Appeal Denied: A Cliff Hardy Novel (14 page)

This was a strong woman, a fact-facer, potentially an excellent witness. I found her now looking straight at me.

‘Pam and I talked for a while last night, Mr Hardy. She told me what you’d done for her, what you said about your partner being killed and about Col. To put it bluntly—she was impressed by the way you behaved. I agreed to talk to you and the last thing she said to me was, “I’m sure you can trust him”, meaning you. Pam’s smart and I reckon she was right. You say I need someone to advise me. Okay, I’ll be advised by you.’

Townsend and I didn’t speak as we walked back to our cars. I had the folder of photographs in my hand. Townsend had his film. I’d told Hannah Morello to sit tight for a day while we arranged for her safety and the use of her evidence. We reached the cars and stood awkwardly, at odds, looking at each other. He was immaculate, I wasn’t. He was driving a forty thousand dollar car, I wasn’t.

‘You were playing a strange game in there,’ he said.

‘So were you.’

He looked at his watch. ‘Tell you what, let’s go and have lunch and talk about it.’

‘I don’t eat lunch.’

He laughed. ‘You can push a salad around, have some juice. We really need to get our lines straight here.’

His composure irked me, but I knew my response had been petulant. I agreed to meet him in a Balmain restaurant I vaguely knew. I tapped the folder and pointed to his briefcase.

‘Nobody hears about this until we have our talk, right?’

‘Yes.’ He reached into his pocket, took out his mobile phone and handed it to me. ‘You can follow me and see that I don’t stop to use a phone. What more can I do?’

I followed him into Balmain, busy on a Saturday, and after trying a few side streets with no luck we finally found places to park. I returned the phone and we walked back to Darling Street and along to a small cafe-cum-restaurant in an arcade. Townsend ordered fish for himself, a Greek salad for me and a small carafe of white wine with two bottles of mineral water. When the wine came he poured half-glasses and topped them up with the water. We drank, no toasting.

‘What’s your main concern?’ he asked. ‘I know it involves the Morello woman’s safety.’

I still couldn’t decide how far to trust him, where his loyalties lay, what he was prepared to risk. On the drive another thought had forced its way forward in my mind. Getting Kristos convicted and dismantling the corrupt component of the Northern Crimes Unit were all very well, but I needed leverage to find out who’d killed Lily or ordered it, and I wasn’t sure how to get that.

I told Townsend about that thought as he ate his fish and I dealt with my salad.

‘More to it than that,’ he said. ‘You’re not exactly a poker face, Cliff. You don’t trust me. Why’s that?’

Time to come clean. ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you. I’m worried about your association with Jane Farrow. I’d be more inclined to say that I don’t trust her.’

He dropped his fork, the only clumsy action I’d ever seen from him. ‘Jesus Christ, think of the risks she’s taking.’

‘Why’s she taking them? Why not walk away?’

‘A matter of principle.’

‘Struck a lot of that in your profession, have you, Lee?’

He picked up his fork and prodded at the remains of his meal, but he’d lost his appetite. I decided to follow up the possible advantage. ‘Have you ever been up close to Vince Gregory?’

‘No, why?’

‘He smells. Some kind of glandular disorder, apparently. I can’t understand why a clean-cut type like Farrow would be attracted. And there’s another thing. This won’t please you.’

‘What?’

‘Pam Williams—now I know I didn’t tell you about meeting her and what happened last night and all that. It doesn’t matter now. She confronted Perkins and one of his mates while I was keeping an eye on them, and she gave them shit. She struck me as very much like her friend, Hannah—smart, tough, honest. She told me Jane Farrow had come on strong to her husband. I’m sorry, Lee, but there’s something about Farrow that troubles me.’

Townsend’s control was slipping. ‘Are you saying you met her? She came on to you?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘Fuck it, I thought … I don’t know what to think. What’s in your bloody brain?’

‘Just that I know what you’re thinking. A double whammy. The Morello evidence
and
whatever Jane can get them to admit. Right?’

‘I don’t like it, but the Morello evidence isn’t enough. It could just leave Kristos holding the bag, despite what I said to her back there. You know how enquiries and prosecutions can work. The deals they can cut.’

‘Yeah. If I knew Kristos had killed Lily, I’d just go up against him with the photos, make him tell me why, pretend to deal, and dump him in the shit.’

‘You would, I’m sure. But it isn’t his style. You know that. It’s more likely to be the guy with the gun in the Morello photos—well in with the cops. Probably the same one who killed Williams, and we have no idea who that is. We need leverage to get someone like Perkins or Gregory to tell us.’

I filled my glass with wine and didn’t dilute it. Townsend and I had kept our voices down because there were others sitting nearby. A few glanced at him, but none came up for his autograph. A waitress took our plates and we both ordered coffee. I had a new and uncomfortable feeling, the result of having been with two people who’d lost their partners, with me in the same boat. My empathy was all with them, tinged with anger.

‘I don’t want you to tell Jane Farrow about the Morello photographs until I’ve checked her out more thoroughly.’

‘You’re checking on her?’

‘In depth.’

‘Shit. I was thinking of suggesting that I
did
tell her, and that we mount the protection on Mrs Morello, so if any attempt was made on her, we’d know that Jane was …’ My smile stopped him. ‘You were willing to dice with a woman’s life to find out if your lover was on the straight. And you call me a bastard.’

‘I was only thinking about it. Being pragmatic.’

‘The last refuge of a scoundrel.’

‘Wasn’t that patriotism?’

‘Applies, though.’

The coffees came. Gave us more time to think. Stir, taste, stir again.

‘We’re both holding evidence,’ I said. ‘I’ve got the photos, you’ve got the film. Neither has much bite without the other.’

‘True.’

‘Two days, nothing said to Jane Farrow. Agreed?’

‘Okay. I wish I could think of something to hold you to, but you’re too slippery.’

‘You can pay the bill while you’re thinking.’

He produced a fat wallet, took out a credit card and waved it, the gesture stopping just short of arrogance. The waitress brought the bill, took the card, returned the folder and Townsend signed, leaving a tip.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

He nodded, still irritated.

‘Hey, you’re Mr Pragmatism. You might even pretend to go a bit cool on her to test her reaction.’

‘Fuck you,’ he said.

18

A
s it was on my way and I was impatient, I called in on Phil Lawton to see what his web trawling had turned up. A ‘Impatient bugger, aren’t you?’ was his greeting.

‘Yup.’

‘Still working out?’

‘When I get time.’

‘Use it or lose it.’

‘Phil …’

‘Just playing you along, mate. Yeah, I’ve checked out Jane Margaret Farrow, DOB 27/1/79. Scored in the high nineties in the HSC. She graduated in Arts at the University of Western Sydney in 2001, second class honours, division one, majoring in sociology and economics. Honours thesis on the 1979 Woodward Royal Commission into drugs. Represented Australia at the 2000 Commonwealth Games in pistol shooting, finishing fourth. Close, but no cigar. Am I going too fast for you to get this down?’

One of Phil’s typical jokes. I wasn’t taking notes—he was drawing attention to his total recall of the information, one of his many talents. I didn’t bother to reply, and he went on.

‘Goulburn Police Academy 2001. Fitness level top ten percentile; rated excellent all categories; probationary constable, Mt Druitt 2001–02; posted to various Sydney stations 2002; promoted to detective 2004, appointed to Northern Crimes Unit 2005.’

‘Thanks, Phil. That it?’

‘No. There’s a gap in there I couldn’t probe. These sorts of records are date sensitive. They’re coded, but that’s not usually a problem if you—’

I held up my hand. ‘I don’t need to know.’

‘Okay, she disappears between late 2004 and early 2005. I tried to trace her in other ways—illness, overseas travel, phone, electoral roll, credit cards and what-have-you, with no result. She sort of vanishes during that period, say for six months.’

‘Jesus, are we all documented that closely?’

‘Not all, some—probably be most before too long the way things are going. Have to be protected against terrorists, ha ha. Know any, do you? I’m sure I could organise a bounty for dobbing them in.’

‘Great. Now that you’ve looked at this stuff, how would you rate her progress as a police officer?’

‘Are you kidding? Fucking rapid. Mind you, when she was in uniform she made some good arrests and had stellar showings in court that stamped her as promising. No getting away from that. Plus, the service was looking to promote women and the Northern Crimes Unit was in the rapid promotion loop it seems. Natural place for her to go.’

‘That’s right.’

‘The gap’s the thing that takes the eye. Nature hates a vacuum; me too. I’ll keep at it. Can’t bear to be snookered. There’s another possibility. I hate to admit it but there could be a pathway I haven’t cracked.’

I thanked Phil and asked him if there’d be any trace in the records of his search.

‘You’re joking,’ he said.

‘Just playing you along. I’ll spot you at the gym next time you try to lift more than you should.’

He gave me the bird and turned back to his god.

There was a scattering of phone messages and emails when I got home. Nothing important. Viv Garner wanting to know how I was doing. Tim Arthur saying he’d looked through his files and memory and couldn’t locate anything he and Lily had worked on in the past that would be likely to have brought about her death. Frank Parker checking in with nothing new to report but concerned that I might go feral—that sort of thing. Bills in the letterbox along with junk mail. Bin the one, curse the other.

I was restless and decided to go for a long walk. I needed the exercise after so much sitting. The knees felt better and I reckoned keeping the bits and pieces moving was the go, rather than letting them calcify and lock up. Medically specious probably, but it had worked for me over a long time and many injuries. The clear day had persisted although a breeze had started with a bit of snowfields in it. Tracksuit time. I’d left the .45, rewrapped but not hidden, in the locked cupboard under the stairs, which happened to be where I’d hung my daggy tracksuit last time I’d used it. I saw the bundle and had thoughts:
Were
Kristos’s break-in and headlock—if they had been his—just
warnings? If so, what about now, after I’d spooked him and
Gregory at the pub? Were Perkins and any others involved in
the deaths of Robinson and Williams aware of me and threatened?
What game was mystery woman Jane Margaret Farrow
really playing?

I wasn’t going to skulk and hide, but it made sense to take precautions. I stripped down, put on the tracksuit and sneakers, and slid the .45 into a bumbag.

I walked up Glebe Point Road to Broadway, around Victoria Park, back through the university and down John Street to the Crescent to wind up with a circuit of Jubilee Park. Five kilometres, maybe six—parks, higher learning, traditional houses, renovations, new apartment blocks, water views. The walk brought me out at the bottom of my street. It has nooks and crannies—lanes leading to adjacent streets, a couple of sets of steps and a postage stamp park. I did a few ups and downs on the steps, stretching the hammies. I looked over from the top step and stopped dead.

A light blue Falcon was parked in a lane with its nose a few metres back from the footpath. It was half hidden by plane trees and positioned to give it a perfect view of my front gate. From whichever direction I approached, I’d be in the crosshairs.

The steps I was on led to a narrow lane between two of the larger sandstone houses in the street. Million dollar jobs. Over the years, the owners had several times applied to have the pathway closed and its right-of-way status revoked. A few of us, on doubtful heritage grounds, had enjoyed ourselves resisting the applications and so far we’d been successful. I went back along the path, pushing aside the overgrown honeysuckle the two owners had planted to inhibit access.

I circled around the next street and came up the lane behind the Falcon, staying in shadow, silent in my sneakers, and with the .45 in my hand. The person in the driver’s seat of the sky blue Falcon was solidly built, with thin, dark hair, scalp showing, besuited. Detective Inspector Vincent Gregory beyond a doubt.

I stayed a few metres back from the car, well-hidden but puzzled by his apparent inattention. He was almost slumped in his seat, but he had the window down. Did he have a sighted-in, silenced sniper rifle at the ready? No way to tell. It’d take a rifle to do the job from this distance. How long would it take him to bring it into play on me if I jumped him at the open window? Too long. But what if he had a pistol in his lap, or in his hand?

I decided that was ridiculous. I turned away to muffle the sound as I cocked the automatic.

What are you doing?
I thought at that moment.
Putting
an unlicensed gun on a serving senior police officer
? I had a moment of indecision at that point. Frank Parker’s message on the answering machine came back to me:
Don’t go feral
on this, Cliff. You’ll only come to grief.

I hesitated.
How much more grief could I come to? Lover
gone, career finished.

Gregory stayed slumped in his seat.
Light a cigarette,
I pleaded.
Use your hands.
But he didn’t.

I went forward as quickly and quietly as I could and had the muzzle of the .45 in his right earhole before he could move a muscle. There were no weapons in view. He had one hand on the steering wheel, the other flat on the seat beside him.