I was on thin ice and I knew it. I didn’t really think that O’Connor was involved at the dirty end, or anywhere along the line, but it suited me to keep him on his toes. The more agitated he was, the more it should communicate to Master and I wanted him to be very edgy, at least as edgy as me. I had a sense that Eastman/West was under pressure and that he was operating alone. He seemed to be a hands-on type and they don’t like delegating and trusting others. Snatching Lorrie, I judged, was out of character. He tended to clean the decks immediately he was threatened. Where the present pressure was coming from I could only guess. Maybe the shipment had arrived. Maybe his various masters were getting alarmed at the body count. Perhaps his judgement was faltering. Good. But all that meant was that mine had to be spot-on.
One thing was for sure, I wasn’t going into this on my own. I needed allies. Still using the mobile, much as I disliked it, I phoned Frank Parker and arranged to see him later that night.
Frank and his wife Hilde, a former tenant of mine, live in Bronte in a modest semi with a view of the water, meaning it’s worth a hell of a lot more money than they paid for it. Their son Peter, my anti-godson, drops in now and then when he can spare time from his travels for Greenpeace. Frank met me at the door and shook my hand; Hilde hugged me; Peter wasn’t there.
‘I think he’s in Nepal,’ Hilde said, ‘doing something with the Fred Hollows Foundation.’
‘Vietnam,’ Frank said, pouring scotch.
Hilde shrugged. “Who knows? You look stressed, Cliff.’
‘He always looks stressed except when he’s pissed,’ Frank said. ‘It’s the only way he knows how to look.’
‘More stressed then.’
Frank nodded. ‘Yeah. What is it, Cliff? How can I help?’
Frank has no secrets from Hilde. I envy their relationship which seems to be based on affection, shared experience and something else. I’ve had the first two in my time, but I’ve missed out on the something else. Just being with them has a calming effect on me, and I was able to tell them the story fully and reasonably coherently, only backing up a few times to fill in things when they asked questions.
‘Jesus, Cliff,’ Frank said when I finished. ‘That’s a sticky one, even for you.’
‘I know.’
Hilde shook her head and went off to make coffee. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and she could see that the whisky was getting to me. I could feel it too. But I wanted more and had some. Hilde came back with a coffee pot on a tray with plates of rye bread, sliced ham, cheese and pickles.
‘Bit late for that, love,’ Frank said.
‘I don’t think so. Cliff is… what’s the word? Whacked. But he has to stay awake while you make your calls. He’ll have to contribute something probably. Then he can sleep in Peter’s room.’
What if Peter breezes in from Nepal or Vietnam? I thought. I was losing it, as Sinatra said on his deathbed, but I knew Hilde was right and I accepted a mug of black coffee after she depressed the plunger. I loaded up a slice of the rye bread. ‘You heard her, Frank,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to put you through it but…’
Frank, in his early sixties but still limber from golf, swimming and love, rose from his chair and poured himself coffee. ‘Save me some of those bread and butter cucumbers,’ he said.
That was Frank. What I was asking him to do was to call in favours he’d rather not call in and talk to people he’d rather not talk to. There was no point in going to straight shooters in the federal or state police, Frank was going to talk to some of those others-the bagmen, the fixers, the jokers, as they were known. Frank’s contacts would be mostly retired by now, some voluntarily, some by mutual agreement. But they stayed in touch with the criminal world they’d paddled in for so long. They had to-there were networks of obligation there as well. They went to each other’s funerals, sometimes sporting their Masonic regalia, put condolence notices in the papers, and some genuinely grieved and some breathed sighs of relief.
I sat with Hilde and drank coffee and ate some of the food she’d laid out and we talked about her stints as Third World dental assistant and about Peter, of whom she was very proud.
‘I’m sorry to put Frank through this,’ I said. ‘He’ll hate talking to some of those bastards.’
Hilde nodded. ‘Yes. But in a way he won’t mind too much. He misses it all sometimes. I can tell. I see him going off to golf and I know that it’s a substitute for what was his real life.’
‘You and Peter are his real life.’
‘Yes. I know that and he knows it and that’s what makes it all right. Better than that. Good. But I could feel a… rise in his foot. No, what am I trying to say?’
After so many years in Australia, Hilde’s English is fluent but some things still trip her up.
‘A spring in his step,’ I said.
‘Yes. He is interested. A little bit of this sometimes is better for him than golf and gardening. I hope it’s just a little bit.’
‘It will be.’
We talked about nothing in particular for a while until Frank came back. He had a pad with some notes on it in his hand. ‘I’ll have to eat this when we’re finished. Put it on a piece of bread with ham and pickles.’
‘You are a fool,’ Hilde said.
Frank settled himself and poured some coffee. He added a touch of whisky and consulted the notes. ‘Couldn’t get much on Warren North, which is apparently his real name. Shadowy type. With ASIO for a while, then undercover for the feds. The feeling is he went rogue some time back but still represents himself as official when it suits him. Plausible in the part, they say.’
‘A killer?’
Frank nodded. ‘Rumoured to be. You know what it’s like in that game. More veils than Salome.’
‘No clues as to where he might go for a bolthole, especially with a hostage?’
‘Nothing. But you’ve got a bit lucky on the other side of the street. It’s all a bit vague, but there’ve been rumours of a shipment of heroin coming in and the usual channels being bypassed. And that’s made certain people very unhappy.’
Frank drank his spiked coffee and went quiet. I knew what he was thinking. He hated the bent cops and the semi-bent ones, and especially those who kept their own hands clean while facilitating the dirty work to be done by others. They were paid off, not in money, but in information that allowed them to make certain arrests and claim successes and earn promotions and perks-personal assistants, study tours, legitimate performance increments to their salaries. Frank could probably have gone to the top if he’d played this game but he refused and he hated dealing with those who had played it.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘The name North rang a bell or two and a couple of people are on the lookout for you. It’s going to cost you money.’
‘There’s money’
‘And it could get messy. If this information’s right, North could be regarded as expendable.’
‘He’s killed three people that I know of. I regard him as a waste of space.’
‘Yeah, but you’ll have to put some distance between yourself and him when and if the moment comes. You know what I’m saying, Cliff. You’ve got a few counts against you and there’s people keeping score.’
He was referring to my several licence suspensions and my brief stint in Berrima gaol. I tried for a contrite look.
‘Here’s one of the parts you won’t like. You have to have a meeting with Black Andy Piper. I don’t even like saying his bloody name.’
22
Ex-Chief Inspector Andrew Piper, known as Black Andy, was one of the most corrupt cops ever to serve in New South Wales. He’d risen rapidly through the ranks, a star recruit with a silver medal in the modern pentathlon at the Tokyo Olympics. He was big and good-looking and he had all the credentials-a policeman father, the Masonic connection, marriage to the daughter of a middle-ranking state politician, two children, a boy and a girl. Black Andy had played a few games for South Sydney and boxed exhibitions with Tony Mundine. He’d headed up
