‘Oh God, now they’re all coming down on us,’ said Tanner.
Allan was evidently winded by his short stroll through the crime scene, because he was puffing a little as he arrived. He gave Gus a stare through his black-rimmed bifocals, then waved an arm as if to indicate a path, along which Allan and Tanner began walking, moving off out of earshot.
‘The Premier called,’ said Allan, by way of greeting.
‘Christ, no.’
Allan intimated a lowering of the volume with the flat of his hands. ‘He’s particularly anxious. He thinks the shooting will give that Labor mob another good run in the papers. Between you and me, it’s the last thing I want.’
Tanner blew out his cheeks, expelled air. ‘Well, I don’t see how they can,’ he said carefully. ‘Reilly was heavily Labor-connected. He had his finger in a lot of nasty pies. I can’t for the life of me see how they can get any mileage from this.’
‘And I think you’re missing my point. There wasn’t any pie those blokes got a hand in that some dextrous copper hadn’t got a finger in first.’
‘It won’t be a problem,’ said Tanner. ‘Askin wants it gone. It’s already finished.’
He made to go, but Allan put a hand on his shoulder. ‘One more thing. I find out this informant of yours has anything to do with this –’
‘He hasn’t.’
But Allan wouldn’t be put off. ‘Anything comes back at us, anything at all –’ He supplied the rest of the sentence with a gesture.
‘Sure. No worries. I’ll deal with it.’
Standing on the footpath several yards off, Gus watched Allan and Tanner disappear before turning back to the shop. Workmen in blue overalls were stepping in and out of the window, carting debris. One bore the arm of a shop mannequin aloft. Another was hauling a tangled display of Japanese rice-paper lanterns. Wally Driscoll, from the Scientific Investigation Bureau, stuck out his head.
‘Who’s that?’
‘It’s me,’ said Gus.
Driscoll appraised him through his inch-thick spectacles. ‘Okay, be careful.’
Gus followed Driscoll inside.
‘How did it happen?’ said Gus, taking a closer look at the wreckage.
Driscoll stared at the smashed vehicle with something like admiration or astonishment. ‘I dunno, but I reckon it’s the telly that does it. Used to be they’d drill them through with a nice little hole and plant them at Botany, maybe some other sandy-type place. But now they’re watching these gangster shows on the telly and they have to get fancy –’ Driscoll edged his way around the scene, pausing now and then to peer at some strange piece of metal, the trace of a bullet, a particular contortion, and each time he moved Gus shifted position, following him around.
‘Just look at this bloke,’ said Driscoll. ‘I reckon they must’ve shot him with enough ammunition to murder an elephant, and he just kept on going.’ He continued, ‘I’m guessing there must’ve been one, maybe two, gunmen lying in wait as Reilly comes down the front steps. The first shot sprays off from a heavy-gauge shotgun. The bloke’s badly wounded, but he climbs into his car and reverses, when bang – another shot smashes through the front driver-side window. There’s blood everywhere, maybe hit an artery. Strictly speaking, the bloke ought to be dead. But he brings the car round and shoots out across the intersection as the last bullet shatters the back window. Anyway, he continues up the hill for a bit before his reflexes give out. The car comes round in a slow arc, mounts the footpath, and the rest – well, I reckon that’s the mess you’ve got here.’ Until now Driscoll’s gaze had been lowered, fixed on his work. When he spoke again, he was staring at Gus. ‘What’s Allan here for?’
‘I dunno,’ said Gus. ‘I guess we’ll find out.’
‘Yeah, I reckon we will,’ said Driscoll, wiping his gloves absently on the front of his shirt. ‘But I reckon it won’t be for any good reason.’
Gus made no answer to this, but he stayed for a while, talking over some points, before stepping back into the street. Beyond the area defined by the barricades, the press were arriving in greater numbers, shouting out questions, dropping used flash bulbs into the gutter, crowding the scene.
‘Problem?’ said Gus to Tanner, who was crouched on the bumper of an unmarked, staring off into the blue as if he were absolutely alone.
‘Yeah, hell has popped open.’
‘Is it Allan?’
Tanner took out a soft-pack and shook out a fag. ‘Worse. This thing has got politics all over it.’
Tanner smoked off the rest of his fag in dead silence, then got to his feet. He seemed to say and do very little, but soon the investigation was unfolding around him, detectives were canvassing door-to-door, questioning patrons of a nearby restaurant and idle passers-by. Gus waited for the crowd of detectives to thin before he asked to be deployed to the canvas.
‘Why don’t you come with me to see Reilly’s moll round the corner? Goes by the name of Aileen Glynn.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Gus, thinking that he couldn’t have had a better opportunity.
‘It seems Reilly was in the habit of seeing this moll every night. Like you could’ve set your clock, the times he was coming and going. Maybe he should’ve sent out an invitation, “I’m here at eight, come round and knock me.”’
Cameras flashed, bright and blinding, as morgue attendants shifted Reilly’s corpse from the sheet-covered gurney into the back of the waiting wagon. The photographers closed in, but the wagon was already moving off up the rise, a trail of cameramen running behind it, one trying to grab an extra shot through the blacked-out rear window. Gus stood beside Tanner and watched as the strange cavalcade went by. The night was hot, the air thick and heavy, and it seemed as if the whole weight of the stars and the sky folded over him as they rounded the corner.
The apartment block was bone-white among the night-blackened trees, as they came up the asphalt. Gus knocked on the door, then knocked again, staring through the pebbled glass window by the doorjamb until he saw the hall light come on.
‘I’m not saying a word to any reporters,’ Aileen Glynn spoke through the shut door.
‘Excuse me. My name is Detective Gus Finlay, I’m with the police.’
The door came open an inch.
Gus had his badge wallet out and open. ‘Mrs Glynn? We’d like to ask you a couple of questions. May we come in?’
Aileen moved off to one side, and Gus stepped into a startling white entryway with cubed crystal lights shining down on marble-topped hallstands and chromium pedestals. A rectangular mirror stood at the end of the hall. In it, Gus watched as Aileen turned back to the door where Tanner was standing. Her face was blank and didn’t show a thing. But her whole body stiffened.
‘Will this take long?’
‘Could be,’ said Tanner.
Tanner gave Aileen a stare, taking in everything from her diamante-clipped beehive to her white satin slippers, then he headed off down the hall. Aileen watched Tanner’s departing back, then walked down the hall after him. She sat in a seat that was stiff-backed and modern-looking, and waved Gus to a chair.
Gus took off his hat and fiddled with it, letting his fingers trace round the brim. ‘Obviously you’re aware that your … friend, Dick Reilly, was shot dead earlier this evening.’
‘I can think of a better word than friend, detective. And I’m sure your friend Mr Tanner wouldn’t hesitate to use it.’
Gus glanced at Tanner, who didn’t seem particularly anxious to enter the conversation. He pressed on. ‘I can understand this is a bad time, but surely you’d like to see the people that committed this crime brought to justice?’ He felt the last word catch on his tongue. ‘Perhaps you could tell us about his business associates, the people he worked with?’
‘So you can arrest them?’
‘Look, do you want to find out who did this?’
Aileen tried to laugh then turned her eyes away. She got off her chair and put her cigarette in the ashtray. Her face drained so pale it almost va
nished into whiteness. ‘Oh, God.’ She stumbled.
Gus stepped towards her but she turned on him, her face burning with a sudden fury, as if she’d been soundlessly slapped on both cheeks.
Gus edged away. ‘Was there anyone who had it in for him?’
‘Enemies?’ Aileen almost laughed. ‘Oh, plenty.’
‘In particular?’
‘Just people who owed him money. People who pressed him for money they said he owed them.’
‘You think any of these people might be responsible?’
‘Maybe. Some of them had guns. But Dick wasn’t worried. He said this lawyer bloke, Gillespie, was making some arrangements that would set things to rights.’
Tanner interrupted. ‘Charlie Gillespie?’
‘Yeah, that’s him. Why?’
‘Nothing. Maybe isn’t anything important.’
Gus went to say something, but Tanner caught his eye. ‘Okay, detective, guess we ought to push off then. I reckon the little lady must be all strung out.’
‘Why did you do that?’
Tanner glanced briefly at Gus but didn’t make any answer. He buttoned his coat, straightened his hat and descended the stairs onto the footpath. Incautious, Gus took the steps two at a time and came up alongside him. ‘Who’s this lawyer bloke, anyway? I spoke to him after O’Connor was shot.’
Tanner stopped short. ‘Did you now?’
Gus nodded.
‘And what did he say?’
‘Nothing,’ said Gus. ‘At least, nothing that was relevant to the O’Connor case.’
‘I see,’ Tanner replied heavily. ‘I thought we’d come to some sort of arrangement last time we spoke, but maybe I got it wrong.’
Gus felt his face redden. ‘No, I reckon you didn’t.’
‘So you’ve agreed to take orders?’
‘I guess so.’
‘And you’re going to like it?’
Gus nodded again.
‘Well, you don’t look it.’
Confusion flared on Gus’s face.
Tanner almost laughed. ‘You don’t look like you’re liking it, not one single bit.’ He cuffed Gus on the cheek. ‘By Christ, I’ll make a copper out of you yet.’
Charlie had arranged himself in the attitude in which he wished to be discovered, taking his early morning tea in the cramped space between the desk and the window, affecting to study something in the horrors of the light well. But when the door finally opened and Tanner walked in with his lackey in tow, not even the most meaningless of pleasantries came to Charlie’s rescue. He held up a finger, mimed the word ‘shush’ and bundled Tanner out into the hall.
‘I thought we agreed that we’re talking alone?’ said Charlie, pointing at the shut door with his head.
‘If it’s young Finlay you’re talking about, no worries. He’s sweet.’
‘He doesn’t look particularly sweet to me. He came to see me after O’Connor was shot.’
‘I know. Did you tell him anything?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then there’s nothing to worry about. So let’s go back inside and talk to the bloke.’
Charlie hesitated, but Tanner stood his ground.
‘This is a murder inquiry, Charlie. You do what I say.’
Charlie considered it prudent to back down, if only for a moment. He went back inside and seated himself behind the barricade of his desk, elaborately straightening all the objects along it. The opening exchanges were politeness itself. Tanner told Charlie that he hoped Charlie wouldn’t hold anything out on him, and Charlie replied that, since they already had so many square dealings behind them, Tanner ought to feel confident about finding him unchanged in his attitude. Charlie tried out the litany of plausible-sounding phrases he had worked up that morning, trying to convince himself he was getting the better of Tanner. But Tanner’s continued silence made him uncomfortable, and slowly any conviction he had oozed away.
Eventually Tanner turned to his underling. ‘Go wait outside.’ He waited for Gus to leave before turning back to Charlie. ‘So, Charlie. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?’
‘I don’t think you understand –’
‘Why don’t you try me?’
‘Reilly was a client. It goes to confidentiality. So if you’ve got nothing further to say –’
‘But I do have something further to say. Don’t think for one minute that I can’t bring you down without damaging myself, because nobody in this town would take it into their heads to question a copper. A bloke who’s out there, risking injury, putting his life on the line, making the place safe for a citizen to walk at night. But you, well, like I said … I reckon that’s different.’
Charlie lifted his head, suddenly conscious of the air being brackish and the light disappearing, and the mauve shadows ghosting over the shabby interior. He was thoroughly unsettled by the time Tanner quite cheerfully asked him to pour him a drink, as if there was nothing amiss and the threat had never been made.
‘Well, Charlie,’ Tanner put his drink down on the desk blotter beside him. ‘I guess you better tell me all about it.’
Charlie tried circumlocution. ‘Of course, I knew Reilly from way back. There wasn’t anybody grew up in the back slums of this town didn’t know who he was. He was a very good middleweight –’ Tanner glanced meaningfully at his watch and Charlie hurried on, unsure if it was a newly devised strategy of truth telling or some cowardly instinct that made him divulge what he did. ‘I guess you know Reilly was a Labor supporter from his earliest days. He worked as a chucker-outer at regular and impromptu Labor meetings in the back-city neighbourhoods where he grew up. Reilly had friends in the old Labor Cabinet and half the Sydney City Council in his pocket. Of course, Askin gets himself elected and it all comes unstuck.’
‘Which is when Reilly comes to you?’
‘Reilly heard I’d got contacts. People who could arrange for him to make a donation.’
‘Who was it?’
Charlie hesitated, but only for a second. ‘Askin.’
Tanner let out a long silent whistle.
Charlie rushed on, trying to explain it all away. ‘Frank Browne arranged it.’
‘Yeah, I know who he is,’ said Tanner. ‘Well, good then,’ he added, in an altogether different tone. ‘Charlie, you old rogue. Why didn’t you tell me about this? I thought we were mates?’
‘It wasn’t my story,’ said Charlie, almost feebly.
‘Well, I reckon I can keep it quiet. But I’m warning you, this is a matter on which I intend to collect.’ Tanner appraised Charlie judiciously, then picked up his hat and walked out the door.
Charlie stayed at his desk and massaged his sore brow. He had exercised his own judgement in going into business with Tanner, but now he didn’t like it one bit. He was beginning to see how far and in what ways Tanner could be a danger to him. He also began to wonder if there might be some means of escape, of shaking him off. He must shake him off, or stumble along until his long-cherished dreams slipped further from reach.
Gus drove Tanner back to the Hat Factory in silence. He was more than a little curious about the few words he’d heard, but he didn’t press Tanner about what was going on, and the silence seemed to drift along with them as they entered CIB.
There was a flurry in the air. Groups of detectives crowded the halls. Civilian employees shifted typewriters and boxes of case notes. Tanner was accosted by a Girl Friday and stalked off to see Allan. Gus pushed his way down the hall.
‘What’s up?’ he asked Agostini, who was rushing around the door.
‘Haven’t you heard? Scientific Investigations have discovered a notebook among Reilly’s belongings containing the sorts of names that shouldn’t be found on such a bloke in such circumstances.’
‘What names?’
‘Ask Wally,’ said Agostini, shaking his head. ‘Got to go,’ he added, and went banging out the door with the rest of his bunch.
Studiously Gus checked his messages and locked his gun in the
bottom drawer of his desk. Then, finding himself alone, he wound his way down the corridor to Scientific Investigations. Driscoll was sitting at one end of a long metal table, resting his big colourless cheek in the palm of his hand. On the table in front of him, an assortment of objects were encased in clear plastic evidence bags, including a brown leather wallet, a fine-tooth hair comb, a small metal nail file and a number of traffic tickets.
Gus made his approach. ‘Agostini told me you’d found something big.’
‘Yeah, that’s it,’ said Driscoll, lifting his cheek slightly. He pushed a small black calf-bound notebook across the table. ‘That was found among Reilly’s belongings. In it are the names of individuals, together with amounts signifying money.’
‘Blackmail?’ Gus picked up the book.
‘No, I don’t reckon that’ll fly. They’re particulars of people Reilly must’ve had dealings with.’
Gus opened the book gingerly, turning the pages, running his eyes down the lists. Every once in a while he let out a gasp. ‘This is guaranteed to blow the whole crime world wide open.’
‘I guess that would explain why we’re burying it then.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean they’ll investigate the thing on some sort of level, but only because it would look a bit strange, all of us coppers sitting around on our backsides, doing nothing about it. Then, after a while, they’ll call it a “waste of resources” and give it away.’
‘I reckon you’re being a bit cynical.’
‘I reckon I’m not. I’m telling you as soon as I copped a look at that thing I took it to Allan, on account of not wanting to see the thing buried. Allan says to me, “Aren’t you jumping to conclusions?” So I say to him, “I’m most certainly not. Everything’s there, identities are revealed and incriminating evidence is given. What else do you need?”’ Driscoll removed a small flask of Vickers from behind a jar of formaldehyde. He offered some to Gus.
Gus shook his head.
Driscoll took a swig. ‘Allan says, “Yeah, but the mere presence of names in a notebook doesn’t prove anything. There are people who might know criminals quite innocently: the plumber who fixes his toilet, the man who mends the tiles on the roof of his house.” He says, “It’s a dangerous thing to suggest simply because some bloke with a criminal record dies, or is murdered, or whatever, that all sorts of people should be subject to innuendo and allegation.” “But it’s not allegations,” I say. “And they’re not plumbers and tradesmen, they’re politicians and high-ranking cops.”’
Crooked Page 13
