by Peter Corris
I gave up carrying a wallet years ago, too easy to lose or have lifted. I distribute what money I have around various pockets and I touched them now automatically, not expecting to have been robbed. The right trouser pocket felt fuller than it should have been. I emptied the pocket; in addition to the couple of tens and a five I’d had left after paying for the drinks in the airport bar, I had twelve crisp, new hundred-dollar notes. That’s when I knew for certain that Rex Hindle was dead.
I flagged a cab and went to the office, where I cleaned myself up and had a couple of medicinal Scotches. Probably not a good idea on top of whatever dope they’d shot into me, but I was in no mood to care. I sat behind my desk for a minute or two to see if there were any ill effects. All I could feel was the whisky doing me good. I ran through my story in my head and couldn’t see any reason not to tell the truth.
The cops at the Kings Cross station don’t like me particularly but they tolerate me. I put my story on tape over lousy coffee with Detective Senior Sergeant Kev Ingham, who heard me out, disapproval written all over his craggy face. I even mentioned the twelve hundred dollars.
‘Shit, Hardy,’ he said as he pressed the OFF button. ‘That’s one of the vaguest fuckin’ statements I’ve ever heard. The only person you’ve been able to describe is the woman.’
‘They doped me. Want to see the needle mark?’
‘No, thanks. But it’s a point. You’d better get down to St Vinnie’s and get a blood test. I’ll give you a chit. That might protect your arse a bit.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You’re supposed to make a contract with your clients, right? Remember the fucking law? I didn’t hear you mention a contract.’
I downed the dregs of the coffee and wished I hadn’t. ‘I haven’t been at my best.’
‘So we’ve seen, and heard. Your licence is shaky, mate. Get to the hospital and go home. You’ll be hearing from us, or someone.’
I got up, feeling capable of making it to the door, just. ‘Meaning?’
‘I ran your Mr Hindle through the computer before you started burbling. He’s known to the authorities, as they say.’
No trace was ever found of Rex Hindle or his BMW, or of the men and the woman who’d dealt with us at the airport. I was found to have a high level of some barbiturate in my blood and to have suffered a minor concussion. A committee that sat periodically to review complaints against PEAs censured me for failing to observe contractual procedures but, in view of my relatively clean record, my licence wasn’t withdrawn. I cleaned up my act, knuckled down to some routine jobs and saw them through. I cut down on the grog and got back into playing tennis at the courts in John Street where Lew Hoad had blossomed.
A month later I got a visit from a Commonwealth policeman named Wilensky. I told him everything all over again and he did a lot of nodding and a little tapping on a notebook computer. He seemed quietly pleased and I asked him why.
‘Rex Hindle was the ugly Australian personified,’ he said. ‘His ferries were floating brothels. He trafficked in young women, young men and drugs. He was slime, Mr Hardy. Your failure to protect him has left the world a better place.’
Which didn’t make me feel better about myself. I also felt bad about losing Glen Withers and the cat, but I felt okay about the twelve hundred dollars.
BLACK ANDY
From Taking Care of Business (2004)
‘I’m a literary agent but I’m not ringing to talk to you about your memoirs,’ Melanie Fanshawe said quickly. ‘A couple of people in the business have told me about your …’
‘Rudeness?’
‘Not at all.’ Emphatic refusal. ‘This is something quite different. Professional. I can’t talk about it on the phone and I’m afraid I can’t get to you today. Could you possibly come to me? I’m sorry, that sounds … I’m sure you’re busy, too.’
She gave me the address in Paddington and suggested five o’clock. Suited me. I knew the area. There was a good pub on a nearby corner where I could have a drink when we finished, whichever way it went.
I was at her door a couple of minutes early. A tiny two-storey terrace described by the real estate sharks as a ‘worker’s cottage’. The door, with a small plaque identifying the business carried on inside, was right on the street. No gate. One step up. I rang the bell and a no-nonsense buzzer sounded inside.
Heels clattered briefly on a wooden floor and the door opened. Melanie Fanshawe was solidly built, medium-tall, fortyish. She wore a white silk blouse, a narrow bone-coloured mid-calf skirt and low heels. Her hair was dark, wiry and abundant, floating around her head.
‘Mr Hardy?’
‘Right.’
‘Come in. Come through and I’ll make some coffee and tell you what this is all about.’
I followed her down a short passage, past an alcove under the stairs where a phone/fax was tucked in. The kitchen was small with a slate floor, eating nook, microwave, half-sink and bar fridge. She pointed to the short bench and seats. ‘You should be able to squeeze in there.’
I could, just. ‘Small place you’ve got here.’
She laughed. ‘I inherited it from my grandma. She was five-foot-nothing, but I’ve learned to turn sideways and duck my head.’
‘I’ve got the opposite problem,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a terrace in Glebe that’s too big for me.’
She boiled a kettle, dumped in the coffee, poured the water and set the plunger. ‘How d’you take it?’
‘White with two.’
She lifted an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
‘I’m trying not to be a stereotype.’
She laughed again. ‘You’re succeeding. They didn’t tell me you were funny.’
I made a gesture of modest acceptance as she pushed the plunger down.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘This is it. I’ve got a client who’s written a book. No, he’s writing a book. I’ve got an outline and the chapter headings and it looks like amazing stuff.’
‘Good for him. And good for you.’
She smiled that slightly crooked smile that made you want to like her. ‘Yeah, sure. If he lives to finish it.’
I drank some of the excellent coffee. ‘Here comes the crunch.’
‘You’re right. This book tells all there is to know about corruption in Sydney over the past twenty years—up to yesterday. Names, place-names and dates. Everything. It’s going to be a bombshell.’
‘But it hasn’t been written yet.’
‘As I said, the outline’s there and the early stuff is ready. He’s got the material for the rest—tapes, documents, videos. The thing is, as soon as it becomes known that this book’s on the way, the author’s life is in serious danger.’
‘From?’
‘Crims, police, politicians.’
I finished the coffee and reached for the pot to pour some more. ‘You’ve only got an outline. Some of these things fizzle. Neddy Smith—’
‘Not this one. This is for real. You know who the author is, and he specifically asked for you.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘As protection.’
‘Who are we talking about?’
She drank and poured the little that was left in the pot into her mug. ‘Andrew Piper.’
‘Black Andy Piper?’
‘The same.’
Ex-Chief Inspector Andrew Piper, known as Black Andy, was one of the most corrupt cops ever to serve in New South Wales. He’d risen rapidly through the ranks, a star recruit with a silver medal in the modern pentathlon at the Tokyo Olympics. He was big and good-looking and he had all the credentials—a policeman as a father; the Masonic connection; marriage to the daughter of a middle-ranking state politician; two children: a boy and a girl. Black Andy had played a few games for South Sydney and boxed exhibitions with Tony Mundine. He’d headed up teams of detectives in various Sydney divisions and the number of crimes they’d solved were only matched by the ones they’d taken the profits from. His name came up adversely at a succession of e
nquiries and he eventually retired on full benefits because to pursue him hard would have brought down more of the higher echelon of the force than anyone could handle.
Melanie Fanshawe looked amused at my reaction to the name. ‘I gather you know each other.’
‘I’ve met him twice. The first time he had me beaten up, the second time it was to arrange to pay him blackmail.’
She nodded. ‘Doesn’t surprise me. Well, he’s telling all in this memoir—names, places, dates, amounts of money.’
‘Why?’
‘Did you know his wife died last year?’
I shook my head.
‘She did. Then he was diagnosed with cancer. He says he’s found God.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Which of the three?’
‘The last. Black Andy is a corrupt bastard, through and through. If Jesus tapped him on the shoulder, Andy’d have one of his boys deal with him out in the alley.’
‘He says he’s put all that behind him. Cleared himself of all those connections. He wants to tell the truth so he can die in peace.’
My scepticism was absolute. ‘Why not just write the book, confess to a priest, die absolved or whatever it is, and turn the royalties over to the church?’
She ticked points off on her fingers. ‘One, he’s not a Catholic. Some sort of way-out sect. Two, he needs the money—the advance for the book—to pay for the treatments he’s having to give him time to finish it.’
‘I paid him a hundred grand last year.’
‘As I said, he claims to have broken all those connections. No income. Some recent in-house enquiry, well after his retirement, stripped him of his pension. At the time, he didn’t care. But it’s different now. From what he’s told me, he had incredible overheads when the money was coming in—protection, bribes …’
‘Booze, gambling, women.’
‘All that. He makes no bones about it. It promises to be a unique inside account, Mr Hardy. A mega-bestseller. He needs it and, frankly, so do I.’
‘How long does he think it’ll take?’
‘Six weeks, he says.’
‘That’s a lot of my time and someone’s money. Yours?’
She gave me that disarming, crooked smile again. ‘No, the publisher’s, if I can work it right. The thing is, publishing houses leak to the media like politicians. I’m sure I can get the contract we need for this book, one with all the money bits and pieces built in, but as soon as I get it the news’ll flash round the business and hit the media. I’ve told Andrew that and he says they’ll come gunning for him from all directions. That’s why he suggested, no, requested, you. Will you do it?’
It was too interesting to resist and I liked her. I agreed to meet Black Andy and talk to him before I made a decision.
‘But you’re more pro than con?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I’m intrigued. But we get back to it—six weeks solid is big bucks.’
‘I’ve got a publisher in mind who’ll be up for it.’
‘What about libel?’
‘He’ll cope with that as well. He’s a goer.’
‘Can I see what you’ve got from Andy already?’
She looked doubtful. ‘He asked me not to show it to anyone until I was ready to make the deal, but I suppose you’re an exception. I can’t let you take it away, though. You’ll have to read it here.’
She handed me a manila folder. It held four sheets of paper—the outline of Coming Clean: The inside story of corruption in Australia. I read quickly. No names, but indications that the people who would be named included well-known figures in politics, police, the law, media and business, as well as criminal identities. The fourth sheet was a list of chapter headings, with ‘Who killed Graeme Bartlett?’ as an example. Bartlett had been a police whistle-blower whose murder a few years ago hadn’t been solved.
‘This is it?’
‘I’ve seen more. He showed it to me on our second meeting but he wouldn’t let me keep it. He said it needed more work and he will only hand those chapters over to you. No you, no deal.’
Flattering, but very suspicious. There were harder men than me around in Sydney, plenty of them, but maybe hardness wasn’t his priority. If he was genuine about his problem, Black Andy would have known that anyone he hired to protect him was liable to get a better offer. Some of the possible candidates would switch sides at the right price. My dealings with him hadn’t been pleasant, but at least we’d understood each other. And perhaps my police contacts were something he thought he could make use of.
We came to terms. We’d only get to the serious contract point if I accepted the assignment. Short of that, for a bit of sniffing around and the initial meeting with Piper, I’d charge her a daily rate as a security consultant to her business.
I rang Piper that night and arranged to meet him at 11 a.m. in two days. I wanted the time to do some research on him and his new-found faith. He wanted to hand over more material to keep Melanie happy and convince me. He gave an address in Marrickville and I scribbled it down. We were talking about Sunday. Okay by me, I wouldn’t be doing anything else just then. Piper’s voice hadn’t changed, a Bob-Hawkish growl, but I fancied his manner was softer. Maybe my imagination.
I talked to Frank Parker, an old friend and a former Deputy Police Commissioner, and to a couple of serving officers with whom I was on reasonable terms. I found out nothing startling, but got confirmation that Black Andy’s pension had been rescinded, that he was widowed and rumoured to be unwell. It’s easy enough to put a rumour about. His main henchman, a former cop named Loomis, was in jail on an assault conviction. It wasn’t quite what Melanie had said—Piper turning his back on his thug mates—but Loomis would have been his first line of defence in the old days, and his absence added some credibility to the story.
I heard the hymn-singing inside when I located the address Piper had given me—the sect’s meeting hall—and took my seat out of earshot on the other side of the road. Best vantage point, but it was hot and the bus shelter didn’t give much shade. I hoped the word of God would end on time.
They filed out, more than a hundred of them, men, women and children, all neatly dressed. A few walked off, most headed for their cars. Among the last out was Black Andy Piper. Dark suit, white shirt, dark tie, despite the heat of the day. He spotted me immediately and beckoned me over. Same old Andy—do as I tell you. I gave it a minute, pretending to wait for the traffic, just to be bolshie.
By the time I’d crossed the road, Piper was standing on his own outside the hall. Maybe Melanie Fanshawe wasn’t a good judge of weight, because he’d definitely trimmed down a bit. A hundred kilos, tops. He’d also grown a grey beard. He looked thinner and older. His black eyes bored into me as I approached, then they drifted away and he seemed almost to smile. Almost.
‘Hardy.’
‘Piper.’
We didn’t shake hands.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I want you to meet Pastor Jacobsen.’
We went inside. A man sitting on a plastic chair in the front row of a crowded space turned around as we entered, stood and came towards us.
‘Pastor, this is Cliff Hardy. The man I told you about.’
Jacobsen was a bit below average height, and thin. He wore a clerical collar, beige suit and black shoes. Not a good look. His hair was scanty and arranged in an unconvincing comb-over. Big ears, pale face and eyes, long nose, weak chin. His mouth was pink and damp-looking.
‘Mr Hardy,’ he said in a strong southern US accent. ‘I’m honoured to meet you, sir. Well met in Christ.’ He held out his hand and I took it. He closed his other hand over our grip and I immediately wanted to break free.
‘Mr Jacobsen,’ I said.
He released my hand slowly. ‘I know Brother Piper puts his trust in you so I’ll leave you to your business. Call me any time, Brother Piper.’
‘Thank you, Pastor. I’ll be at the bible class later this week. Mr Hardy will be my … shepherd, I trust.’
&nbs
p; ‘Excellent.’ Jacobsen picked up a bible from the lectern and walked away.
‘C’mon, Andy,’ I said when Jacobsen was out of earshot. ‘This is bullshit.’
Piper sank down into a chair. ‘Hardy, have you ever heard the saying, “There are no atheists in a slit trench under fire”?’
I sat in the row behind him. ‘No, and that’d be bullshit too, because I’ve been there.’
He sighed and looked weary. ‘What place does God have in your miserable life?’
I leaned over him. ‘As Michael Caine says in Alfie, “A little bit of God goes a very long way with me”.’
I’ll swear he wanted to tell me to pray, but he held it back. He picked up a manila envelope from the chair next to him and handed it over. ‘I have to clear up a bit in here and lock up. I’ll see you later, Hardy.’
I drove to Paddington and went into the pub near Melanie Fanshawe’s place. Quiet at that time on a Sunday. I bought a beer and used my Swiss army knife to cut away the tape. Chapter One was called ‘The Bully’ followed by ‘The Rookie’ and ‘The Bag Boy’, just as in the chapter list I’d seen. I read quickly. Piper explained how he’d been a bully as far back as he could remember and how a cop at the Police Boys Club had told him he was perfect police material. He named the cop and told how he and several of his colleagues, also named, had recruited Piper and some other boys to form a gang of burglars and car thieves.
He went on to explain how endemic corruption had been in the service despite the enquiries and attempts to clean it up. With his silver medal, rugby and boxing credentials, young Piper came to the attention of two detectives who controlled the flow of money between brothel owners, the police and politicians. Piper became the chief bagman while still a constable. The chapter had detailed information on meetings, amounts of money, bank accounts and, again, names.
‘You opened it,’ Melanie said as I handed the envelope over.
‘Sure, wouldn’t you in my position? This isn’t a time for good manners. Just be glad I didn’t copy it.’
