‘Come on, I know I don’t command top dollar, but Jerry couldn’t afford me.’
‘Card looked new. When did you give it to him?’
I shrugged. ‘Can’t remember. Put a card in a wallet and it stays looking new, doesn’t it?’
It was his turn to shrug. ‘I suppose. Well, just asking. No idea yourself about who’d want to kill him?’
‘Not a clue. When did you say this was?’
‘Last night. Well, early hours.’
‘I’m sorry, really sorry. He was a character.’
‘He was a habitual criminal.’
‘Not lately.’
‘Once a crook, always a crook. Get in touch if anything occurs to you.’
He gave me his card and I brushed it clean and made a show of putting it away carefully in my wallet. He knew what I was doing and didn’t like it. Probably not a smart move on my part.
I went in to the office to deal with routine matters, thinking that the last person who’d been there with me was Jerry. I was genuinely sorry about his murder and I resolved to go to the funeral, if there was one. But I didn’t feel a strong sense of responsibility. Jerry had been in the criminal world for a very long time and he knew the risks he was taking dabbling in the murky waters of rewards for snitching.
Of course I’d lied to Johnson. From the little I knew, Jerry’s killer could have been associated with the people who robbed Sanderson or with Sanderson himself, who might have thought Jerry less than helpful. I’d leave it to the police to sort out if they could or if they wanted to. The murder of an old lag like Jerry wouldn’t make them put their best foot forward.
The stairs up from the street to the first floor in my building are narrow and pretty dark. My habit is to take them three at a time as a little bit of aerobic exercise before sitting at the desk. That’s what saved me. Two men were waiting on the landing where the stairs take a turn. I came barrelling up, bent over a little, and the swing one of them took at me missed. He lost his balance and went down a step or two. His mate was obviously hoping to deal with someone incapacitated and he was surprised when I straightened up and slammed a fist into his gut. Soft gut. I grabbed his arm and swung him against the banister. It caught him in the kidneys and he went down.
The first guy came up with a baton at the ready but I was above him and balanced. I kicked him in the face; he dropped the baton and tumbled to the bottom. I was breathing hard and in the seconds I took to suck in some air the soft-gut scuttled past me. I collected the baton and went down to the door. Holding the baton behind my back I looked up and down the street. Nothing.
‘You’ve still got it,’ I said to myself as I went back upstairs.
I was undamaged, which is not always the way you come out of a two-man attack. But I didn’t kid myself- they weren’t very good, and it was lucky that I hadn’t just climbed the stairs normally. Of the two other offices on this level one was unoccupied and the other, allegedly the home of an independent record company, Midnight Records, was unused until late at night. To my surprise a young man in black jeans and T-shirt opened the door.
‘Hey, what?’ he said, flicking back long locks.
‘Hey, nothing,’ I said.
‘Cool.’
I went in to the office and made coffee as an aid to thinking. There was really only one line of thought-who hired them and why?
For the rest of that day and the next I kept an eye out for trouble but nothing happened. Lily was away interstate working on a mining story. She’s the one who reads the papers closely, I just skim them, so I missed the notice of Jerry’s funeral. Daphne Rowley brought it to my attention that night in the Toxteth after a game of pool.
‘You going?’ I said.
‘Wish I could but I’ve got a full day. Just can’t get away. I liked Jerry.’
‘So did I. Where is it?’
Daphne told me that the service would be held in the Unitarian Chapel in Darlinghurst and that Jerry was to be buried at Waverley Cemetery. That surprised me. I thought the cemetery was more or less full and that only people who’d booked plots could still get in. I didn’t see Jerry as someone who’d invest in that way.
I was late getting to the chapel after wasting time looking for a parking spot. The service was coming to an end. There were five people present. Four I recognised as Glebeites, the other I didn’t know, but he bore a striking resemblance to Jerry. Younger, better preserved, well dressed, but clearly of the blood. The coffin was put in the hearse and I was wondering how I was going to follow it to Bondi when the look-alike came up beside me.
‘You’d be Cliff Hardy.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Zack Fowler, Jerry’s brother.’
We shook hands. ‘I guessed that,’ I said. ‘You’re a lot like him.’
‘In some ways, not all. I’d like you to ride along with me, if you don’t mind. There’re things I want to discuss with you.’
You don’t say much in a funeral car. Something about the fittings, the driver, the pace keep you quiet and leave you with your own thoughts. The car was followed by another carrying the other mourners. The burial was conducted smoothly and efficiently. When it was done Zack Fowler went to the Glebe people and handed them some money. Then he came back to me.
‘I thanked them for coming and asked them to hold a bit of a wake for Jerry at his watering hole.’
‘I’m sure they’ll do that,’ I said. ‘I’d be in it. Shouldn’t you be there?’
‘No. Hold on.’
He spoke to the two drivers and the cars pulled away. It was then that I noticed the quality of his clothes-the suit, the shirt, the shoes. He’d obviously paid for the whole thing and the burial plot. This man had money.
‘We can get a taxi back. I’m hoping you’ve got some time.’
I nodded and we began to walk between the rows of graves and the ornate tombs as the early afternoon wind took on an edge.
‘A wake for Jerry’d be okay,’ Fowler said. ‘I always expected I’d go to his rather than him coming to mine. But I’ve got more serious business. I want to hire you to find out who killed my brother.’
Fowler told me that Jerry had been the black sheep from the start, always in trouble for thieving and fighting. The parents were religious-hence the names Zachariah and Jeremiah-but it didn’t take with Jerry.
‘I was a couple of years younger,’ Fowler said. ‘I thought it was all bullshit, the religion, but I played along to keep the peace. Jerry was causing them so much trouble they needed something to make them feel worthwhile.’
‘How did you get along with him?’
Fowler shrugged. ‘Okay, what I saw of him. He was in and out of reform schools from his early teens and then he graduated to gaol. As I say, I toed the line, did okay at school, Fort Street, got a commerce degree, started a business that did well. Mum and Dad didn’t live to be very old but I helped make them comfortable for the last few years. Mum always said Jerry broke her heart, but there’s nothing to that. They were cowed, frightened people who clung to their religious delusions and then just sort of faded away.’
Peter Corris
CH32 – The Big Score
We walked back towards the gate. I had a pea jacket over a sweater and the cold didn’t penetrate too much. Fowler just had his business shirt and suit coat but he didn’t seem bothered. Reminiscing had removed him physically from the scene.
‘It’s a funny thing,’ he said, ‘how unforgiving Christians can be. They never forgave Jerry, wouldn’t have spoken to him more than half a dozen times since he became an adult.’
‘I’ve seen that,’ I said, ‘churchgoers shunning their unmarried pregnant daughters.’
‘Yeah. Anyway, I stayed in touch with Jerry as best I could, but my business took me overseas a lot and when he was out of gaol he was always in some rooming house or other-hard to track down. I gave him a helping hand when I could but
