‘You married, Hardy?’
‘Was once.’
‘Third time for me this was. You’d reckon I’d learn. I hope I have. I’ve got a good business here. Makes money, employs people and provides something useful and environmentally acceptable.’
‘Good for you.’
‘I want to hang on to it. If Stella took me to the cleaners it’d all be at risk. That’s the truth. Shit, I want to fight her for my pride’s sake and for all sorts of selfish reasons, but it’s not entirely selfish.’
The whisky was going down like warm honey. ‘I believe you.’
‘I’m ready to lose the house. I’ve written that off. Never liked it much anyway. Her taste, not mine. But I don’t want all this crap to cripple a good business I’ve worked like a dog to create.’
I believed him but I knew a bit about men like Nickless and some of the prints on the wall were a giveaway. ‘What about the boat?’
He blinked nervously several times, looked at me and took a drink, a big one. ‘Yeah, right. I don’t want to lose the Coral Queen. I love that boat.’
Like the rest of us, the rich have their soft spots. Different things, but they make them just as vulnerable. I nodded and finished my drink.
Nickless turned what was left of his around in his big, meaty hands. ‘Can we come to terms then?’
‘What were you going to do about Cousins if I hadn’t shown up?’
He shrugged. ‘Nothing. I had no idea what to do.’
‘Okay, I think we can work something out. I’ll need to talk to your wife.’
He snorted. ‘I wish you luck. She’s in London, doing it all by remote control.’
‘Then I’ll have to go to Queensland. Track him back from there. It’ll be expensive.’
He shrugged. ‘Not as expensive as if I’ve got no cards to play with. What’re your rates?’
I told him and he wrote a cheque that would finance my trip to Queensland in style. I felt vaguely guilty as I folded it and tucked it away. I didn’t know whether I’d be able to persuade Clinton Scott to do what Nickless wanted, even if I found him. I was flying by the seat of my pants and more concerned about seeing a job through and getting back on good terms with Wesley than with Nickless’ problem. I hadn’t resolved my ethical problem at all.
After leaving Nickless I went for a walk through Pyrmont to sober up and stimulate thought. There was a lot of dust in the air from building sites and the considerable revamping going on around Union Street. But the breeze from Darling Harbour was moving it around in true Sydney fashion. In this city you take the significant rough with the much greater smooth. I sobered up and did a lot of thinking, but I was already on my way to the sunshine state.
13
It wasn’t the best time of the year to visit north Queensland-too late, too hot, too sticky-but I was able to afford air-conditioned motels and cars and that would make all the difference. Swimming pools would help as well, along with gins and tonic, fresh fish with chilled wine and top quality insect repellent. I booked on a midday Qantas flight to Cairns with the comfortable feeling of knowing that the cheques I’d posted had given me plenty of clearance on my credit cards. Plus I had cash in my pocket. I packed summer clothes and, although I’d recently regained my permit to carry a weapon-a right I’d lost as a result of serving the short prison sentence some time back-I left the Smith amp; Wesson at home. The rigmarole of taking a gun on a domestic flight isn’t worth it, and you can always get a gun in Queensland if you know where to look.
I cancelled the paper delivery and asked my neighbour Clive, a taxi driver who works irregular hours like me, to collect my mail and keep an eye on the house. Clive has a length of lead pipe bound with insulating tape under the driver’s seat of his cab. Just what you want in a house-minder.
Cairns was windless, overcast and hot, but the tropical smell lifted my spirits. It’s hard to say why. After my stint in Malaya I swore I’d never go north of Coffs Harbour again, but that passed and I feel a sense of freedom up north. People and things move more slowly and the air’s better. I rented a Pajero with all the trimmings and got on the road to Port Douglas. The road was good and the Pajero handled well. I was passed by several stretch limos but felt no envy. I found Radio National and half-listened to a program about the El Nino effect as I admired the greenery. I’ve always liked palm trees and I don’t mind a sugarcane field either.
Port Douglas retains some of the features of the fishing village it once was, even though millions of dollars have been poured into it. As far as I could see, the renovations, restorations and new buildings had kept the north Queensland emphasis on timber, glass and tin and there were no high-rise monstrosities in sight. My expenses didn’t run to the Mirage resort, where Christopher Skase is said to have spent a million dollars just on palm trees to line the drive. Well, it wasn’t his money.
Just for fun I’d picked up the Mirage brochure at the airport-golf course and driving range, tennis courts, acres of swimming pools and three five-star restaurants. I booked into a motel with a swimming pool and a restaurant without stars. The minibar was well stocked and the airconditioning worked, all I needed. I didn’t play golf, wouldn’t have time for tennis and twenty metres of swimming pool was enough for me.
After a swim and a shower I changed into shorts, sneakers and T-shirt and began the rounds, showing Clinton’s photo down at the waterfront, in the pubs and shops, at the real estate agencies and car rental outfits. Over the next few days, I talked to white people and black people and Asians and mixes of all three, males and females, gays and straights, the drunk and the sober. I talked to a wary, suspicious policeman and to some women in a very welcoming establishment where I could’ve blown my expenses in no time flat.
I picked up his trail at a used car yard where he’d bought an ancient 4WD for a song.
‘That’s him,’ the owner said. ‘Bit rougher, but that’s him all right. What’s he done?’
‘Run away from home. How’d he pay?’
He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘In cash, mate, in cash.’
‘Did he show you any ID? Did you see his licence?’
‘No need. Cash transaction. Vehicle was registered. All above board.’
‘What name did he use?’
‘George.’
‘Was he alone?’
‘Yup.’ He shifted his feet uncomfortably. ‘Look, mate I’ve got things to do… ‘
‘Last thing. Did he say where he was going?’
‘Said he was going bush.’
I got the registration number of the Land Rover and a description-khaki and black, roof-rack, bullbars-and went to a large barn of a place that supplied building materials and camping gear. They remembered George. A young black guy who’d helped him load his purchases remembered the vehicle in detail.
‘Fuckin’ bomb. I told him it wouldn’t get him fuckin’ far but he didn’t pay no notice. Nice bloke, though. Asked me a few questions about the language and stuff, you know. I know fuck-all about that shit. Tell you what, he had a ton of grog on board and lots of tucker-cans and packets and that.’
Peter Corris
CH22 – The Black Prince
‘Did he have maps?’
‘Think so, yeah.’
‘Of what?’
He shrugged. ‘Search me.’
Back at the motel I took Roger, the proprietor, into my confidence. I’d eaten at his restaurant, made liberal use of his minibar and praised his swimming pool; he was mine. I explained my mission to him and produced a few maps I’d bought where ‘George’ had most likely bought his.
‘All I’ve been told is that he was going bush and he had camping and cooking gear and plenty of supplies. Where d’you reckon he’d go, Rog?’