Man in the Shadows (18 page)

I was there within half an hour of the phone call. For a top flight journalist Pauline was incredibly disorganised. I judged that ‘now' meant in ten minutes, ‘soon' meant half an hour and ‘on my way' could mean almost anything. I parked down the street, listened to a news broadcast. Another body had turned up, naked, dead for some time and as yet unidentified. The report linked the two deaths through the police statement that the men were ‘well nourished'. To be thin was getting healthier all the time.

Pauline's Gemini backed out of the drive and roared off in the direction of the city.

In a two-income belt nothing stirs in the early afternoon. The Kellys have a German Shepherd named Gough who looks as if he'd tear your throat out but is as gentle as a lamb if you know him. I opened the front gate and walked towards the house on an overgrown pebble path; Gough loped up to greet me.

I patted his head. ‘Hello, Gough,' I said. ‘Nothing will save the Governor-General.' He growled amiably and watched me squint in the gloom of the heavily tree-shaded porch as I picked the lock of the front door.

Byron's departure had brought changes in the house—some books and pictures were missing, the furniture was extensively rearranged and the small room that had served as his study was empty. Pauline had worked in the room that also served as a spare bedroom. It was chaotic as usual, with books and papers spilling everywhere, brimming ashtrays, sticky glasses and coffee cups, half-eaten sandwiches, forgotten biscuits.

Chaos is harder to search through than order; I spent more than an hour there, patiently sifting and probing. As far as I could tell Pauline was working on three different stories and a novel. The stories were about police corruption, religious sects in Queensland gaols and a profile of a newly appointed judge. The novel was about a terrorist who was laying mines in Sydney Harbour.

Pauline was famous for the depth of her research, even on small stories. There wasn't a scrap of evidence to suggest that she had any interest in a land development on the central coast.

I picked up one of the sandwiches and a couple of the biscuits and fed them to Gough on the way out.

When I got back to Glebe there were three frantic messages from Kelly on my answering machine. I
phoned him and had to tell him to calm down and take a breath and stop gabbling.

‘Okay, okay,' he said. ‘You've got to see Pauline. She's in danger.'

‘I saw her an hour ago. She was a danger to others the way she was driving.'

‘Stop fucking joking! You heard about the second body?' His voice was thick with worry and fear.

‘Yeah,' I said. ‘Unidentified.'

‘Not any more. Not if you know who to talk to. That means two of the characters associated with this development I was telling you about are dead.'

‘What sort of characters?'

‘Operators, you know the kind. I didn't make anything of it when the first one turned up. The cops sat on it but I got a whisper on who he was. Name of Morrison. He was a go-between, handled the graft, or some of it. Michael mentioned him in the letter. Well, those blokes—they're into all sorts of things. They have enemies. But this new one, Brent Fuller. Shit!'

‘He in the letter too?'

‘Yeah. He was more . . . central and more . . . exposed. Am I making sense?'

‘Only just.'

‘In a thing like this there's always a couple of unreliable people. Michael's letter pointed out a few weak links. Pauline must've showed the letter to someone who's in with them, or talked about it.'

‘You're sure you didn't talk to anyone? There aren't any copies?'

‘No. Copies? Don't be crazy. It looks to me as if they're getting rid of a few of the expendable people. Look, in effect, they've taken out number one and two among the small fry if you regard Michael's letter as a sort of list.'

‘How well do you know these people?'

‘Parsons knows . . . knew Fuller pretty well. I knew him too.'

‘You should be talking to number three.'

‘I have. They almost got him this morning. They killed his guard dog but they tripped an alarm. He's on a plane right now.'

‘Where would Pauline have been going? I saw her leave your house.'

‘The
News
most likely. I called but she's set up some kind of interference system. I can't get through to her. I'm worried, Cliff.'

‘Yeah. Where're you now?'

‘Balmain. At my flat.'

‘It's time for the cops, Byron. Whatever the consequences.'

‘Jesus. Yeah, I suppose so.'

‘I'll take Pauline somewhere safe and I'll call you. You've got a bit of time to think about it but . . . '

‘I'll do it. Don't worry. Just get her!'

I drove in to the newspaper building, parked illegally and took a lift to the features office where Pauline did her talking and filing. The editor told me that she'd gone off to the pub, the Colonial nearby, with some fellow workers. I reached the pub in record time and spotted Pauline drinking in a corner of the saloon bar. I went across and grabbed her arm.

‘Pauline, I've got to talk to you.'

‘Piss off.' She jerked her arm free and some of her drink spilled on the trousers of the heavy-set man on the opposite stool. Pauline giggled; it wasn't her first drink. ‘Sorry, Stan. I'll get your pants dry-cleaned if you'll take them off.'

Stan smiled and lifted his glass. I jolted his arm trying to get another grip on Pauline and his drink spilled down his shirt.

‘Shit! What the fuck d'you think you're doing?'

Pauline laughed. ‘Stan, defend my honour.'

Stan came off his stool faster than I expected. He
was big and thick and moved like a footballer rather than a boxer but he connected on my shoulder with a solid swinging right. I had to let go of Pauline to keep my balance.

‘Keep out of this, you,' I snarled. ‘Pauline, this isn't a joke, Byron . . . '

‘Bugger Byron! And bugger you, too.'

Maybe that was what Stan had been waiting to hear. Stan was certainly eager. He slammed me in the chest and got set to take my head off with another swing. I stepped back, drew him forward and belted him with a quick left hook to the ear. The three or four other drinkers around craned forward interestedly. Pauline shouted something that might have been ‘Stop!' or might have been ‘Go!' I didn't pay proper attention because Stan was in again, swinging. I fended two shots off with my forearms and stepped closer bringing my heel hard down on his toe. He yelped and I uppercut him so that his teeth clicked. He stumbled back and went down.

I gripped Pauline's arm and pulled her off the stool. ‘Don't talk. Just come!'

‘You
are
keen, after all,' she said.

I hauled her to the car and drove to Glebe. When she was settled with a drink I called Kelly's flat and got no answer.

‘That's odd.'

Pauline raised her glass. ‘He's odd. Did you know he's kinky? Likes to dress up.'

I stared at her. ‘I don't believe it.'

She giggled. ‘You're right. He doesn't. I do. Wanna play, Cliff?'

‘I want you to stay here while I go and find out what's happened.'

‘Happened? Whaddya mean happened? Nothing happens to Byron, nothing happens anywhere near Byron, he . . . '

‘Shut up, Pauline. This is serious. Two people
Parsons wrote about in that letter are dead. Byron's scared you could be next.'

‘I'm sick of hearing about that fucking letter! I hardly looked at it.' She stopped as if her own words had made an impact on her. She stared at me, trying to focus. ‘Two people dead? You mean some of the shit might actually be rubbing off on Parsons?'

‘Maybe, but Byron . . . '

‘Hold on. I'm going to freshen up. This sounds interesting.'

She went to the bathroom and came back dabbing at her face with a towel. ‘It sounds like a story. I suppose Byron's told you I've used confidential stuff?'

I nodded.

‘I haven't. He's paranoid. You said something's happened. What?'

‘I'm going to Balmain to find out.'

‘Me too.'

‘You're pissed.'

‘I sober up fast. I'm coming.'

There was no point in arguing. We got back in the car. Pauline lit a cigarette, took deep drags and seemed to be trying to will herself sober. When she finished the cigarette she wound the window down and breathed deeply. She coughed and looked red and sore-eyed but her voice was steadier.

‘Two dead, you said. You mean the bodies, last night and this morning?'

‘Yeah.' I made the turn into Darling Street. ‘Morrison, I think it was, and . . . Fuller. Byron knew them.'

‘Jesus. Fuller got Byron his flat. He's into real estate around here and Byron wanted a place in Balmain. You know how it works.'

I did. I knew that the politicians and their associates were involved in a network of favours and obligations, given and granted, that to some extent
governed what they did. Some of them were ‘covered', as the smart operators put it, by girls, gambling debts, shonky deals. There were a hundred ways.

Byron's flat was in Duke Place where town-houses are going up as fast as they can pull the old warehouses and chandlers' sheds down. I parked and twisted the steering wheel so the car wouldn't roll into Mort Bay. Old habit. The handbrake on my newish Falcon is rock solid. Pauline got slowly and stiffly from the car and stumbled in her high heels as she crossed the road.

‘You all right?' I said. ‘I understand you've got a key to this place. You can show me the way. I was only here once at night.'

‘I've never been here. I never used his stupid key.'

‘Got it with you?'

We walked along a pebbled path and skirted some freshly planted silver birch trees. I had a vague idea of the block Byron was in. Pauline produced a key from her bag. ‘A8,' she read from the tag. ‘He said it's got a nice view. I swore I'd never come here.'

I looked for the block numbers. ‘Why?'

‘It's a mistake. We're finished!'

‘I doubt it.'

I got my bearings and we went up a steep set of concrete steps that took us to a sloping walkway leading to the upper level of the block. Kelly's flat was at the end, the most elevated and with the best view of the water, the ships and the container dock. I gave it a glance while Pauline handed me the key. I had my Smith & Wesson .38 under my arm and I got it out before I opened the door.

‘What's wrong?' Pauline said.

‘I don't know.' I unlocked the door and pushed it open. Nothing happened, no shouts, no shots, no cries of welcome. I edged in half a metre, keeping close to the wall, and looking and listening hard.
There was nothing to hear and only some scuff marks and wet stains on the polished wood floor to see.

‘Byron!' Pauline shouted.

Nothing. We went into the flat. It was sparsely furnished and scarcely lived in. The big room that served as a living and eating and music and view-absorbing space was neat except for an overturned chair, a coffee table pulled askew and a shattered Swedish upright lamp. I stood there and looked at the signs while Pauline rushed into the other rooms.

She joined me beside the broken lamp. ‘What's happened?' she said.

I bent and examined the stains on the floor. They were dark, wet, fresh. ‘He's been taken.'

‘Taken?'

I pointed to the faint, irregular dust marks. ‘He was hit. Showed some fight. Maybe hit a couple of times. They rolled him in a rug.'

‘They? Who?'

I followed the marks and stains back down the passage to the door. The stains stopped at the door; there was a flattened bush ten metres directly below in the garden. One shoe lay on the freshly cut grass. Pauline bent over the rail to look.

‘No,' she said.

I held her as her legs went rubbery and helped her back into the flat. She was crying hard and rubbing her clenched fists in her eyes. I put her on the couch and went to the phone which was on a table by a sliding window. The balcony outside gave a view of Sydney to gladden a real estate agent's heart. The water sparkled, the boats looked clean and the bridge was a noble arch. There were trees growing down to the water in some places and even the industrial bits looked dignified. Not what Captain Arthur Phillip would have seen but not bad. I put my gun down and lifted the phone.

I heard it as the phone responded to the punched buttons. A faint feedback; a hum so soft you wouldn't hear it if you were breathing hard or scratching your nose. The phone in the flat, which the late Fuller, who was tied in to the Albion Reef development, had procured for Kelly was bugged. I looked back down the passage towards the door and wondered how many people had keys to it besides Byron and Pauline. I could spend some time and money on it, probably come up with some names, but I knew that Michael Parsons had had his last briefing and Pauline had had her last fight and I'd had my last drink with Byron Kelly.

Norman Mailer's Christmas

H
ENRY Quinn was a burly man with grey curly hair and a face that had been shaped by good days and bad nights, booze and a fair amount of self-admiration. He looked a lot like Norman Mailer and he was aware of the resemblance. A shelf in his study carried a large photograph of Mailer and hardcover copies of the books, from
The Naked and the Dead
to the latest best-seller. There are people who say Mailer isn't subtle; that's nothing compared to Quinn—there were no other books in the study.

Quinn leaned back in his leather chair and swilled the brandy in his glass. ‘You see it, hey? The likeness? Boy, have I had some fun with that.'

It was midday; I'd refused Quinn's offer of brandy and was drinking beer. ‘Have you read the books?'

‘No. Never had the time. But lemme tell you. I'm on a plane see? An' these up-country types're lookin' at me and I know what they're thinkin'. They're whispering an' then one of 'em gets up the nerve to talk to me. Know what I say?'