'That can be arranged, of course,' he said. 'But I'd encourage you to cooperate in this preliminary interview…'
I shook my head. 'I've been through this many times, Acting Sergeant. Not another word.'
What I said seemed to encourage him. He closed the file and turned off the recorder. 'I'm sure you have,' he said. 'Served a sentence at Berrima, I see, stripped of an investigator's licence… but things have changed. You can be held for some time now without charge or access to legal advice.'
'To do with terrorism.'
He smiled. 'That's subject to wide interpretation. You've recently returned from overseas in the company of a person who has been murdered in a brutal manner, and you've been found in possession of an imported illicit substance. Do you want to reconsider?'
'No.'
They took me to the lock-up and put me in an observation cubicle, one of a set, with a perspex wall and a heavy metal door. Nothing there but a cement bench to sit on and a metal toilet. I was the only resident. I knew this had to be temporary. If the intention was to keep me for days this wouldn't do. You couldn't sleep there. It was meant to scare me but it didn't; I'd been in worse places.
After a few hours I was moved to a cell with a washbasin, a toilet and a set of metal bunks. A man was lying on the top bunk. He sat up as I came in and his head almost hit the low roof.
'Got a smoke, mate?' he said.
'No. Sorry.'
'Fuck.' He lay back down and those were the only words I ever heard him speak.
I sat on the bunk and prepared myself for a long wait. I doubted that Reimas would try to invoke the terrorism provisions against me. It'd be a thin case and, after recent failures, the police would be wary of taking that course. It might have been different if the substance was anthrax or something similar, but I couldn't see Patrick as a terrorist. Heroin or cocaine were more probable, I supposed, but the UK didn't seem a likely source. Also, the terrorism accusation meant involving the federal police, something state cops were always reluctant to do. Sooner or later they'd have to charge me and take me before a magistrate. Couldn't do that without allowing me legal representation.
It was a long night. My companion snored and coughed and climbed down three or four times to piss. Prostate trouble and emphysema. At 6 am a Corrective Services officer told him he was going to Parramatta. He groaned and took one last intermittent, trickling piss and was gone.
Ten minutes later I was given a cup of tea and two slices of toast, both cold. I ignored them. I'd missed my evening and morning meds. I didn't think that would do me any great harm, but I disliked the feeling of dependency. By ten o'clock the inactivity and lack of human interaction were eating at me. I felt dishevelled and dirty after sleeping in my clothes. I hadn't shaved for forty-eight hours and my face itched. I was thinking of asking for a razor when I was handed a mobile phone.
'You look dreadful,' Viv Garner said.
We were in an interview room like the one I'd been in before except there was no recording equipment and we both had cups of reasonably acceptable coffee.
'I'm not at my best,' I said, but in fact I felt all right, mostly due to relief at being, if not at liberty, not in a cell.
'I thought when you were… forcibly retired, things would calm down. But here we are again.'
'Keeps you on your toes.'
'Don't joke, Cliff. This could be serious.'
'What was in the chess box?'
'Steroids. Powerful steroids with built-in masking agents. State of the art or better. Highly illegal. Worth a fortune.'
'What about this terrorism stuff?'
'Bluff, to scare you.'
'They can't think I had anything to do with steroids.'
'You're a gym goer and you've had a bypass. You could be looking to regain your former fitness.'
'Bullshit.'
'Cliff, they've got you forging a signature and opening another person's mail. And they're talking about a withholding evidence charge-your old bugbear.'
I knew what he meant, the failure to tell Welsh about the packages posted from London, and a charge I'd once been convicted on.
'That's thin though, isn't it? I could say I didn't know about them, or I forgot.'
Viv shook his head. 'For some reason, God knows why, they must've tracked the parcels. I'm betting they know the stuff was posted from the same place at the same time. You didn't know much about this cousin of yours, did you?'
'That's putting it mildly. Has Sheila Malloy, his wife, been in touch?'
'She has, and it's another thing that doesn't look good if it became known. I only spoke with her on the phone, but from the way she sounded, I'm guessing-'
'All right, all right. What are they more interested in- nailing me on these Mickey Mouse charges or finding out who killed Patrick?'
As soon as I said that I saw the connection. If Patrick was involved in a lucrative steroid racket and hadn't given satisfaction, he could have been a target. But you'd expect a bashing or a wounding, not a brutal killing. But then, there was always 'roid rage to consider.
'Both,' Viv said.
'So what's likely to happen now?'
Viv checked his watch. 'We're due for a magistrate hearing in twenty minutes. You'll be charged with illegal importation and possession, with other charges pending. I'll reserve the right not to enter a plea until a full charge with evidence is forthcoming.'
I'd been through it before and had lost, but that time I was guilty as sin. 'Then what?'
'I'll apply for bail. The police won't oppose it because they want you on the loose, but on a chain to see if you lead them somewhere more important. My guess is-surrender of passport and fifty thousand surety.'
'I can make that,' I said, 'thanks to Lily. And I wasn't planning on going anywhere.'
We went up before the beak in Liverpool Street and it worked out pretty much as Viv said. I agreed to hand my passport in at the Glebe station and to report there each week. I signed a document pledging my security and that was it. The police prosecutor appeared to be just going through the motions.
'What about Sheila?' I asked Viv when we were outside the court.
'She has no problem, unlike you. All she has to do is apply to the Probate Office for Letters of Administration. Once granted, that ensures her right to the estate.'
'Did she tell you that Patrick said they were divorced?'
'She did. Again, that's pretty simple. Divorce proceedings are a matter of public record. She initiates a search to support her contention. She probably doesn't even have to do that if no other claims are made. If another claim is made what Patrick told you becomes relevant, but I don't suppose you'd want to bring that up. Am I right?'
'I'm not sure.'
We were in George Street, heading for a bus stop. Like me, Viv saw public transport as the only sensible way to get around in the city. Unlike me, he had a Seniors card. When we reached the bus stop he gave me a searching look.
'You don't believe her?'
'I don't know. I want to believe her.'
He shook his head. 'You have a knack for trouble on several fronts.'
A Leichhardt bus that'd get us both close to where we wanted to go arrived and we caught it. At that time of day it was only half full and we were able to talk without annoying anyone or being overheard.
'Can Sheila jump through those legal hoops herself?'
'She could, but it'd be better to get a solicitor-quicker, easier.'
'And more expensive.'
'Not very. Look at me, I'm travelling by bus.'
