by Peter Corris
I made the coffee, weighing up how much to tell him, how much to trust him, and the hardest part—trying to think ahead to the possible consequences of whatever I said. I needed to know more about his intentions before I revealed anything. I put the plastic cup of coffee on the desk in front of him.
‘No milk,’ I said.
‘No worries.’ But he didn’t move to take the cup.
I went back behind the desk. ‘Suppose I tell you I’ve got a possible target, but no proof and I don’t know where he is—what would you say?’
‘I’d say you weren’t telling me the whole truth.’
‘Suppose I said I was working on a way to get the proof through another person, an accomplice, you might say.’
He reached for the coffee, took a sip, made a face and put the cup back. ‘That’s terrible coffee. Was that deliberate?’
I shrugged. ‘My coffee always turns out bitter. I don’t know why.’
He stretched like a cat and seemed to feel happier for doing it, the way a cat does. ‘You know, I’m enjoying this,’ he said. ‘Don’t get much of a chance for verbal chess with the brothers.’
‘How’s Brucie?’
‘He’s okay, the poor bastard, but like the others, he’s not much for hypotheticals. To answer your question, I’d say that if you give me the name of the possible target as a gesture of good faith, I’d be willing to help you work for the proof through the other guy—for a time at least.’
‘I’ll be frank with you, Paul. I don’t want you to kill the man I have in mind. I’d want him tried, convicted and sent away.’
‘Agreed.’
‘That easy?’
‘I told you I have long-range plans. I don’t need a murder charge or anything like it.’
‘Grantley “Rooster” Fowler,’ I said. ‘Corrupt cop. A killer who negotiated a deal because he had a lot of dirt on others higher up. Said to have money. He did some soft time and now he’s dropped out of sight. But still active . . . possibly.’
‘But you know where to look.’
‘Maybe, but as I say, I’ve got no proof. So I want to come at it sideways through this other bloke.’
‘Who is?’
‘I’ll hold on to that until I hear from my IT guy.’
‘Not a lot of mutual trust in all this, is there?’
‘What did you expect?’
‘Just about what I’m getting. But I may have a surprise in store for you.’
‘I don’t like surprises.’
‘No, you prefer to be in control, like me, but you’re not in control of this, are you?’
‘Not yet.’
He laughed. ‘And you won’t be, without my help. I can tell you that, Hardy, for certain.’
He stood and buttoned his jacket. ‘By the way, you never told me why that woman you had me follow was so upset.’
‘Her husband had been murdered.’
He nodded. ‘That’d do it. Was this Fowler involved?’
‘It had the hallmarks.’
He headed for the door. ‘That’s the worst coffee I’ve ever tasted.’
‘It’s pretty bad in prison.’
‘You’d know. I wouldn’t, and won’t ever.’
‘You sure?’
‘Pretty sure. We’ll be in touch, Hardy. I just might have something for you before you have anything for me.’
He went out, closing the door quietly behind him. His calm confidence verged on the unnerving and I sat in my chair drinking the foul coffee with my mind almost a blank. Paul was one of those people you feel are trying, physically and mentally, to climb over you to get where they want to be. You have to either let them do it or pull them down, and it’s hard, either way.
22
Perce Tresize had done just about everything there was to do in the horse-racing business. He’d been a jockey, an owner and breeder, a trainer and a punter.
‘My tragedy,’ he once told me, ‘was that I wasn’t quite good enough at any of my racing activities, especially the betting.’
Perce’s father had been an SP bookie who’d told him that betting on horses was a mug’s game. Like many sons, Perce had set out to prove his father wrong and failed. Whatever assets he’d accumulated from riding and owning horses he’d lost at betting on them. These days he wrote an ill-paid racing column for a newspaper and occasionally appeared as a comedy character, ‘Percy the punter’, on a morning television show. He had a good line of patter and was amusing company in small doses.
I usually drank at the Toxteth in Glebe. Perce preferred the pub that used to be called the Ancient Briton but now just goes by the name the AB Hotel, and he could be found there most nights talking racing to anyone inclined to listen. Pint-sized, Perce was a two-pot screamer who could make a middy last an hour and a schooner last all night.
It was Sunday-night quiet at the AB when I arrived and I found Perce nursing a middy of Old and picking at a steak sandwich. He’d told me that the only way for a jockey to keep his weight down was to keep his gob shut and from doing it for so long he’d lost his appetite.
‘Hello, Perce,’ I said. ‘Here, I’ll help you out.’
I took two chips from his plate and ate them.
‘Cliff Hardy,’ he said, ‘still got your sense of humour, I see.’
‘I retain that, Perce, as you do.’
‘I hope so. Still leaving the daily doubles to the mugs?’
‘Absolutely. That’s how I have five hundred bucks to offer you for some information.’
He groaned. ‘Not about a horse.’
‘No, about a stud out at Camden.’
Perce sipped beer and ate a small mouthful. ‘There’s a few of them.’
‘I know. I checked on the web. They’re all wonderful with their green grass and white fences and the shit of their horses doesn’t smell.’
He grinned. ‘That’s about right.’
‘Ownership’d be hard to trace?’
‘Right again.’
‘Can you think of one set up a while ago, late nineties, say. Low-profile, doesn’t do much, possibly a front for other activities?’
‘You’re slandering the fair name of the racing industry.’
‘Yeah.’
Perce lost all interest in his food and pushed the plate away. He took a gulp of beer. ‘Five hundred? Could you see your way to a grand?’
‘Might.’
He looked around to be sure no one was in earshot. ‘There’s a Camden operation I’ve wondered about. Don’t know anything specific, mind, but a while back there was a bit of a doping scandal. Nothing much, and it didn’t reach the stewards. It was more talk and rumour among the . . . what’s that Italian word?’
‘Cognoscenti.’
‘That’s it. Must use that in my column. But I did hear that a couple of the people talking about it got sat on pretty heavily.’
‘Who by?’
‘The coppers.’
‘I need the name, Perce.’
He rubbed his index finger and thumb together. I’d anticipated him upping the ante and I’d put a thousand of the wad I was carrying in a compartment of my wallet. I fished it out and let Perce see it and no one else. Then I went to the bar and got a glass of red for myself and another middy for Perce.
He accepted the drink. ‘Top Gun Bloodstock.’
That clicked with part of Jilly’s drunken rambling and I put ten notes, folded tightly, into Perce’s hand.
At home I Googled and found the site. It was low-key compared with most of the others. Smaller acreage, more restricted facilities, fewer horses. Most of the stud sites boasted of winners and their winning progeny. Top Gun named a few horses, none of which meant much to me because I hadn’t been paying attention to the races for years, apart from an annual bet on the Slipper. Depending on your standards, Top Gun could be described as either modest or struggling. The owner wasn’t revealed. The manager was one Tom Hobhouse. Nothing came up in a search for him but I had a feeling I’d heard the name somewhere.
I detected an air of secrecy about the place, or was that just wishful thinking? I liked the smell of police protection and the location safely within the boundaries of Camden. A horse stud located there was a very convenient place to lie low but also keep an eye on things in Sydney and environs. Security staff would be a justifiable adjunct and even firearms to protect the sensitive horses from being spooked by feral animals. I knew I was talking myself into it, but I sensed a breakthrough.
I’d eaten a handful of nuts and drunk the glass of red after I’d paid Perce. We’d chatted. I wasn’t hungry. I took my medication with another glass of wine and sat back to think about things. When Nils came in with information on ‘Chas’ Henderson as I was sure he would, it’d be a matter of applying pressure and choosing my allies. It was a comfortable feeling so I got down on the floor and did a series of push-ups and crunches to banish it.
23
Nothing happened for the next few days. I went to the bank and drew out what I needed for Nils but still hadn’t heard from him.
Janice, Cathy Carter’s cousin, had invited me to the service for Colin Hawes at Rookwood. I went and stood among the sizeable crowd of mourners—quite a few police, some in uniform, members of Cathy’s family, presumably, and a contingent of people from various rowing clubs. No celebrant, which was a relief. A few people spoke, including Cathy, who gave no sign that Hawes’s death had been anything other than an accident.
We adjourned to a pub. I tried to work my way towards Cathy but Janice caught my eye and shook her head. A cop I knew vaguely and disliked from some earlier contact approached me.
‘Bill McKenzie,’ he said.
I nodded. I had a drink in one hand and a sandwich in the other so I didn’t have to shake hands.
‘Something funny about this?’ he said.
‘Funny?’
‘Wrong word. Odd.’
I sipped my drink. ‘Did you know Colin?’
‘No.’
‘Why’re you here, then?’
He turned away slowly. ‘Among other things, to wonder why you are,’ he said.
Patience has never been my strong suit and I was starting to think of other ways of confirming that I knew where Fowler was, and putting pressure on him, when Paul sprang his surprise.
‘I’ve got someone you have to meet,’ he said when he rang.
‘Who?’
‘When you meet him.’
‘Why?’
‘Same answer—just ask where and when, Hardy. That’s all you need for now.’
This guy was turning out to be a skilled player. It gave me confidence in one way and concern in another. I felt he could probably do what he set out to do, whatever it was. Would he do as he’d said—stay within the bounds of the law? Very hard to say. Would I want him to? Again, hard to say, but I was certainly going to need his help.
‘Okay, where and when?’
‘Uncle Arthur’s office at six this evening.’
‘What’re we going to do—drink sherry?’
But his nickname should have been ‘Last Word’—he was gone.
I was at Soames-Wetherell’s office on time. The chambers had emptied apart from a couple of women working in an office amid stacks of paper. Paralegals? Low-status associates? Soames-Wetherell, senior partner, was there in his shirtsleeves; Paul was sitting at the conference table reading a book. He wore a white T-shirt with a V-neck and the jacket of his suit hung on the back of his chair. Another man stood looking out of the window at the city as if he’d never seen it before. He turned around as I came in. Paul slapped the book shut and stood.
‘Hardy, this is Luke Soames.’
Soames came towards me. He was tall and thin. He had curling grey hair and a grey beard but wasn’t very old—sixty, perhaps, or a well-preserved sixty-five. The skin not covered by the beard was very tanned.
‘I see you’ve heard of me,’ he said.
I nodded. I’d resolved to keep as quiet as I could until things became clear.
Arthur Soames-Wetherell said, ‘Luke is a second cousin—I think that’s the term. He’s just back from Thailand.’
I couldn’t resist it. ‘Once removed,’ I said.
Paul shook his head. ‘Don’t worry, Luke. He makes jokes like that. Thinks he’s funny. Sometimes he is.’
The lawyer made an invitational gesture. ‘Let’s sit down and talk.’
I looked at Paul. ‘Where’s the sherry?’
Soames wore a lightweight suit cut in the unstructured way Asian tailors can achieve and sensible expatriates prefer, a blue shirt and no tie. He grinned. ‘Good idea. How about it, Arthur?’
I took off my jacket and sat, draping the jacket over the chair as Paul had done.
Soames had a sardonic smile he’d obviously worked on. ‘No shoulder holster?’
‘Ankle strap,’ I said.
Soames-Wetherell produced a bottle of Mildara George dry sherry and four glasses. He poured and passed the glasses around. Soames sniffed and drank; I drank without sniffing; Paul ignored the drink.
‘Let’s cut the bullshit,’ Paul said, ‘and get down to it.’
‘I thought you wanted to be a politician, Paulie—that’s what I used to call him when he was a nipper,’ Soames said. ‘You’d better get used to bullshit. It’s there by the ton.’
Paul gave Soames a respectful nod and then turned less respectfully to me. ‘I’d been hearing stories about Luke ever since he went missing. When all this business to do with cops and guns came up, a few things clicked. One of my aunts had actually seen Luke in Thailand, or thought she had. I decided to find him and see if he could help us.’
‘Lot of people in Thailand,’ I said. ‘Some of them hiding. How did you find him?’
‘Contacts,’ Paul said. ‘Dusty used to import hash from there and I knew a few names. Who knew other names. It wasn’t that hard.’
‘Sounds dangerous, though.’
Paul shrugged.
Soames said, ‘Paul’s right, it wouldn’t have been too hard. I’ve kept my nose clean over there, but people talk and I’ve probably got careless in recent years.’
Soames-Wetherell sipped his sherry. ‘Good passport, Luke?’
‘Good enough, apparently.’
‘I appreciate that you’re taking a risk coming back,’ I said. ‘I’d like to know how you can help and what you think you’d be helping with.’
‘Nailing Rooster Fowler,’ Soames said. ‘And settling a couple of old scores.’
Paul was one of those people who don’t like being left out of the conversation. He tossed off his sherry in one gulp. ‘Tell him, Luke.’
Soames folded his arms and looked at the lawyer as if weighing up how much he could allow him to hear. Then he turned his attention to me. ‘I heard of you, Hardy, when I was working undercover here back in the last century. The word was that you were a bit wild at times, but capable. When Paul said he had an arrangement with you I was encouraged.’
I didn’t need flattery from a corrupt cop. ‘I’m waiting to hear about your offer of help. Unless I miss my guess it’ll be hedged around with all kinds of conditions.’
‘Naturally,’ Soames-Wetherell said.
I remembered Harry Tickener’s assessment of him and felt it was confirmed. The lawyer was enjoying the by-play of his two relatives and no doubt thinking of ways to keep his distance from whatever might be being talked about and planned, especially if it went wrong.
Soames put both big, sun-damaged hands on the table. ‘I have, in a safe place, the torch Fowler used to beat an informer named Roy Carlton to death. It has Carlton’s blood and tissue on it, Fowler’s fingerprints and also his blood because he split a fingernail in the assault. The DNA of both of them would be as fresh as daisies.’
‘Your insurance,’ I said.
‘Right. Rooster knew I had it and that I was opting out of the mess we’d all got ourselves into. And that if he came after me, which he would certainly otherwise have done, I’d use it agains
t him.’
I was sceptical. ‘How many times did he try to get it back from you?’
‘A few. Then he ran into his own set of problems and let it drop. He probably hopes I’ll die of AIDS.’
None of us felt like taking up that point.
‘So why now?’ I said.
‘I’m in remission from lung cancer. Don’t know how long I’ve got. Could be very soon or a fair way off. I’ve got arrangements to make for my family in Thailand. I want them to come here. I’d need a clean sheet for that to happen and that means a deal. I help put Fowler away and I get the grateful thanks of the authorities.’
‘That’s where I can be useful,’ Soames-Wetherell said. ‘Negotiating.’
‘And,’ Soames said, ‘Paul tells me you have another line of attack. Safety in numbers. I’m guessing you reckon to put the frighteners on one of the old bunch. Am I right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
It was boots and all now. Whatever the dangers of cooperation with the likes of Paul and Soames, it was the obvious course to take. Paul was listening attentively.
‘Charlie Henderson,’ I said.
Soames leaned back in his chair. ‘Chas,’ he said. ‘You couldn’t have picked a weaker reed. A real gutless wonder, Chas, but he hopped in for his share when the money was there. What’ve you got on him?’
I shrugged. ‘Virtually nothing. A snatch of recorded phone conversation unhappily no longer physically available. I don’t even know where he is, but I’ve got a guy working on it.’
‘Some IT bloke,’ Paul said. ‘Hacking into his finances is my guess.’
‘Everybody’s got something to hide, as the boy said. My guy’s looking for Henderson’s address and phone numbers and also checking his financial situation.’
Soames-Wetherell was alarmed. ‘Hacking bank records. That’s dangerous. They’ve got all sorts of traces . . .’
‘Not a bank,’ I said. ‘And best you don’t know.’
‘I agree.’ The lawyer drained his glass and gestured with the bottle. I was the only one who accepted a top-up.
Soames was looking at it from every angle. ‘Paul tells me you’re hoping to do something for Tommy Greenfall. Is that right?’
