by Peter Corris
I drove to the motel, checked in, bought a hamburger nearby and ate it with a can of beer from the mini-bar. Two cans of beer. Then I poured boiling water on two of the Nescafé coffee sachets, producing a strong cup. I drank two cups while I scribbled notes on my day’s work, connected up names and places and snippets of information with arrows and dotted lines and peppered the whole diagram with question marks. I have a collection of these diagrams going back many years and I don’t know what good they do, if any. But I still make them.
Port Kembla and parts south aren’t well lit at night and I frequently had to consult the directory by torchlight to make sure I was keeping in the right direction. It took a while with quite a few false turns and dead ends, but eventually I located the bikies’ sacred site—a large area that looked like a dried-up lake bed or perhaps a filled-in quarry. I got there more by tracking sight and sound than anything else. The area was a couple of hectares all told and a figure eight dirt track had been graded into existence and confirmed over time by thousands of spinning, skidding wheels. The track was lit by the headlights of twenty or more 4WDs parked at intervals. Riding around that surface in company with others, taking the scarcely banked bends at speed and coming in and out of shadows seemed to me like a good way to break something, from an ankle to a neck.
When I arrived a dozen bikes were in action. They were roaring, and there were at least fifty more lined up ready to roar. There was more leather and denim and greasy hair than at the Altamont Speedway in 1969, and a good scattering of what De Witt called civilians as well. Some long hairs, some baldies, some boozers, some pot heads. I was in my jeans and flannie and, having a heavy beard, I had a strong stubble sprouting. I also had a plastic-looped six pack. I got out of the car and began to wander around, swigging from a can and trying not to stumble over the discarded cans and bottles or slip on the oil slicks. There was no security that I could see. Again, De Witt seemed to have got it right. This was a no-go zone for the forces of law and order and respectability.
Within half an hour I was approached four times: twice by buyers and twice by sellers. I fended them off until I decided my presence would look suspicious. The fifth approach was from a man in leather pants, high-laced hiking boots and an Afghan jacket that looked to date back to the time when people wore Afghan jackets.
‘Lookin’ for something, dude?’ he said in an accent that might’ve been American. I had to lean down closer to hear him over the revving of the bikes.
‘Could be.’ I detached a can from the loop and handed it to him.
‘Thanks. Pills, pot or pussy?’
I laughed and he took me by the arm and led me to a shadowy spot behind an ancient Land Cruiser whose headlights were dimming.
‘What the fuck’re you doing here?’ he hissed.
‘What?’
‘You’re a cop. It sticks out like dog’s balls.’
‘Don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘You’re in the way. Sorry, but I’ve gotta do this.’
He raised his can as if to drink from it and that’s the last movement I registered. What followed was a blur and a bump and the loud, flickering, petrol-smelling scene slipped away from me as I went down a long slope into a quiet, dark place.
14
When I came around I was sitting in the passenger seat of a Land Cruiser, seatbelt on, depleted six pack at my feet. As far as I could tell, nothing was broken and nothing hurt more than usual. The man in the Afghan jacket was sitting next to me, smoking. The smoke made me cough.
‘How d’you feel?’ The doubtful American accent was gone.
‘Shithouse, at being taken down so easily.’
‘You were off guard, Mr Hardy, and I’ve had the training. Sorry I took you for a cop, but you had the look. Too much of the look.’
‘So why . . . ?’
‘Try to work it out.’
I looked him over and thought about it. Almost too good to be true, the way he looked, and the ease with which he’d handled me suggested intensive training.
‘Undercover?’
He shrugged. ‘You said it, not me.’
My wallet was sitting on the dashboard in front of me, lying open. I’d left it under the seat of the Mitsubishi. This guy knew his business. When I was sure I could move, I looked out to right and left and then straight ahead. Blackness all around. I took the wallet, closed it and stuffed it in the pocket of my shirt.
‘Okay, you know who I am and I suppose I know what you’re doing, or what you suggest you’re doing. Undercover, sure. Easy to say. Trouble is, you’ve probably got no way of proving it.’
‘I could’ve turned you over to the bikies. They don’t make much distinction between private detectives and cops.’
Probably true. I leaned down and pulled a can from the loop. My finger was clumsy in the ring pull but I managed. The beer was still cold so not too much time had elapsed. Good detecting. Could’ve looked at my watch. The period of unconsciousness had scrambled me a little. I drank some more beer and he took a long drag on his cigarette.
‘So where do we go from here?’ I said.
‘Your car’s parked behind us. You piss off back to wherever you came from.’
‘Maybe we could help each other.’
‘I put in a call on you, mate. You tend to help yourself first and foremost.’
I drank some more beer to get rid of the metallic taste of the first swigs. The taste persisted. It felt as if I could taste my teeth although there’s no metal in them these days. Ceramic. ‘Private enterprise,’ I said. ‘Want a beer?’
He crushed out his smoke in the ashtray and accepted a can. His age was hard to guess under the stubble and with the hair. His fingernails were black-rimmed and he smelled of tobacco, marijuana and motor oil. He looked the real thing, semi-feral, but there was an edginess about him, an alertness under the grunge.
‘I’m investigating a suspicious death down here and there’s been a murder since. I—’
He made an impatient gesture after cracking the can. ‘I know what you’re doing. I told you I put in a call.’
‘To Barton in Bellambi or Farrow in Wollongong?’
He took a long drink and grinned. The beer, just having it in his hand, was relaxing him and I realised how tightly wound he’d been. Still was. ‘You’re not popular with either of ’em.’
‘Being popular’s not my go. I think there’s something big going on down here. Maybe it’s in the planning stage, but there’s some money on offer and I think Adam MacPherson’s murder’s got something to do with it. You must know he was dealing . . . supplying might be a better word. Supply suggests a source.’
‘They say you’re a talker, but I haven’t heard anything yet.’
He’d downed most of the can and slid a little lower in the seat. Earlier, he’d been darting looks out into the night. Fewer of them now.
‘Yes you have,’ I said. ‘You’re major crimes or drug squad. Maybe both. Probably with some Internal Affairs briefing as well. You know manufacture and distribution are being . . . facilitated down here.’ I pointed a finger out into the darkness, although whether in the right direction or not I had no idea. ‘That was a no-go zone within ten miles of the Wollongong CBD. Come on.’
‘Miles,’ he said.
‘Call me old fashioned.’
He swilled the can and lifted it to his ear to judge the amount left. A cautious drinker, or possibly an undercover technique. ‘Okay, say you have some idea of what might be going on. How can you help?’
I shook my head. ‘How you can you help me?’
‘Jesus, Hardy. Ten more minutes back there in that fuckin’ flannie with the swinging dick six pack and the ex-army strut and you’d have been bent over a Honda being asked questions with a bike chain.’
I had to laugh—partly acknowledgment of a truth, partly embarrassment. ‘I think if I can talk to a certain person I can get a bit further inside what might be going on. If you’re the shit-hot undercover guy you com
e across as, you just might know her.’
‘Try me.’
‘Wendy Jones.’
He emptied his can and crushed it, probably an obligatory gesture in the circles he’d been moving in. ‘I know her,’ he said. ‘I think we’d better have a proper talk. Where’re you staying?’
I told him and he said he’d get me back on a road I’d recognise and then follow me to the motel. Handed me my keys. I asked him how he managed to get my car to where it was without anyone asking questions.
‘Most of ’em are either too pissed to notice or too busy watching their bikes or their backs. You wouldn’t believe the fights that go on. Anyone noticing would most likely think I was stealing it. Give me a cheer. You all right to drive?’
I drove super-cautiously. I had a certain amount of alcohol inside me, a recent head wound, and having the blood supply to your brain cut off by a commando hold can do things to your vision and perception. But there was very little traffic and his dim headlights behind me were oddly comforting. I pulled into the parking bay at the motel and watched him drive on without hesitation. Just what I’d have done in his place. I went in and filled the jug, put instant coffee in two cups and set out the bottle of brandy I’d nicked from Jason Garvan in Paddington.
A soft knock came on the door. He must’ve circled the block a couple of times. I opened up and he came in with a lit cigarette in his hand.
‘You mind?’ he said.
I recognised it for what it was—a pre-emptive strike. ‘No,’ I said. ‘You stay in character.’
‘Hey, I smoked before I went undercover.’
I put a saucer on the table as an ashtray. ‘Aren’t you going to look around for bugs?’
‘Let’s stop pissing around.’ He noticed the cups and the bottle as he ashed his cigarette. ‘That looks like a good idea.’
I poured boiling water over the instant, filling the cups to two-thirds. I spiked mine and pushed the bottle towards him as I sat down. He topped his cup up and took a seat, butted the cigarette.
‘Wendy Jones,’ I said.
He took a strong pull on the spiked coffee and sighed. ‘That’s good. That grog costs a mint. How come you’ve got it to splash about?’
‘It’s a long story, and let’s stop pissing around. Wendy Jones?’
‘Yeah, I was probably going to wave you goodbye until you came up with Wendy. I’ve had an interest in her for a while and it seems she’s just become even more interesting recently. So, you tell me why you know about her and I’ll think about telling you what I know.’
‘Hard bargain.’
He shrugged. ‘Good liquor, this, but it won’t change anything.’
I drank some more coffee and did some thinking. What I had to say was pretty thin and might not extract anything from him. I felt I had to shore up my position a bit before spilling my guts. ‘Look, I’ve been running into actors and poseurs and people who aren’t what they seem since I got into this thing. You’re in the mix with that phoney Yank accent. I’m still not sure you’re what you say you are and I don’t even have a name to call you by. I’m considering telling you to drink your coffee and fuck off.’
He grinned, drained his cup and poured himself a slug of the brandy. ‘And then what? Go back there again to look for Wendy?’
‘Maybe. Better disguised, eh? Get myself an Afghan jacket and dirty fingernails. Smell of dope.’
‘You wouldn’t find her.’
‘So you say.’
He moved quickly and flexibly, proving he was younger than he looked. He unlaced his right boot and slid his hand down inside a sock that gave off a smell of sweat and decay. He pulled out a card, looked at it for a long minute with an expression I couldn’t interpret. Reluctance? Doubt? Then he showed it to me—a police warrant card—with just a touch of pride coming into that worn, strain-racked face.
‘Detective Constable Thomas Purcell,’ he said. ‘I can’t remember the last fuckin’ time I said that out loud.’
I peered at the card. I’d seen too many of them not to know that it was genuine. ‘Okay, Tom,’ I said. ‘you’re on your way to being an unsung hero of the war against drugs if you stay alive. Great, until they change the laws, which they’ll have to do sooner or later.’
He slumped in his chair and put his foot back in his boot but didn’t lace it up. ‘The word is our Wendy’s come in to some serious money.’
15
Purcell said he knew about the connection between Wendy Jones and the late Adam MacPherson but his information was that they’d split up very recently. He was interested to hear that her name had come up in my investigation of the death of Frederick Farmer.
‘I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who told you Wendy and MacPherson were on together.’
‘No. Not somebody connected to the sticky side.’
‘So it’s your call. Your infallible judgement.’
‘That’s right, but I’m not too happy about it. The guy who processed the insurance claim, the one I spoke to, has suddenly gone on leave. The guy he put me on to and I didn’t speak to is dead. I’m not too keen on mentioning names.’
‘You don’t trust me?’
I looked at him, sitting in his grotty clothes with his unlaced boot, drinking brandy from a cup in a cheap motel. The look on his face told me he was seeing much the same picture. We both laughed.
‘Wendy’s in Sydney,’ he said. ‘I’m told she’s staying at the Novotel—Darling Harbour.’
‘She must’ve cleaned up her act. I’m told she was the original bikie moll.’
‘Yeah, she is that, but you can cover tatts and she’d scrub up pretty well if she wanted to.’
‘She ride her Harley?’
He shook his head and lifted his cup in an ironic salute. ‘BMW, bought today. I’ve been wondering about it, but these people can get very flush, very quickly. Of course, Wendy knows people. Probably got it cheap.’
‘But I’ve given you something to think about?’
He nodded. ‘Just what I needed.’
We kicked it around for a while longer over a little more of Jason’s brandy. After he left I reflected that Purcell was the first cop I could recall who didn’t tell me to keep my nose out of things. All he said was to be careful. But he was a different kind of cop.
If there’s anything lonelier than a cheap motel room in the suburbs at dead of night I don’t know of it. Maybe a solitary confinement cell at the Bay in the old days, but I hadn’t had the pleasure. I was a bit high on the brandy with nothing much in my stomach to process it, and from feeling that the contact with Purcell had been useful, but coming down fast. There was a chance I could learn something, directly or indirectly, from Wendy Jones to throw some light on Frederick Farmer’s death. Dr Elizabeth struck me as a stayer and she might want me to pursue the matter as far as I could. That is, into the sort of danger Farrow and Purcell had hinted at. Okay with me, in fact very okay. I’d long ago come to agree with Cyn and others after her that I could cope better with the dangerous than with the mundane. Dullness, boredom, alcohol would kill me quicker than bashings or bullets.
But, lying half drunk on a lumpy bed in a crummy motel under a low watt light, it was thoughts of Marisha Karatsky that were bringing me down.
In the morning, just before checkout time, I phoned De Witt at the Mercury. ‘You survived it,’ he said.
‘No worries. Any luck on Matilda?’
‘Not really, but there’s one funny thing. I ran the name past a couple of people here and the social page woman said it rang a bell. She’s checking some of her back stories and columns.’
‘That is a bit strange. My understanding was that she never came near the Wombarra place. I’m surprised to learn she was ever down here at all.’
‘Well, let’s see if there’s anything to it. How did you get on with the bikies?’
I was concerned to protect all my sources of information, and it was getting tangled. Hard to remember who I’d told what. I said I had some leads
to follow but nothing solid yet. He caught the hesitation and evasion.
‘We had a deal, remember? I hope you’re not backing out.’
‘The deal stands. You know one of the differences between your game and mine?’
‘Tell me.’
‘I’ve learned to have patience, lots of patience.’
I checked out, returned the Mitsubishi and carried my bag back to the parking station. I was accumulating a decent set of receipts for Dr Farmer. The morning was bright with a mild wind promising a spell of decent weather. I decided to get a small workout by climbing the four flights of stairs to my level rather than taking the lift. I remembered Bob Hawke saying he hated jogging and got exercise by walking briskly and swinging his heavy briefcase. Seemed to work for him.
The level was for overnight and longer parking and there was a scattering of cars. My plan was to get onto the highway as quickly as possible to minimise the chance of Barton’s boys checking me for bald tyres or defective wipers, both always a possibility. I unlocked the passenger door and slung the bag inside. I reached across to lift the button on the driver’s door and felt cold metal press hard behind my ear.
‘Don’t turn around, Hardy. Just take a deep breath.’
Despite myself, I did what the voice said.
‘That’s right. Now, feel this.’
The metal moved against my skin—sharp, round, wide.
‘Shottie?’ I said.
‘Right. Double sawn-off. You’re going to drive and I’m going to sit behind you with this somewhere around the base of your neck. Maybe not quite touching. Understand?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay. Driver’s side keeping your eyes down, reach over and open the back door. Don’t look around. Get in, start the car and head for the exit—slowly.’
‘Do I put my seatbelt on?’
The shotgun dug savagely into my neck. ‘What you do is drive and keep your fuckin’ mouth shut.’
