‘Cold as ice where you’re concerned,’ I said, ‘and I’m considering just what recent conversations I might put in my statement.’
It would depress me to work in any institutional building, but the Surry Hills Police Centre would depress me more than most. The designers have done their best with the lighting and the pot plants, but the place carries an aura of bureaucratic and hierarchical insensitivity and fear. The junior cops fear their seniors, the senior cops fear the top brass, and they fear the politicians, lawyers and each other. Whenever I go in there, I get the sense that the police service doesn’t have catching criminals at the top of its agenda.
Wells delegated a uniformed officer to put Hank and me together in one room and I saw Greenacre and Dimarco being ushered into separate rooms. In classical police style we were left alone for a spell. The room was comfortable enough, with carpet, institutional chairs and table, and an air-conditioner doing its thing. No windows; we were two floors below street level. Who ever heard of an interrogation
room with a view?
‘Reckon this place is bugged?’ Hank said.
‘You’re the expert.’
He prowled the room. I tried to use my mobile but got no signal. Hank tried with the same result.
‘I know why they didn’t take the phones,’ he said. ‘I’m betting on a listening device of some sophistication.’
He raised his voice, ‘Hear me, asshole?’
We sat in silence for a while before Hank said, ‘I could do with a coffee.’
‘Ask the guy with the earphones.’
Hank opened his mouth to shout again when Wells entered, or rather stood in the doorway.
‘You can go,’ he said.
I eased up out of the chair. It’d been a long night and, although I considered myself to be fully recovered, there was the odd creak and crack. ‘Why’s that?’
Wells smiled, well aware of what he was saying. ‘Mr Dimarco’s legal representative has made some strong representations.’
Hank waved his mobile. ‘So you let him call out, while we were locked in the soundproof booth?’
‘If you like,’ Wells said. ‘I’d suggest that a senior executive of an international firm ranks above a private detective like you with one strike against him, and another who’s struck out. I think you follow me, Mr Bachelor.’
‘Fuck you,’ Hank said.
Wells swung away, leaving the door open. ‘I liked
Hank was a coffee addict and couldn’t go much longer without a fix. We stopped at a Starbucks in Oxford Street.
If the barista was surprised to see a man with congealed blood spots on his face, she didn’t react. Probably not unusual in Oxford Street. She took our orders and our money without a blink.
‘Nice to have friends in high places,’ Hank said.
‘Hardly friends, but I reckon it rules out Global as the people who killed McKinley.’
‘Leaving Lachlan and Tarelton. What’s your bet, Cliff?’
We sat at a distance from the only other table occupied. The coffee arrived; I didn’t really want it and I passed mine over to Hank after he’d drunk most of his, hot as it was, in a couple of gulps.
‘Lachlan,’ I said, ‘on the follow-the-money principle. Dr O’Neil said Lachlan had lent money to Tarelton. That’d put Tarelton under pressure, but what if Lachlan had borrowed the money somewhere themselves? More pressure maybe. We know something about Global and Tarelton, but we know hardly anything about Lachlan.’
Hank moved on to the second mug. ‘Megan was working on it but she didn’t come up with anything that I know of. Hey, I should get home.’
‘Me, too. I need to clean up these cuts and make sure I haven’t got glass in my ears. How come you got away clean?’
‘I hit the deck a mite faster than you, buddy.’
We walked, keeping an eye out for a cab. I was late for my evening meds and the thought annoyed me. How many times in rehab had they told me not to resent the fact that I had to take the medication for the rest of my life?
‘Cliff,’ Hank said when we’d almost reached Whitlam Square, ‘I heard what you muttered to that asshole cop. What was all that about?’
‘Tell you tomorrow. Here’s a cab. What d’you reckon’s closer-Glebe or Newtown?’
‘Fifty-fifty.’
‘Toss you for the fare.’
I won.
I cleaned up, took the pills and was about to go up to bed when I realised that I was wide awake with my mind buzzing. No chance of sleeping. I poured a scotch to replace the one I hadn’t finished in Greenacre’s office. I switched on the television and channel-hopped until I found a late news broadcast. The event in Double Bay got second billing. With the cameras kept at a distance and smoke in the night air, the shots of Hank, Dimarco and me weren’t as clear as they might have been and the focus was initially on Holland being loaded into the ambulance and then on the firemen getting the troublesome electrical fires under control.
The cameras tracked Megan running towards us but Hank’s bulk quickly shielded us all from the lens. The commentary accompanying the pictures had virtually no content, but that didn’t stop the flow: ‘This does not appear to be a terror-related incident, although that possibility has always to be borne in mind with several alleged terrorists facing trial and the well-known habit of terrorist organisations to. .’
I was about to switch off when a camera caught an image of Phil Fitzwilliam and Sean Wells. Fitz was looking up at the shattered windows and his expression was close to one of satisfaction. Wells had missed this, but when Fitz stared appraisingly at Megan, Wells shot him a look of pure contempt.
19
Early the next morning, I phoned Megan’s flat. Hank answered sleepily. ‘It’s Cliff. This is important. Don’t let Megan out of your sight this morning. Don’t let her go for the papers. Don’t let her go for a swim. Don’t let her do anything but stay with her till you get to the office. Can you secure the door to the street?’
‘What? Yeah, once the other tenants are in. But that means no clients. Why. .?’
‘Before they get there, and we’ll let them in one at a time. We’ll just tell them it goes with the territory of sharing premises with a private eye. What time will you be there, precisely?’
Hank was alert now, sensing my seriousness. ‘You name it.’ It was six twenty-five am, barely light. ‘Eight o’clock sharp. I’ll be there. I’ll fill you in then.’ ‘You’d better do that, Cliff. You’ve been holding back on me. . on us.’
I cut the call and took a big pull on the coffee I’d made to try to pep myself up after a minimal and restless sleep. My next call was to my oldest friend, Frank Parker, retired
deputy commissioner of police but still with consultative roles of various kinds. He answered, only marginally less sleepy than Hank.
‘Frank? Cliff Hardy.’
‘Oh, Jesus, at this hour? I saw the news last night. What trouble are you in now?’
‘Nothing special-bit of murder, intimidation, that sort of thing. I need some information about a certain long-serving, highly discreditable officer.’
‘Are you on a secure line?’
‘Is anyone these days?’
‘True, well, I’ll take a risk. That’s the way it is with you, Cliff, right?’
