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The Knox Street Bar was situated in a quiet laneway a block south of Broadway. Twenty years ago, I joined a group of mates out on the town and, on a whim, we stumbled across the bar where, to our surprise, Pseudo Echo were performing live. I picked up a Spanish exchange student and we did it under a bed sheet in a share house in Bondi. Those memories flooded back as I passed under the nondescript awning through the heavy gated door, down the industrial stairs into the cavernous space where high tables occupied dark corners.
A new bar had been put in, backlit with white light and stocked floor to ceiling with an assortment of drinks from around the world. A man matching Fripp’s description occupied a small table at the rear corner, staring into his beer. I ordered a schooner from the barman, and as I approached Fripp, he looked up and smiled uneasily, baby teeth set in big gums.
I took out the knuckledusters and placed them on the table.
His smile quickly faded.
‘Mr. Fripp, I’m an independent agent,’ I said. ‘The less you know about me, the better. I’ve had a bad morning, and I’m short on patience.’
‘What do you want?’
I set the beer down on a coaster and took the seat opposite him. ‘I want you to tell me what you know about the book Broken Trust.’
He cleared his throat and pushed his shoulders back. Suddenly, he appeared bigger than he looked. ‘Before we get into all that, you need to know about the state of play.’
‘Which is what?’
‘I’m taking a huge risk just coming here. This is a scratch my back, scratch your back situation. You’ll have to stump something up.’
His tenacity earned him some points. ‘Okay.’
I indicated the international display of booze. ‘How about I buy you a bottle? Take your pick.’
‘I’m not a bloody alcoholic. What do you take me for?’
‘Okay, then, you’re a materialist.’ I took out my wallet, removed four fifty-dollar notes, and placed them surreptitiously in a pile on the table between us. ‘I’ll scratch first. How about two big ones?’
He took a long pull on his beer, swept up the money, and stuffed it into his crumpled linen jacket pocket. ‘Look, this doesn’t come back to me, okay? And you can’t talk about this to anyone.’
‘You can trust me.’
‘I don’t trust you. I don’t even know you.’
I looked him over properly. He was unremarkable in appearance—male pattern baldness carved its track across a red, sweaty cranium. His cheeks carried acne scars, and his collared shirt appeared yellow at the collars.
‘Sorry to hear that,’ I said.
‘Sorry? That word doesn’t mean anything anymore.’
‘I like to think it does, especially when you mean it.’
He ran a hand over his reddening head. ‘What are we doing here?’
‘I want to know everything about the manuscript. What’s so important about it?’
‘There are some very big allegations in it, that’s what’s so important about it. Ever since we accepted it for publication, someone very powerful became involved. I’m talking about someone who has the means to make sure the past stays dead and buried.’
‘Well, that sort of philosophy goes against my grain, especially when a woman’s missing.’
‘What woman?’
‘The less you know, the better.’
He tossed his beer back and some of it split down the front of his shirt. He swore and tried to wipe it dry with his hand.
‘Fripp, if there’s something you’re not telling me, you need to say it. I could help you.’
He exhaled sharply and slowly replaced his empty glass on the table with a trembling hand. ‘Lyons Media put a court-ordered injunction on us not to publish. Ever since then, I’ve been getting phone calls from an anonymous number reminding me to keep the manuscript under lock and key.’
‘Do you recognise the voice, or any background sounds?’
‘No, he talks in a whisper. It could be anybody. He calls me every Friday at work and tells me what my eight-year-old son is doing at school. He tells me what games my son plays in the playground. He tells me which friends he’s playing with. He tells me when my son uses the bathroom. He said if I call the cops, he’ll take my son and I’ll never see him again.’
I took a pull on the beer and put the knuckledusters away.
He scoffed. ‘You’re not paranoid if they’re really after you. That’s what they say, right? Does anyone know you were seeing me? I’m hanging my arse out in the open seeing you like this.’
‘No, no one knows. Have you read the manuscript? Do you know exactly what the allegations are?’
He surveyed the bar nervously before he spoke. ‘One of the nine interviewees alleges Jeff Lyons sexually abused her for three years when she was a girl.’
‘Who made the allegations?’
‘His daughter.’
I took a long pull on the beer and considered all the connections. If true, it explained a lot. ‘Did the author verify the allegations?’
‘I verified the allegations. One of the sources is an ex-cop with commendations as long as your arm. He provided a copy of the transcript from when she came into the police station. She said her father was touching her up. She said he forced her to perform with one of the neighbour’s kids in amateur porn films. Lyons denied all of it at the time, and in the end, she retracted her statement. My source says there’s an imbedded code in the force to protect certain prominent personalities who make large donations to annual police sponsored events.’
It clarified Lyons’ aversion to me looking into the book, and explained the sudden heart failure. If any of it came out, he faced the potential collapse of his media empire overnight. The book could also be used as leverage against Lyons, or as the catalyst that may have led to Tamsin’s disappearance.
‘That’s all I know,’ he said. He stood up so quickly that he bumped the table and knocked the glasses over. ‘You can’t tell a soul. I can’t let them hurt my son, do you understand? I need to go.’
‘I think I’ll be able to stop whoever’s threatening your son. Can I keep in touch? My name’s Matt.’
‘Please, just leave me alone. You got what you wanted, didn’t you? Please don’t contact me again.’
He made for the stairs, and I followed him up and out onto the street. The sun had reappeared, and the air felt a few degrees warmer. Fripp quickly made his way to the left, down the narrow street.
A motorcycle accelerated from my right and a helmeted figure in red and black leathers rode past pointing a .45 straight at me. Four shots rang out in a rapid-fire pop, pop, pop, pop.
