Appeal Denied: A Cliff Hardy Novel (5 page)

I scratched the last one as being of interest only to the chattering classes and unlikely to involve the police, whose interest in literature is limited to say the least. The other two stories had distinct possibilities of a police connection. I scrolled through them, making notes on the dates, initials and financial details. Lily had told me that she used initials in the early stages of her investigations, partly for security purposes, partly because it amused her. She also said that she reversed and scrambled the initials which could be unscrambled by a key known only to herself. I’d laughed at her and told her she was bullshitting. She hadn’t contradicted me, but she’d winked and called me a naive gumshoe.

So I was left with two investigations of serious crimes and a jumble of initials which might relate directly to the people involved or might not. Probably not. The image of Lily winking came back to me in full force. She’d meant it. I dealt mostly with the obvious, she plumbed some dodgy depths. I copied the notes and the two files onto a disk and tried to see if Lily had accessed any emails via my computer. I knew her address and logged on. Nothing
.
Careful Lily
, I thought,
but you protected your work better
than yourself, and I wasn’t there …

I’d drunk three cups of strong black coffee and was a bit wired. I took the disk out of the computer and put it on the desk with the thumb drive. I was buzzing, connecting, jumping ahead of myself. There was an obvious way to flush out Lily’s killer, if it had anything to do with what she’d been working on—it had to have, didn’t it?—and that was to let whoever was interested know that I had the incriminating material. Was I up for that? Yes, I was, but how to do it?

Lily hadn’t neglected security. She’d installed a sophisticated alarm system in her house which had either been bypassed or she’d forgotten to activate it. Not unknown. Whoever I was up against now was good at whatever he, or she, or they, did. But so was I.

6

I
phoned Daphne Rowley to ask her if the cops had checked on my alibi for the early part of the night of Lily’s death.

‘Just now,’ she said.

‘How d’you mean?’

‘This D got me on the phone and then came around. Had a policewoman with him.’ She gave an amused snort. ‘For protection, I guess.’

‘That’d be Gregory, would it?’

‘No. Hang on, I’ve got his card here … hard-nut wog named Kristos.’

Nothing politically correct about Daphne. ‘Came on strong, did he?’

‘I’ll say. He wanted to know the exact time you arrived and when you left. How many games we played, how long we held the table. The lot.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘What I could remember. Who keeps track of time when the balls are clicking, if you’ll excuse the expression, and the schooners’re going down?’

‘Right. Did he take notes?’

‘You kidding? He left that to the sheila and her Palm Pilot—Constable What’s-her-face.’

‘Farrow?’

‘That’s it. She seemed okay, for a copper.’

I thanked her and rang off. Here was a new player and a new level of interest, and I wondered why. I got the answer within a few minutes when Tony Truscott appeared at my door. He was wearing sweats and said he’d been doing some jogging.

‘From Hunters Hill?’

‘Fuck, no. Around your Jubilee Park here. Lily … told me about it. Jogging’s so fucking boring you need to have something to look at. I like the water and the birds and the trees and the bridge, you know.’

‘Yeah. Coming in, Tony?’

‘No, mate, I have to be at the gym in half an hour. It was a good bash for Lily, wasn’t it?’

‘Sure was. So …?’

Like most boxers, Tony had trouble keeping still. It was fatal to do so in the ring, and the habit carried over into everyday life. He swayed and jiggled, just a little. ‘I heard from Lily’s solicitor about her will. Just wanted you to know, man, that it’s cool with me. You were good for her.’

‘Thanks, Tony. I dunno … it broke me up a bit.’

‘Yeah, well, the thing is, this fucking copper came around trying to make a big thing of it.’

‘Detective named Kristos?’

‘Yeah, you know him?’

In a strange way I felt I did, even though it was only the second time the name had come up. I’d met them before— middle-ranked officers aspiring to climb higher in the eyes of their loftier bosses.

‘Heard of him,’ I said. ‘What did he have to say?’

‘Wanted to know all about you, but his fucking meaning was clear—reckoned you could’ve killed Lily for the money.’

‘What did you say, or do?’

Tony was really jiggling now. ‘Jerry would’ve been proud of me. I wanted to hit him, first off. Then I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. But I just told him to leave my home.’

I had to smile. The expression was so unlike Tony, I could imagine the control it had taken to produce it.

‘What did he do?’

‘What could he do? He’s a big bastard who looked like he’d have a go if I’d been willing. He had this sexy policewoman with him and didn’t want to look a wuss. But off he went. He’s bad news, Cliff. If you need some help …’

‘Like I said before, I’ll ask. Thanks, Tony. Go and sweat some more.’

He turned and moved down the path to the gate. He threw a punch at an overgrown bush, maybe a weed. ‘Are you …?’

‘I’m on it, mate. However long it takes.’

He nodded and threw a combination. ‘I’m moving up. The WBA title’s vacant. I could be in for a shot. Next one’s for Lily, Cliff.’

‘God help him,’ I said.

All I had to work with were Lily’s encrypted initials. I remembered Tim Arthur, at the wake, saying how closely he and Lily had worked on some stories. Would he know about her code? Arthur had retired in his mid-fifties as an editor, presumably on a big pay-out, but he wrote an occasional column for
Blackstone
, a magazine dealing with legal matters. I called the magazine and got a phone number for Arthur. I rang him and he agreed to meet me. He was due to play golf at Moore Park at midday but he said he’d get there an hour early for some practice and I could talk to him then.

The sky was leaden with rain threatening, but golfers will play any time except when there’s lightning and thunder. It was cold, too. I rugged up and drove to the course. It was mid-week and the car park was full, evidently a competition day. I squeezed into a spot between two 4WDs. The youngster in the pro shop told me that I’d find Arthur in the second bay at the driving range.

It was a massive concrete and steel structure with a roof and about thirty spots for the golfers to hit balls down into an area of a couple of acres. A machine to scoop the balls up was parked at the end of the range and when I arrived there were twenty or more devotees hitting, cursing, hitting again. Arthur was a tall, rangy bloke, still thin in his early sixties, and to my ignorant eye he seemed to have a smooth stroke. I watched him hit six or seven balls a very long way and couldn’t see why he needed to practise.

He caught sight of me and gestured for me to wait. He put the club he’d been using back in his bag, selected another and hit again. This time the balls didn’t go nearly as far but they described pretty, looping arcs and Arthur seemed satisfied. He put the club back, left the ball bucket that was almost empty where it was, and wheeled his buggy towards me. The others were still hitting and Arthur put his finger to his lips and led the way out of earshot.

We’d met once or twice before the wake and only briefly then. We shook hands.

‘Did you want to have a hit? You look like you’ve got the build.’

‘No, thanks. I’m a golf virgin and think I’ll stay that way. You looked good. What’s your handicap?’

‘Nine. Used to be four. Age adds the strokes. What’s on your mind, Cliff? Has to be Lily.’

According to the signs, we were walking towards the first tee. I told him I was unsatisfied with the police investigation and was following up some lines of enquiry of my own. I said Lily had been working on some stories and I had drafts and notes and thought they might have a bearing on her murder.

‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘She was a goer. We both got death threats when we were working on an immigration scam story. How can I help you?’

We reached the tee and sat down. A group of players were hitting and there were two other groups of four standing by. Arthur’s companions hadn’t yet arrived so I had time. A voice over the PA system told the next group to hit. I took my notebook from my pocket and showed him the list of initials that had been sprinkled through Lily’s notes.

‘Can you make any sense of these? Did Lily let you in on her codes when you were working together?’

He nodded. ‘A bit. Let’s have a look.’

I handed him the sheet and he scanned it. ‘Let’s see, yes—POW, that means police officer, don’t ask me why. BW stands for bureaucrat of some kind; SB means politician. I assume it stands for scumbag. I don’t recognise the others. Oh, yeah, VER indicates a clergyman.’

‘Rev, reversed.’

‘You got it.’

The next group was called up. They completed their practice swings and lined up.

‘What about the initials, sometimes two, sometimes three or four. They have to be names, right?’

‘Yes, but she scrambled them just as it suited her. So that HJW could be John Winston Howard or William Henry Jones. She knew what she meant. That’s about as much as I can tell you.’

I already knew about the scrambled name initials, but he was trying to be helpful and I thanked him.

We sat in silence watching the next group hit off. Four players, two groans, two calls of ‘Great shot’ and they were away. I saw Arthur signal to a new arrival. I didn’t have him for much longer and I racked my brains to think if there was anything more to get from him.

‘I’m working on the theory that something Lily was currently working on led to her death,’ I said. ‘But you mentioned death threats in the past. Does anything strike you as a long-term possibility? Someone with a standing grievance?’

‘I’d have to think about that. We stepped on quite a few toes, Lily and I. A few people went to jail and there was at least one suicide. I’d have to get back to you after I refresh my memory at home.’

He took a glove from his pocket, pulled it on and flexed his fingers. Another salute to a member of his group. I gave him my card with the mobile number and email address. He looked at it before putting it carefully in his shirt pocket.

Arthur’s group was called up.

‘You lost your licence, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Thin ice.’

‘Don’t I know it.’

He opened the seat on his buggy and took out a ball and other bits and pieces. I guessed this was what semi-retirement was all about—finding ways to fill in the days. For the first time I thought about Lily’s legacy in terms of the security it’d give me. I could probably retire, but, putting aside that I’d already been forcibly retired in theory, I didn’t fancy it. I didn’t play golf and I didn’t fish. You can only go to the gym so often, travel so much, read so many books, listen to so much music, see so many films.

Arthur moved off and suddenly turned back. ‘Didn’t I see you talking to Lee Townsend at the wake?’

I nodded.

‘What did you make of him?’

‘Hard to say.’

‘I wouldn’t trust that little prick as far as I could throw him, which would be a fair way in the right mood. I’ll be in touch.’

7

T
hat was a turn-up. I’d been thinking of taking my meagre evidence about Lily’s work to Townsend and mulling it over with him. Now I wasn’t so sure. Arthur was the last man in his group to tee off and he hit what looked like a solid shot to me and drew appreciative noises from the others. He gave me a wave as he went down the fairway. Not the time to question him about what he meant.

The rain held off, though I didn’t like their chances of getting through the whole game dry. But then, the game originated in Scotland, so what could they expect? They had big umbrellas and waterproof gear so they’d survive. The threat of rain wasn’t putting off others who were on the tee and raring to go.

I left them to it and wandered back to the car park. My mobile in my jacket pocket rang just as I reached the car and I was glad it hadn’t happened during somebody’s back-swing. I remember reading that Tiger Woods’s father used to jiggle coins in his pocket and tear velcro as his son was swinging to get him used to distractions, but I didn’t think the Moore Park boys would appreciate any distractions.

I answered as I got into the car. ‘Hardy.’

‘Frank, Cliff. Have you got over your petulance?’

‘That what you’d call it? Have you got over your protective instinct?’

‘Not doing so well on this, are we? But I’ve made a few discreet enquiries about … the person in question.’

That was Frank’s way of smoothing things down and I knew it. I drew in a breath. Time for reconciliation.

‘Thanks, Frank,’ I said, in as friendly a tone as I could muster. ‘I guess I came over a bit sensitive. The thing is, there’s another bloke I’m interested in now.’

‘Jesus Christ, you never back off, do you? Okay. Look, I’m in the city. Where’re you?’

‘At Moore Park golf course.’

His laugh blared in my ear and I moved the phone away.

‘You’re not! You despise golf.’

‘I don’t despise it. I’m just agnostic about it. I’m working, Frank.’

‘I understand. Why don’t I come to your place in, say, half an hour and we’ll have a talk. I’ll bring lunch.’

‘I don’t eat lunch, remember?’

‘Fuck you, you’ll eat lunch and like it. I’ll see you.’

After a certain point in life you don’t make many new friends, and you have to hold on to the ones you have if you can. Frank and Hilde were precious and their son, Peter, was my anti-godson. With Peter’s wife and twins they amounted to something close to family, with my sister in the Northern Territory and Megan flitting all over the place. I hadn’t quite realised what a deep hole Lily’s death had caused. Mending fences with Frank put me in a much better mood as I drove away.