me.
‘Pam and I talked for a while last night, Mr Hardy. She told me what you’d done for her, what you said about your partner being killed and about Col. To put it bluntly-she was impressed by the way you behaved. I agreed to talk to you and the last thing she said to me was, “I’m sure you can trust him”, meaning you. Pam’s smart and I reckon she was right. You say I need someone to advise me. Okay, I’ll be advised by you.’
Townsend and I didn’t speak as we walked back to our cars. I had the folder of photographs in my hand. Townsend had his film. I’d told Hannah Morello to sit tight for a day while we arranged for her safety and the use of her evidence. We reached the cars and stood awkwardly, at odds, looking at each other. He was immaculate, I wasn’t. He was driving a forty thousand dollar car, I wasn’t.
‘You were playing a strange game in there,’ he said.
‘So were you.’
He looked at his watch. ‘Tell you what, let’s go and have lunch and talk about it.’
‘I don’t eat lunch.’
He laughed. ‘You can push a salad around, have some juice. We really need to get our lines straight here.’
His composure irked me, but I knew my response had been petulant. I agreed to meet him in a Balmain restaurant I vaguely knew. I tapped the folder and pointed to his briefcase.
‘Nobody hears about this until we have our talk, right?’
‘Yes.’ He reached into his pocket, took out his mobile phone and handed it to me. ‘You can follow me and see that I don’t stop to use a phone. What more can I do?’
I followed him into Balmain, busy on a Saturday, and after trying a few side streets with no luck we finally found places to park. I returned the phone and we walked back to Darling Street and along to a small cafe-cum- restaurant in an arcade. Townsend ordered fish for himself, a Greek salad for me and a small carafe of white wine with two bottles of mineral water. When the wine came he poured half-glasses and topped them up with the water. We drank, no toasting.
‘What’s your main concern?’ he asked. ‘I know it involves the Morello woman’s safety.’
I still couldn’t decide how far to trust him, where his loyalties lay, what he was prepared to risk. On the drive another thought had forced its way forward in my mind. Getting Kristos convicted and dismantling the corrupt component of the Northern Crimes Unit were all very well, but I needed leverage to find out who’d killed Lily or ordered it, and I wasn’t sure how to get that.
I told Townsend about that thought as he ate his fish and I dealt with my salad.
‘More to it than that,’ he said. ‘You’re not exactly a poker face, Cliff. You don’t trust me. Why’s that?’
Time to come clean. ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you. I’m worried about your association with Jane Farrow. I’d be more inclined to say that I don’t trust her.’
He dropped his fork, the only clumsy action I’d ever seen from him. ‘Jesus Christ, think of the risks she’s taking.’
‘Why’s she taking them? Why not walk away?’
‘A matter of principle.’
‘Struck a lot of that in your profession, have you, Lee?’
He picked up his fork and prodded at the remains of his meal, but he’d lost his appetite. I decided to follow up the possible advantage. ‘Have you ever been up close to Vince Gregory?’
‘No, why?’
‘He smells. Some kind of glandular disorder, apparently. I can’t understand why a clean-cut type like Farrow would be attracted. And there’s another thing. This won’t please you.’
‘What?’
‘Pam Williams-now I know I didn’t tell you about meeting her and what happened last night and all that. It doesn’t matter now. She confronted Perkins and one of his mates while I was keeping an eye on them, and she gave them shit. She struck me as very much like her friend, Hannah-smart, tough, honest. She told me Jane Farrow had come on strong to her husband. I’m sorry, Lee, but there’s something about Farrow that troubles me.’
Townsend’s control was slipping. ‘Are you saying you met her? She came on to you?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘Fuck it, I thought… I don’t know what to think. What’s in your bloody brain?’
‘Just that I know what you’re thinking. A double whammy. The Morello evidence and whatever Jane can get them to admit. Right?’
‘I don’t like it, but the Morello evidence isn’t enough. It could just leave Kristos holding the bag, despite what I said to her back there. You know how enquiries and prosecutions can work. The deals they can cut.’
‘Yeah. If I knew Kristos had killed Lily, I’d just go up against him with the photos, make him tell me why, pretend to deal, and dump him in the shit.’
‘You would, I’m sure. But it isn’t his style. You know that. It’s more likely to be the guy with the gun in the Morello photos-well in with the cops. Probably the same one who killed Williams, and we have no idea who that is. We need leverage to get someone like Perkins or Gregory to tell us.’
I filled my glass with wine and didn’t dilute it. Townsend and I had kept our voices down because there were others sitting nearby. A few glanced at him, but none came up for his autograph. A waitress took our plates and we both ordered coffee. I had a new and uncomfortable feeling, the result of having been with two people who’d lost their partners, with me in the same boat. My empathy was all with them, tinged with anger.
‘I don’t want you to tell Jane Farrow about the Morello photographs until I’ve checked her out more thoroughly.’
‘You’re checking on her?’
‘In depth.’
‘Shit. I was thinking of suggesting that I did tell her, and that we mount the protection on Mrs Morello, so if any attempt was made on her, we’d know that Jane was…’
My smile stopped him. ‘You were willing to dice with a woman’s life to find out if your lover was on the straight. And you call me a bastard.’
‘I was only thinking about it. Being pragmatic.’
‘The last refuge of a scoundrel.’
‘Wasn’t that patriotism?’
‘Applies, though.’
The coffees came. Gave us more time to think. Stir, taste, stir again.
‘We’re both holding evidence,’ I said. ‘I’ve got the photos, you’ve got the film. Neither has much bite without the other.’
‘True.’
‘Two days, nothing said to Jane Farrow. Agreed?’
‘Okay. I wish I could think of something to hold you to, but you’re too slippery.’
‘You can pay the bill while you’re thinking.’
He produced a fat wallet, took out a credit card and waved it, the gesture stopping just short of arrogance. The waitress brought the bill, took the card, returned the folder and Townsend signed, leaving a tip.
‘Thanks,’ I said.
He nodded, still irritated.
‘Hey, you’re Mr Pragmatism. You might even pretend to go a bit cool on her to test her reaction.’
‘Fuck you,’ he said.
18
As it was on my way and I was impatient, I called in on Phil Lawton to see what his web trawling had turned up.
