by Peter Corris
Hank and I exchanged glances before Hank shook his head. ‘I’m afraid we’re not at liberty to reveal that.’
‘I said I could arrest you.’
‘The meeting’d still go ahead,’ I said. ‘Just that our side would be undermanned.’
‘You’re bluffing.’
I shrugged. ‘If you say so. Why don’t you put it to Ian Dickersen that he’s got a chance to close out a high profile murder case and drop some corporate creeps in the shit.’
‘Ian’s not a big noter.’
‘You don’t get to his level without making a name for yourself,’ I said. ‘And there’re always more steps to take.’
She chewed that over, and she wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t been thinking about her own part in the scheme of things. She closed her notebook and tucked it into a smart black leather bag that had a discreet Aboriginal flag medallion attached.
‘I’ll report to him and we’ll be in touch.’
‘Make it soon,’ I said.
‘You know what your great talent is, Mr Hardy?’
‘I’d like to know,’ Hank said.
She stood, ready to go. ‘Almost, but not quite, pissing people off.’
Good exit line and she took it.
Hank was grinning and I gave him the bird. ‘What she means is, my style leaves space for charm.’
So it was a waiting game-us waiting for Dickersen; Crimond waiting for us; Lachlan waiting for Crimond; Patrick Fox-James waiting for Megan; Phil Fitzwilliam waiting for me. In all this I’d almost forgotten about Margaret and I wasn’t ready for her call at home that night.
‘Cliff, this is Margaret. Please pick up if you’re there.’
I hesitated and I wasn’t sure why. I didn’t know anymore whether the relationship was professional or personal or a mixture of both. Confusing. While I hesitated, I had a flash of us making love in the motel. Over the years, so many motels, and a few of them, with similar scenes playing out. Mostly signifying nothing. I grabbed the phone.
‘Margaret.’
‘Cliff.’
There was a pause and then she laughed. ‘What is this, a scene from Noel Coward?’
I laughed, too. ‘I was deep in thought.’
‘About me?’
‘And other matters.’
‘You know that old joke about the girl who falls in love with the gorilla, but he doesn’t call, he doesn’t write. These days you could add-he doesn’t email, he doesn’t text.’
‘I’m sorry. A lot has been happening, some of it good, some not so good. I was holding off until we had a result.’
‘Are you close to that?’
‘We could be, but it might all still go wrong.’
‘Well, I’ll leave that to you and Hank and Megan, but I was really calling about. . us. I miss you.’
A statement like that should warm the heart, but it caught me on the hop. With a string of failed relationships behind me I was never confident the next time at bat. My wife Cyn had provided the diagnosis long ago. ‘You live in your head, Cliff,’ she said, ‘with your clients and victims and perps. Everyone else just flits in and out.’ It hadn’t been a problem with Lily, possibly because we both did the same thing, but it had brought things unstuck in the past. It was time to snap out of it, if I could.
‘Margaret,’ I said, ‘don’t give up on me.’
‘Give me something not to give up on.’
I tried. I talked. I gave her a version of where things stood with the investigation, but I could tell that wasn’t what she was asking. I knew I was deliberately misinterpreting what she said. I suspect she knew it as well. I had a sense that she was involved in some kind of decision process, involving me, perhaps, but without telling me the terms. It all made for a very unsatisfactory phone conversation.
24
DS Roberts rang the next morning to say that Dickersen had agreed to go along with our plan with several nonnegotiable provisos: Roberts herself and another officer were to be given several hours’ notice of the venue and time of the meeting. They were empowered to inspect the meeting place and to cancel the event if they thought it unsatisfactory. They were empowered to intervene at any point they chose.
‘What if we don’t agree?’ Hank said.
‘Then you and Mr Hardy will be proceeded against on various charges relating to violation of the Private Enquiry Agents Act and withholding information from the police in respect of several serious crimes.’
‘Several?’ Hank said.
‘The shooting at Double Bay and the death of Henry McKinley.’ ‘We don’t have any hard evidence on the shooting.’ ‘Hard or soft, you haven’t told us everything you know.’ ‘The same might go for you.’ ‘We’re the authorities, you’re not.’ ‘You win,’ Hank said. ‘We should know where and when by early afternoon. Who do we contact?’
‘Who d’you think?’ she said.
We waited a few hours and then started phoning. I told DS Roberts the meeting was set for seven thirty and that I’d meet her and her colleague at my house at five. Hank phoned Ross Crimond and told him the time and place-giving him a few hours to contact the Lachlan people. I phoned Megan with the information and arranged for her and Fox-James to meet us in the office for a briefing.
That left me with the problem of Phil Fitzwilliam and nobody to consult with on the matter. Well, that wasn’t unusual. I went for a walk to Australia Park, sat under a tree and thought, but nothing inspirational came. Trees and grass and fresh air are overrated. No other course but the standard Hardy one-the direct approach. I phoned him.
‘About fuckin’ time,’ he said.
‘Don’t be like that, Phil. I’m trying to do you a favour.’
‘Trying to save your arse, more like.’
‘That, too. Sorry, but there’ve been developments.’
I told him about Roberts and Dickersen and the way things stood.
‘Jesus, Hardy, you’re a lying, sneaky cunt.’
‘Takes one to know one. You can still get something out of this. All you have to do is be there, behave like a policeman, and share in the glory.’
‘With Ian fuckin’ Dickersen and everyone’s pet boong?’
‘He’s going up. Play your part and you might get him onside for your upcoming trouble.’
‘I’ll tell you this. If it doesn’t work out in my fuckin’ favour you and everyone connected with you is going to wish they’d never been born. That’s a promise.’
So now I had threats from the police in two directions-not a record, but up there with some of my better efforts. I told him where to go and when.
I got back to the office just as Megan and Fox-James arrived. He was a slim, fair individual, something like the old movie actor Leslie Howard in appearance. When Megan had suggested him she’d told me in private why the affair hadn’t lasted long.
‘Too tortured,’ she said.
Whatever that meant. I reflected that it was good news for Hank. No way could anyone brand Hank Bachelor as tortured.
‘Gidday, Cliff,’ Fox-James said. ‘I hear you had heart trouble.’
‘Thing of the past, Paddy. Ready to go into your act? I see you’ve dressed for the part.’
He was wearing brown polyester slacks, black shoes and a fawn polo shirt buttoned up to the neck. He looked like a grown-up little boy dressed by his mother.
‘Great threads, eh? What does the good book say? “Let not thy raiment speak too loud”.’
‘Don’t overdo it,’ I said.
‘You made that up,’ Megan hissed. ‘This is serious.’
‘You were always telling me I was too serious.’
‘There’s a time and a place, Patrick. We have to talk to Hank.’
Our meeting was anything but easy. Hank was jealous of Fox-James, Fox-James resented Hank, Megan hated being the meat in the sandwich, and I was still worrying about Phil Fitzwilliam. But then, they say Clay was almost hysterical with anxiety before the first Liston fight and look what happened there.<
br />
I got to my place at four thirty and found Roberts and her colleague parked in the street more or less as I expected, and Fitz parked a few cars back. All three police officers, Roberts’s colleague as dark as herself, followed me into the house. Roberts was fuming.
‘What’s he doing here?’ she said, barely acknowledging Fitz.
‘We have a history,’ I said. ‘As I explained to DS Fitzwilliam, this is a complicated matter. He has a piece of it, as the sports managers say.’
Fitz grinned at that; Roberts didn’t. ‘Don’t come the smartarse sporting chat with me, Hardy. This farce is over.’
I had nothing to lose. I got right in her face, elbowing the other cop aside. ‘No, it isn’t. Let me tell you what’s going to happen here, with a bit of luck. A couple of heavies from Lachlan Enterprises-courtesy of Ross Crimond, who’s a deluded, ambitious hypocrite along the lines of the late, unlamented Joh Bjelke-Petersen-are going to show up with a company executive. A person claiming to be a witness to the abduction of Henry McKinley will be present. He’ll represent himself as someone willing to overlook what he saw in return for a reward that will further the work of the Lord. The executive will haggle with the price. The witness will turn bolshie and the heavies will threaten and attempt to assault him. All this will be captured on videotape.’
Roberts rolled her eyes. ‘Then what?’
‘Then you and your mate and DS Fitzwilliam step in and arrest the heavies and the executive, take them away and work on them until someone cracks and drops the other, or others, in the shit.’
‘I like it,’ Fitz said.
‘You would,’ Roberts snarled. ‘It’s just your bullshit style.’
‘Fuck you,’ Fitz said.
‘You wish.’
‘Stop it,’ I said. ‘We haven’t got much time. I admit it’s as speculative and shaky as things get. But is there any other way to get at Henry McKinley’s killers? Fitz needs the brownie points and you and your boss Dickersen want to climb the greasy pole. It’s just a sting. You people have done them before.’
The other cop spoke for the first time. ‘Detective Constable John Mahoud, Mr Hardy,’ he said. ‘What if it all goes wrong?’
Good question, I thought. ‘I’ll take the blame,’ I said.
The police went upstairs while I set up the camcorder. Megan arrived with Hank and Fox-James and I installed them in the living room. The doorbell rang.
‘Crimond,’ Hank said. ‘If he’s on his own we’re fucked.’
I let him in. He wasn’t on his own. He had two men with him, both wearing suits and serious expressions. The older one was fleshy with a high colour; the other man was lean and hard looking. His glance swept the room and the people in it like a searchlight.
Ex-military, I thought. Dangerous.
Crimond was all smarm. ‘This is Deacon Jones and Pastor Sorenson from my church,’ he said. ‘Deacon Jones is also. .’
‘An executive at Lachlan Enterprises,’ I said.
Crimond didn’t miss a beat. ‘Why, yes.’ He held out two hands to Fox-James. ‘Ross Crimond.’
Fox-James was up to it. He gripped both hands and beamed. ‘Piers Beaumont.’
Megan patted Fox-James on the head and moved away. I used a foot switch under the rug to activate the silent camcorder. Jones settled himself in a chair; Sorenson leaned against the cupboard under the stairs.
Hank got to his feet and loomed over Crimond. ‘What’s this, Ross? We just wanted you here to make Piers feel more at home when he told us about. . well, you know.’
Crimond now showed his true colours. He couldn’t help the contempt creeping into his voice as he looked briefly at me then focused on Hank.
‘You’re out of your depth, Bachelor. There are big things at stake here-for New South Wales, of course, but more importantly for a godly society.’
Fox-James’s expression was one of puzzled idiocy. ‘Amen,’ he said.
Sorenson was looking from Hank to me, weighing us up. He didn’t seem too worried. Jones leaned forward in his chair. ‘You may not realise it, Mr Beaumont, but the decision you make here can affect-’
Fox-James visibly shrivelled where he sat. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t have to bear witness to anything. If you leave these godless people this minute, I can assure you of a reward that-’
Patrick Fox-James had been well briefed and his glance at me, and my nod, took a micro-second. He showed he had guts to spare as he rose from the chair, pointed at Sorenson, and screamed, ‘I saw that man-’
Sorenson was on the move and so was I. He stepped sideways and a pistol appeared in his hand. Shouts and noises on the stairs distracted him momentarily as he fitted a silencer to the muzzle. Fox-James hit the ground and rolled. I acted without thinking, as if no thought was necessary: I jerked the door under the stairs open and grabbed the pistol Fitzwilliam had left there. It was a Smith amp; Wesson.38 revolver that felt as familiar as my toothbrush. I swung it on Sorenson who was manoeuvring for a shot at Fox-James, and the instruction of decades before travelled through my brain: Don’t aim, point and fire.
Well-trained, Sorenson registered me as a threat. He swivelled and the black hole of his silencer gaped at me. I pointed and fired, but so did he.
25
On the flight back from the States I’d seen a not-very good film, The Black Dahlia. In an early scene, two men are talking about a woman who is standing between them. She says, ‘Keep talking about me in the third person-it sends me.’
It didn’t send me, but that’s how I felt sometimes during my long stay in hospital. Sorensen’s bullet had bounced around inside me, nicking various organs, and the wounds had become infected. They put me in an induced coma for a while and I lapsed into comas all of my own making a few times later.
Coming out of the fogs before dipping back into them again, I heard things like: I think he’ll pull through/He’s got a raging infection/He’s very weak/ He’s fighting hard/His age is against him/He’s got an amazing basic constitution. .
When the mist finally cleared and the pain cut in as they lowered the doses of whatever they were pumping into me, the day came when I was able to recognise Megan and Hank and smell the flowers Margaret had ordered for me.
‘Hey, Dad,’ Megan said.
Sounds weird, but I felt tears welling when I heard that.
‘I refuse to say where am I,’ I said. I didn’t recognise my own voice-it sounded thin and harsh. ‘Who’s that talking?’
‘That’s a guy’s had a hell of a lot of tubes in him in a lot of places,’ Hank said. ‘Great to see you back with us, Cliff. Nearly lost you a couple of times there.’
‘So I heard.’
I told them about hearing the doctors’ various pronouncements when they thought I was out of it.
‘Scary,’ Hank said.
‘I didn’t see any white light at the end of a tunnel.’
Hank nodded. ‘I thought you’d say that.’
‘I knew you’d say that,’ Megan said.
I drew in a deep breath that hurt almost everywhere there was to hurt. I gasped and heard the reedy voice again: ‘Tell me.’
‘No chance.’ Megan pressed the button near the bed. A nurse came in and did something and the mist wrapped around me again.
Out on the hospital balcony the next day, with most of the tubes and hook-ups detached, they told me what had happened. The real name of the man who’d shot me was Cartland. I’d wounded him but not nearly as severely as he had me. He and ‘Jones’, whose real name was Bolton, and who held a senior position in Lachlan Enterprises, were arrested by the three police officers. When it looked as if I might die and Cartland was facing a murder charge, he made a series of admissions in exchange for the downgrading of the charge to manslaughter. Cartland and an associate, acting on instructions from Bolton, had abducted Henry McKinley, held and questioned him, as Cartland put it, ‘under duress’. Cartland denied killing him and claimed McKinley had died of a heart atta
ck. He admitted that he and his accomplice had torched the car and McKinley’s body.
‘Must have been pissed off when I pulled through,’ I said to Hank, who was supplying the details. ‘Wounding at best, and with a good lawyer. .’
‘Right,’ Hank said. ‘But it unravelled from there. Bolton named someone higher up in the organisation as the instigator and he was arrested trying to leave the country. The press got onto it all from-guess who?’
‘Phil Fitzwilliam.’
‘Persistent guy, that. They just couldn’t keep him at arm’s length. You dealt him a good hand and he played it to the hilt. He’s come out of it OK. Lachlan’s shares are in the toilet.’
‘How’s Holland, the Global man?’
‘In much better shape than you.’
‘Tarelton?’
Hank shrugged. ‘In serious debt to Lachlan. Christ knows how that’ll sort out. Losing staff is all I heard.’
‘Margaret McKinley?’
‘We’re paid in full.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘She sent flowers. That’s it.’
Over the next few weeks as I mended, I had a stream of visitors and a flow of information. Lachlan’s lawyers were pulling out all the stops for Bolton and the others, and Hank and I were fending off counter-charges of conspiracy and entrapment. Hank had hired a high-powered law firm to monitor proceedings and they reported that a stalemate had been reached.
‘That’s bad,’ I said.
Hank said, ‘No, apparently that’s good. Don’t ask me why.’
Margaret emailed Megan for my phone number at the hospital and she called me on a day after I’d completed one of my corridor walks. I was building up towards a couple of hundred metres a day. It was something like the rehab after the heart surgery, but thankfully without the breathing exercises and the elastic stockings.
‘You’re on the mend Megan tells me.’
‘Slowly. How’re you?’
‘I’m fine. Something to tell you. My ex and I are back together.’
‘Your daughter’ll be pleased.’
‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘Margaret, I don’t remember any. . core promises on either side.’
