We moved as quickly as we could to the green. I was caught up in it now and shouldered my way forward to get a good look. There were two balls on the green, one a little short of it and another in the sand bunker on the right.
The man in the bunker took two shots to get out and the crowd groaned. The guy who was short of the green rolled his ball up close to the cup and the crowd clapped. Then it was Joel’s turn because he was furthest away. The distance wasn’t quite as long as a cricket pitch but near enough. There seemed to be several rises and falls in the surface between him and the hole. He walked around, surveying the putt from every angle, consulted with his caddie, then walked quickly up, took one look along the line and struck.
‘Baddeley style,’ someone said.
The ball took the slopes, rolling first away from the hole and then towards it. It gathered speed, then lost it as it got nearer. If the birds were singing and the cicadas scraping I didn’t hear them. The ball seemed to be drawn towards the hole. Then it stopped, half a roll short. A sigh went up from the crowd and Joel dropped his putter and buried his face in his hands in anguish.
I spoke to Joel briefly after the game but he seemed to have lost interest in everything. His coach, Brett Walker, a big, red-faced, freckled character, had a few words with him and then turned away to talk to a journalist.
‘I’m a broken down ex-Queensland copper,’ I heard him say. ‘But I can hit a six iron two hundred yards.’
Joel drank a couple of quick cans and then headed for the car park. I followed him at a discreet distance. Disappointed and with drink inside him, he’d be vulnerable if his enemy was about, but nothing happened. He drove steadily enough and turned off into the park a couple of hundred metres from the Walker house. I kept him in view, staying out of sight. He left the car and joined a girl who was sitting on a bench under a tree. They went into a clinch that seemed to last for ten minutes, and when they broke it they stayed as close together as they could.
They talked intently and interspersed the talk with kissing and hugging. There was some headshaking and nodding and more kissing and then the girl turned away and headed back towards the road on foot, leaving Joel sitting on the bench. I followed her, feeling slightly ridiculous ducking behind trees. She turned and looked back and for a second I thought she’d spotted me, but she was waving to Joel. I was closer now and saw that she had tears on her face and was young, very young.
She walked up the road and turned into the driveway of the Walker house. A woman came down to meet her: same slim build, blonde hair and body language-clearly her mother. They argued heatedly.
I drove back to the course, where players were still finishing their rounds. My pass got me back in and I found Brett Walker sitting on his own at a table near the beer tent. There were four empty cans in front of him and he had another in his fist. Fourex. I sat down opposite him and he stared at me blearily.
‘You did it, didn’t you?’
‘Did what?’
‘Sent the threatening messages to Joel.’
He swigged from the can. ‘Bugger off, whoever you are.’
‘I’m the private detective Joel hired to find out who’s been threatening him. And I have. You don’t like his relationship with your daughter because he’s Aboriginal.’
For a minute I thought he was going to throw the can at me and I almost hoped he would. It would have given me an excuse to hit him. But he drained it and crushed it in his big, freckled fist. ‘I can’t help it,’ he muttered. ‘It’s the way I was brought up. I can’t bloody stand the thought of it.’
‘What did you hope to achieve?’
‘Get him to sign with SMI and piss off to America.’
‘Brilliant. He’d probably take her with him.’
‘She’s seventeen, just.’
‘I’ve seen them together, mate. You’ve got Buckley’s.’
‘Jesus. I need another beer.’
He staggered off and I almost felt sorry for him. He returned with two cans and thrust one at me. I cracked it and took a swig. ‘Thanks. I hope you’re not planning to drive home.’
‘Wife’s coming to get me.’
‘Is she with you on this?’
‘Christ, she doesn’t know.’
‘She does. I’ve seen her and your daughter going at it hammer and tongs. Couldn’t have been about anything else.’
‘Bloody snooper.’
‘That’s right, and I’ve snooped on things like this for twenty years and learned a few things. You’re out of your depth. The surest way to pair them up is for you to stick your nose in.’
‘I didn’t think he was smart enough to do something like hire a detective.’
‘I’d say he’s very smart. Smarter than you. You need to come down out of your tree into the twenty-first century.’
Maybe I was still hoping he’d cut up rough, but it didn’t take him that way. He sighed and shook his head and seemed to lose interest in his beer. He lifted his head and glanced across to where players were hitting on the practice fairway. I followed his glance and saw Joel Grinter spill balls onto the ground and start hitting.
Walker watched Grinter’s long fluid stroke. ‘Missed the bloody cut, knows I’m pissed off with him about something. And he’s out there practising. He’s got a beautiful swing, hasn’t he?’
‘He does.’
‘Shit, I think you might be right. I’ve been a mug. Well, that’s the end of us.’
‘Why?’
He looked at me. ‘Well, you’re going to tell him, aren’t you?’
I drank some more beer. ‘It’s a good drop, Fourex. I don’t have to tell him, not if you’re fair dinkum and leave it alone. What’s the expression? Play it as it lies?’
‘What’ll you tell him?’
‘I’ll think of something. Deal?’
It took a while for him to answer and that was encouraging. You don’t change the habit of a lifetime in an instant if you’re serious. Eventually he thumped himself on the side of the head as if to drive the idea home and nodded. ‘You’re not a bad bloke for someone who knows bugger-all about golf. Deal, and thanks.’
I phoned Joel a week later at Walker’s and got him after Mrs Walker answered.
‘Hardy here, Joel. How’s things?’
‘Okay. Brett was shitty with me about something, but everything’s much better now. Real good in fact.’
‘Fine. I see you’re playing in Canberra next week.’
‘I’ll kill ‘em. How’d you get on? I haven’t had any more trouble.’
I told him I’d found out that a retired footballer with mental problems had been responsible for the spraying and the clipping. I said he’d gone off his medication and had harassed some other Aboriginal sports stars, but he was back under treatment.
‘How’d you find all that out?’
‘Professional secret.’
‘Geez, that’s another load off my mind. Thank you.’
‘I’ll send you a bill. Keep swinging.’
WHATEVER IT TAKES
It’s a Richo situation, Cliff,’ Corey Bannister said.
I got his drift. ‘Whatever it takes.’
‘That’s right. Whatever it takes.’
Bannister was a lawyer defending one Larry Hardiman on a murder charge. Hardiman’s alibi, in the person of Kerry Pike, had gone missing. Bannister had wangled a continuance of the trial, but unless he could produce Pike, Hardiman’s chances looked slim. I knew Pike, if you can call having had a fist fight with someone behind a hotel knowing them. In Pike’s world and mine, I guess you can.
‘The thing is, he respects you. You beat him.’
I shook my head. ‘The smart money called it a draw- we both had busted noses and three broken ribs.’
‘You had him down.’
‘I forget. Someone must’ve been holding me up.’
‘I need him, Cliff. Top dollar for the job. Go up there and bring him back and you can take the rest of the year off.’
‘Hardiman’s got that kind of money?’
‘No comment.’
I had a certain amount of respect for Bannister, none for Hardiman, and a very limited cash flow with the bills mounting. For a private investigator, being hired by a lawyer is gold. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Standard fee and expenses…’