‘Crims, police, politicians.’
I finished the coffee and reached for the pot to pour some more. ‘You’ve only got an outline. Some of these things fizzle. Neddy Smith-’
‘Not this one. This is for real. You know who the author is, and he specifically asked for you.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘As protection.’
‘Who are we talking about?’
She drank and poured the little that was left in the pot into her mug. ‘Andrew Piper.’
‘Black Andy Piper?’
‘The same.’
Ex-Chief Inspector Andrew Piper, known as Black Andy, was one of the most corrupt cops ever to serve in New South Wales. He’d risen rapidly through the ranks, a star recruit with a silver medal in the modern pentathlon at the Tokyo Olympics. He was big and good-looking and he had all the credentials-a policeman as a father, the Masonic connection, marriage to the daughter of a middle-ranking state politician, two children: a boy and a girl. Black Andy had played a few games for South Sydney and boxed exhibitions with Tony Mundine. He’d headed up teams of detectives in various Sydney divisions and the number of crimes they’d solved were only matched by the ones they’d taken the profits from. His name came up adversely at a succession of enquiries and he eventually retired on full benefits because to pursue him hard would have brought down more of the higher echelon of the force than anyone could handle.
Melanie Fanshawe looked amused at my reaction to the name. ‘I gather you know each other.’
‘I’ve met him twice. The first time he had me beaten up, the second time it was to arrange to pay him blackmail.’
She nodded. ‘Doesn’t surprise me. Well, he’s telling all in this memoir-names, places, dates, amounts of money.’
‘Why?’
‘Did you know his wife died last year?’
I shook my head.
‘She did. Then he was diagnosed with cancer. He says he’s found God.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Which of the three?’
‘The last. Black Andy is a corrupt bastard, through and through. If Jesus tapped him on the shoulder, Andy’d have one of his boys deal with him out in the alley.’
‘He says he’s put all that behind him. Cleared himself of all those connections. He wants to tell the truth so he can die in peace.’
My scepticism was absolute. ‘Why not just write the book, confess to a priest, die absolved or whatever it is, and turn the royalties over to the church?’
She ticked points off on her fingers. ‘One, he’s not a Catholic. Some sort of way-out sect. Two, he needs the money-the advance for the book-to pay for the treatments he’s having to give him time to finish it.’
‘I paid him a hundred grand last year.’
‘As I said, he claims to have broken all those connections. No income. Some recent in-house enquiry, well after his retirement, stripped him of his pension. At the time, he didn’t care. But it’s different now. From what he’s told me, he had incredible overheads when the money was coming in-protection, bribes…’
‘Booze, gambling, women.’
‘All that. He makes no bones about it. It promises to be a unique inside account, Mr Hardy. A mega bestseller. He needs it and, frankly, so do I.’
‘How long does he think it’ll take?’
‘Six weeks, he says.’
‘That’s a lot of my time and someone’s money. Yours?’
She gave me that disarming, crooked smile again. ‘No, the publisher’s, if I can work it right. The thing is, publishing houses leak to the media like politicians. I’m sure I can get the contract we need for this book, one with all the money bits and pieces built in, but as soon as I get it the news’ll flash round the business and hit the media. I’ve told Andrew that and he says they’ll come gunning for him from all directions. That’s why he suggested, no, requested, you. Will you do it?’
It was too interesting to resist and I liked her. I agreed to meet Black Andy and talk to him before I made a decision.
‘But you’re more pro than con?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I’m intrigued. But we get back to it-six weeks solid is big bucks.’
‘I’ve got a publisher in mind who’ll be up for it.’
‘What about libel?’
‘He’ll cope with that as well. He’s a goer.’
‘Can I see what you’ve got from Andy already?’
She looked doubtful. ‘He asked me not to show it to anyone until I was ready to make the deal, but I suppose you’re an exception. I can’t let you take it away, though. You’ll have to read it here.’
She handed me a manila folder. It held four sheets of paper-the outline of Coming Clean: the inside story of corruption in Australia. I read quickly. No names, but indications that the people who would be named included well-known figures in politics, police, the law, media and business, as well as criminal identities. The fourth sheet was a list of chapter headings, with ‘Who killed Graeme Bartlett?’ as an example. Bartlett had been a police whistle-blower whose murder a few years ago hadn’t been solved.
‘This is it?’
‘I’ve seen more. He showed it to me on our second meeting but he wouldn’t let me keep it. He said it needed more work and he will only hand those chapters over to you. No you, no deal.’
Flattering, but very suspicious. There were harder men than me around in Sydney, plenty of them, but maybe hardness wasn’t his priority. If he was genuine about his problem, Black Andy would have known that anyone he hired to protect him was liable to get a better offer. Some of the possible candidates would switch sides at the right price. My dealings with him hadn’t been pleasant, but at least we’d understood each other. And perhaps my police contacts were something he thought he could make use of.
We came to terms. We’d only get to the serious contract point if I accepted the assignment. Short of that, for a bit of sniffing around and the initial meeting with Piper, I’d charge her a daily rate as a security consultant to her business.
I rang Piper that night and arranged to meet him at 11 am in two days. I wanted the time to do some research on him and his new-found faith. He wanted to hand over more material to keep Melanie happy and convince me. He gave an address in Marrickville and I scribbled it down. We were talking about Sunday. Okay by me, I wouldn’t be doing anything else just then. Piper’s voice hadn’t changed, a Bob-Hawkish growl, but I fancied his manner was softer. Maybe my imagination.
I talked to Frank Parker, an old friend and a former Deputy Police Commissioner, and to a couple of serving officers with whom I was on reasonable terms. I found out nothing startling, but got confirmation that Black Andy’s pension had been rescinded, that he was widowed and rumoured to be unwell. It’s easy enough to put a rumour about. His main henchman, a former cop named Loomis, was in jail on an assault conviction. It wasn’t quite what Melanie had said-Piper turning his back on his thug mates-but Loomis would have been his first line of defence in the old days, and his absence added some credibility to the story.
I heard the hymn singing inside when I located the address Piper had given me-the sect’s meeting hall-and took my seat out of earshot on the other side of the road. Best vantage point, but it was hot and the bus shelter didn’t give much shade. I hoped the word of God would end on time.
They filed out, more than a hundred of them, men, women and children, all neatly dressed. A few walked off, most headed for their cars. Among the last out was Black Andy Piper. Dark suit, white shirt, dark tie, despite the heat of the day. He spotted me immediately and beckoned me over. Same old Andy-do as I tell you. I gave it a minute, pretending to wait for the traffic, just to be bolshie.
