Security at the Costa del Sol amounted to buzzing the tenant from the entrance lobby. Now that I thought about it, I hadn’t seen any bars on windows, or security grills. It looked as if Noumea was a law-abiding town. Suited me. I was about to go in when I got the feeling that someone was watching me. I looked around but couldn’t spot anyone. Paranoia goes with the job. I buzzed for McCloud and got no answer. Try Rosito.
‘Yeah? Oui?’
‘Mr Rosito, my name’s Hardy. I’m a private detective from Sydney. Stewart Master’s wife has hired me to look into things regarding her husband s drug conviction. Could I have a word with you?’
‘Sure. Come on up and I’ll give you a beer. It’s good to hear an Aussie voice. Tenth floor, mate.’
As easy as that. I got in the lift and it went express to the tenth. The entrance had been neat and well appointed and the lift was functional without being flash. I wondered what it cost to stay at the Costa. To judge by the hotel tariff, where Lorrie was paying just under three hundred bucks a night, it wouldn’t be cheap. One thing was for sure, the higher up, the dearer it’d be, and Gabriel Rosito was near the top.
He was standing at the open door with a Crown Lager in his hand. One-eighty centimetres maybe, 90 kilos-mostly muscle-shown off to good advantage in a tight white T-shirt and baggy shorts. Dark hair, deep tan. A heavy duty watch suggesting water sports or something involving impact. He looked to be about thirty and somehow I’d imagined Masters mates would be older.
He shot out a hard hand and we shook. ‘Gidday. Have a beer. The local piss is okay but I thought you might prefer the genuine article.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Come in, mate. Make yourself comfortable.’
He had an easy way with him, not forced, as if he expected good things of everyone. A lucky guy from the lucky country. The apartment was large and light, tastefully furnished as far as my own limited grasp of taste could tell, with a magnificent view from the massive south-west facing window. I walked automatically towards it and heard Rosito’s snort of amusement.
‘Everyone does that. You can see clear to the islands from here on a good day. Bit cloudy now. You want a glass?’
I turned to see that he’d picked up his own bottle and was raising it to his mouth.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Cheers.’
We both drank and looked at each other. ‘I understand Stewie’s wife’s a looker,’ he said.
‘You could say that.’
‘Blonde or what? He seemed to like blondes over here.’
‘I forget.’
‘Don’t get your balls in a twist, mate. Just shooting the breeze.’
I wanted to get this back on the right footing. I took a swig of the beer and swilled it around. ‘He’s in Avonlea prison,’ I said. ‘None of this, no blondes, no brunettes.’
‘Poor Stewie,’ he said. ‘What a mug to try something like that.’
8
Gabriel Rosito and I got on well over the next hour with the aid of a few more Crown Lagers. The apartment was air-conditioned to a good level and as the light outside died the view glowed and then diminished quickly in tropical fashion as I’d seen it do in other places before-none of them as comfortable as this. Unless he was a superb actor, Rosito told me the truth from go to whoa. He and the other three had come to Noumea to try to acquire land to build a golf course resort closer to the city than those already in operation. Land was available on a 99 year lease but no foreigner could get the action without a local front man. My guess was right-Pascal Rivages was the guy and Stewart Master knew him from some earlier operation.
‘Look,’ Rosito said. ‘We all knew that Stewie was a con artist and that Rivages was a crook. Useful bloke, but very suss. But it takes one to screw one, right? Reg, Jarrod and me all made money at home on the stock market, among other things, and-’
‘What about McCloud?’ I said, so as not to let the whole thing get too cosy.
Rosito shrugged. ‘Dunno. Anyway, he’s pissed off.’
‘His name’s still down there.’
‘Quit detecting. So’re names that’ve been gone longer. The joint’s not exactly full. As I was saying, we had money to invest and needed tax breaks. We’ve all got managers and accountants yelling at us, you know? At least I have. Anyway, the idea came up and we decided to take a punt. I won’t kid you, Cliff. Can I call you Cliff?’
I lifted my third beer in assent.
‘Right. For one reason or another it suited us to come across here. I won’t speak for the others, but I had a woman laying a paternity number on me. Bullshit, but you know how things can get. So we lobbed in and the thing got going. But it never really looked good. Too much politics. Too much bloody French bureaucratic bullshit and everything up for grabs after some local elections. Pascal had fingers in other pies and wasn’t giving the plan the attention it needed. The Kanaks raised objections and some of the Caldoche had environmental concerns, or so they said.’
‘Caldoche?’
‘French New Caledonians, born here and identify with the place. Anyway, it all went pear-shaped and we cut our losses. Rory shot through after doing a bit of a tour around, sniffing at other things and Stewie… Another beer?’
I refused. I hadn’t finished the third and didn’t plan to. Although the flight hadn’t been long and everything had gone smoothly, there’s something unsettling about travelling those distances in that time. We aren’t programmed for it yet and I was feeling weary. The beer was getting to me. Plus Rosito was smoking cigarillos and the room was fugging up. Also, I was feeling a certain level of disappointment. I had a sense that Rosito was exactly what he claimed to be and that he was telling the truth. There were just two more questions.
‘Thanks for being so straightfoward,’ I said.
He spread his hands. ‘Nothing to hide, mate. After Stewie was arrested the cops here grilled us all. Not too rough, mind, but they had warrants and searched. Went through this place with a finetooth comb.’
‘Ah… sorry, but why’re you still here? It must be costing you a mint.’
He took a long draw on the cigarillo and expelled the smoke luxuriously. He was a man who enjoyed smoking as much as he enjoyed everything. ‘No secret there either. You married, Cliff?’
‘No. Divorced.’
He laughed. ‘So am I, a couple of times. Have you noticed the women in this town? Sure you have. There’s this Caldoche widow I’ve been seeing. Beautiful woman and very rich. Get it?’
I nodded and levered myself up out of the leather club chair. ‘Last thing-are Penny and Montefiore still around?’
‘As far as I know. Reg’s running low on cash and trying to sell his yacht. You’re more likely to find him at the marina than anywhere else. Jarrod talks pretty good French and he’s got in with some people here. Passes himself off as zoreille — European French. Useful, that, because Pascal doesn’t speak English. He helped me get on terms with the widow, but I haven’t seen him for a while, come to think of it.’
I thanked him and he saw me to the door, saying we’d have a beer downtown sometime.
‘Okay,’ I said.
‘You’d be on expenses, right? So we’ll have a few.’
I left the Costa del Sol and set out to walk for a while to clear my head. The beer had dulled my appetite but the smells from the eateries would get to me eventually. Rosito had been helpful and the absence of McCloud had cut down on the work. A small speck of information would be worth noting-Lorraine Master had said that none of her husband’s mates spoke French, but evidently Jarrod Montefiore did. Was that important? Too soon to tell.