too much of a song and dance about it because of the tax angle and because my wife had no idea how much it was. She’d give me hell if she knew.’

‘So you put the word out that there’d be a reward for information.’

‘I did. I spoke to a couple of people. I told them that I had the serial numbers of the notes and that I’d do a deal with the bastards. And that there’d be something in it for whoever pointed me in the right direction.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing. No feedback.’

‘Do you have a record of the serial numbers?’

‘What fucking good would it do? I’m not going to let the banks know I’ve got all this loose cash, am I? But I thought these people mightn’t know that. I thought the possibility of the money being traced just might induce them to cut a deal.’

‘So either the people you used to get the word out didn’t reach the right ears or the ones who grabbed it don’t believe it can be traced and have got on with spending it.’

‘Right.’

He looked old and sick but it was hard to sympathise with him unless he’d been hoarding the money to make a donation to the hospital after his transplant. I doubted it. I told him that Jerry Fowler had somehow got wind of the robbery and the reward and had a line on the perpetrators.

‘But he got killed,’ I said. ‘They got a line on him first.’

Sanderson shook his head. ‘That’s rotten. If I’d known something like that was going to happen I’d have just cut my losses.’

‘Would you?’

He looked at me, his pale, glittering eyes hard behind the lenses. ‘Probably not.’

‘That’s what I thought. Well, I’ve got a client who cared about Jerry Fowler and is willing to spend some money to find out who killed him. I’m going to try, but I’m not optimistic’

‘If you do find out, will you tell me? I’d make it worth your while.’

‘I’ll bet you would.’

‘Would your client want to ... proceed legally?’

‘That’d be a complication for you, right? I don’t know.’

I could see Sanderson’s brain working, trying to figure out how he’d cope if the matter was to be played straight. What deals might he strike with cops, lawyers, the tax office? I didn’t like his chances and neither did he. I picked up the baton just to have something to do while he went through the options. The action caught his attention and his already pale face lost more colour.

‘What... where did you get that?’

I told him. He held out his hand for the baton and I passed it over. He examined it and let it slip from his hands. It clattered against the desk on its way down. He retrieved it, thumped the desk with it, turned and swiped at the filing cabinet. He moved towards me, suddenly energised, and swung. I ducked, gripped his wrist, twisted and the baton fell free. The momentary strength left him and he sank into the chair, breathing hard. He scrabbled a pill from his shirt pocket and held it up. He gasped, unable to speak. I rushed to fill a cup with cold coffee. He gulped the pill down, gripped the edge of the desk and fought for control. When he was composed I pointed to the baton.

‘You recognise this thing?’

‘Yes. It belongs to my stepson.’

* * * *

Sanderson’s stepson, Nathan, worked for a security firm. They weren’t close, had little in common, but he’d never thought that Nathan was anything other than honest, if a bit thick and prone to violence on the football field. He’d shown Sanderson his baton and the nicks he’d filed in it for the number of heads he’d cracked. The notches hadn’t meant anything to me, but to Sanderson they stamped Nathan as the owner of the baton.

Between us, we put it together. The home invaders had worn balaclavas and tracksuits and one of them hadn’t spoken a word. Nathan would have known about the safe and suspected that it held a lot of money. He’d heard his stepfather rant about taxes enough times to doubt that the money could be traced. Somehow, through his association with a security firm, Jerry must have got a sniff of the involvement of Nathan or someone like him. Nathan or his associate got wind of Jerry’s interest and took care of Jerry and came after me. Jerry must have let slip my name somewhere along the line.

We sat and looked at each other. Sanderson’s colour was bad and I hoped he wasn’t going to have another cardiac episode there and then—didn’t look as if he could stand many more.

‘The one who tried to hit you with the baton—what did he look like?’

‘It was too quick and too dark to tell. Middling in every way’s my impression, but that’s all it is.’

‘And how did you say you dealt with him?’

‘I kicked him in the face and he went arse over tit down the stairs.’

Sanderson nodded.

‘What does that mean?’

‘He rang his mother the other day. She asked him why his voice was funny and he said he had a broken jaw that he’d got from an intruder with a baseball bat he’d run up against.’

‘I have to go after him,’ I said.

Sanderson’s smile was a grimace in a death’s-head face. ‘He flew out to South America yesterday. Holiday, he said, but with that amount of money…’

* * * *

I met Zack Fowler again in the Novotel bar and told him what I’d found out.

‘Get Interpol onto it,’ he said.

‘No chance. The only evidence is the baton and you can bet Sanderson wouldn’t testify to it. It’s a dead end, Mr Fowler. I’m sorry.’

‘Poor Jerry. It was to be his big score but he struck out.’

‘It happens that way sometimes, but you’ve spent too much time in the States. Jerry would have said he made a duck.’