Appeal Denied: A Cliff Hardy Novel

by Peter Corris

  ‘Lily’s stories, right?’

  I nodded.

  ‘State or federal politician?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘There was a pollie in Victoria allegedly in on an immigration fiddle, but it didn’t have the juice that you’re talking about. This is young-gun, out-on-the-street stuff, Cliff. I’m just an old man sitting at my desk listening to the winds of change and discord.’

  I smiled. ‘Purple prose like that and your readers’ll be screaming.’

  ‘They scream at me and I scream at them. Instant feedback. It’s part of the fun.’

  ‘Thanks, Harry. Townsend has put me on to some things. Looks like I’ll be working with him.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  Normally, Harry would insist that in return for information he gave me I’d give him the inside track on the story, if there was one. He seemed to sense that with something this personal it wasn’t appropriate.

  I left the office and walked to the car park behind the theatre complex. I usually park there to put the old heap in the shade and with luck prolong its life. Now, late in the afternoon, it was in deep shadow. As I approached a voice somewhere ahead of me shouted and I looked up in that direction. A strong arm wrapped around my neck and expert fingers felt for the carotid artery. I blacked out, floated, and didn’t feel anything when I hit the ground.

  9

  Getting the blood back to your brain when it’s briefly been cut off is very different from the aftermath of being bashed or punched. The first time it happened to me was in the army, when a hand-to-hand-combat instructor did it by accident. A Japanese tough guy did it again somewhat later and not by accident. The recovery has a sense of unreality about it—a feeling of what the hell happened?—and then there’s a very stiff neck and an awareness of any other injuries incurred. In this case I had a pair of bruised knees and a bump on the forehead where my head had hit the car as I went down, and some aches. Nothing serious, aside from the humiliation.

  I hoisted myself up and felt for my wallet in the hip pocket—still there. I reached quickly into the zippered pocket of my jacket. Zip open, disk, thumb drive and page of notes missing. I leaned back against the car and cursed myself for not copying the disk and the notes and putting the thumb drive somewhere safe. My head and jaw ached— another symptom of the brief blackout. For some reason I ground my teeth hard each time this had happened in the past. I was close to grinding them now, in anger.

  Unable to break my anti-mobile habit, I’d left the phone in the car. I retrieved it, located Townsend’s card in my wallet and called him. You always expect to get a message whoever and whenever you call—nobody’s ever actually available, including me. But Townsend was, and he answered.

  ‘It’s Hardy,’ I said. ‘Things are happening and I need to see you. Tell me where and when and make it now if not fucking sooner.’

  ‘You’re not making sense, but I’m at home in Lane Cove and you can come here if you want, or I can meet you somewhere.’

  Could I drive to Lane Cove feeling the way I did? I thought I could. It’s always an advantage to meet someone you’re assessing on their home ground, providing no weapons are involved. I got Townsend’s address, something a journalist doesn’t give out to just anyone, and said I’d be there as soon as I could.

  ‘How soon’s that?’

  ‘Why? Got a date?’

  ‘Have it your own way. I’ll be here.’

  I hadn’t meant to antagonise him, but I hadn’t meant not to.

  Townsend lived in a small sandstone cottage not too far from the Lane Cove National Park. If I sold my terrace I could probably afford one similar—if I wanted to live that far from Jubilee Park, the Toxteth Hotel, Gleebooks, the Broadway cinemas and the Dave Sands memorial. I didn’t.

  It was dark by the time I got there and he’d thoughtfully left a light on above the front door. I went through a neat garden, up a neat path and some well-maintained steps to a porch with tiles that hadn’t lifted and that had been swept clear of leaves. In a quieter mood it would’ve made me feel ashamed of the look of my place.

  I rang the bell. Townsend came quickly to the door, opened the security screen and almost took a backward step.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  I hadn’t given any thought to my appearance, but when I looked down I saw that my pants were torn at the knees and when I touched the bump on my forehead my hand came away wet.

  ‘Come inside and get cleaned up.’

  The immaculate exterior of the house was reproduced inside. Townsend showed me down a short passage of polished boards to a bathroom with all mod cons—spa bath, ceiling radiator, heated towel rails.

  ‘Use what you want,’ Townsend said, ‘and I’ll make you a drink. Scotch, is it?’

  ‘Thanks. A bloody big one.’

  I ran water, used a flannel and towel, and dumped them in the basket provided. I’ve got a milk crate for the purpose, better ventilated. I found bandaids in a drawer and laid one over the graze just below the hairline and above the boxing scars that puckered my eyebrows. I rinsed my hands and mouth and felt considerably better. Out in the passage I heard Townsend talking and went towards the sound.

  He was sitting at a pine table in the kitchen with a glass in hand and using his mobile. There was a bottle of Dewar’s, another glass, a carafe of water and ice in a bowl on the table.

  ‘Gotta go,’ Townsend said and hung up. ‘Sorry, Hardy. Have a drink. I wasn’t sure of your … proportions.’

  I sat and poured a generous measure of the whisky and added ice. I took a long pull and poured some more. I was suddenly very tired and wanted to close my eyes.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said after another drink. ‘Looks like I landed in the right place.’

  ‘Is anything hurting? You need painkillers?’

  I held up my glass. ‘This’ll do.’

  You gotta trust somebody, and anybody who offers you the whole bottle has a good chance of getting the nod. I was in a mood to talk and couldn’t see any reason to hold back, so I told Townsend everything from whoa to go. He kept quiet and didn’t react, even when I said that Tim Arthur had badmouthed him. I made no excuses about my carelessness in protecting the record of Lily’s work, and admitted that I had my doubts about Gregory’s involvement. I didn’t mention Harry Tickener’s reference to the small man syndrome.

  I worked my way through the scotch in my glass and eyed the bottle when I finished.

  ‘I’ve got a spare room,’ Townsend said. ‘You can stay the night if you’re worried about driving over the limit.’

  I poured another solid one. ‘Thanks. About all I need right now is for the cops to pick me up driving pissed. What d’you make of it all?’

  ‘How much do you remember of Arthur’s translation of Lily’s codes and initials?’

  ‘Good point. Got a pen and paper? That fucker took my notebook, not that there was anything in it.’

  Townsend went into an adjacent room and came out with a pen and a lined pad. I printed out POW, BW, SB and VER with their equivalents, but not many of the scrambled initials came back to me. I put down IRS, IAD and HON but without any confidence—they could’ve just been echoes of familiar initials. I tore off the sheet and passed it to Townsend, telling him the initials could all be wrong.

  ‘Not a hell of a lot of help,’ he said. ‘The upside is that it wouldn’t be much help to the opposition either.’

  ‘No. There was enough detail in the stories, as I’ve outlined them to you, to tell anyone involved what line she was following. He, she, they have the advantage now.’

  ‘She?’

  I shrugged. ‘Avoiding sexism.’

  ‘Cute. Sorry. This has thrown me a bit. I thought we were on the right lines with Gregory, but you have your doubts. I don’t know anything about this Kristos. From what you said, the line on him is a bit ragged.’

  ‘Yeah. Frank didn’t know anything about him either, and the identification of him as the one haring away with my comp
uter is very iffy. I’ve been told he was big and that was a strong arm that went round my neck, but …’ I shrugged again and the stiff neck hurt. Townsend noticed, left the room and came back with a foil of paracetamol capsules. ‘You’re done for the day, Hardy. Have a couple of these and get your head down. We’ll look at it all tomorrow.’

  I popped a couple of the capsules from the foil. ‘How secure’s this place?’

  ‘Solid. Alarm system A1 and connected to a private security mob. Why?’

  ‘I must’ve been followed through the late part of the day. Getting here I didn’t notice anything, but my skills are obviously down.’

  ‘I’ll give the guys a ring and tell them to keep an eye out.’

  ‘You’re not worried on your own account?’

  ‘You kidding? Think I haven’t had death threats?’

  ‘That’s what Tim Arthur mentioned.’

  ‘Right. Well, you can talk to him about old stories he and Lily covered, but I doubt that’s the source of the trouble. Possible, I suppose. Arthur’s a prick but he’s not dumb.’

  I swallowed the capsules with the last dregs of the drink. Townsend showed me where the toilet and the spare room were. After I’d had a piss I went back to the kitchen to see him doodling on the lined pad.

  ‘Last thoughts?’

  He looked up, still alert, still energetic. ‘Constable Farrow,’ he said.

  I slept soundly in a comfortable three-quarter bed, woke a bit stiff and sore, showered and used one of Townsend’s stack of warmed fluffy towels. He was in the kitchen with coffee brewed and the Australian, Sydney Morning Herald and Financial Review all on the table. I’ve never known a journalist who wasn’t addicted to newsprint.

  He barely looked up from one of the papers as I came in. ‘Sleep all right? Coffee’s made. Croissants in the bag there.’

  ‘Coffee’ll do fine.’ He was wearing a tracksuit and sneakers. ‘Jogging?’

  ‘Walking,’ he said, still reading. ‘Jogging’s bad for the joints. How do you stay trim?’

  ‘Trimmish. Gym, walking, diet, worry.’

  ‘That’ll do it. How’re the head and the knees?’

  ‘Okay. I might take a couple more of your bombs with the coffee just for insurance.’

  I sat and drank coffee, took two more capsules and watched him rapidly process the newspapers while he sipped coffee. He was a picture of concentration; I almost expected him to take notes. Didn’t have the nerve to interrupt him. Eventually he pushed the last paper away.

  ‘Sorry. Ingrained habit.’

  I nodded. ‘Lily was the same. Let’s get down to it. Have you got an opinion on which of the two stories is most likely to be the one that got her killed? That’s if it wasn’t something else altogether.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Dunno. That’s one of the things I’ll be taking up with your bête noire, Arthur.’

  ‘I’m over that, Hardy. Well over it. Yes, I’d go for the media person laundering money. Dodgy politicians will usually only go so far, at least in this country. They stop short of killing people. In the US and the Philippines, some parts of Europe, there’s so much more at stake. I’m going to dig around and see if I can get a whiff of what she was on to.’

  ‘And a possible connection to Gregory.’

  ‘Right. One thing though—can you remember which story VER, meaning a minister of religion, cropped up in?’

  I tried. I poured more coffee. After the break-in at the house and the attack on me, the quiet sifting through Lily’s work seemed to have happened a long time ago. I tried to recollect my jottings about the codes, their organisation on the page.

  ‘The money laundering story, I think. Can’t be positive.’

  ‘Good. It’s a hook. And I do so like to see a God-botherer with his nuts in the blender.’

  I was starting to like Townsend.

  10

  Townsend said he’d work on finding out more about the media money launderer, if he could. He had an arrangement to meet Constable Farrow at a wine bar in Chatswood at 6 pm and thought it’d be a good idea if I came along.

  ‘What’s her grievance exactly?’ I said. ‘She’s taking a risk talking to you, even if she does fancy you, and an even bigger one talking to me.’

  Townsend smiled. ‘You underestimating my charisma, Hardy?’

  ‘I reckon charisma’s overrated in general.’

  ‘What? Invented by some sawn-off?’

  ‘Your sensitivity’s showing.’

  He laughed. ‘You’re a prick, Hardy, but you’re right. I don’t know what her game is. There’s something wrong in that Northern Crimes Unit. It’s the line to follow though, you agree?’

  ‘Yeah. But it’s all a bit weird—Gregory, Williams, Kristos, Farrow. Who else? What’s the big picture? What’s the overall structure of the unit?’

  ‘I thought your friend Parker’d fill you in.’

  ‘Not really. Things’ve changed a bit since his day, as he admits. There’s units within units, outsourcing of functions even …’

  Townsend shook his head as I moved to rinse my mug at the sink. ‘Cleaner does it all,’ he said. ‘But you’re right again. It’s hard to get a handle on anything these days. The word responsibility has dropped out of everyone’s vocabulary since this federal government took over. It’s all spin, spin, spin, spin.’

  On the drive home, I thought over what Townsend had said. It was all true and words were changing their meaning almost daily, as with ‘rendition’, mutilated by the US military. ‘Media’ was a loose term anyway. It could mean almost anything to do with communications—satellite services, internet facilitators, software corporations, as well as the good oldies like radio, print, television and film. What this meant was that anyone or any group seriously involved and seriously threatened had a hell of a lot to lose.

  I bundled up Lily’s clothes and took them to the St Vincent de Paul shop as I’d intended. I threw out two pairs of tights and panties and put her few books on the shelves with mine. Getting rid of the clothes made me feel lousy; keeping the books made me feel just a little bit better. Over the couple of years we’d been semi-together, Lily had given me books as Christmas and birthday presents and written in them. I checked a few of the inscriptions and smiled—Lily’s irreverence always made me smile.

  Sick of being passive, I hunted out DS Williams’s card and called him on his mobile. Got lucky. Got him.

  ‘Williams.’

  ‘Cliff Hardy. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Come on, Sergeant, you know there’s something shitty going on in your unit. It’s leaking information for one thing, or it might be disinformation. Doesn’t matter. And there’s a trail to be followed with a couple of people following it.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘And others. Something’s going to blow open sooner or later. Where d’you want to be standing when it happens, and who with? Because I can tell you there’s going to be casualties.’

  He wasn’t dumb. ‘If you’re so confident, why do you need to talk to me?’

  ‘To speed things up.’

  A long pause and I could hear the click of the lighter, the inhale and exhalation. Sometimes a sign of tension, but not always. He must have been out and about somewhere. Where, I wondered? Doing what?

  ‘I suppose we could meet. Where are you?’

  Chess, I thought.

  ‘At home. Where’re you?’

  ‘Milsons Point. There’s a little park down near North Sydney swimming pool. D’you know it?’

  ‘No. Aren’t there coffee places along there? What about a pub?’

  ‘Don’t piss me off more than you have to, Hardy. I don’t want to be seen in a public place with a … with you.’

  I agreed to meet him there in an hour. That gave me time to retrieve the Colt .45 automatic from under the loose floorboards in the hall cupboard, clean and oil it and check on the quality of the ammunition. Frank was right. I had another gun, b
ut only one. The Colt was heavy and I preferred a revolver, but this had come my way a couple of years back without any trace and had been too good an opportunity to pass up. I kept it wrapped in oilcloth in a cool storage place. I’d tested it a few times and found it was in perfect working order. It had been some years since meeting policemen in the open had been a dangerous thing to do in Sydney, but who could forget Roger Rogerson and Warren Lanfranchi?

  I drove across the Bridge and down to Milsons Point. I found a parking spot behind the railway station and walked towards the water past the coffee places, lawyers’ offices and the Random House building. The day was cloudy and there was a stiff, cold breeze. I was wearing a flannel shirt, sweater and leather jacket and needed every layer. The park was a pocket handkerchief affair with a couple of covered sitting areas. Pretty nice in good weather, bleak today.

  The harbour was grey under the cloud, but rain was unlikely at least for a while. There was no one else in the park, so it was far from being a good meeting point if you were worried about being seen.

  I sat on a hard seat and began to wonder if I was being set up. The place had some high-rise buildings around it— possible sniper points. I had the .45 in a deep pocket in the jacket. I fingered it and told myself not to be ridiculous. The time for our meeting came and went. I decided to give Williams another ten minutes before phoning. I waited, phoned and got no response—no answer, no message.

  I tried to gather my thoughts and impressions about Williams. He’d seemed competent and under control in our first meeting. Maybe a bit pressured and rattled by my phone call, but still coping. Puzzling. I waited a little longer, phoned again and got the same result. I left the park and decided to walk around the area a bit in case he was lurking, keeping an eye on me, wondering what I’d do if he didn’t show. The neighbourhood wasn’t as parked up as it would have been in better weather. I doubt there were many swimmers, even in the heated pool. A block away, in a cul-de-sac, I saw a red Camry that fitted my memory of Williams’s car. There aren’t too many of them about in that colour. The street was quiet. I crossed it and approached the vehicle.