by Peter Corris
DS Colin Williams sat behind the steering wheel, held there by his seatbelt. His head sagged down towards his chest, but he wasn’t sleeping. The driver’s window glass was starred out around a neat puncture and there was a dark hole in Williams’s head—millimetre perfect at his temple.
Williams was a good deal younger than me, had reached a respectable rank in a difficult profession and was, as far as I knew, an honest policeman. Maybe a husband, maybe a father. After Lily’s death, I didn’t have a lot of space for more sorrow, but there was something about that slumped figure that touched me. A shame, a waste, and someone to blame, possibly the same person who killed Lily. That personalised it and I gave the detective a silent farewell.
Deciding what to do next wasn’t easy. I could have just walked away, but there were various means for the police to find out that I’d had an appointment with Williams. An entry in his notebook seemed unlikely, but I’d rung his mobile three times. I decided to play it straight and report it, but there was a problem—my illegal gun. Williams’s wound was from a small calibre weapon and there was no chance I could be accused of killing him. But with my record the police were bound to hold and search me and carrying an unlicensed pistol is a serious offence.
I couldn’t hide it anywhere near the car because they’d set up a pretty wide perimeter and search it carefully. I moved away from the Camry in case me hanging around there looked suspicious to anyone who happened to be watching. I walked back to the park and deposited the .45 in a rubbish bin after wrapping it in discarded newspaper and folding it into an empty pizza box. I hoped I could get back to it before the bin was emptied. No guarantee.
I went to the covered seat where I’d waited and phoned the police, giving my name, my location and the bare details. I was instructed to remain where I was. A car with two uniforms arrived and I took them to the Camry, standing back to let them take their own look. One of them checked his notepad.
‘You say this is Detective Sergeant Williams of the Northern Crimes Unit?’
‘Right.’
‘And your name is Hardy and you were supposed to meet him here?’
‘Hardy, yes. Here, no. In the park where you picked me up.’
‘So you found him here and walked back there. Where’d you phone from?’
‘Back there.’
The other officer’s mobile rang and he had a brief conversation, mostly consisting of grunts at his end. He shut off the phone and took a step towards me.
‘You’re the private detective who got the flick, right?’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘No offence, but I’ll wait for the Ds before I say anything else. Didn’t touch the car, did you, mate?’
I didn’t hear exactly what he said, but I thought I caught the word ‘arsehole’.
A few minutes later an ambulance pulled up with another police car and then an unmarked. The man who got out of it spoke to the paramedics and briefly to one of the uniformed men. He took a quick look at the body, and then stood twenty metres off issuing directions for the crime scene procedures. A photographer arrived and someone I took to be the pathologist. I was standing well back with a policeman—the one I’d probably offended—beside me and shooting me glances that suggested he’d be delighted if I cut and run.
The detective in the smart suit made several calls on his mobile. He smoked a cigarette and dropped the butt through a stormwater grid. As the photographer and the medical examiner got busy, with the crime scene tape going up and the uniforms keeping away the spectators who’d emerged from nearby houses and buildings, the detective walked towards me. He had dark hair and an olive complexion. He stood about 190 centimetres and would’ve weighed in at around 100 kilos. He waved the uniform away.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Mikos Kristos, Hardy. Northern Crimes. I can’t say I’m glad to meet you.’
A glib reply was on the tip of my tongue but I fought it. Had to be careful.
‘I’m sorry about your colleague,’ I said.
‘Yeah. Good bloke, Col.’
‘I thought so, too.’
‘Close, were you?’
‘I don’t think I’ll say any more until we’re in a controlled situation and I have a lawyer present.’
He pointed to the plaster on my forehead. ‘What happened there?’
Was he baiting me? Hard to tell. I didn’t answer and watched the paramedics stretcher the body, enclosed in a green bag, to the ambulance. At a guess, the police were telling some of the owners of the cars parked nearby that they’d be free to move them soon. I wondered whether any of the spectators would need counselling. Didn’t look like it. Everything was sanitised, clinical.
A TV crew arrived and began filming. Kristos grabbed my arm and hustled me towards a car. I resisted just a little and he almost applied a headlock. I grinned at him and went willingly.
11
The Northern Crimes Unit HQ was in Longueville and it had been a good move to dump the pistol because you couldn’t get into the building without undergoing a metal detector check. Kristos escorted me to a room with all the character and personality of an empty stubbie. I said I wouldn’t make a statement without having my lawyer present.
Kristos unbuttoned his suit coat and sat in a plastic chair that creaked under his weight. I remained standing.
‘Why?’ he said. ‘You’re not a suspect. Even a dickhead like you has the sense not to execute a policeman.’
‘Execute. That’s an interesting choice of words.’
‘What would you call it?’
I shrugged and sat. There are times to stick and times to give a bit. ‘I’ll meet you halfway,’ I said. ‘No lawyer and I won’t volunteer anything, but I’ll answer your questions until I decide not to.’
‘Jesus, for a disgraced private eye you come on proud.’
‘Family trait.’
He thought about it and eventually shook his head. ‘Christ, I’d like to charge you with something and hold you for a while, but I know you’d kick up a stink and have your lawyer up my crack. Anyway, this’ll go higher.’
‘Gregory,’ I said.
He almost laughed. ‘I said higher. Right, let’s get this over with.’
He switched on the recording equipment and we went through the identification procedure. In response to Kristos’s first obvious question, I said I’d arranged to meet Williams to discuss the investigation into the murder of Lillian Truscott.
‘Why him?’
‘He was the first person I dealt with, after the phone contact from Constable Farrow.’
I watched closely to see whether he reacted to the name. He didn’t.
‘Why that spot?’
‘His choice. He said he was in the area.’
‘Did you tell anyone else you were going there?’
‘No.’
‘Did he mention anyone else?’
‘No.’
Kristos consulted his notebook. ‘You told the uniformed guys you spotted a car you thought might belong to Williams. How did you know that?’
‘He parked it outside my house when I handed over my gun to him a few days ago.’
‘You approached, saw him, went back to the park and phoned it in.’
‘Right.’
‘Why not there and then?’
‘I needed time to think about whether to report it or not.’
‘Why did you?’
‘I’d rung his mobile three times. I thought there’d be a record. I also thought he could have made an entry in his notebook.’
‘You fucked up there. Shouldn’t tell you this, but you’re such a smartarse I can’t resist. His mobile and notebook are missing. You could’ve walked away.’
‘So I look better for not doing that.’
‘Unless you took them.’
‘You don’t believe that.’ I had to hope he didn’t because if he did he’d order a search of the park, including its rubbish bins.
He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. But I have to wonder how you�
��re making a living. You’ve got no job. Mind you, I’m told your house is falling down and I know you’ve got a crap car, so I suppose you’re living on savings. Can’t do that for very long. You’re bound to turn your hand to something. We’ll be keeping an eye on you and come down like a ton of bricks if—’
‘That’s tonne.’
‘What?’
‘Move with the times. A tonne of bricks.’
He sat back and looked at me. I never saw a man so keen to hit me except those who actually did. Plenty of them. He was stumped for something to say and in the pause an earlier question he’d asked popped into my mind—the one about telling anyone else where I was to meet Williams. I hadn’t, but there was a way someone could have found out—by bugging my home phone. If it had been done it was done cleverly. The jack was out of the wall. You plug it back in and forget about it, don’t you? And there was still the suspicion that Kristos had done the break-in. Then there was that instinctive move to apply a headlock. I felt the need to be very cautious.
I said, ‘I’m finished talking.’
Kristos stood and buttoned his jacket. His care with his clothing reminded me of Gregory. ‘And I’ve finished listening,’ he said. ‘You’re free to go. We’ll need to talk to you again though, Hardy. Could be any time, any place.’
It sounded like a threat, was a threat, but I just nodded. He opened the door and he and a uniformed man standing in the passage escorted me to the front door of the building. Kristos blocked the way, looked out and spun back with a smile on his face.
‘I hope those TV arseholes eat you alive.’
They were massed at the bottom of the steps. Must have been other ways out of the building and I could’ve been given the police coat-over-the-head treatment, but that wasn’t the strategy.
I went down the steps and they surged up halfway. Three microphones were stuck in my face and a voice said: ‘You found the body, right, Mr Hardy?’
The lifting of my licence had attracted some media attention, so the reporters had no trouble identifying me. My career as a PEA was officially shot, but public recognition would have done it anyway. Despite the posturing of some members of the profession, to be known and highly visible is the last thing a private detective needs. You have to be a chameleon, not a peacock.
‘That’s right,’ I said and pushed on, down at least one step.
‘Are you a suspect?’
I laughed and just stood there. They bombarded me with questions which I just ignored. I said nothing at all, standing stock still. In a way, they’re like their viewers— they have short attention spans. Time is money to their bosses in a very real sense, and they all know they have to get their picture and sound grabs quickly and make the most out of them in strict competition with one another. Like seagulls, feed them and they stick around, give them nothing and they go away. I bored them and they left.
I caught a taxi to the coffee place opposite Milsons Point station, bought a takeaway long black and walked down to the park. I wasn’t followed. I sat and drank the coffee, dropped the cup in the bin and retrieved the pistol. I couldn’t see the crime scene from down there and didn’t want to. I walked back to the car which had picked up a parking ticket. With the taxi and the strategic coffee, that made three expenses, and no client to charge.
I had a couple of hours to kill before the meeting with Townsend and Farrow in Chatswood. I wondered if she’d show, after the death of her colleague. I phoned Townsend and left a message. Thinking about Lily and the break-in reminded me that Hank Bachelor—a young American, now Australian resident, PEA I’d occasionally worked with—had set up business as an alarm installer and anti-bugging expert. Anti-bugging was something I used to have the rudiments of, but the advances in technology had outstripped me. Same with alarms. The system I’d had installed was out of date. Hank’s office was in Crows Nest and I drove there after phoning him. He was in his workshop tinkering.
Hank stands around 188 centimetres and would be about a super-middleweight, maybe a light-heavy. He has a big man’s hands and it was interesting to see him doing delicate work with miniature pieces of equipment.
‘Hey, Cliff, my man—’ He broke off, remembering about Lily, who he’d met a few times and liked. His tone became more sober. ‘How’re you doing?’
We shook hands. ‘Okay, Hank. No need to tread softly. In fact I’m investigating Lily’s death and getting into a lot of shit. It’s sort of doing me good.’
He laid the bits and pieces down on his workbench. ‘I imagine it would. Want to come inside for coffee or something?’
‘No, mate. I won’t interrupt you just now. Think you might have a bit of time later?’
‘For you, sure.’
I told him about the break-in at my place, the bypassing of the alarm system and my suspicion that the phone was bugged. I gave him a key and asked him to check on how the intruder got in and dealt with the alarm and if the phone had been tapped. He asked a few questions about the alarm and shook his head at my answers.
‘Antediluvian, man. Want me to put in something better?’
I wasn’t sure I needed it but I agreed. I asked him to ring me on the mobile about the bugging. Hank had given up active PEA work when he married. His wife was Australian, an ambitious professional who wanted to fit in a family somehow, and didn’t want a husband running around the city at all hours in low company. I suspected Hank still had yearnings for just that. He confirmed the suspicion.
‘Anything else I can do? Need some backup?’
‘I’ll tell you if I do. You better make yourself known to Clive, my neighbour on the left. After the fuss he’ll be keeping an eye out.’
‘Will do.’ He consulted his watch. ‘Be over there in an hour or two. Where will you be?’
‘Drinking with a cop and a journalist.’
‘Of course. SOP.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Standard operational procedure. I’ll get back to you, Cliff.’
Hank is ex-US military and he likes to talk that way when he gets a chance. Luckily, it’s not often. I thanked him and we chatted for a few minutes while I displayed a polite, basically ignorant interest in his work. As I drove away I started to think about what I might do as an alternative to PEA work. Nothing came to mind. Depending on the size of Lily’s legacy there was no need to think about that for now, or perhaps ever. But there was no way to feel good about it either.
The Falcon chugged on the uphill stretches. Lily had laughed at me for keeping it. I stopped at a light and it was as if she was there in the car with me. She’d scoffed every time I spent money on keeping the car going and shook her head at the glove-box that was still full of cassettes—Piaf, Janis, Dylan, Van Morrison, Dire Straits—long after the cassette player had ceased to function.
‘Petrol’s going to hit two bucks a litre soon, babe,’ she’d said. ‘And your fucking V8’ll cost you a fortune. You need a fuel efficient compact with a CD player and an air-conditioner that works.’
‘It heats in winter,’ I said. ‘Sort of. And in summer I can park in the shade and wind the windows down.’
But she was right of course. I needed a new car and she’d made it so that I could afford one. The thought made me sad and then angry.
It was getting close to six o’clock and I hadn’t had a drink all day. Failing a pub, a wine bar in Chatswood sounded like just the go. Standard operational procedure.
12
Winter seems to come early to Chatswood—maybe a matter of the tall buildings blocking out the light and trapping and channelling the winds. The suburb was a bit of a dump in the early days, with one of the grottiest railway stations you’d ever see. My ex-wife Cyn urged me to locate my business there. She said Chatswood was going to grow. She was right, but I didn’t take her advice. They say you can see the Blue Mountains from the upper levels of the towers. Not sure I could’ve handled that— more of a water man myself. I parked underground, the gloom adding to the winter feel. I didn’t know th
e wine bar and Townsend’s directions were sketchy, but a thirsty man can always find a drink. The place was more than half full on a Thursday night and looked as if it might get fuller.
Some wine bars are so dark you trip over the first stool you come to; others are so bright you need shades. The Chat Room, as it was trendily called, was somewhere in between. Non-smoking, soft music, long bar with a section where clustering was encouraged—nice touch—otherwise tables and booths.
I spotted Townsend in a corner booth, obviously chosen for as much privacy as possible. The woman with him had short, no-nonsense blonde hair and wore a white blouse and a dark jacket. I got a glass of red and a complimentary bowl of nuts. I walked over to the booth, wondering which of them to sit next to. Townsend decided the issue by shoving across and leaving an obvious space on his side.
‘Cliff Hardy,’ he said, ‘meet Jane Farrow.’
We exchanged nods as I sat down. She had a glass of white, barely touched; he was halfway through his red. I put the nuts in the middle of the table.
‘Saw you on the news,’ Townsend said. ‘Briefly.’
‘That was the idea.’
Jane Farrow picked a few nuts from the bowl, ate them and took a sip of wine. I guessed her age as late twenties. She was good-looking in an unstudied, unadorned way, as if she knew she had no need to tizz up to attract attention from the discerning. Smooth skin, good teeth, firm jaw, wide, full mouth, thick hair framing an oval face. No rings in her ears or on her hands. Strong hands.
I took a pull on my glass. ‘You’re the fourth person from the Northern Crimes Unit I’ve met, Ms Farrow,’ I said. ‘Are you here to tell us what the hell is going on with that mob?’
She glanced at Townsend. ‘Is he always this direct, Lee?’
Townsend nodded. ‘I’m afraid he is. Of course, he has reason to be.’
I drained my glass and stood. ‘Tell you what,’ I said. ‘I’ll go to the bar and get two reds and a white and I’ll come back. If you’re still talking about me in the third person I’ll pour them all over you. Okay? Deal?’
