railway stations you’d ever see. My ex-wife Cyn urged me to locate my business there. She said Chatswood was going to grow. She was right, but I didn’t take her advice. They say you can see the Blue Mountains from the upper levels of the towers. Not sure I could’ve handled that- more of a water man myself. I parked underground, the gloom adding to the winter feel. I didn’t know the wine bar and Townsend’s directions were sketchy, but a thirsty man can always find a drink. The place was more than half full on a Thursday night and looked as if it might get fuller.
Some wine bars are so dark you trip over the first stool you come to; others are so bright you need shades. The Chat Room, as it was trendily called, was somewhere in between. Non-smoking, soft music, long bar with a section where clustering was encouraged-nice touch-otherwise tables and booths.
I spotted Townsend in a corner booth, obviously chosen for as much privacy as possible. The woman with him had short, no-nonsense blonde hair and wore a white blouse and a dark jacket. I got a glass of red and a complimentary bowl of nuts. I walked over to the booth, wondering which of them to sit next to. Townsend decided the issue by shoving across and leaving an obvious space on his side.
‘Cliff Hardy,’ he said, ‘meet Jane Farrow.’
We exchanged nods as I sat down. She had a glass of white, barely touched; he was halfway through his red. I put the nuts in the middle of the table.
‘Saw you on the news,’ Townsend said. ‘Briefly.’
‘That was the idea.’
Jane Farrow picked a few nuts from the bowl, ate them and took a sip of wine. I guessed her age as late twenties. She was good-looking in an unstudied, unadorned way, as if she knew she had no need to tizz up to attract attention from the discerning. Smooth skin, good teeth, firm jaw, wide, full mouth, thick hair framing an oval face. No rings in her ears or on her hands. Strong hands.
I took a pull on my glass. ‘You’re the fourth person from the Northern Crimes Unit I’ve met, Ms Farrow,’ I said. ‘Are you here to tell us what the hell is going on with that mob?’
She glanced at Townsend. ‘Is he always this direct, Lee?’
Townsend nodded. ‘I’m afraid he is. Of course, he has reason to be.’
I drained my glass and stood. ‘Tell you what,’ I said. ‘I’ll go to the bar and get two reds and a white and I’ll come back. If you’re still talking about me in the third person I’ll pour them all over you. Okay? Deal?’
I got the drinks, didn’t bother about the nuts, and went back. Jane Farrow had emptied her glass and pushed it to the edge of the table. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hardy. We’re all under a lot of strain here.’
I put the glass of white in front of her. ‘Strain relief,’ I said. ‘You’re right. Me too.’
I sat and Townsend sipped what was left in his glass before pulling the fresh one towards him. ‘You were at the sharp end today, Hardy, trying to contact Williams.’
‘No, he was at the sharp end and I think I helped to put him there.’
I told them about my phone-tapping suspicions and the possibility that Kristos was involved. Jane Farrow drank some wine and made a movement that suggested she’d have buried her head in her hands if she lacked the control she obviously had.
‘It’s getting to be too much for me,’ she said.
‘What is?’ I said.
‘D’you know what happens to whistleblowers in the police?’
I could think of a few who’d lost weight and a few who’d lost blood, not to mention their jobs. ‘Can’t recall any who went onward and upward.’
She almost snarled. ‘You’re not taking this seriously.’
‘Ms Farrow, you haven’t given me anything to take one way or another. I don’t care about you and I don’t care about the police. I care about finding out who killed Lily Truscott and putting that person through as much severe and long-lasting misery as I can.’
‘Easy, Hardy,’ Townsend said.
‘Easy my arse. This is good plonk, but otherwise I feel I’m wasting my time.’
She gave me a hard stare. ‘The Northern Crimes Unit is seriously corrupt. Not all of the divisions, not everybody, and not all the time, but there’re people pulling strings, making sure that things run the way they want and taking drastic steps when certain matters come up.’
‘Matters like?’
‘Like murder. Lillian Truscott wasn’t the first journalist to be killed. Do you remember the Rex Robinson case?’
I didn’t, must have been too caught up in my own problems, but Townsend obviously did. ‘Freelance,’ he said. ‘Killed in his car about a year ago. Brakes failed and he went through a railing into the water. Where was that again?’
‘Northbridge. I’m sure he must’ve got on to some of the stuff I’m talking about and was… taken care of.’
‘By a policeman?’ I asked.
She shrugged. ‘Or someone contracted by a policeman and police used to take the investigation precisely nowhere.’
‘That’s a throwback to the old days-the green light and all that stuff.’
Jane nodded. ‘Bit before my time, but if you say so. You need to understand the history of the unit.’
Townsend sat very still. I looked at him and he looked steadily back. ‘This is more than I’ve heard from Jane so far,’ he said.
‘Let’s not start talking about someone present as if they’re not here again,’ I said. ‘You’ve got my attention, Ms Farrow.’
‘Jane, for Christ’s sake. I’m putting my life in your fucking hands, both of you. Let’s pretend we at least know each other.’
Townsend put his arm around her shoulders and she let it stay there. She was very stressed and had done a good job of concealing it, but the facade was cracking.
A man like me, with a battered dial and the hooded, distrustful eyes inherited from my Irish gypsy grandmother, has difficulty looking comforting. I’ve been told I have a voice like Bob Hawke on a good day, so I can’t soothe that way either.
‘I’ll say this,’ I said. ‘I think you’re a very brave woman and I admire bravery. My guess is you want our help- Lee’s and mine-as much as we want yours. Can we start from there?’
Jane drew in a deep breath and drank some of her wine. Townsend did much the same and they exchanged smiles.
‘You fucking charmer, you,’ Townsend said.
I put on the brogue. ‘Irish.’
‘Hardy’s not Irish,’ Jane said.
‘And other things. Can we get a feed here? I’m bloody starving.’
We went next door to a fish restaurant. Suited me. Townsend had grilled sardines and salad and ate like a bird, while Jane Farrow and I ploughed into the barramundi. She seemed to appreciate the extra time it gave her and I wondered if she might change her mind. We shared a bottle of white.
I felt I should get the ball rolling as we cleaned up the chips. ‘Aren’t you worried some of your colleagues might see you in this company, Jane?’
‘No. The high-ups have their designated watering hole, the Lord of the Isles in St Leonards, and the drones have theirs, or they go home to their wives, girlfriends and boyfriends.’
I nodded. ‘Lee, what’s on your mind?’
‘You know me,’ Townsend said. ‘I’ll stick a camera in anyone’s face, put a foot in any doorjamb. But this is different. I’m genuinely worried about what might happen to Jane if… if she puts flesh on the bones of what she’s just told us.’
‘I’m doing it,’ Jane said. ‘I can’t stand it any longer. Let whatever happens happen.’
She told us that the Northern Crimes Unit had been put together from a group of other police outfits and was designed to liaise closely with business, community, political, educational and church organisations to provide a coordinated anti-crime set-up that would be a model for other areas.
