The Empty Beach

All right. I'm going now.

Mr. Hardy?

That's right.

You are very punctual.

Never like to be late, Mrs. Singer,

I might miss out on something good.

I was having a gin and tonic.

I'll join you. Thanks.

Great looking day.

What do you think of Bondi?

Bondi? I like it.

I'm proud of it.

I don't.

How long since you gave up?

Oh, I don't know.

Roughly two months, 16 days, nine hours.

Thank you.

How do I begin?

I mean, to confide in a private eye.

- Who recommended me? - The phone book.

Oh!

It's my husband John.

Two years ago, he went out in his yacht

and he never came back.

The yacht was

washed up on the beach

and there was a suicide note in the cabin.

It said that John had cancer and he couldn't face it.

He'd taken 20 Mogadon and half a bottle of whiskey in here.

He intended to go overboard.

He was never found.

Did you read the newspaper reports?

Yeah. He was in real estate, something like that.

Real estate, taxis,

pinball machines,

you name it.

So what's your problem, Mrs. Singer?

John may not be dead.

Here I've been sent this.

I saw John in Roscoe Street Mrs. Singer, he looks crook.

There was an investigation at the time of course.

I just want it settled.

I want a serious inquiry.

There's a check in there and a photograph of John.

What else will you need?

That's a fair bit of money.

I'll need a list of his business contacts,

friends, acquaintances,

places he went.

I'll look it up for you.

I'll get them over to you this afternoon.

John Singer.

Bruce Henneberry.

Hmm.

S for Singer.

I can't hear you. I can't see you.

Along the right hand wall and you've got 20 seconds.

That's interesting.

Nice car. Does it work?

Good day, you're Henneberry, right?

Cliff Hardy.

I'm looking for a bloke called John Singer,

real estate developer.

Drowned himself about two years ago.

Now someone thinks he's alive.

I've read your articles about him.

How do you know I'm Henneberry?

Well, aren't you?

What do you cost Handy?

Hardy. 120 a day.

It's not a good rate for getting dead, is it?

I'm not intending to get dead.

In addition to which,

if you've read my articles,

I've already told you what I know.

See ya.

Come on, Henneberry.

Skip the bullshit.

You've got a tape on Singer.

You are handy, aren't you?

Don't let me stop ya.

Listen Handy, everybody who's anybody knows,

I surf in the morning and I run in the afternoon.

How come you don't know?

Why don't you telephone for an appointment

so I can tell you you can't have one.

Henneberry you gonna talk about Singer or not?

No.

What's the matter? You afraid?

Come on, Hardy.

Be a good boy.

Why don't you ring him?

Who are you?

I'm Anne.

Are you angry?

No. I'm Cliff.

Stop over some time.

Mrs. Singer bring these around herself, Hilde?

I don't know. The envelope was under the door.

Did all right for himself, Singer.

Toaster's not working again.

Been in the window box.

It's Nepalese salad and don't change the subject.

You signed an agreement,

you break the toaster, you fix it.

And it's your turn to put out the garbage.

Feel like I'm married again.

You would be if you weren't such an asshole.

How you going?

You got a light?

You're too young to smoke.

I'm too young to do a lot of things.

Doesn't stop me, but.

I'll bet.

How the hell did you get in?

Ah, Mr. McCleary.

Hot morning, isn't it?

He said he wanted to fuck me.

- Did you? - No.

Why would she say you did?

She reads too much.

Can't read.

He said he wanted to suck my tits.

Just tell me who he is.

Ask him yourself.

You!

Where the hell were you?

Sorry Boss went for a piss.

You piss, when I tell you!

Anyway, the name's Hardy.

Sorry to intrude on your boys' toilet training

but I believe you knew John Singer.

You had a company with him?

Swimming pool installations.

Mr. Singer died.

Company folded.

One of those things.

Are we getting another swimming pool?

Arthur you're kidding?

You journos have your fingers in all the shit.

Slow horses, fast girls, little boys.

There is no shit about John Singer.

And what about McCleary?

He's a dead-set crim, he has to be.

Course he is. So what?

Well, so Singer must be.

Clearly.

So Singer cut a few corners.

So what, in this town?

Dozens of crims like McCleary

wanna invest in straight businesses.

Anyhow, where's that drink you owe me?

Drink? What drink?

For the advice.

If there's nothing wrong, who wrote Mrs. Singer the note?

- G'day Helen. - Hi Garth.

Someone with a grudge.

Maybe she sacked her cleaning lady.

More to the point if there is something wrong

who wrote her the note.

Good afternoon, minister.

Bill Winter.

Oh, he is always here.

This place is a hole.

White wine. Thanks mate.

Don't think he likes you.

Most politicians don't.

Bill Winter's a Minister, so he loathes me.

I know that bloke.

The one in the fawn suit.

Fred Ward.

Fred Ward, yeah.

Fred Ward, he backed a lot of Singer's larger projects.

Must have made millions.

Singer's dead Hardy.

Fred Ward's, big league, respectable stuff.

Not good enough.

Of course, it's good enough.