by Peter Corris
He said, ‘I’m about to drive Hector to Newcastle to see his father.’
I said, ‘There’s a whisper that Joseph fired the shots.’
‘He wouldn’t. He hires people for that kind of work, mostly. Unless it’s very personal. He hired the hit on McKnight.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m putting this together from bits I’ve overheard and things Clem’s told me when he’s pissed. Joseph thought McKnight was edgy. He got someone to pressure him and he learned that McKnight was all set to talk to some journalist Jobe was talking to. Joseph’s got too much to hide to let that happen.’
That made it likely Joseph was behind the attack on his father and Marisha. I asked Templeton if he had enough to get Joseph arrested.
‘Almost. Things are happening; gotta go.’
~ * ~
Marisha and I went to bed, sleeping comfortably together like a married couple without the need for sex. But it was a different story in the morning.
After a leisurely breakfast we left the hotel soon after ten o’clock and I was surprised that there was no sign of a police presence.
‘Some protection,’ I said.
Marisha didn’t answer. She was staring at a poster outside a newsagency: GANGLAND BOSS KILLED—SON ARRESTED. The story, with photographs, occupied the whole of the front page: Jobe Tanner had died of his wounds in hospital overnight. Joseph Tanner had been arrested on a charge of conspiracy to murder. Hector Tanner was being sought by police.
~ * ~
part two
* * *
~ * ~
14
Marisha worked her phone, contacting everyone she knew who might know what had happened and what the official line was. She learned that everything had changed in a few hours overnight. Jobe had identified the man who’d shot him. The police picked him up. Charged with wounding at that time, he had rolled over and named Joseph as the one who’d commissioned the hit. He’d be pissed off and worried later when the charge was upgraded to murder.
From Templeton I heard that there had been a violent confrontation between Joseph and Hector involving threats and weapons. Hector took himself off before Joseph was arrested and Templeton claimed not to know where he’d gone. I didn’t know whether to believe him or not. The Tanner crime network fell apart in a matter of days without the lynchpins.
Marisha filed several stories drawing on some of the information she’d had from Jobe. They were picked up by other media and her profile rose sharply. With the threat from the Tanners reduced, she went back to her flat and started serious work on her book. I hung around for the next day with her and we got on well, but her focus was on the book and the rewards it might bring her. I’d developed very strong feelings for her and, in the game of who-can-help-who we seemed to have fallen into, I had one card to play—Kristie.
‘I really want to talk to her,’ Marisha said.
We were eating breakfast on her balcony on a mild morning with the sun filtering through light clouds and the waves enough to tempt some surfers—black dots out beyond the breakers.
‘So do I,’ I said. ‘But I don’t know where she is.’
‘You’ve got her number.’
‘Yeah. She’s in the book. I tried the landline and went to the address. Nothing. Same on her mobile and the number for her undercover mate.’
‘Whose name is?’
I shook my head.
‘You’re a detective, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, and do you know what we do a lot of the time? We stir a bit and wait for things to happen.’
‘Great.’
It was shaping up as that kind of relationship: good but combative. I’d told her something about the Wakefield matter and my hope that Kristie could be useful. She was only mildly interested. I’d also sketched in a bit about Johnnie Twizell and the buried money. That interested her more as a sidebar to the Tanner story.
‘When’s his hearing?’ she asked.
‘Yesterday. I’m waiting for a result.’
‘And then what?’
‘If he gets out I’ll see if he can help with the Wakefield thing. He might even know where Kristie is. They were together for a while.’
‘What about the buried money?’
‘I don’t give a shit about it.’
‘I do.’
I reached over and stroked her arm. ‘So we’d better stay in touch.’
~ * ~
I drove back to Sydney, checked on things at home and in the office, visited Megan and phoned Wakefield to bring him up to speed.
He struggled to keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘Are you saying this woman knows about a set of family papers?’
‘That’s what she said. I think I believe her.’
‘But you don’t know where she is now.’
‘That’s right.’
‘My God, Hardy, you haven’t exactly carried all before you.’
‘There were distractions.’
‘Yes, well, I registered the name Tanner and the connection with Twizell. Were you involved in all that gangland business?’
‘Peripherally. Did you make representations to the parole hearing?’
‘Yes.’
‘We should hear results from that soon. Johnnie Twizell knows something about the family history but not as much as Kristine.’
Disappointment replaced excitement. ‘So what do you propose to do now?’
‘You want me to stay with it? Costs are mounting. You’ve just about run through your retainer.’
‘Of course I do, and that’s what you have a reputation for, isn’t it—seeing things through?’
‘I like to think so.’
‘I’ll make a deposit into your account. Email me the number. Please try to find that woman.’
‘If I do and she has what you’re after, she’ll want a share if there’s money involved.’
‘I’ll be delighted to discuss it with her.’
~ * ~
More or less out of curiosity I rang Ted Power, the old cop whose name Templeton had given me as a reference. You don’t discuss such matters over the phone and Power, a resident of Ultimo, agreed to meet me at my office after he finished work that evening.
I remembered him as superficially calm but underneath highly strung from his own years of undercover work. He’d been shot at least once and bashed a few times and bore the scars like badges. His face was lumpy, ugly. He accepted a large scotch in a plastic glass gratefully.
‘Tough day, Ted?’
‘Cheers. Tough enough.’ He glanced around the room. ‘You’ve picked up a bit since your St Peter’s Lane days.’
‘So’s the rent. I’m glad to have a drink with you, Ted, but I won’t piss around—an undercover guy I met up in Newcastle gave me your name as a reference. It was enough to make me trust him, sort of.’
He raised his glass. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m going to need to talk to him again so I thought I’d better follow up and get your assessment.’
‘You have this place swept?’
‘Regularly. Hank Bachelor did it yesterday.’
‘I know Bachelor, he’s good.’ Out of long habit his voice dropped several notches. ‘Okay, name?’
‘Rod Templeton.’
Power eased his back in the hard chair and took a swig of his drink. ‘Roderick Fitzjames Templeton, BA, bronze medal Olympian.’
I raised my eyebrows. Didn’t say anything.
‘Judo,’ Power said.
I rubbed my arm. ‘It still hurts where he chopped me.’
‘Thought you said you were onside.’
‘As far as it went. What else can you tell me?’
‘Very tough, very bright.’
‘Incorruptible?’
‘Who is?’
‘Come on, Ted.’
‘It’s hard to draw the line in that game. Undercover police sometimes have to do criminal things in the course of their duties.’
‘I know that, but there are rul
es about how far they can go and what restitution has to be made, right?’
‘Right.’
He drank, I drank. He stared out the window, then he cleared his throat. ‘All I’ll say is that he pushes the envelope, pretty much the same way you do in your business, Cliff.’
‘So you’d advise me to be careful in my dealings with him.’
He nodded.
‘There’re no bugs here, Ted.’
He finished his drink and got up. ‘He’s done some very good work and I don’t think he feels fully appreciated. Enough said.’
I saw him to the lift and went back into the office and topped up my drink. Pill time. I kept a corresponding supply at the office to those at home, some in the fridge. I squeezed them out of the foils into my palm and took them with a mouthful of scotch. Supplies were low. A chemist in Glebe had half a dozen of my prescriptions on file. Once, feeling resentful, I told him I’d thought of chucking all the stuff away and letting nature take its course.
‘You can’t do that,’ he said, ‘I’ve got children to support.’
I smiled at the memory.
~ * ~
I did my usual Sydney things—paid bills, went to the gym, filled prescriptions, checked that Wakefield had deposited money. He had. Towards the end of my second day back I got a phone call. I didn’t recognise the number.
‘Hardy.’
‘Hey, Cliff, this is Jack Twizell.’
‘Jack?’
‘Yeah, a new me. You did it, man. I’m out tomorrow and I’ll be heading back to Newcastle.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘You bet. I want to buy you a drink to thank you.’
‘No need.’
‘And to talk about your proposition.’
‘I thought you said Kristie was the one to see about that.’
‘Two heads are better than one. Did you see her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Didn’t get far, eh?’
He was riding high, cocky, about to be released and no doubt feeling that the threat from the Tanners was past. Couldn’t blame him. I knew I’d have to deal with him but I wanted it to be on my terms as much as possible.
‘Only so far,’ I said.
‘Look, I’m guessing, after all that shit with Jobe and Joseph, that she’s not walking around in the sunshine, am I right?’
I had to niggle him. I had very ambiguous feelings about Johnnie/Jack. I didn’t like him much, didn’t trust him at all, but I needed him. He was a key player in the game. I wanted him confident and willing to help but not too confident, not feeling a sense of absolute independence. It’s not hard to touch a nerve with someone in his position.
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘on the loose, like Hector.’
It didn’t work. He chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, Hector’s in South America by now, or some such fuckin’ place. Kristie’s a home girl. I can find her. Why don’t you come up to Newcastle? Meet me tomorrow and we can talk things over.’
I’d printed out my bank statement with Wakefield’s substantial deposit ensuring my survival for another stretch of time. Money confers an obligation; not as big as love or friendship, but an obligation nevertheless. I said I’d see him. Jack had made his plans; he had a place to stay lined up. He gave me the address as if he was installed already and prepared to be hospitable.
~ * ~
15
I drove to Newcastle, booked into a motel and phoned Kerry Watson.
‘You again,’ he said.
‘I’ve got some business to do with John Twizell. You knew he was out?’
‘You bet I knew. He has to check in with us twice a week and report to his parole officer in Newcastle. I doubt he’ll have time for anything else. What sort of business?’
‘It’s nothing to do with the Tanners. It’s family history.’
‘The family history’s bad—his old man was a crook and Johnnie was lucky he didn’t kill that girl. He was a smalltime crim himself. Don’t tell me Bathurst rehabilitated him.’
‘I don’t know and I don’t care. What I’m interested in goes way back. I just thought I should let you know I was around, the way I’m supposed to do.’
‘Don’t make me laugh, Hardy. You want something. Spit it out, I’m busy.’
My guess was he was always busy—one of those people— but if he had been busy he might know what I wanted to know.
‘Any news of Hector?’
‘Thought you said you weren’t interested in the Tanners.’
‘I’m thinking about Marisha Henderson. You probably know by now she’s working on a book and I don’t imagine Hector wants it to see the light of day.’
‘Hector’s got bigger problems.’
‘Why? I hear he had a big blue with Joseph. Probably very pissed off at having his father shot.’
He sighed. ‘Hardy, you know more than you should and you’re more fucking inquisitive than’s good for you. I’m certainly not going to discuss operational police matters with you. But I’ll tell you this—we don’t know where Hector Tanner is and if you happen to stumble across him in your fucking around you’d better let us know at once.’
‘I won’t be looking and I would. I’ve got a couple of other questions, not strictly related to what we’ve just been talking about.’
‘Have you now? You’ve got a bloody nerve. Do you know how much work I’ve got piled up here?’
I didn’t say anything, didn’t have to. A conscientious policeman like Watson can’t suppress his curiosity.
‘Go on, then. Make it quick.’
‘What can you tell me about a cover-up of a couple of million dollars of stolen money?’
‘Nothing. It’s just a rumour.’
‘How about a British backpacker missing in the Newcastle area?’
‘I’m not in Missing Persons.’
‘Could you ask around?’
‘What’s in it for me?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me? I don’t suppose you’ve got a name or a date.’
‘No.’
‘I don’t know why I don’t arrest you on suspicion of every fucking thing I can think of. Stay out of trouble.’
How many times had I heard that, and from people who thought better of me than Watson.
~ * ~
I met Twizell at a cafe attached to a squash club in Mayfield. He was wearing the appropriate clothes and glowed with cheerfulness and the virtue gained from hard exercise. He’d had his hair cut stylishly and looked years younger than he had in gaol.
‘Haven’t played for yonks,’ he said, ‘but I jogged and did fifty push-ups a day in the slam and I’ve kept my fitness, more or less.’
I was tempted to suggest he might care to go caving but I resisted. That was something he didn’t know I knew about and I was happy to leave it that way.
‘Good for you,’ I said. ‘Joined here, have you?’
‘Thinking about it. Not sure I’m staying in these parts.’
That spoke volumes. He had plans.
‘I’m having a decaf cap, what about you?’
‘Long black.’
‘Toxic.’
He got up and went to the counter to order. He swaggered, only word for it. He chatted to the barista and allowed her to see his sinewy arms and the biceps that stretched the short sleeves of his shirt. He came back with the coffee, wooden stirrers and a handful of sugar and artificial sweetener sachets. He poured two of the artificial sweeteners into his mug and stirred vigorously.
‘Now, to business,’ he said. ‘You want to see Granny’s cottage, right?’
‘Don’t play games with me, Johnnie—’
‘Jack.’
‘Don’t play games. There’s something I’m looking for. If you can help me find it, good. If not, just get on with your life and good luck to you.’
