That Empty Feeling

by Peter Corris

  ‘Not yet. Could be a while.’

  ‘Watch yourself, Cliff, those security outfits have a habit of hiring some pretty rough types.’

  ‘How can you say that? I’ve been approached myself by a couple of these places over the years.’

  ‘Like I said.’

  ‘You reckon they’re subcontracting work out?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised.’

  I rang Botany Security, hoping they operated on a seven-day week and was relieved when the phone was answered. I asked if anyone in a senior position was available to speak to.

  ‘About what, sir?’

  ‘A vehicle registered to you.’ I read off the numberplate.

  ‘Involved in an accident?’

  ‘Not exactly. You give that number to someone upstairs or in a decent office. I’ll hang on.’

  After a long pause a different voice, with a South African or Rhodesian accent, came on the line. ‘Who am I talking to?’

  ‘I think you know.’

  ‘And if I do?’

  ‘You’ll want to get the vehicle back and come to some arrangement with me.’

  ‘Financial?’

  ‘Partly.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘When I have someone to talk to.’

  ‘Okay. Where and when?’

  ‘Jubilee Park at the bottom of Glebe Point Road this afternoon at 3.30. I know the place and its approaches like the back of my hand and I have helpers. I want one person who knows what this is about and just him, or her. It’s turned a bit chilly so he or she should wear a red scarf. He or she can be armed if he wants, because I will be.’

  ‘You can cut the gender equality crap. I’ll be there.’

  He hung up and I let out a long, slow breath.

  A spring cold snap, deterring the Jubilee Park joggers, and the dog-walkers were keeping well away from the bay where every now and then a shark, at least in local legend, had taught Rover not to swim. I was standing by one of the giant Moreton Bay figs down near the water, taking shelter from a keen-edged wind, when a white Holden station wagon with a corporate badge on the side came slowly down the road. It made a careful U-turn at the barrier and parked pointing back the way it had come. I had to smile—a fellow professional. That might make things easier, or possibly harder.

  24

  The red scarf stood out against the grey day backdrop. Big bloke, cropped dark hair, buff-coloured trench coat, long, confident stride. I moved out from behind the tree and he saw me. He glanced around purely as a reflex action, not expecting to see anyone else and he didn’t. His big black Oxfords crunched the crisp leaves as he came towards me. Stopped a yard away.

  ‘You are Cliff Hardy.’ With the accent it sounded more like an accusation than an identification. ‘I know all about you. You’ve already been a bloody nuisance to me.’

  ‘Right, and you are?’

  ‘Richard Keppler.’

  ‘Gidday, Dick. Glad to meet you.’

  ‘Skip the funny business, hey? Let’s get to it.’ He mimed a sweeping look around. ‘I don’t see the Land Rover.’

  I was wearing a leather jacket with deep pockets. I had the .38 in one and the keys to the Land Rover, the registration certificate and the distributor cap in the other. The pistol stayed where it was; I took the other things out.

  ‘It’s in the carpark at Petersham railway station, or possibly the RTA holding depot. I don’t know.’

  He shrugged. ‘And what do you want?’

  ‘It’s too cold to just stand here. Let’s walk.’

  He agreed reluctantly and we set off towards the bridge across the canal. The park was due for an upgrade and residents were looking forward to the clearance of some industrial sites, slipways and the restoration of a wetland. Good luck.

  ‘I think you hired Desmond O’Malley to kidnap Ronald Saunders to use him to exert influence over Barry Bartlett. This was on the orders of Betty Lee Mountjoy.’ I remembered Barry saying Des had done some security work. ‘In fact, I think Des has been working for you for years on the quiet. But this time I think he tried to go freelance and your thugs found him and killed Titch Baum in the process.’

  ‘Oh? That’s a lot of thinking.’ He sounded bored, but I’d seen the sudden angry twitch near his eye before he turned away again.

  ‘Yeah. I think Lady Betty was afraid Barry was going to bail out . . . or even worse, turn snitch. I have evidence.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t care about that. I’ve handled that situation. You also have a contract with the Mogul refinery.’

  He had his hands deep in the pockets of his coat where I assumed he had a gun. But there were people around, not close but close enough to give pause. We stood on the bridge with the dirty water rushing below us. He seemed reluctant to speak.

  ‘I’m not wired,’ I said. Still keeping my hand on the pistol, I opened my jacket and let him pat me down.

  ‘You might have it in your underpants.’

  ‘I don’t. I’ll pull it out and take a piss right here if you like. This is between you and me, Dick. I’ve got a few things to hide, not as much as you, but we’re kind of in this together.’

  His pale Dutch eyes bored into me for a moment and then he nodded. I told him about the fuel scam being worked by BBE and Ratan Mining and their subsidiaries. I said someone inside the Mogul operation was arranging things at the flow end to allow the scam to work.

  ‘I don’t know anything about this,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe you don’t, but you can find out and when you do, you and I’ll talk to the Federal Police.’

  He laughed, took his hands from his pockets and rubbed them together to warm them. ‘I can’t see that happening.’

  ‘It will, because as well as evidence about your kidnapping caper, I can prove that O’Malley was contracted to kill Sir Keith Mountjoy. How would you like Botany Security to be involved in that?’

  It was a colossal bluff but I’d supplied just enough information that, together with the chance to recover the Land Rover, made him consider it. If he’d done his research on me he’d know that, while I wasn’t in particularly good standing with the police, I had an important and influential contact in Frank Parker and an honourable army record.

  He swung around towards the water to do his thinking and I put the hook in a bit deeper.

  ‘The thing is, Dick, Betty Lee wasn’t the only one to have the idea of using young Ronny. The federal cops set up a honey trap for him but I managed to intervene there as well. I’ve got the woman in question onside.’

  I stiffened for a second as he dipped into his coat pocket but he took out a pipe and a tin of Uncle Pat tobacco. He filled the pipe and lit it and I was carried back years to when I was a small boy in Maroubra and my grandfather smoked Uncle Pat. I sniffed appreciatively at the rich smoke and he looked at me with an expression that was close to a smile, as if we had somehow communicated on another level.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. I’m not sure quite what’s in this for you.’

  I decided to be honest with him and, to my surprise, with myself. ‘I’m hoping for immunity for Barry Bartlett and I’m interested in the woman I spoke of.’

  He puffed and nodded. ‘Immunity sounds good. I’d need something similar myself.’

  ‘Negotiable,’ I said, and handed him the keys and the distributor cap.

  Pipe in mouth, he reached inside his coat to a pocket and produced a business card.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said.

  I touched my pockets. ‘I didn’t think to bring a card, sorry.’

  The icy stare was back along with the almost smile. ‘Don’t worry, chommie,’ he said, ‘I know exactly how to find you.’

  He started to walk off, then turned back and said, ‘That security break-in at my office? Were you already keeping tabs on me?’

  I was surprised. ‘No, mate, sheer coincidence. Another case entirely.’ He nodded, but didn’t look wholly convinced.
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  It was probably time to contact Bronwen and start to mend fences but I held back. Best to wait until I heard something from Keppler. I drove to Erskineville to pay Ronny a visit. I was asked to wait and show ID at reception while the person in charge consulted a list.

  ‘That’s all right, Mr Hardy,’ she said. ‘You can go up.’

  ‘What’s happening here?’

  ‘Mr Saunders has been assigned a guard and I have a list of people permitted to see him.’

  Barry on the job, I thought. The guard was youngish, fit-looking. He got up from the hard chair he was sitting on and offered his hand.

  ‘Rob Silvani, Mr Hardy.’

  We shook. ‘How’s our boy?’

  ‘Having a tough time, but he’s hanging in there. Plays a mean game of five hundred.’

  ‘You should see him in a boxing ring. Okay for me to go in?’

  For an answer he opened the door before sitting down again. Ronny, in blue and white checked pyjamas, was propped up in bed watching television. When he saw me he pressed a button on a panel connected to the set by a slender cable and turned the TV off.

  ‘Gidday, Cliff. Dad tells me I’ve got you to thank for hauling me out of that bloody place and getting me in here.’

  ‘I had some help. How’re you doing?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nightmares, and I get the shakes. They filled me full of some kind of dope.’

  I sat at the end of the bed and watched him drink some water. Sweat had broken out on his forehead and he mopped at it with a tissue.

  ‘The . . . the girl . . .’

  ‘She’s all right. She’s got some money from Barry and last I heard she was headed for Queensland.’

  ‘What about that big bastard that grabbed me? Christ. He could hit.’

  ‘I saw the bruises. I managed to get the better of him in a more or less fair fight. He’s around somewhere but I don’t think you have to worry about him. Just concentrate on getting better. Are you on drugs of any sort?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not recently. A bit when I was younger—that’s when I got done for possession—but not the hard stuff. Bit of a binge drinker now and again, that’s all.’

  I nodded. ‘You make a great pair, you and Barry. You bunged up here and him in hospital.’

  ‘How is he, really?’

  ‘Getting better, probably depends on how well he looks after himself.’

  ‘I could help him there.’

  ‘Do you know why all this happened to you, Ronny?’

  ‘I suppose to get to Dad somehow.’

  ‘Right. Well, I’ll leave you to watch TV and . . . get yourself together. By the way, you said you and your sister had no family after your mum and her bloke got killed. Was it always like that?’

  He went to rub at one of the scratches on his chest and as he jerked the hand away I noticed the raw friction marks on his wrist. ‘Pretty much. There was an uncle who showed up a few times. Uncle George. Dad’s brother. He and my mum had a flaming row and he pissed off. Why?’

  ‘No reason. Sally Brewer was very impressed with you inside the ropes. She’d take you on if you wanted to fight professionally.’

  He smiled and touched his nose and his eyebrows. ‘And end up looking like you? No offence, but no thanks.’

  ‘Very wise,’ I said.

  *

  The streetlights were out in the lower end of Glebe Point Road when I got back and my street was in semi-darkness, with only a few house lights showing. I parked and got out, stretching and massaging an aching back. I realised how tense I’d been in my encounter with Keppler and the short drive to and from Erskineville hadn’t helped. It was Sunday night and King Street was packed with people coming to the many Vietnamese and Thai restaurants that had started to spring up. I’d had to brake several times to avoid pedestrians and cars jumping the lights.

  I waited until my eyes adjusted to the gloom and walked up to my gate. I groped in the letterbox and grabbed what felt like a bunch of junk mail. I juggled it with my keys in one hand and opened the gate with the other. In the dark I stumbled over one of the uplifted tiles on the path.

  ‘Stay right there, Hardy, you cunt. Just like that.’

  No mistaking the voice—Des O’Malley. A torch beam hit me and I blinked, half blinded, but I saw enough to make out the thrust of a sawn-off, double-barrelled shotgun. O’Malley was in the shadows on my porch. Perfect range for such a weapon.

  ‘Don’t do anything silly, Des.’

  ‘I’m gonna do what I should’ve done a fucking long time ago.’

  Just then the streetlights came back on. I threw the handful of junk mail at him and tried to get the .38 from my pocket but he batted the paper away and stepped forward quickly so that he had the shottie only a yard away from my chest.

  ‘Say goodbye, Hardy.’

  I heard a movement behind me and thought it was going to be the last thing I’d ever hear. I didn’t see my life flashing before my eyes but there was a roaring in my ears before a crisp voice broke through.

  ‘Police. O’Malley, drop the weapon.’

  He didn’t: he swung it to avoid me and aim at the voice but two shots followed in rapid succession and he collapsed. The shotgun hit the path and exploded, spraying its deadly load into the unkempt scrubby bushes in my garden. Lights came on and doors crashed open. I sagged against the fence as Bronwen, two hands still on her pistol, let out a low moan. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ she whispered. ‘I think I’ve killed him.’

  part three

  25

  She hadn’t killed him. One of her shots had hit his right shoulder and the other smashed his right elbow. Des’s right-hand punching days were done. He’d sustained a concussion when he fell and he’d bled all over my porch.

  We learned this over the next few hours of madness while paramedics, cops and neighbours swarmed about. I’d gone inside to make the calls while Bron had waited with O’Malley. The paramedics stabilised him and took him away. The uniforms guarded the scene until the Glebe detectives arrived. I knew one of them but not on a friendly basis.

  Bron produced Federal Police ID and surrendered her Glock. The detectives bagged the shotgun and we went in separate cars to Glebe police station. In all the ruckus I’d scarcely had time to thank Bron and she’d brushed off what I said anyway.

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t kill him,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s our ace in the hole, or one of our aces. If I can get him to confirm who hired him to take Ronny—and tell me why.’

  She looked at me uncomprehendingly and we had no more time to talk. We were taken to separate rooms in the station and I had a long, solitary wait while phones rang and doors opened and closed and footsteps came and went. Eventually a man who identified himself as Detective Sergeant Luther Reiss from the Serious Crimes Unit came in with two cups of coffee. It was past midnight and he looked tired but not too unhappy. The room was set up to record an interview and he fiddled with the equipment after giving me the coffee.

  He switched the recording device on and gave his name, the date, time and place and identified me. The red light glowed and I could hear faint tape hiss. He offered to wait until I had legal representation.

  ‘No need,’ I said. ‘I was a victim, potentially.’

  ‘Can you explain what happened?’

  I told him O’Malley and I had a long-standing enmity and we’d come into conflict recently over matters to do with Barry Bartlett. When he asked for details I declined to give them. When he asked about Federal Police officer Bronwen Marr, I said she was part of the same deal and that I hoped she’d get a commendation for saving my life.

  ‘I doubt it,’ he said and looked sorry he’d put the comment on the record.

  ‘Don’t worry, Luther,’ I said. ‘You can always edit that out.’

  He announced a pause and switched the machine off. ‘I’d like to edit you out altogether, Hardy, but as it happens your fuck-up just might be useful.’

  I knew wha
t he meant. His assignment was the murder of Sir Keith Mountjoy by sawn-off shotgun and now he had something to work with. I looked blank and didn’t say a word. He resumed the recording of the interview but it went nowhere and his heart wasn’t really in it. He escorted me to the exit. I stopped and addressed the desk officer.

  ‘What happened to the woman who was brought in with me?’

  The officer looked at Reiss who nodded.

  ‘I believe she was taken to Canberra,’ he said.

  All this was in the days before social media and people didn’t have mobile phones to record everything happening around them. O’Malley’s shooting got some newspaper and radio coverage, but there was no filmed footage. I was described as a ‘Glebe resident’ and O’Malley as ‘a person known to police’. At the scene the local cops had kept neighbours and stickybeaks at a distance and had quickly ushered Bron into a car. A couple of reports followed about a person being interviewed by police in hospital, but there was no further identification. Unless you knew more about it, there was no way to connect the incident with the death of Sir Keith Mountjoy.

  Barry Bartlett and Ronny did know of course and they grilled me closely when I visited them a few times over the following days. Barry had studied the reports in detail and formed his own conclusion based on them and my demeanour.

  ‘You didn’t shoot Des, did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m guessing it was that female cop you brought in here.’

  ‘Why would you guess that?’

  ‘Reading between the bloody lines. The cops’re clamped right down on it the way they do when it’s one of their own. Plus she had the look.’

  ‘The look?’

  ‘Something about her, mate.’

  ‘You’re a psychologist now, are you?’

  ‘I know people. I twigged her as ambitious. Maybe a bit out of her depth but probably ready to step up if she had to.’

  He’d read her better than me and deserved to know how things stood. I told him I thought Betty Lee Mountjoy had hired O’Malley—through the Botany Security outfit—to grab Ronny, and raised the possibility that O’Malley had offed Sir Keith.