Charles Meadowbank, provisionally identified by yours truly, confirmed by an examination of the contents of his fat wallet, away. He introduced himself and took my ID folder; then Pascoe delegated the uniformed men to get names, addresses and brief statements from the audience, whose enthusiasm was rapidly waning as Pascoe’s quiet efficiency undercut the drama. He sent his younger, slimmer assistant off to get Mrs Calvert’s eye-witness account down pat.
Another car with a blue flashing light pulled up and a uniformed policewoman stepped out. She gave Pascoe a nod and went straight to Miss Shaw, adjusting the knitted shawl, taking the young woman immediately under her wing. They went up the steps and back into the block of flats. I was left standing on the path with Pascoe who was swinging a plastic bag containing my camera.
I pointed to the patch of grass. ‘There’s a shell casing trodden in there,’ I said.
‘We got it,’ Pascoe said. ‘Must have dug it out while you were eyeing off the sheila with the big tits.’ He flipped open his notebook. ‘Miss… ah, Virginia Shaw of this address.’
I reached for my ID folder which he held, half-extended towards me, in his other hand. ‘If you say so, Sergeant.’
He retracted my property with a smile and a cardsharp’s snap. ‘In the car, Hardy. Now!’
Although a private investigator has no clout himself, it helps if his client is a lawyer. That’s when the grease can start to oil the wheels. Pascoe sat me down in an interrogation room in the Darlinghurst station. We sat on opposite sides of a rickety table and he looked amused when I pulled out a couple of bedraggled rollies.
‘Planning a bit of sitting and waiting, eh?’
I lit one of the smokes. ‘More like standing.’
‘Even worse. Want to tell me what you were doing there?’
I’d taken the precaution of picking up one of Alistair Menzies’ cards in his office. For an answer I simply put a card on the desk.
‘I might have known. And I expect you’re good mates with an Assistant Commissioner or two?’
I puffed smoke and considered. ‘I know a D named Grant Evans.’
‘He’s Armed Hold-up. This is Homicide. Unless you happened to hear the shooter ask Meadowbank to stand and deliver?’
‘I’d rather not say anything more until I clear it with Mr Menzies.’
Pascoe went away and left me in the empty, cream-painted room with my cigarettes, a gas lighter Cyn had given me, and my thoughts. Pascoe had left my licence folder on the desk and I put it back in my pocket. After that, there wasn’t much to do except smoke and think those thoughts. I quickly tired of that. I looked at my watch and was surprised to see that it was less than two hours since Charles Meadowbank had set off for Rose Bay. Long trip. Another hour went by before Pascoe returned with a man whose face I recognised but couldn’t place.
‘I’m Vern Morris, Mr Hardy,’ he said. ‘From Mr Menzies’ chambers.’
I nodded. One of the outer office minions.
‘Mr Menzies has authorised you to make a full statement to the police.’
‘Big of him,’ Pascoe said. ‘Thanks, Mr Morris.’
Morris departed and Pascoe plonked a battery-powered cassette tape recorder on the desk. He turned it on and propped the little microphone up on its fold-out stand in front of me.
‘All mod cons,’ I said.
Pascoe squinted at a needle quivering in a small dial. ‘You’re on.’
I told it as briefly and accurately as I could. Pascoe interrupted me to ask whether I had a file on the case in my office. I said I did and he raised an eyebrow. He stopped me again after I’d described the shooting.
‘Description of the assailant. Take your time.’
‘Small, five-six or seven with a light build.’
‘Pity you didn’t get to grips with him. Big bloke like you could probably have cleaned him up.’
‘He ran like the wind.’
Pascoe grunted. ‘And he had a gun, of course. Did you see the gun?’
‘No.’
‘OK Description, continued.’
I paused. ‘Dark clothes, jeans I think and runners.’
‘Features?’
I shook my head. ‘Stocking mask. You know what that does to a face.’
‘Yeah. One fish looks much the same as another. So, a very professional hit.’
‘I guess so.’
Pascoe added some identification remarks to the tape and then stopped it. He took a packet of filters from his pocket and lit up. He offered me the packet but I refused. I’d smoked too much already and smoking filter cigarettes is like drinking decaffeinated coffee-what’s the point?
‘Any thoughts?’ Pascoe said.
‘About what?’
‘Come on, Hardy. When I said it was a professional job you sounded doubtful’
I shrugged. ‘I’ve never seen one before.’
He butted his cigarette. ‘OK, we’ll type this up and you can go after you sign it.’
That happened. I caught a taxi back to Rose Bay. A television crew was packing up after filming outside ‘Lapstone’. A few people were standing around talking and a lot of lights were burning in the blocks of flats on both sides of the street. It had been the most excitement they’d seen there in years. I kept well away from the action. I was feeling tired and flat. My face was bristly and my mouth was sour after the smoking and talking. I was hungry and I needed a drink. I looked up at the flats and wondered how Mrs Calvert and Miss Shaw were doing. None of my business. I got in the Falcon and felt around for the flask of Johnny Walker I kept in the glove compartment for cuts and abrasions. After a few pulls I felt better, well enough to go home to the loving arms of my wife.
‘You’re drunk,’ Cyn said.
‘No. Just a little lubricated on an empty stomach after a very tough night.’
The house was a standard end terrace-two rooms and a kitchen on the ground floor, three bedrooms above, lean-to laundry and bathroom. It needed work, but the architect member of the team never seemed to get around to thinking about it. We went through to the living room and I flopped into a saucer chair.
‘You look terrible. What happened?’
I told her. Give Cyn her due, she had a vivid imagination. I could see her visualising the scene.
‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘You could have been shot.’
‘He wasn’t after me.’
She stood behind my chair and massaged my neck. ‘Have a shave and a shower. I’ll make you an omelette.’
A shave and shower at that time of night meant I’d be doing more than eating an omelette before Thursday was done.
4
In the morning, over herb tea and muesli for her, coffee, toast and Drum for me, Cyn told me about the job she had lined up in Cairns.
‘Townhouses alongside canals,’ she said. ‘A real challenge.’
‘Like building Venice. Are the houses actually in the canals or what?’
‘Cliff, don’t be a smartarse. It’s interesting and it’s only six weeks this time.’
‘Go with my blessing,’ I said. ‘Maybe you can get us one of the townhouses as part of your fee. They gave my mum a flat in the block they built when they knocked down our semi in Maroubra.’
‘Your semi and ten like it. All undistinguished.’
