22
The same policewoman escorted us from the building. My keys had been returned and my car stood immediately outside the police station. They hadn’t returned my gun or the vests. Without speaking, we got in the car and I drove to Leichhardt where I’d picked up Frank and Townsend. Silence all the way. Private thoughts.
‘Sorry for the trouble, Frank,’ I said when I stopped. ‘Didn’t work out quite as we planned.’
Frank opened the door. ‘Things seldom do, Cliff. But it worked out worse for Vince Gregory than for us.’ He reached over and patted my shoulder. ‘Take my advice and keep clear of it.’
‘You know I can’t do that.’
‘I know, but I had to say it anyway. Those two reckon they’ll keep me informed. I doubt it, but anything I hear I’ll pass on.’
‘They’re looking to pin the murders on Gregory and do a bit of housekeeping and that’ll be it,’ Townsend said.
Frank got out of the car. ‘Maybe. I’ll be in touch, Cliff’
He walked to his car, opened it with the remote, and drove away. Townsend stayed where he was in the back.
‘This is all bullshit,’ he said.
‘What is?’
‘Them saying they’ll look into the finances, their fucking close investigation in inverted commas. It’ll be a cover-up.’
‘Right.’
‘So you’re not going to play along?’
‘Of course not. Frank knows I won’t. Did you hear anything of the discussion between him and Matthews and Mattioli?’
‘No. They seemed to have settled things before they brought me in, but I was told I wouldn’t be detained or charged and that I could call off my solicitor. So I did.’
‘And what did you tell them about Jane Farrow and Hannah Morello?’
‘Are you nuts? I told them fucking nothing.’
‘So we’re still after Perkins and Kristos with our original leverage. Vince Gregory was a… distraction.’
‘Jesus, Hardy, that’s a bit harsh.’
I swivelled around and looked at him. ‘Gregory called you the poor man’s John Pilger.’
Townsend laughed, then stifled the sound. ‘I’m flattered, I think.’ At that moment he sounded tired. ‘What’s the point?’
‘The point is, I don’t care about Gregory or your feelings or sensitivities. I’m going where I’ve always been going-to whoever killed Lily, and I’ll use you and Jane Farrow and Hannah Morello and anyone else to get there.’
‘I understand.’
‘Do you? I want to carry through with Jane’s plan ASAP.’
Townsend apparently felt at a disadvantage sitting in the back of the car. Vertically challenged as he was, he’d feel at a disadvantage sitting anywhere. He got out quickly and came around to my half-lowered window, taking the higher ground.
‘I can’t see that working,’ he said. ‘The NCU’s bound to be in an uproar. Anyway, her strategy was to work through Gregory and he’s dead.’
His use of the acronym annoyed me. I was strung out from the frustration of the night’s events. ‘Fuck that,’ I said. ‘She switches her focus to Perkins.’
‘I’m not sure she’d-’
‘She carries through on it or I tell Perkins and Kristos she’s an informer and that we’ve got evidence from her of what’s been going on and who’s in the shit and we see where the chips fall.’
He backed off a step. ‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Try me.’
I started the engine and pulled away with minimum acceleration. He took a couple of steps as if he wanted to stop me, but he pulled up. I watched him for a few seconds-growing smaller in the rear vision mirror.
I meant it at the time, but I’m not sure I could’ve carried it through. The odds against it working were pretty long, and the chance that Farrow would finish up dead were good. Someone in the picture was, or had the use of, an unscrupulous killer, and one dead police person more or less wouldn’t make much difference. It hadn’t needed spelling out to Frank and Townsend that we were all in danger from this person, if not immediately then later, depending on how things worked out.
Frank and I could take care of ourselves and I had no doubt Townsend could arrange protection. Besides, now I had house security-not as good as his, but good enough. But maybe the smart play was to let the Internal Affairs people have their way and tackle Perkins and Kristos later when they were demoted, suspended or cut loose, if that’s what happened.
The morning paper had a brief, ill-informed report on a man murdered in Blakehurst. I spent most of Monday cleaning out the Newtown office and convincing myself that sitting tight was the right thing to do. It was a wet, dreary day and my mood deteriorated with the weather. Handling old case files wasn’t calculated to improve things. I’d meant to throw a lot of this stuff away when I’d moved from Darlinghurst but somehow I hadn’t got around to it. I knew there were some things I wanted to keep and I couldn’t find the will to do the sorting. Seemed easier just to bundle it all up and stick it out of sight.
Same thing now. Why not heave it all? I thought, but I knew I wouldn’t. Over the years I’d handled hundreds of cases, mostly small, some medium, a few large. There was no pattern to the outcomes, which varied between success, stalemate and failure. As I reached into the back of the lowest drawer of the filing cabinet, the one that always stuck after I’d once kicked it shut in a display of temper, I felt something unusual, unexpected, behind the last bunch of folders I’d left in the cardboard box I’d used to transport them. I pushed the folders out of the way and scrabbled in the back of the box. What I came up with was a bundle in plastic wrapping so old it had gone dry and crisp.
I knew what it was, although I didn’t like to think how long it had been since I’d put it there and completely forgotten about it-a long time, much water under many bridges. Soon after I’d opened my office, a woman had come in and tried to hire me to shoot her husband. She had the gun for the job-a Walther P38. She was in a distraught state over her husband’s infidelity. I calmed her down and persuaded her there were better ways of getting even. I introduced her to a lawyer who shepherded her through a divorce that netted her a solid percentage of the husband’s considerable fortune. I kept the gun, wrapped it up in a couple of plastic bags, shoved it in a box and forgot about it.
The plastic came away easily and the gun was still in good condition as far as I could tell. No rust and the magazine released easily. I expelled the bullets, which also seemed to be as good as new. I doubted that the pistol had ever been fired. How she got hold of it I never knew. I worked the action a few times and it seemed free. I had cleaning equipment at home. What’s a private detective without a gun? Except that I wasn’t a private detective any longer. I put the Walther in the pocket of my leather jacket, zipped it up tight.
I carted the boxes of files and other things like the coffee maker, the fax machine and the computer and printer back to Glebe and installed the useful bits in the spare room. The files stayed in boxes on the floor. After watching the news-nothing on Gregory-and eating something, I poured a glass of red and amused myself by cleaning the pistol. I was putting off ringing Townsend for an update on Jane Farrow. I’d had a few glasses and was feeling the effects. I thought about my once-legitimate. 38 revolver and the illicit. 45 automatic and a bit of the Oscar Wilde line popped into my head, with a variation: To lose one pistol, Mr Hardy…
I was smiling at my own wit when the door buzzer sounded. I assembled the pistol and went to the door. The peephole showed me Lee Townsend standing back so that I could see most of him. Townsend, the short-arse, knew better than to stand close up.
I opened the door, holding the pistol behind my back. He was carrying a bottle. Shaped up as a better guest
