‘And?’ I said.
‘You could be right. They seem to have had surges of cash flow. Riley owns forty-nine per cent, by the way.’
‘Does Eleni Marinos own the rest?’
Hickie shot an uneasy glance at Felicia, who still hadn’t said a word other than to order her drink. ‘Maybe. It’s hard to say. She’s a mystery woman.’
Felicia closed her menu with a snap. ‘Who cares? Everybody involved in security’s a crook, it’s well known. Michael’s going to run Barnes Enterprises, but there’s not going to be a security division, is there, Michael? Marinos and Riley can steal as much as they like. Who cares?’
‘What are you going to do, Fel?’ I said.
She stared at me, defying me to offer a syllable or gesture of contradiction. ‘I’m going to organise Barnes’ exhibition. I’m going to write the catalogue. I’m going to set up and administer an artist’s scholarship with some of the money.’
Hickie nodded and finished his drink.
‘Then what?’ I said.
She picked up her sherry and took a sip. She was carefully made up and was very close to being beautiful. But there was something wrong with her, some deeper level of disturbance I couldn’t fathom. ‘The police came to my house and got those horrible things you left there.’ she said slowly.
‘I would’ve warned you, but I thought you were in Redfern.’
‘Doesn’t matter. They must’ve thought I had something to do with it, because one of them said he’d keep me out of trouble if I’d fuck him.’
Hickie put his hand over hers.
‘I mentioned your name and he laughed. He left me alone, but he said he hoped I was fucking you good because you were on borrowed time.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I really am. That must’ve been terrible for you, but it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just dumb, macho cop talk.’
Hickie put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Felicia and I are getting married,’ he said.
The day of O’Fear’s funeral was like midwinter. The rain began at dawn and didn’t let up. The sky remained a dull grey with dark, low clouds, and there was a wind that drove the rain into your face. I got wet running from the front door to the car; my shoes leaked and water trickled from my hair down the back of my neck. It was a miserable drive to the Catholic church, where the officiating person had trouble pronouncing O’Fear’s name, and a damp, dreary procession to the cemetery.
Mourners were few. I recognised two of O’Fear’s drinking mates and a couple of unionists. An Irishman who used to play in a bush band with O’Fear was there. He was weeping, drunk already. There were no women. We stood beside the hole in the ground and the cheap box, while the priest mumbled; someone held an umbrella over him, but the rain still managed to streak the pages of his gilt-edged Bible. I wasn’t feeling much. A headache set up by a fair bit of drinking the night before had wiped out some sensitivity; my wet feet took some of my attention. I was nagged by an irrational thought that they were putting O’Fear in a wet hole, like planting a shrub.
I heard a loud sniff and looked in the direction it came from. Three men stood tightly bunched; the one in the middle was crying. He was Danny O’Fearna. When the muddy earth was being shovelled into the hole, I went across to Danny.
‘I’m Cliff Hardy,’ I said. ‘A friend of your Dad’s.’
He moved as if to put out his hand to shake, but stopped, and I saw that he was handcuffed to the man next to him.
‘What’s this?’ I said.
His face was wet from rain and tears, and his loose foolish mouth had trouble forming the words. ‘They’re doin’ me for armed hold-up.’
‘You and how many others?’
‘Just me,’ Danny said.
The cop jerked his wrist sharply; O’Fearna yelped and they took him away.
I drank some rum for medicinal reasons on the drive home. The rain eased and had stopped by the time I turned into Glebe Point Road. The sky to the west had split open, and blue and white patches were expanding, spreading and bursting out in all directions. A beam of sunlight slanted through the tall poplars and filled the car with a pale green light. When I got out in front of my house I could taste the cleanness of the rainswept air. The tin roof of the house on the other side of the street was glinting in the sun and steam rose from it in little spurts. I walked down the narrow space beside the house and the fence and felt the overgrown bushes and vines drip on me. What the hell, I was wet already.
I stood on the bricks Hilde had laid in the pocket-sized backyard and looked at the pot plants Helen had left behind. She used to water them regularly and pick off the bugs; since she left the plants have experienced only droughts and flooding rains. I stood on a pile of newspapers and looked over the back fence between the flats to Blackwattle Bay. Up close the water would be murky, but from here it was a deep green. Who needs the Pacific Ocean when you’ve got Blackwattle Bay?
A scratching sound made me turn sharply. I remembered Felicia’s cop’s remark about being on borrowed time. I was wet, full of rum and nostalgia and unarmed. Prime time.
The cat scrambled down from the roof where it had been clawing, probably at a bird’s nest, and ambled across to rub itself against my leg.
‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘What happened to you?’ It was favouring one leg and had angry, encrusted wounds on its head. It rubbed and purred. ‘I suppose you’re telling me I should see the other guy. Anyway, welcome back to bachelorland.’
It left me and hopped across the bricks to the corner of the lean-to. The fibro had sagged away from the studs, and the cat probed the gap with its paw.
‘Forget it. I’ll open the door.’ The cat mewed and clawed. ‘If it’s a mouse,’ I said, ‘go for it.’
The cat scratched and something fell from the wall cavity. I went over and picked it up. It was a thick manila envelope, heavily wrapped in polythene and sealed with insulating tape. I opened the back door and let the cat run past me. It stood mewing in the kitchen while I opened the envelope.
Inside were about fifty of Barnes Todd’s photographs: the collection included those I had seen, and a whole lot more. Stan Riley’s face was unmistakable as he apparently supervised the transshipment of sealed security bags from an Athena van to a Riley truck. Also in the envelope was a thick wad of negatives.
The cat screeched and tried to lift the lino with its claws. I put some stale cereal, old ham slices and dried-out tuna in a bowl, and it looked at me reproachfully.
‘I’ll get you the best,’ I said. ‘Later.’
It was pretty clear what Barnes had done. He had taken the shots showing Danny O’Fearna from the bunch, probably to enlist O’Fear’s help in some sort of blackmail operation. Well, he had overreached himself. But I was left with a question that had been working its way steadily forward in my head since the image of Barnes Todd first began to lose its shine. The question could have only one answer. I reached for the phone and dialled Hickie’s number.
‘I’ll put you through, Mr Hardy,’ Jenny said.
Hickie came on the line and I told him about finding the photographs. I also told him about the incident in Korea and Todd’s continuing relationship with Eleni Marinos.
Hickie said nothing.
‘He was only fair as an artist,’ I said. ‘The real talent’s in Felicia’s photography. Did you know that?’
‘I had a pretty good idea,’ Hickie said. ‘So what’s your point, Hardy?’
‘Todd had too much to hide to invite someone like me to sniff around his affairs.’
‘Right,’ Hickie said.
‘You forged the note. You wanted Felicia and the business, but you wanted to know exactly what was involved. You wanted to come into money, but not into trouble.’
‘It takes one battler to understand another,’ Hickie said,
‘Took a chance, didn’t you, Michael? What if Felicia and I had stuck?’
Hickie laughed. ‘I didn’t take much of a chance. I checked on you first-you and women and your impossible way of life. I knew you’d screw it up. You always have.’