19
The saloon-cum-kitchen wasn’t hard to search, because there was very little in it and what there was Penny had arranged pretty neatly-the books and magazines, technical manuals about the yacht’s equipment, eating and cooking utensils, maps and charts, tools, playing cards, board games. I picked through it as quickly as I could, disturbing it as little as possible. I was looking for anything that might give me a lead on the Noumea mystery man and/or the young man I’d seen on the yacht the day before. Nothing there.
The sleeping quarters consisted of two bunks, three-quarter bed size. The top bunk was unmade with just a mattress and a pillow. The bottom bunk had two pillows and sheets with a light duvet bunched up near the foot. The bunk had been slept in and, at a guess, fucked in. There were stains and traces of cigarette ash. A bottle of massage oil stood on the floor near the bunk along with a box of tissues, personal lubricant and a packet of condoms. It looked as if Penny had practised safe sex, or thought he had.
His clothes hung in a shallow closet and were stacked, neatly again, in a set of drawers. Jackets, trousers, shirts, T-shirts, shorts, jeans, boxers, Y-fronts, socks. Nothing out of the ordinary. I was looking for a diary, a journal, the log, a notebook, anywhere information might be recorded. There was no Rolodex, no laptop. Either Penny was remarkably free of the impulse to record information, names and events, or his killer had got there first. In a folder lying on the top bunk, buff-coloured like the mattress so that I didn’t spot it at first, was a sheaf of financial records relating to the yacht. I leafed through them, but they appeared to be specific and uninteresting, although there were invoices for parts and labour from a ship’s engineer in Noumea, dated the day I’d given Penny the money.
Time was running short. No passport, which certainly suggested an earlier search and removal exercise. Penny’s tobacco packet lay beside the pillow and I moved it to look under the pillow. It felt more solid than it should have. I opened it and found a miniature audio cassette, nestled in with the tobacco and the papers.
Hank’s voice came from above. ‘Cliff, the cops are here.’ I stuffed the cassette down inside my left sock and went through the saloon, past the body and back up into the beginning of the day.
I got Hammond and Carmichael again, and they were even less happy than the day before. College Street again.
‘You didn’t tell us anything about this boat,’ Carmichael said with the tape running. ‘Why not?’
‘You didn’t ask.’
‘How could we? What were you looking for out there- the guy who shot at you?’
‘Yeah. That’s why I didn’t have a gun and took the kid.’
‘Why did you take him?’ Hammond looked concerned.
‘To row the boat. I’m no oarsman.’
Carmichael said, ‘He was carrying a stun gun. They’re illegal.’
I shrugged. ‘That’s what I told him, but he works in security. They probably all carry them, I wouldn’t know.’
And so it went on. I told them all I knew about Penny and his connection with Montefiore and Fay Lewis and Stewart Master. I told them that I’d seen the boat at Balmain the day before. I didn’t tell them about the young man aboard, or the photographs I’d taken or about the cassette that was creating a blister on my foot inside my sock.
They were sceptical, experienced interrogators, but this time around they got no more out of me than I’d wanted to give.
‘We’ll be keeping an eye on you, Hardy,’ Carmichael said when the tape had been turned off.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘With the balaclava boy around I can use the protection. What about Bachelor?’
‘He’ll be charged with possession of an illegal instrument.’
‘Great. That could screw up his career nicely.’
‘Tough,’ Carmichael said. ‘I hope your public liability policy’s paid up, Hardy. That Yank could sue you for everything you’ve got for getting him in this shit. You know the way they are. In fact, I just might give him the idea.’
‘You disappoint me, Inspector. I thought the police service was trying for better relations with the citizenry.’
Hammond looked embarrassed as she wound the tape back, but Carmichael wasn’t fazed. ‘That doesn’t include a cowboy nuisance like you.’
I’d had enough of him. ‘Fuck you, Carmichael. That kid conducted himself well. He didn’t freak when he saw the mess; he kept your crime scene clean and he called in straight off the way I told him to. If you heavy him he’s likely to turn into just another cowboy nuisance like me. That’s how we’re made.’
Carmichael let go one of his patent sneers. ‘Is that so? Well, I’ll have to look into the chances of deporting him.’
Great work, Cliff, I thought. I walked out of the College Street station into the mid-morning. Hank Bachelor was nowhere around; Lorrie Master was in hospital and I’d possibly buggered up Bachelor’s job prospects. I was at a low ebb, but at least I’d had the sense not to retrieve the cassette from my sock until I was safely inside the cab taking me to Drummoyne, to the NRMA approved garage where I collected my car and paid for four new tyres. They were probably overdue.
It was well on into the afternoon when I got to Glebe and the moment I stepped out of the car I heard a yell.
‘Hey, Cliff, what about my tinny?’
‘Jesus, Clive, I forgot all about it. I had some trouble with the cops and it’s tied up at the Balmain wharf.’
‘I hope the buggers haven’t impounded it.’
‘No, it’ll be right. I’ll get the young bloke onto it.’
Clive said okay and I made a mental note to get him a slab. That reminded me, I’d eaten nothing since before dawn. I microwaved a few slices of the leftover pizza and opened a Hahn light. That all went down well so I heated up some of the previous night’s coffee and took it into the sitting room with the cassette and my recorder. I was about to press ‘Play’ when the thought occurred to me that the room itself might be bugged as well as the phone.
I regrouped in the back yard. It’s about five metres by five, bricked with weeds poking through, and some native plants around the edges struggling against persistent neglect. I brushed leaves and unidentifiable pollution from one of the two deck chairs and was set to go when the mobile, which I’d also brought out to complete the set-up, rang.
‘Hardy.’
‘Hey, Cliff, this is Hank, Hank Bachelor.’
My heart would have sunk except that he sounded so happy. ‘You’re the only Hank I know, Hank, so there’s no need for the surname. I was all ready to apologise but you sound uppish.’
‘Man, am I up? I’ve just had the greatest experience. With the cops and all? The report I can put on to my teacher on policing, surveillance, interview technique? Man, I’ve got it made.’
‘What about the charge for carrying an illegal-?’
‘Instrument? That’s a blast. The security company’s been dying for a test case on the law. They couldn’t be happier.’
‘I’m not sure I want one of my investigations to become a high-profile test case, Hank.’
‘It’s months away, Cliff. Months away. We’ll have this thing unscrambled by then.’
‘We?’
‘Sure. Here’s my mobile number.’ He recited it and I wrote it down in the notebook I’d had ready to make notes on the tape. ‘I’ll be watchin’ over your lady again tonight.’
I asked him if he could recover the dinghy and deliver it back to Clive and he said he would.
‘Right, Hank. Thanks.’
‘Thank you! We’ll stay in touch, won’t we, Cliff?’
He rang off. I put the phone down slowly. Was there some sort of threat, an implied pressure, in his last remark? No, not Hank. Surely not.
I set the recorder on a brick and hit ‘Play’. There were some indeterminate sounds before a voice spoke clearly.
Montefiore: ‘I’m getting so fuckin sick of this. How long does he say now?’
Lewis: ‘You heard him. Stop whingeing. A couple of days.’