Whatever it took. I had Jane Farrows’s mobile number and I rang it. She answered.
‘This is Hardy. Is Kristos there?’
‘No, he’s been suspended along with the other senior men. What-?’
‘Where does he live?’
She kept her voice low. ‘What’re you on about? Hasn’t Lee told you we’ve-¦?’
‘I don’t care about that. Where does he fucking well live?’
‘You’ll spoil everything.’
‘Where are you?’
‘At my desk.’
‘If you don’t tell me where he lives I’m coming over there and I’ll do damage to anyone who tries to stop me finding out what I need to know.’
‘He lives in a flat across the road from the station here in Longueville. He’s probably there now. He was in collecting stuff not long ago.’
‘The exact address.’
She gave it, then she said, ‘You’re an arsehole, Hardy. I was talking to Lee just a little while ago. We’re setting up the meeting with Perkins for tomorrow. You’re going to fuck it up.’
‘I don’t care about your meeting or about you or Lee, but I’ll tell you this, if you alert Kristos that I’m after him you’ll be very sorry.’
‘Fuck you.’
Had to admire her. Oddly, her resilience calmed me down. ‘Listen, Jane, I reckon I’ve got the highest stake in this and there’s a move I have to make now. Maybe I can do it so it doesn’t blow your plans. I will if I can. Just sit tight and don’t tell Lee about this. Go on with your arrangements. It might work out-’
She hung up on me; the second woman to do it in one day. Maybe a record.
I was calm but seething inside. I had no precise idea of how to handle Kristos, but sometimes improvisation is the best policy. It started to rain and the traffic slowed, increasing my impatience. The rain got heavier and my wipers struggled to cope. I had to concentrate to drive safely, and I had the additional worry that the petrol gauge was low. To run dry in the rain in the middle of slow-moving traffic would be no joke. It was stop-start all the way over the Harbour Bridge and through North Sydney and Greenwich-a drain on the fuel.
By Northwood the rain had stopped and, with the needle flickering below empty, I found a service station. I was about to use the pump when I remembered that I’d left the only cash I had back in the car park. I had a keycard, but I suspected that the account was just about tapped out. I put in twenty dollars worth, which gets you bugger-all these days, and asked for thirty dollars on top hoping the card would support it. It did, but it must have been a near thing.
I got on the road again and immediately lost myself. This was unfamiliar territory to me. The police had brought me to Longueville after I’d reported the Williams killing, and a taxi had taken me back to Milsons Point. I hadn’t paid any attention to the route on either trip. I remembered William Hurt’s line in Body Heat. Sometimes the shit comes down so heavy I feel I ought to wear a hat. I stopped, dug out the UBD, and plotted my way to the Northern Crimes HQ. My mood wasn’t improving.
I turned into the street, looking out for a block of flats opposite the police station. It was easy to spot. Cream brick, three storey, pebbles and garden, balconies. I drove past and found a parking place around the corner. It felt chancy to be across from a police station, carrying a gun and about to front up aggressively to a serving, if suspended, policeman, but I was charged up enough to do it.
There were several entrances to the block and the one that led to Kristos’s flat was at the front. Good security: you had to buzz from outside the building to be admitted. I pressed the buzzer for the flat number Jane Farrow had given me and waited for a response. None came. I tried again with the same result. Frustration was building as I thought I’d have to lie in wait for him to come home. I pressed again. Still nothing.
The standard trick is to press all the buttons, hope you get an answer and try to bluff your way in. I sneezed and stepped away to wipe my nose and, for no reason in particular, looked up. Kristos, casually dressed, was standing on a balcony three levels up, looking down at me with a mobile phone in his hand. A truck went past on the street and probably drowned out what I shouted up at him. Anyway, he didn’t care. He closed the phone and went back into his flat.
I stood there, frustrated and angry. A man came walking briskly across the road, down the path to where I was, and pulled a small leather folder from his pocket. He held it up like a photographer with a light meter. Suit, tie, moustache, beer gut, warrant card. A cop. He stopped just short of arm’s length.
‘I’m from Internal Affairs, Hardy. You are not to make contact with any member of the Northern Crimes Unit. Do you understand?’
I glanced up. Kristos was back on his balcony, leaning on the rail, watching us.
Fall over, you bastard, I thought.
‘What if he wants to see me?’
The cop shook his head. ‘Do you take yourself out of here right now, or do I arrest you?’
‘What for?’
‘I’ll think of something.’
I looked up again. Kristos had gone.
‘I’m going,’ I said. ‘Give my regards to M and M.’
‘What?’
‘Matthews and Mattioli.’
I pushed past, forcing him to step into a garden bed and muddy his shiny shoes. Petty, but satisfying. Back on the street I looked across at the Northern Crimes Unit HQ with two thoughts in my mind: Had Jane Farrow alerted Kristos? And was Internal Affairs keeping Kristos under some form of house arrest?
The sky had cleared and the breeze was light. I went back to the car, dumped the raincoat and the pistol, and went for a walk to find a pub. There’s no let-down like an anticlimax and I’d been all primed to give Kristos hell. The frustration needed working out and I couldn’t think of a better way to do it than to walk and drink. Longueville is a small peninsula leading down to the Lane Cove River. Good views of the water from the high points and some of the residents and flat-builders had gone up high to make sure they got them. It took a few twists and turns, but I came upon a pub that still looked vaguely the way pubs used to look, except for the pokies.
I bought a pint of draught Guinness and a packet of chips and settled down in a corner well away from the few other drinkers in the bar. I sank half the pint in a couple of long pulls and prepared to linger over the rest-to let it soothe me as it no doubt had my Galway ancestors going way, way back.
The way things were, it looked as if Jane Farrows plan would have to be on the agenda. There were two question marks over that. If Perkins was under the same protection or confinement as Kristos, how would she get him to a location where the whole sticky business could be carried out? Apart from that, was Farrow playing for our side or theirs? Kristos had spoken to someone to sic the Internal Affairs guy onto me. Who?
She’d said on the phone that arrangements had been made with Townsend to set up the meeting with Perkins for the following night. That was before my intervention, but I couldn’t see how that would make any difference. It was time to talk to Townsend, to make a judgement on Farrow and her plan. I finished the stout and the chips, called Townsend on my mobile, found him at home and told him I was coming over. He didn’t even ask why. Was that strange? I was finding many more questions than answers.
Townsend received me cheerfully at the door and we went through to his spotless, well-appointed kitchen. He offered me coffee. I accepted. He seemed relaxed and I commented on it.
‘Why not?’ he said.
‘You’re about to mount a covert operation of a sort on a senior police officer who’s in collusion with a multiple killer. Plus your girlfriend will be right in the firing line. I’d have expected a little more tension.’
‘Before I answer, tell me why you’re here.’
I told him about my day-the happy news about Hannah Morello’s holiday in the sunshine state, about the good description of the possible killer, and my failed attempt to confront Kristos.
I said, ‘Has Jane spoken to you about that?’
‘No, why would she know about it?’
