‘Right, at first. He was very cute and I didn’t mind that much that he couldn’t get it up. A lot of men can’t. There’s other ways if they’ve got any imagination.’
‘But Bobby didn’t have any imagination.’
‘No, he agonised and carried on. I only saw him twice.’
Bobby said once , I thought. They never give you the whole story.
Mrs Oberoi opened the door. ‘Is everything all right?’
Mary looked ready to shout at her but she fought the impulse down.
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
Mary rubbed her forehead where the red spot had been. ‘Then Bobby met that woman and didn’t want to have anything to do with me. So I had to keep the pressure on. You know about all that?’
‘Yes. Who was this man?’
‘I’m afraid to tell you.’
‘Why did he want you to do all this?’
‘It wasn’t for him, it was for his boss. The boss owns the brothel.’
‘Why did you go to Burwood?’
‘After Bobby got killed and that media stuff about Miranda appeared I panicked. I wiped all the emails and the stuff on the site. He wanted them to send to the bitch Bobby took up with but I was scared to have them on my computer so I wiped them. That freaked this guy. He wanted me to get right away, go to Melbourne. To a brothel down there. I didn’t want to go. I hate Melbourne. It’s cold and wet and flat and bad things happen there.’
‘Bad things happen everywhere. Why Burwood?’
‘Burwood was as boring a place as I’d ever been to. I thought I could hide there. But he found me.’
‘And threatened you?’
‘Big time. I think he would’ve really hurt me but there was someone watching from across the street.’
‘What’s his name, Mary? You have to tell me.’
‘You’ll go away if I do? You won’t say anything about this,’ she pointed to my shoulder, ‘or say that I gave you his name?’
‘Right. You have my word.’
‘Piss on your word. His name is Alex Mountjoy.’
14
‘You know him,’ she said.
‘I know of him. So he’s the one who drove the car at you-bearded, drives a white Commodore?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think he killed Bobby?’
Her eyes opened wide. ‘No, why would he do that?’
‘His boss seems to have had it in for Bobby.’
She shook her head. ‘I think he wanted to make Bobby suffer, not to kill him. Is that what you’re on about-finding out who killed Bobby?’
I nodded.
‘But you’re not a cop.’
Using my left hand again I fished in my jacket for my wallet. Gave her a card.
‘Are you working for that woman-the one with the brains? It really pissed me off, that newspaper stuff. I’ve got brains, too.’
‘It annoyed her as well. It doesn’t matter who I’m working for. Do you know where Mountjoy lives?’
‘Of course I do. I fucked him there enough times, didn’t I?’
‘Where?’
She smiled. ‘This is extra.’
‘It’s in your interest for me to deal with him.’
‘How do I know you can? All I’ve seen you do is threaten people.’
‘I’ll pay you what I paid Isabella, not a cent more.’
‘Okay, let’s see it.’
I’d anticipated something like this and brought a chunk of Ray Frost’s money with me. I selected the right notes and held them just out of her reach.
‘He lives directly across the street from Black Girls, so he can keep an eye on things and doesn’t have to go far for a fuck.’
I handed the money to her. She tucked it into the pocket of her jeans.
‘He’s a kick-boxer,’ she said. ‘I hope he kicks your fucking head in.’
Mrs Oberoi provided me with a T-shirt and offered to call me a cab. I thanked her and told her I could walk and the incident was closed.
‘Can you tell me anything about what happened to her in Sydney?’ she asked.
How to answer that? How to tell a mother that her daughter was a prostitute and an associate of low-lifes who’d lead her deeper and deeper into trouble unless she was lucky? I realised that people like the Oberois were cut off from many of the realities of Australian life. They worked hard and prospered, they adapted as best they could and sometimes cut corners-as the qualified but unregistered doctor was doing-but they remained innocents in some ways, and vulnerable.
Mary had made a break from ‘the life’ and had been scared. It was possible that the fear would put her on another path. She knew she faced danger from several quarters. I knew only too well how being linked to a violent death could affect your judgement, your decisions, your future. She’d made the right move in getting clear, and she had a veil of sorts to hide behind. The odds might just be with her. But only just. I couldn’t offer the woman much.
‘No,’ I said, ‘but I think she’ll get over it.’
Back at the motel I took stock. Now I had a clear suspect for Bobby’s murderer and, with Jane Devereaux’s information, a background to how and why it might have happened. It had cost me a sore, stiff shoulder but I’d recover. The problem was, it had run me up against a formidable antagonist in Michael Tennyson. There was also no answer to Mary Oberon’s question: Why would he do that? If it was Mountjoy who caught up with Bobby in Strathfield, perhaps he only meant to scare him. Maybe the death was an accident.
Another couple of painkillers and another whisky saw me off to sleep. I rolled onto the shoulder a few times in the night and woke up swearing. It was one of those nights when dawn couldn’t come quickly enough. Washing and dressing were difficult. I envied my grandson Ben, who appeared to be completely ambidextrous, the way my mother had been. I drank instant coffee and waited until it was time to get a taxi to the station.
I bought the papers and settled down with them and C.J. Sansom. Mary Oberon was right-the news was mostly bad unless you owned a lot of mining shares and didn’t care about pedophile priests, abusive parents and lying politicians. I read a hundred pages about the machinations in the court of Henry VIII and reflected that things were pretty much the same back then, but with a lot of religious camouflages and stiffer penalties when the truth was revealed. I tried to keep the arm and shoulder moving and it responded pretty well. Not that I was too worried about going up against a kick-boxer even if I wasn’t fully fit-a kick-boxer stands no chance against a street fighter. It’s the same with karatists.
Train travel aids reflection and recollection. I remember a drinking session I once had with the actor Bill Hunter. I was working as a bodyguard for one of the actors on a film he had a major role in. He was sober for his scenes, but liked to drink afterwards. He’d boxed a bit, sparred with professionals. We had things in common. I drank a fair amount in those days.
‘It’s a matter of being willing, Cliff,’ he said. ‘You have to be willing.’
‘Willing to do what, Bill?’
‘You don’t even ask what. Willing to do anything.’
He’d named a couple of actors he knew with the quality, and some London and Sydney crims, most of them dead by that time, and I knew what he meant. It’s something that comes over you-a capacity for violence without limit but still with some control. I’d felt it a few times.
I turned my mind to more cerebral matters. I had no evidence and no prospect of getting any that would stand up in a court of law. But if I could prove to my own satisfaction and that of Ray Frost that Mountjoy and Michael Tennyson were involved in Bobby’s death, steps could be taken. Frost had offered help and, judging by his background and things he’d said, strict legality wasn’t his main priority. Reprisal would appeal to him more.
The key was Jane Devereaux. I’d asked her to contact me if Tennyson had been in touch directly and she hadn’t. I got a taxi from Central to Pyrmont and called her business number from the office.
‘I’m glad you called,’ she said. ‘I’ve been wondering what to do.’