At the airport, I parked and he struggled to the check-in with his case and collected his ticket and boarding pass. I took them and his passport from him and we went to the bar.
We had almost an hour to wait and McGuinness got stuck into the scotch. I drank coffee. His right hand was changing colour but he could move and flex his fingers so it looked as though nothing was broken.
'Have them put some ice on it when you get on board,' I said.
He didn't reply. Bad loser.
He was about half drunk when his flight was called. I held his documents out of his reach, and bent towards him with my hand to my ear.
'Let's hear it, Clive.'
'How do I know you won't do what you said anyway?'
'You don't. You have to rely on my integrity. Come on, they're boarding.'
He let out a whisky-laden sigh. 'Rhys Thomas,' he said.
'What?'
'Rhys Thomas. D'you know him?'
'Yeah, I know him. He's Clement's muscle.'
The call came again and McGuinness stood. 'They handed Marchant over to Thomas.'
'Who's they?'
'Phil Courtney, the guy I was with in your shitty motel room and a nurse-well, she would've looked like a nurse.'
'I don't get it, Thomas works for Clement.'
'Clement thinks he does, but he's really Barclay's man. He's got an interest in a sort of physiotherapy clinic in Manly. I suppose that's where she is.'
'What's it called?'
'I don't know. I told you I could only give you a name. I don't know what it's called. Just that it's in Manly somewhere. Thomas is going to get the information, whatever it is, and use it against Clement for Barclay. Now give me the fucking ticket.'
It sounded plausible, something unlikely to be invented on the spur of the moment by a stressed, frightened man. His flight had been called; now he was being paged and he hadn't passed through customs. We moved towards the area and an impatient-looking attendant beckoned us. It looked as if the tardy passenger would be escorted through and rushed to the plane. That should prevent any phoning. I handed over the documents; he almost fell into the arms of the attendant.
There were three physiotherapy clinics listed for Manly in the phone book. I wrote down their names, called in at the first Internet cafe I saw and checked on them. One place, North Steyne Physio and Orthopaedics, announced a speciality in injuries and discomforts associated with horse riding. Had to be the one, given Thomas's racing background. I was low on petrol after covering so much of Sydney; I stopped to fill up the tank and myself. I bought a kebab, a stubby of stout and a takeaway coffee with sugar-nothing like a diversity of cultures food and drink-wise-and consumed them in the car while I considered what to do next.
If Billie Marchant was at the Manly clinic, there were bound to be people guarding her. If she wasn't, there was a good chance she was dead. As I ate and drank I pondered what the information she had could possibly be. Lou Kramer had given me no inkling other than that she thought it could be important-something to do with what had got Eddie killed, perhaps about someone ill-disposed towards Clement within his organisation. Subsequent events tended to confirm that but had brought no enlightenment.
The first thing to do was take a look at the clinic. I drove to Manly and located it a block away from North Steyne, close to Pittwater Road. The photo on the web page had flattered it. It was a nondescript two storey building in the middle of a set of three. The one to the left was a secondhand bookstore and the one on the right was up for lease. I went around the block and drove past it twice.
Manly being Manly, there was a fairly constant flow of traffic and no convenient parking places. I found one a block away and came back on foot to do a recce. There were lights on in the upper level of the building housing the clinic but its street-front windows and door were dark.
I kept on the other side of the one-way street, walked down to the next crossroad, and circled around to try to get a look at the back. A laneway ran behind the buildings fronting the road and I walked up it until I was standing facing a high brick wall with the clinic behind it, its upper level lights muted but visible. The gate in the wall looked impregnable, but the rickety fence of the place up for lease next door offered possibilities.
Still, no obvious strategy presented itself, not for a one-man operation. I needed support. I reached for my mobile, and swore. Disliking the thing, I'd left it in the car, a bad habit I was having trouble breaking. I walked back to the car and put the key in the lock. I felt a blow to my back and pitched forward against the car. Something cold and metallic jabbed me twice behind the ear and then I could smell it rather than feel it. He kept me pressed against the car door.
'Well, well, if it isn't Mr Nuisance himself. Cannot learn a lesson.'
South African accent, youngish voice. At a guess, Jonas Clement Junior.
'You can't shoot me here,' I said.
'This is silenced, Mr Hardy. You would just be another collapsing drunk being helped by a big, strong young fellow like me. You'll cross the road and go into the place you were so curious about. Very careless is what you are, man.'
17
You don't argue with a big ex-mercenary holding a silenced gun, but you muster what dignity and weapons you can. I relaxed under his pressure and quietly pocketed the keys.
'Okay,' I said. 'You're holding the cards, Jonas.'
He clipped my ear, quickly and stingingly, with the pistol and then eased back. 'That's for being cheeky. Now we wait for a break in the traffic and go across. Straight across. If you run or go left or right, you're dead.'
I stepped back from the car and he shepherded me around it to face the road. The traffic wasn't heavy and he prodded me forward.
'You've done this before,' I said.
'You just bet I have, and enjoyed it, too.'
'Yeah, in Africa. Probably with twelve-year-olds, fourteen tops, old women maybe.'
'You're talking yourself into your grave.'
We were across the road. The darkened door slid open and I went through into a carpeted area, lit only by the torch a big man was carrying.
'Him again,' he said, and I knew he was another of my Toxteth hotel friends.
'Yes, Kezza, him again. I thought so.'
'How did he…?'
'He's going to tell us. You rang Rhys?'
'He's on his way.'
'Right. So, we'll find somewhere to make Mr fucking Hardy uncomfortable while we wait. See if he's carrying anything of interest.'
Kezza slapped my pockets and took the keys. 'Where's your wallet?'
It was in the glove box with the. 38 and I didn't want them looking. For ease of access, I'd put a few things in my shirt pocket earlier-my investigator's licence, some cash and a credit card. I tapped the pocket. 'Don't carry one.'
Kezza took the licence, the card and the money. Clement turned on a light and we went up the stairs to where a series of rooms ran off a narrow passage. He pushed me into a room and slammed and locked the door. The room was small; it had no window and contained only a lightly padded massage or treatment bench without any covering and a locked cabinet that presumably contained items to do with physiotherapy. I sat on the bench and leaned back against the wall. Clement had been right- driving past the place slowly twice, parking too close and not being careful around the back had been sloppy work.
I'd expected some pretty heavy security inside if Billie was being held here, but why the close watch on what came and went outside? I hadn't anticipated that and found it puzzling. What were they expecting? I knew McGuinness hadn't alerted them and I couldn't come up with any explanation. I gave up and concentrated on trying to gain some sort of advantage. The cabinet was solid and firmly locked. The door likewise. The walls and ceiling were smooth plasterboard; the overhead light was covered by a screwed-down plastic shield. The lino tiles on the floor were tightly glued into place. I had my fists and feet, nothing else. Maybe my brains.