of politicians, bureaucrats and business types-my kind of guy. He’d broken big stories on police corruption, political cover-ups and government department mismanagement. He’d fronted several television documentaries that had made his image as well known as his written work. He had a couple of spin-off books to his credit that I hadn’t read.
I was facing him now, using the word loosely. He stood about 160 centimetres at the most and his build would have to be described as puny. The magic of television had concealed this.
He saw my reaction. ‘Yeah, I know,’ he said. ‘People think I’m a six-footer like you.’
I shook his hand. ‘Jean-Paul Sartre was one fifty-eight centimetres on his best days,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘Thank you for that. Your eulogy was good. Spot on.’
‘You knew Lily?’
‘A bit in the early days when we were wage slaves. She had the handicap of being a woman, and I was too fucking small to be taken seriously.’
‘You both did okay.’
He placed his glass on the balcony rail. Looked like scotch. He wore an expensive lightweight suit. I was in a dark blazer and dark pants, blue shirt-closest I could get to the suit look. No tie. Lily said ties were as stupid as gloves and she was right.
‘I’d like to have a talk with you,’ Townsend said. ‘Here, if you’re agreeable, or later if you’d prefer it.’
He might have looked different from his TV persona but his strong, resonant, convincing voice was the same. I had a feeling he’d be worth talking to. In a strange way he reminded me of Lily-smaller, of course.
‘Now’d be good,’ I said. ‘Lately I’ve been talking mostly to myself. What about a drink? Was that scotch?’
He nodded. I picked up his glass and mine and headed for the bar. The crowd had thinned out a bit but not much. You can count on journos to form a good, solid hard core at any boozy bash. They’ve always got plenty to talk about and it takes a long while for the grog to make them boring.
Muddy was doing his number: Lily and I had seen the movie of the Band’s supposed last performance- The Last Waltz — before they kept reincarnating. Muddy had done the song in his suit, but still managed to look as if he was down on the delta:
Ain’t that a man?
Ain’t that a man, child?
I did some handshaking and nodding on the way to the bar. I ate a couple of ham and cheese sandwiches while I waited to name my poison. I got my hands around two scotches large enough to sustain a decent talk and went back out onto the deck. Townsend was still there and on his own. I finished half my drink before I even got there. With the first drink and the wines- probably three if I was honest-on board and the emotional drag, the whisky hit me. I was suddenly conscious of the need to walk carefully and watch where I was going.
I put his drink on the rail. ‘What’s on your mind?’
‘It’s a week since Lily was killed. What are your sources telling you about the police investigation?’
‘I don’t have any sources. The few I had don’t want to know me since I got scrubbed. I did have a particular bloke who-’
‘Frank Parker.’
‘Yeah, but Frank’s got other fish to fry. Plus he’s called in a lot of favours over the years, some of them for me. I’d say he’s just about tapped out. Why?’
‘Don’t you want to know who killed her and why?’
‘I don’t give a shit about why.’
‘Understood. Well. I have got a police source and what I’m told makes me want to look into Lily’s death as closely as I can.’
‘What does he tell you?’
Townsend picked up his glass, rattled the ice and took a drink. ‘Just a minute. You’re making assumptions. Two things. I’m after a story of course, but I liked Lily. She never put me down for being a short-arse and I admired her work. And did I say my source was a male?’
A smartie. I was a bit drunk and a bit annoyed. ‘Okay, okay. You liked Lily and some cop’s been blabbing to you. So what?’
‘We’re getting off on the wrong foot here.’
‘I’m a bit pissed.’
‘Not surprising. Why don’t we leave it till tomorrow.’
I was about to grab him when I realised how silly it’d look. I was twenty-plus centimetres taller and would’ve outweighed him by twenty kilos. He stood his ground.
‘I’d rather talk now,’ I said. ‘Please.’
Townsend glanced around to make sure there was no one within earshot. ‘As you’d expect, the police took away her computers-desktop and laptop-and two thumb drives. I’m told they were wiped clean beyond any point of data recovery. That brought the detectives to a full stop. Their only working theory was that Lily was killed because of something she was writing, or was going to write.’
‘That’s logical. She’d brought down some high-fliers.’
‘Sure, but I think there’re holes in the story. Why wouldn’t the killer just take the computer stuff? How likely is it that the person who shot her had the IT skills to clean the drives?’
‘An accomplice?’
‘Which means a witness. Remember she was shot with a. 22-that’s a professional job, as you’d know. How many professional killers are happy to have some computer nerd hanging around the workplace?’
I could see his point. And Lily’s work station was on the glassed-in balcony attached to her bedroom. She liked to be able to jump out of bed and go straight to the keyboard when an idea struck her. I knew that when she’d had the house rebuilt after a fire had destroyed the previous one, she hadn’t wanted any doors between the bedroom and the balcony. A friend had talked about feng shui and I could remember Lily’s response.
‘Bullshit,’ she’d said. ‘Breezes and access.’
I told Townsend about the layout. ‘Even assuming that the computer guy came in after Lily was killed, he’d have to be working for some time in full view of her.’
‘I can’t see it, can you?’ Townsend said. A computer whiz who’s that much of a hard case?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s possible. They let them play with computers in jail. And they reckon some of the game players are so desensitised to violence that they could play while their mothers’ throats were being cut.’
‘D’you believe that, Hardy?’
‘No. So what do you think happened?’
‘I told you I have a police source. It’s all a bit vague at the moment, but my suspicion, based on the little I’ve been told, is that the police cleaned the decks.’
4
You’ve got me confused,’ I said. ‘The police’re covering up a murder. Why?’
‘I told you before the why was important.’
‘I’m trying to follow you. Lily was killed because of something she was writing that involved police?’
‘Perhaps, perhaps not. It wasn’t her area, was it? More likely some dirty business deal.’
‘Comes back to the same question-what’s the police motive for a cover-up?’
‘Raises interesting possibilities, doesn’t it? Say the detective looks through Lily’s stuff and sees he can go in for some blackmail for the big bucks on the basis of what she’s written. Say he’s got gambling debts, say he’s being blackmailed himself for something else.’
I hadn’t finished the drink and was sucking in some of the rapidly cooling fresh air. Scepticism was setting in. ‘You’re a conspiracy theorist.’
‘Have to be. The blank drives need explaining. The killer wants to eliminate Lily. Not worried about what she’s writing. The cop sees possibilities in what she’s writing. He doesn’t care about who killed her. What’s one unsolved murder more or less? He gets the police IT guy onside. They copy the incriminating material and cook up
