I met two uniformed policemen in the driveway, identified myself and the other parties dead and alive and told them the bare minimum, using the most neutral language I could command. I showed them the body and the gun but refused to say anything about who had done what to whom. The younger of the two cops was inclined to be aggressive but the older one knew the drill. He went into the house and observed the silent foursome sitting around the table.
‘Wait for the D’s,’ he said to his partner. ‘Let them handle it. It’s not as if we have to chase after anyone, is it, Hardy?’
‘No. We’re all here. Or nearly all.’
‘What the fuck does that mean?’
‘It’s a long story,’ I said.
As soon as the story broke, Rex Nickless rang me to say that he wanted nothing further to do with Clinton or with me. He considered our account closed. I reminded him that there was a Camry sedan belonging to him parked in a Parramatta street.
‘You’re a bastard, Hardy.’
‘How’s your wife?’ I said.
He laughed. ‘We’ll work something out.’
‘I’ve also got six thousand dollars of your money that didn’t get spent.’
There was a pause and I could imagine him thinking about it, calculating whether it was worth recovering and what my terms might be.
‘Use it to defend the Abo,’ he said.
Joe Cousins pleaded not guilty to murder on the grounds of diminished responsibility. He was brilliantly defended by a black barrister in front of an all-white jury. Wes and I gave evidence that Kinnear had admitted supplying the steroids that had killed Angela Cousins. Quantities of the stuff were found in his house along with other evidence of drug dealing. Cousins was convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to seven years imprisonment, eligible for parole after three. He declared himself well satisfied with the result.
The death of Mark Alessio remained a mystery. It was possible that he’d found out about Kinnear’s involvement and that Kinnear had run him down. Possible, but impossible to prove. The vehicle that had killed him was a station wagon and the police questioned the witness in an effort to establish if Kinnear’s station wagon filled the bill. The witness couldn’t be sure and forensic examination of the car failed to confirm the suspicion.
For a time, Clinton Scott was a lost soul. Wes and Mandy did all they could for him but something vital in him had been damaged. He made an effort to stop drinking and lose weight but failed. He lost all interest in sports and never came near the gym. I asked Wes about him from time to time and got negative replies until one day he showed me a newspaper photograph of a noticeably slimmer Clinton sitting cross-legged in a group being addressed by a shaven-headed Asian wearing a yellow off-the-shoulder robe.
‘What’s this?’ I said. ‘I have to say he looks a lot better.’
Wes shook his head resignedly. ‘He’s become a vegetarian. He’s studying Eastern philosophy.’
‘It could be worse.’
‘How.’
‘Western philosophy.’
I was in trouble myself, of course, for not reporting the loss of my pistol and the consequences that flowed from that. I pleaded incapacity through injury.
I was disqualified. I appealed and the case comes up for a hearing in a couple of weeks. My injuries healed and I tried to settle back into a routine of regular work in the gym, but my resolution wavers. I miss too many sessions too often. Ian Sangster expressed no sympathy when I told him about my lapses.
‘What’s the point of making a great corpse?’ he said, lighting an unfiltered Chesterfield.
I stayed in touch with Kathy Simpson, reassuring her that nothing that had happened that night in Parramatta was her fault. She seemed to accept it eventually. Her graduation comes up about the same time as my licence disqualification hearing.
