‘Des asked me to have a word with Gary but he hasn’t been at home for a while.’
‘Home? Gary? Home? That’s a joke. Last place you’d look for Gary. Try whorehouses. Topless bars. Table- dancing clubs. He’ll be somewhere near women. Certain kinds of women.’
‘Was he still a cop when you met him?’
She nodded. ‘Used to come in here. Lots of cops from Russell Street used to come in. Boy, did I think he was a spunk. And the manners. Oh, the manners. The shy way. The cap under the arm. Did he stand out from the rest of the animals? Like a cathedral choirboy in Pentridge. Mrs Kodja-that’s her behind the counter, she owned this place then-she used to say, “That boy, that Gary, take twenty years away from me, I tie him to my bed with a rope.’’’
A couple came in. Judy heard the door, turned her head, waved at them, watched to see that they were being served, said without looking at me, ‘What Mrs K didn’t know was that Gary would have jumped at the chance to tie her to his bed with a rope. Never mind taking twenty years away. Add twenty, he’d be keen.’
‘Did he leave the force while you were married?’
‘I came home one day-we were living in Richmond, tiny flat-about six plainclothes cops searching the place. Gary’s standing there, in the lounge, holding his cap, winks at me. Anyway, they go, Gary says it’s nothing, some scumbag he’s booked was out for revenge. Tells the cops Gary took stuff-TV, VCR, things like that-from his house.’
She sniffed. ‘I actually believed that garbage. I also believed him, still can’t get my head around this, I believed him, it was two days after, he comes around here, and he says, that look on his face, he says, “I’ve had enough, the force is totally corrupt, won’t be a part of it, I’ve resigned.’’ I thought he was a hero. Serpico. You ever see that film Serpico? About the honest cop?’
I nodded.
‘The prick is Serpico in reverse.’
‘You know that?’
‘That’s what the other cops say. After I kicked Gary out all these lovely cops from Russell Street pop around the flat, concerned for my welfare, you understand, not trying to get into my pants, just checking that everything’s all right. Basically looking for an easy screw. According to these heroes Gary was consorting with some very bad people, should have been busted much earlier, that sort of thing.’
‘Don’t know the details?’
‘Never asked. Didn’t care.’
‘How long was it from the time he left the force to when you broke up?’
‘About a year: 1984.’
‘And you didn’t hear the stories till then. So you broke up for other reasons.’
She leaned back in her chair, put her chin up. ‘You could say. Yes, other reasons. I’d put up with being bashed about. Don’t know why. Reason two, he was rooting my little sister. How did I find out? She told me. Why did she do that? Reason three. She was really, really upset. She’d walked in on him rooting my mother.’
I nodded. The practice of the law teaches you that some things require no comment.
‘What sort of work did he do after the force?’
‘Worked for a transport company. Security. What else can ex-cops do? It’s that or deal drugs, armed robbery.’
‘Remember the name of the company?’
‘TransQuik. They were much smaller then.’
Every time you turned a corner you seemed to be behind a TransQuik truck.
‘Know how long that lasted?’
‘Still there when I put his case out with the rubbish.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘that gives me a bit of a feeling for Gary.’
Judy smiled the smile of resignation. ‘Wish I’d developed a bit of a feeling for the shit before I married him. As a matter of interest, where does he live now?’
‘Toorak. Very smart apartment. Drives an Audi.’
‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘And I’m still in Richmond with a clapped-out Corolla. Hope you find the bastard. Don’t suppose there’s any chance he could go to jail for this?’
‘No. You wouldn’t know anything about the second wife, would you?’
Two more customers came in. ‘Would indeed. Got to get to work,’ said Judy, getting up. ‘Friend of mine goes to this hairdresser in Little Collins Street, UpperCut it’s called, these two Poms run it, trained by Vidal Sassoon, all that crap. Well, one day the one Pom says Chrissy, his best girl, the bitch, is getting married. To the most divine man, he says. Gary Connors, that’s his name. What’s he look like? It’s Gary.’
I said, ‘Chrissy. When would that have been?’
She puffed her cheeks, exhaled. ‘About ’85. Around there. She’s a Housing Commission girl, apparently, Chrissy. Broadmeadows. Not that that matters.’
‘You’ve been a big help, Judy. Thanks.’
She touched my arm. ‘Give my love to Des. Tell him to come in any day he feels like lunch. Cab’s on me.’
‘I’ll tell him. Make his day.’
Outside, the sun was gone and a cold, insistent wind was running through the town. I walked to Collins Street, chin tucked in, thinking about Gary. If he could defraud his father, he probably made a habit of taking people’s money. The other victims might be less passive than Des. Gary could well be on the run. That probably meant Des’s money was history, but there would be no knowing until Gary was found. I didn’t fancy my chances.
At the office, I found the shopping dockets I’d taken from Gary’s kitchen. The most recent one was from a bottle shop in Prahran. On April 3, Gary bought a case of beer and six bottles of wine and paid an employee called Rick $368.60.
Customers form relationships with their suppliers. Suppliers very much want to form relationships with customers who pay $368.60 for a slab of beer and six bottles of wine.
A place to start.
10
Gary Connors’ source of liquor was near the Prahran Market and more wine merchant than grog shop. From behind the cash register, a slick young man smiled at me: white shirt, blue tie, long dark-green apron. I showed a card.
‘Mr Connors. Got two Connors. One’s really old.’
I said, ‘He was in here on the third of April, bought six bottles of Petaluma chardonnay and a slab of Heineken.’
‘Police?’
‘No. I represent his father. Mr Connors junior seems to be missing.’
He took this seriously, frowned. ‘Rick reckons a bloke was after Mr Connors that day.’
‘Rick?’
‘Works here. He’s in the back.’ He went to the back of the shop, opened a door and shouted the name, came back. A tall youth appeared in the doorway: teenage skin, cropped hair, wearing the green apron over a white T- shirt and jeans.
‘Rick, Mr Connors, the one you deliver to in Toorak?’
‘Yeah.’
‘About the bloke following him.’
The youth took a few paces, stopped, sniffed, wiped his nose with a thumb. He had intelligence in his eyes. ‘I was at Ronni’s. On the corner. Saw Mr Connors get out of his car in the carpark.’
‘Remember the car?’
‘Yeah. Green Audi. Carried lots of stuff to it before. Anyway, he crossed the road, walked down this way and came in here. Then a bloke parks, blue Commodore, illegal park, on the lines, that’s why I noticed. It’s a joke around here-bout a million tickets a year in that spot. He jumps out, then he walks casual, like he’s just window-
