(a) seeking dissolution…
(b) seeking judicial separation…
(2) with the application for custody by a respondent (not otherwise required to file a discretion statement) who seeks custody of a child of the marriage.
(3) in respect of adultery committed by a spouse in respect of either of the above two proceedings between filing of the petition and its hearing (as soon as practicable after its commission) unless in a prior discretion statement the applicant has stated that he is living as man and wife with the person referred to in the discretion statement.
In such discretion statement the applicant shall set out:-
(a) particulars of adultery since marriage or particulars of subsequent adultery;
(b) circumstances leading up to its commission; and
(c) grounds on which the court is asked to exercise its discretion.
And so on.
What this meant was that all the people bringing divorce actions had to lodge with the court a detailed list of their own infidelities. Mostly, these statements were not read by anyone. They were lodged simply to comply with the law, but sometimes a judge who smelled a rat, or took a dislike to one of the parties, would take the statements into consideration. Then the feathers might fly. I filled my glass again. By way of penance, I did a few of the excruciating exercises the physiotherapist had recommended and turned the tape over
…
We had a few more meetings in different places. McLachlan played it just the way Pike said he would-paid me, even thanked me, but there was no follow-up. The last get-together we PEAs had was in one of the Lebanese joints that had opened up in Surry Hills. Funny food.
Dick Maxwell said, ‘The legal eagles’ve got the whole thing stitched up like a Savile Row suit. The divorce hearings are going to come on to coincide with some interesting criminal cases, and there’ll be some subtle misspellings in the lists published in the Farfrae press.’
Ross Martin shook his head. “These people have got the world licked. My fuckin’ wife took me for every cent. And I haven’t seen my kids for five years.’
‘Justification for every man here, if needed,’ Maxwell said. ‘Personally, I find the idea of going to bed with the same person for fifty years obscene, but…’
‘Shut your gob,’ Bourke said. ‘I’m a Catholic. All this divorce business’s so much Protestant bullshit. The man says what’s what and confesses his sins. The woman and the kids do what he tells them. That’s it.’
‘Right, Frankie,’ Pike said. ‘Which brings us to the next point of business. And this’ll be news to all of you blokes except me and Dick. We’ve worked it out-eight hundred bucks apiece.’
I think every one of us sat a little straighter in his chair. I knew I’d have a fair bit of trouble laying my hands on eight hundred quickly. I could do it, just, but I’d be stretched. I assumed it was the same for the others, but I was getting the hang of the scheme now. “For the clerk of the court,’ I said.
Pike nodded. ‘Right. Four grand’s a lot of money to a bloke like that. And what’s he got to do? Turn a blind eye for an hour or two. Nothing’s missing. No harm done.’
‘Unless the bigwigs decide to get heavy about it,’ Martin said.
Maxwell slowly took out a packet of black Balkan Sobranies and lit one. It looked like he was enjoying his affluence already. ‘They won’t. When they find out that someone knows everything about who was up who, they’ll pay like little gentlemen. I know these people, believe me.’
‘Eight hundred gets you twenty-five grand,’ Pike said. ‘Tax free. That’s better than thirty to one.’
Everybody looked at everybody else for a time. We hid behind our drinks and cigarettes. Eventually Frankie Bourke nodded and Ross Martin followed suit. They didn’t look altogether happy though, and I think I was talking for both of them when I opened my trap. ‘It sounds all right,’ I said. ‘No, it sounds bloody good. And possible. I just…’
‘We’ve got the details worked out, too,’ Maxwell said quickly. ‘The timing, method of approach
‘I’m sure you have,’ I said. ‘But you interrupted me, Dick. I just wanted to say that if you and Ted have got any idea of pulling a con on Ross and Frankie and me you’d better forget it. You’d both be in hospital for a very long time.’
Bourke said, ‘Not in hospital. Somewhere else.’
Maxwell said, ‘I’m hurt. But point taken.’
Pike sat very still. ‘Frankie knows the court from his police days. He can look things over and make the contact with the clerk, name of Patterson.’
Bourke nodded.
‘My office is in the Rocks. Hop skip and a jump from the court. I’ve hired a photocopying machine.’
‘A what?’ Martin said.
‘You’ll see,’ Pike said. ‘We’ll copy the documents and get them back quick smart. Then Dick will make contact with the marks through his lawyer mate.’
‘Dick and me,’ I said.
Everyone nodded. If we’d been more friendly we’d have clinked glasses. But we weren’t friends-just partners in crime, which is an altogether more serious thing.
And that’s where the tape ended. There were some scribbled notes on the conversation pinned to the bill from Azim’s in Elizabeth Street-kebabs, kefta, felafel, hommos, salad and bread, Turkish delight, $22.90-not bad for five.
I couldn’t leave it there. I had to know. I phoned Arch’s solicitor with some politely framed enquiries about his late client’s circumstances. Not polite enough. The solicitor must have had a deep distrust for our profession. He probably feared I would challenge the will on the basis of something I’d found in the files. I did my best to reassure him, but all I got out of him in the end was that Arch had owned his substantial waterview apartment outright and had some quality investments. His estate had gone to a relative. The solicitor wouldn’t say who.
I could almost hear Arch’s harsh, cracked voice gently mocking me. ‘You’re an investigator aren’t you, boyo? Investigate!’
‘Right, Arch,’ I said. I wrote down all the names and tried to assemble information about them. I knew that Sir Alexander Farfrae, the press baron, and Colin Redding, the politico, were both dead. The Who was Who told me that George Lucan-Paget was dead too. I’d never heard of the doctors, but neither was listed in the current register-presumably gone to join ordinary mortals. A couple of phone calls got me the unhelpful intelligence that Sir Arthur Bothwick, the judge, was alive, but in a nursing home suffering from advanced Alzheimer’s.
The women were all said to have been younger, therefore probably still around, but a quick check on a couple of them showed several subsequent marriages and name changes. Too complicated, and it was unlikely that they would talk to me, anyway. That left the lawyer, Terry Farmer, and the private dicks. I rang Richard Adcock who runs a magazine called Seneca, which is dedicated to keeping law-makers and lawyers in line.
‘Hello, Cliff Hardy, private eye,’ Richard said. ‘About as popular as…’
‘Don’t, Richard. Please don’t. Terry Farmer. What d’you know?’
‘Interesting. What do you know?’
‘Nothing. I’m looking into something that happened a quarter of a century ago. So far, everyone’s dead.’
‘Send out for a ouija board, Cliff,’ Richard said. ‘Farmer’s dead, too. Of AIDS last year. One of the oldest victims.’
‘Shit. Alistair McLachlan?’
‘Barrister, solicitor or what?’
‘Solicitor.’
‘Hang on.’
I was at home, nursing the ankle. I judged I had time. I limped to the kitchen and tapped the cask of white. When I returned Richard was back on the line-waiting, very keen.
‘Cliff,’ he said. ‘We’re going to have to go tit for tat on this.’
‘It’s ancient history,’ I said.
‘I like a good story.’
‘I’ll buy you lunch and tell you all, when I’ve got to the bottom of it.’
‘What if I want to print?’
I thought about it-about Arch and the big names involved. Some of that old power might still be lurking about and Arch had deemed me his ‘friend and confidant’. ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘I can’t promise.’