By the time I’d crossed the road, Piper was standing on his own outside the hall. Maybe Melanie Fanshawe wasn’t a good judge of weight, because he’d definitely trimmed down a bit. A hundred kilos, tops. He’d also grown a grey beard. He looked thinner and older. His black eyes bored into me as I approached, then they drifted away and he seemed almost to smile. Almost.
‘Hardy’
‘Piper.’
We didn’t shake hands.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I want you to meet Pastor Jacobsen.’
We went inside. A man sitting on a plastic chair in the front row of a crowded space turned around as we entered, stood and came towards us.
‘Pastor, this is Cliff Hardy. The man I told you about.’
Jacobsen was a bit below average height, and thin. He wore a clerical collar, beige suit and black shoes. Not a good look. His hair was scanty and arranged in an unconvincing comb-over. Big ears, pale face and eyes, long nose, weak chin. His mouth was pink and damp-looking.
‘Mr Hardy,’ he said in a strong southern US accent. ‘I’m honoured to meet you, sir. Well met in Christ.’ He held out his hand and I took it. He closed his other hand over our grip and I immediately wanted to break free.
‘Mr Jacobsen,’ I said.
He released my hand slowly. ‘I know Brother Piper puts his trust in you so I’ll leave you to your business. Call me any time, Brother Piper.’
‘Thank you, Pastor. I’ll be at the Bible class later this week. Mr Hardy will be my… shepherd, I trust.’
‘Excellent.’ Jacobsen picked up a Bible from the lectern and walked away.
‘C’mon, Andy,’ I said when Jacobsen was out of earshot. ‘This is bullshit.’
Piper sank down into a chair. ‘Hardy, have you ever heard the saying, “there are no atheists in a slit trench under fire”?’
I sat in the row behind him. ‘No, and that’d be bullshit too, because I’ve been there.’
He sighed and looked weary. ‘What place does God have in your miserable life?’
I leaned over him. ‘As Michael Caine says in Alfie, “A little bit of God goes a very long way with me”.’
I’ll swear he wanted to tell me to pray, but he held it back. He picked up a manila envelope from the chair next to him and handed it over. ‘I have to clear up a bit in here and lock up. I’ll see you later, Hardy.’
I drove to Paddington and went into the pub near Melanie Fanshawe’s place. Quiet at that time on a Sunday. I bought a beer and used my Swiss army knife to cut away the tape. Chapter One was called ‘The Bully’ followed by ‘The Rookie’ and ‘The Bag Boy’, just as in the chapter list I’d seen. I read quickly. Piper explained how he’d been a bully as far back as he could remember and how a cop at the Police Boys Club had told him he was perfect police material. He named the cop and told how he and several of his colleagues, also named, had recruited Piper and some other boys to form a gang of burglars and car thieves.
He went on to explain how endemic corruption had been in the service despite the enquiries and attempts to clean it up. With his silver medal, rugby and boxing credentials, young Piper came to the attention of two detectives who controlled the flow of money between brothel owners, the police and politicians. Piper became the chief bagman while still a constable. The chapter had detailed information on meetings, amounts of money, bank accounts and, again, names.
‘You opened it,’ Melanie said as I handed the envelope over.
‘Sure, wouldn’t you in my position? This isn’t a time for good manners. Just be glad I didn’t copy it.’
We were on her little balcony, drinking coffee and looking out towards Victoria Barracks. ‘You’re very serious all of a sudden, Cliff. Is it that hot?’
‘It is, if he can back it up. If he can’t, it’s defamation city.’
‘Not our problem right now. What did you think of him?’
‘What I’ve always thought-corrupt, devious.’
‘And the minister?’
‘I wanted to wipe my hand after we shook.’
She nodded. ‘Me too. But he makes a good character in the book. How about the cancer?’
I shook my head. ‘Don’t know enough about it. He’s lost some weight and the beard ages him. I’d like a couple of medical opinions, but we’re not going to get them.’
She leaned back in her chair and drew in a breath. She was barefooted, wearing a halter top and loose pants, and her shoulders were tanned and shapely. Her nipples showed through the fabric of her top, and her toenails were painted red. There had been some chemistry between us I’d thought on our first meeting and it was fizzing now.
‘Do you sleep with your clients?’ she said.
I reached over and twisted her cane chair towards me. I lifted her feet from the floor and let her legs stretch out in my direction. I gripped the arms of her chair and slid it closer.
‘No. But my clients more the publisher than you, right?’
The floor was pushing up at my back through the thin futon. I rolled over onto my side, propped, and looked down at her. She was one of those women who look younger and prettier after making love. Her hair fanned out on the pillow and she smiled up at me with her eyes, her mouth and everything else. The manuscript lay on the floor beside her. Great security, although neither of us had given it a thought for a while.
‘Nice,’ she said. ‘I like older men.’
‘Thanks a lot. Why?’
‘They usually don’t look as pleased with themselves as younger blokes. More grateful.’
‘I am.’
She pulled me down and kissed me. ‘You’re welcome.’
We showered together in a stall that could barely hold us. We dressed and went for a walk. When we turned back into her street, she said, ‘What’re you thinking?’
‘Why can’t the publisher keep it all under wraps?’
‘Doesn’t work that way. People in-house have to see the manuscript: the lawyers, the possible editor. It has to get accepted by a board with a few members. Input from what they call the media liaison arm these days. Word will get out.’
We went into the house and she opened a bottle of wine. Something was niggling me about the whole business and I tried to sort it out as I drank the good dry white. Melanie did some work in her study and I wandered around looking at her books. Some were obviously by her clients, judging from the multiple copies, others were more familiar. I took down a bestselling sports autobiography and what I’d been searching for hit me. I fumbled and almost dropped the book.
Melanie looked up from her desk. ‘What?’
‘Who’s the ghost writer?’ I said.
She stared at me. ‘I assumed… Shit.’
‘Andy Piper couldn’t write stuff like that to save his life. It’s hard to tell from the outline and the chapter headings, but you have a look at the stuff he handed over today. I’m no judge of literature, but this reads like at least pretty fair journalism to me.’
She grabbed the envelope from her bag, slid the pages out and began reading. I put the sport bio back on the shelf and drank some wine.
‘You’re right, Cliff. It’s rough and it’ll need editing, but this is from an experienced writer.’
‘Piper hasn’t mentioned anyone?’
She shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t have to, necessarily. If he made a private arrangement with someone for a flat fee, it wouldn’t have to involve me or the publisher.’
‘Wouldn’t come cheap, a ghost writer?’
She put the manuscript back together neatly. From the way she handled it, it had taken on a new meaning for her. She drank some wine.
‘Depends on who it was and his or her circumstances. Writers don’t make much money, even the good ones. Especially the good ones. I’ve steered through a few as-told-to jobs. Ten thousand and a share of the
