He swilled the can and lifted it to his ear to judge the amount left. A cautious drinker, or possibly an undercover technique. ‘Okay, say you have some idea of what might be going on. How can you help?’
I shook my head. ‘How you can you help
‘Jesus, Hardy. Ten more minutes back there in that fuckin’ flannie with the swinging dick six pack and the ex-army strut and you’d have been bent over a Honda being asked questions with a bike chain.’
I had to laugh-partly acknowledgment of a truth, partly embarrassment. ‘I think if I can talk to a certain person I can get a bit further inside what might be going on. If you’re the shit-hot undercover guy you come across as, you just might know her.’
‘Try me.’
‘Wendy Jones.’
He emptied his can and crushed it, probably an obligatory gesture in the circles he’d been moving in. ‘I know her,’ he said. ‘I think we’d better have a proper talk. Where’re you staying?’
I told him and he said he’d get me back on a road I’d recognise and then follow me to the motel. Handed me my keys. I asked him how he managed to get my car to where it was without anyone asking questions.
‘Most of ’em are either too pissed to notice or too busy watching their bikes or their backs. You wouldn’t believe the fights that go on. Anyone noticing would most likely think I was stealing it. Give me a cheer. You all right to drive?’
I drove super-cautiously. I had a certain amount of alcohol inside me, a recent head wound, and having the blood supply to your brain cut off by a commando hold can do things to your vision and perception. But there was very little traffic and his dim headlights behind me were oddly comforting. I pulled into the parking bay at the motel and watched him drive on without hesitation. Just what I’d have done in his place. I went in and filled the jug, put instant coffee in two cups and set out the bottle of brandy I’d nicked from Jason Garvan in Paddington.
A soft knock came on the door. He must’ve circled the block a couple of times. I opened up and he came in with a lit cigarette in his hand.
‘You mind?’ he said.
I recognised it for what it was-a pre-emptive strike. ‘No,’ I said. ‘You stay in character.’
‘Hey, I smoked before I went undercover.’
I put a saucer on the table as an ashtray. ‘Aren’t you going to look around for bugs?’
‘Let’s stop pissing around.’ He noticed the cups and the bottle as he ashed his cigarette. ‘That looks like a good idea.’
I poured boiling water over the instant, filling the cups to two-thirds. I spiked mine and pushed the bottle towards him as I sat down. He topped his cup up and took a seat, butted the cigarette.
‘Wendy Jones,’ I said.
He took a strong pull on the spiked coffee and sighed. ‘That’s good. That grog costs a mint. How come you’ve got it to splash about?’
‘It’s a long story, and let’s stop pissing around. Wendy Jones?’
‘Yeah, I was probably going to wave you goodbye until you came up with Wendy. I’ve had an interest in her for a while and it seems she’s just become even more interesting recently. So, you tell me why you know about her and I’ll think about telling you what I know.’
‘Hard bargain.’
He shrugged. ‘Good liquor, this, but it won’t change anything.’
I drank some more coffee and did some thinking. What I had to say was pretty thin and might not extract anything from him. I felt I had to shore up my position a bit before spilling my guts. ‘Look, I’ve been running into actors and poseurs and people who aren’t what they seem since I got into this thing. You’re in the mix with that phoney Yank accent. I’m still not sure you’re what you say you are and I don’t even have a name to call you by. I’m considering telling you to drink your coffee and fuck off.’
He grinned, drained his cup and poured himself a slug of the brandy. ‘And then what? Go back there again to look for Wendy?’
‘Maybe. Better disguised, eh? Get myself an Afghan jacket and dirty fingernails. Smell of dope.’
‘You wouldn’t find her.’
‘So you say.’
He moved quickly and flexibly, proving he was younger than he looked. He unlaced his right boot and slid his hand down inside a sock that gave off a smell of sweat and decay. He pulled out a card, looked at it for a long minute with an expression I couldn’t interpret. Reluctance? Doubt? Then he showed it to me-a police warrant card-with just a touch of pride coming into that worn, strain-racked face.
‘Detective Constable Thomas Purcell,’ he said. ‘I can’t remember the last fuckin’ time I said that out loud.’
I peered at the card. I’d seen too many of them not to know that it was genuine. ‘Okay, Tom,’ I said. ‘you’re on your way to being an unsung hero of the war against drugs if you stay alive. Great, until they change the laws, which they’ll have to do sooner or later.’
He slumped in his chair and put his foot back in his boot but didn’t lace it up. ‘The word is our Wendy’s come in to some serious money.’
15
Purcell said he knew about the connection between Wendy Jones and the late Adam MacPherson but his information was that they’d split up very recently. He was interested to hear that her name had come up in my investigation of the death of Frederick Farmer.
‘I don’t suppose you’ll tell me who told you Wendy and MacPherson were on together.’
‘No. Not somebody connected to the sticky side.’
‘So it’s your call. Your infallible judgement.’
‘That’s right, but I’m not too happy about it. The guy who processed the insurance claim, the one I spoke to, has suddenly gone on leave. The guy he put me on to and I didn’t speak to is dead. I’m not too keen on mentioning names.’
‘You don’t trust me?’
I looked at him, sitting in his grotty clothes with his unlaced boot, drinking brandy from a cup in a cheap motel. The look on his face told me he was seeing much the same picture. We both laughed.
‘Wendy’s in Sydney,’ he said. ‘I’m told she’s staying at the Novotel-Darling Harbour.’
‘She must’ve cleaned up her act. I’m told she was the original bikie moll.’
‘Yeah, she is that, but you can cover tatts and she’d scrub up pretty well if she wanted to.’
‘She ride her Harley?’
He shook his head and lifted his cup in an ironic salute. ‘BMW, bought today. I’ve been wondering about it, but these people can get very flush, very quickly. Of course, Wendy knows people. Probably got it cheap.’
‘But I’ve given you something to think about?’
He nodded. ‘Just what I needed.’
We kicked it around for a while longer over a little more of Jason’s brandy. After he left I reflected that Purcell was the first cop I could recall who didn’t tell me to keep my nose out of things. All he said was to be careful. But he was a different kind of cop.
If there’s anything lonelier than a cheap motel room in the suburbs at dead of night I don’t know of it. Maybe a solitary confinement cell at the Bay in the old days, but I hadn’t had the pleasure. I was a bit high on the brandy with nothing much in my stomach to process it, and from feeling that the contact with Purcell had been useful, but coming down fast. There was a chance I could learn something, directly or indirectly, from Wendy Jones to throw some light on Frederick Farmer’s death. Dr Elizabeth struck me as a stayer and she might want me to pursue the matter as far as I could. That is, into the sort of danger Farrow and Purcell had hinted at. Okay with me, in fact very okay. I’d long ago come to agree with Cyn and others after her that I could cope better with the dangerous than with the mundane. Dullness, boredom, alcohol would kill me quicker than bashings or bullets.
