He shook his head. ‘Naw, could be anywhere. They’re fuckin’ available.’
‘Is it a big business? I mean, money involved?’
‘You bet it is. How many of those footballers use ‘em d’you reckon? I’ll tell you, a hell of a lot. And this stuff that’s going on now won’t stop it. Plus the runners, rowers, gymnasts, weight-lifters, hockey…’
‘I thought there were tests?’
‘There’s ways to dodge the tests. There’s a quid in all that as well.’
‘But you don’t know of a source?’
‘I wouldn’t piss on anyone connected with it if they were on fire. Clinton asked me the same question and I gave him the same answer. Tell you what, I wouldn’t like to be in the shoes of whoever gave Angie the stuff when Clinton catches up with him.’
‘You say when he catches him?’
‘Clinton said he’d destroy whoever was responsible and I believe him. That boy was ripped apart.’
‘So why isn’t he around looking, asking questions, helping the police?’
Carey shrugged. ‘Search me. Maybe he is. Maybe he had to go interstate or to New Zealand. Some of the stuff comes from over there. I’ll tell you one thing though, he was fair dinkum.’
‘I’m told he was drinking a bit after Angela went into hospital.’
‘Wouldn’t you? Yeah, the time I had this talk with him he’d had a few, but he wasn’t cracking up. He was white-hot angry. I could’ve used that anger on the court and I was sorry I couldn’t tap into it. Bloody sorry. My job depends on results.’
‘He wasn’t suicidal?’
He looked at me as if I’d asked him to spell cat. ‘Clint? Never! Murderous more like. You’ll have to excuse me, I’ve got to try and turn a couple of these lunks into point scorers.’
He jogged off and I left the court after a quick glance at the hoop. It still seemed a long way up. I waved to Kathy and walked out into sunshine that made me hot in my leather jacket. I stripped it off and breathed in the rain-cleared air. The running track was away to the left and I could see figures in bright singlets circling it at a steady pace. I wondered what it was like to go to university on a sports scholarship. A lot of fun, probably, but there was no such thing in my day, and they still wouldn’t offer them for surfing and boxing.
I began to walk towards my car and a young man jumped in front of me with an upraised hand like a traffic cop. ‘Mr Hardy?’
I didn’t like being stopped like that so I kept walking, forcing him to step aside and trot beside me. That was better.
‘Mr Hardy?’
‘That’s right. Who might you be?’
‘I’m Mark Alessio. I’m the editor of the student paper here. Also the chief reporter and sports reporter.’
I slowed down. ‘And who put you on to me’, Mr Alessio?’
‘I can’t say. Could you stop for a minute. I’d like to talk to you.’
I slowed down. ‘Friend of Kathy’s, are you?’
He smiled. ‘Ah, a journalist can’t reveal his sources.’
I laughed and stopped. He was around twenty, tallish with long blond hair. Definitely Kathy’s type. He wore jeans, sneakers, a windcheater and a sleeveless denim jacket. The motorcycle helmet and backpack he carried had slowed him down. He reached into the backpack and took out a notebook.
‘What’s that for?’ I said.
‘I want to interview you.’
‘Want’s one thing, doing it’s another. I don’t think I have anything to say to the student press just now, Mr Alessio.’
‘I’m researching what happened to Angela Cousins.’
That was a pretty good line. He got my attention. I slung my jacket over my shoulder and looked him in the eye. ‘And I’m looking into the disappearance of Clinton Scott, although that statement’s not on the record so don’t write it down.’
He clicked his ballpoint instead of writing. ‘I know you are. D’you think the two things are connected?’
‘Good try.’
‘I want to help.’
‘To do what?’
‘Find out who supplied Angie with the steroids.’
‘That’s not supposed to be public knowledge.’
‘It isn’t, but I can find things out.’
He said it without boastfulness and I gave him points for that. ‘Did you know Angie well?’
‘Not as well as I wanted to, but any hopes I might have had went out the window when the Black Prince came along.’
‘You don’t like him?’
‘He was bad news for women. I could name you three or four he dumped-what’s the word?-unceremoniously. And now he’s gone. No, I don’t like him. Maybe he gave Angie the drugs.’
‘Is that your theory?’
‘I don’t know. I’m considering it while I scratch around.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Talking to the jocks, hanging out around the gyms, picking up gossip. Maybe that’s what you should be doing. I thought perhaps we could pool our resources.’
‘My job’s to find Clinton Scott. Nothing more than that.’
‘Well, good luck and thanks for nothing. One thing’s for sure, you won’t find him around here today.’
‘Oh, why’s that?’
He sneered at me. He didn’t sneer very well. It’s hard to do. All it did was make him look very upset and very, very young. ‘Hadn’t you heard? They’re switching Angie off today.’
6
There was no way I was going to front up to Mrs Cousins now. The contradictory assessments I’d been given of Clinton Scott’s character didn’t bother me too much-people are complex and present different facets to different parties-but they certainly didn’t help me to get a line on what might have happened to him. There was some kind of agreement that he was out to get those responsible for what had happened to Angela, but also a scepticism about whether he was sincere or capable. There’d been no passport in the house at Helensburgh. I’d have to check with Wesley as to whether he had one. If so, Carey’s suggestion about New Zealand might have some merit. If he’d gone interstate why not take his car? Unless he intended to leave no tracks.
I’d have to find out about his bank accounts and credit cards-routine stuff that I’d jumped over in the hope of hitting on something solid right off. Bad procedure. At least there was no bad news to confront Wesley with-no signs that he was suicidal or that he’d come to harm. He’d been emotionally shattered, that was clear. It wasn’t unusual for a Don Juan to fall hard when he fell. His behaviour had altered, as evidenced by the drinking and he’d vanished, apparently of his own accord. It wasn’t comforting for the Scott family but it could have been worse.
Since serving a gaol sentence for tampering with evidence and other offences and since the retirement of Frank Parker, my stocks with the New South Wales police department have fallen. I used to be able to invoke Frank’s name to get at least grudging cooperation at fairly senior levels. Not any more. The clean-up of the force has worked to a degree which means that the corrupt are more covert, the honest are more careful, and everyone is more secretive.
I drove to the Campbelltown police station where I was treated politely by some young uniformed men and women but made to kick my heels for an hour waiting until Detective Sergeant Morton Grace could find the time to see me. I reflected that in my day cops had names like Frank Parker and Col Williamson. As I sat in the station I tried to work out what was different about the atmosphere. The decor was drab, the noticeboard was untidy and the floor was scuffed and in need of a mop. Then it came to me-the air smelled of sweat, dust and damp but not of tobacco smoke. The old-time cops worked in a fug that would have put this new breed in an oxygen tent.
Eventually Grace came down the stairs and beckoned to me. He was blocky in build with a thick, dark moustache and cropped hair. Neither his shirt nor his tie nor his suit pants looked expensive-that’s something the plain clothes men avoid these days. We shook hands and I followed him upstairs to his office. It was a cubbyhole off a big room where several detectives sat about using telephones and computers. Again, no smoke. There was just room in the office for a desk, two chairs and a filing cabinet. Grace waved to a chair, sat down himself and looked at his watch.