The smell from Gregory was so strong, a house-proud person would have fumigated. I spent the next hour or so tidying up the spare room and living room and mulling over how things stood. It was confusing to say the least, with Townsend and Frank Parker both pointing the finger at Gregory, while Tim Arthur appeared to have no time for Townsend, the one I’d been thinking of working with.
And, based on our less than friendly meeting, my reaction to Gregory was very ambivalent. If he was up to his ears in some conspiracy to do with Lily’s death, then he was a pretty good actor. The removal of Williams and the doubts of Constable Farrow, as reported by Townsend, counted against him. What of DS Kristos? Had he stolen my computer? Was he playing a lone hand or operating with someone who wasn’t even in the picture yet?
As Dylan says, ‘You gotta trust somebody.’, and I trusted Harry Tickener to give me the drum on Arthur and Townsend. I also needed to get out of the house. Harry, who has done everything in journalism from copy boy in the old hot metal type days to major broadsheet editor, now runs the online newsletter Searchlightdot. com — a thorn in the side of the big end of town and anyone else it gets in its sights. Harry particularly likes media scams, so perhaps I could get a line on Lily’s story that focused on that. Seemed like a plan.
I drove to Leichhardt where Harry had his office and walked in on him without knocking. He expects me to do that. He has only one part-time staffer, another journalist, and no overheads like a receptionist or secretary. In the nineties there was much talk of the paperless office. It never happened, but Harry got pretty close when he stripped down to the newsletter.
His shiny head was held low over the keyboard, bending his spine the way forty years on the job had carved it, but he can still straighten it, just. A quick glance to identify me and a single finger held up to get me to wait. Harry is a gun-touch typist and I guess, like a pianist, he can take the odd finger away and not lose the beat. He clicked and clacked as I sat down and looked around the big, well-lit space that held books, magazines and framed prints, but none of the stacks of paper you expect to see in writers’ workplaces.
‘Sorry about Lily, Cliff,’ Harry said when he finished. ‘You know I don’t have anything to do with funerals and wakes.’
I did. Harry’s father was a mortician and Harry claims he saw enough death and heard enough talk about it when he was young to last him forever.
‘Let me guess,’ Harry said. ‘Even though you’ve been wiped as a PEA you’re investigating Lily’s murder and running into lies, damned lies and bullshit.’
‘That’s about right. I’m particularly interested in two characters in your field-Tim Arthur and Lee Townsend.’
I put them in that order deliberately and it seemed to have an effect on Harry. ‘Oh, shit, those two. No love lost there.’
‘How so?’
‘They fell out over the rights to a story a few years ago. Some kind of conflict about exclusivity of an interview or some such crap. Right and wrong on both sides, I expect. Townsend got the inside running and got a Walkley.’
‘So if Arthur says Townsend’s not to be trusted, it’d be over some professional matter rather than meaning he’s untrustworthy in general?’
Harry shook his head. ‘Aggressive, a go-getter, small man syndrome and all that, but he’s a genuine investigative type with a lot of chutzpah.’
‘Okay. Have you heard anything about someone in the media being involved in money laundering?’
Harry’s desk is bare, no photos to gaze at, no pencil to chew, no paperclips to bend. When he has to think he just thinks. He shook his head. ‘Nothing comes to mind now that Kerry’s gone, and he was always more into tax minimisation than anything more risky. When you say media person, d’you mean owner, presenter, actor, what?’
‘I don’t know. Try this on for size-a politician, no gender specified, using influence with the immigration deadheads to help someone in the sex-slave business.’
‘Lily’s stories, right?’
I nodded.
‘State or federal politician?’
‘Dunno.’
‘There was a pollie in Victoria allegedly in on an immigration fiddle, but it didn’t have the juice that you’re talking about. This is young-gun, out-on-the-street stuff, Cliff. I’m just an old man sitting at my desk listening to the winds of change and discord.’
I smiled. ‘Purple prose like that and your readers’ll be screaming.’
‘They scream at me and I scream at them. Instant feedback. It’s part of the fun.’
‘Thanks, Harry. Townsend has put me on to some things. Looks like I’ll be working with him.’
‘Good luck.’
Normally, Harry would insist that in return for information he gave me I’d give him the inside track on the story, if there was one. He seemed to sense that with something this personal it wasn’t appropriate.
I left the office and walked to the car park behind the theatre complex. I usually park there to put the old heap in the shade and with luck prolong its life. Now, late in the afternoon, it was in deep shadow. As I approached a voice somewhere ahead of me shouted and I looked up in that direction. A strong arm wrapped around my neck and expert fingers felt for the carotid artery. I blacked out, floated, and didn’t feel anything when I hit the ground.
9
Getting the blood back to your brain when it’s briefly been cut off is very different from the aftermath of being bashed or punched. The first time it happened to me was in the army, when a hand-to-hand-combat instructor did it by accident. A Japanese tough guy did it again somewhat later and not by accident. The recovery has a sense of unreality about it-a feeling of what the hell happened? — and then there’s a very stiff neck and an awareness of any other injuries incurred. In this case I had a pair of bruised knees and a bump on the forehead where my head had hit the car as I went down, and some aches. Nothing serious, aside from the humiliation.
I hoisted myself up and felt for my wallet in the hip pocket-still there. I reached quickly into the zippered pocket of my jacket. Zip open, disk, thumb drive and page of notes missing. I leaned back against the car and cursed myself for not copying the disk and the notes and putting the thumb drive somewhere safe. My head and jaw ached- another symptom of the brief blackout. For some reason I ground my teeth hard each time this had happened in the past. I was close to grinding them now, in anger.
Unable to break my anti-mobile habit, I’d left the phone in the car. I retrieved it, located Townsend’s card in my wallet and called him. You always expect to get a message whoever and whenever you call-nobody’s ever actually available, including me. But Townsend was, and he answered.
‘It’s Hardy,’ I said. ‘Things are happening and I need to see you. Tell me where and when and make it now if not fucking sooner.’
‘You’re not making sense, but I’m at home in Lane Cove and you can come here if you want, or I can meet you somewhere.’
Could I drive to Lane Cove feeling the way I did? I thought I could. It’s always an advantage to meet someone you’re assessing on their home ground, providing no weapons are involved. I got Townsend’s address, something a journalist doesn’t give out to just anyone, and said I’d be there as soon as I could.
‘How soon’s that?’
‘Why? Got a date?’
‘Have it your own way. I’ll be here.’
I hadn’t meant to antagonise him, but I hadn’t meant not to.
Townsend lived in a small sandstone cottage not too far from the Lane Cove National Park. If I sold my terrace I could probably afford one similar-if I wanted to live that far from Jubilee Park, the Toxteth Hotel,
