Appeal Denied: A Cliff Hardy Novel (6 page)

That mood evaporated as soon as I got home. The gate was off its hinges and the front door was ajar. I can be slack about some things, but not about leaving the gate swinging and the house unlocked. Books, magazines and newspapers were strewn all over the living room floor. I went upstairs. Where the computer had been there was a space defined by dust marks. The filing cabinet had been jemmied open and ransacked. Books and other stuff were lying where they had been dropped or thrown. Lily’s clothes were in a heap on the floor in the wardrobe. The pockets in the pants and the jacket had been turned inside out.

I remembered that I’d dumped the doctored cigarette packet in the kitchen tidy and I scooted downstairs. It was still there, among the coffee grounds, orange peel and other scraps. The first lucky break in this mess. I had the thumb drive and the disk with me.

There was a tentative knock at the front door. I found my neighbour, Clive, the taxi driver, standing there with a worried look.

‘Everything all right, Cliff?’

‘No, I’ve been broken into.’

‘Shit, I should’ve chased after him. Sorry, mate.’

Clive told me that as he’d pulled up a few doors away from his house ten minutes back, he saw someone hurrying down the street carrying something. He didn’t think anything of it until he saw that my gate was standing open. The gate is basically busted, and it takes a special touch to keep it on its moorings. I have that touch and I’d demonstrated it to Clive in the past. By the time he’d made the possible connection between the gate and the person carrying something away, the person had driven off. Clive had gone inside and looked for my mobile number but hadn’t found it. Then I’d turned up.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. ‘I’m insured. Just for the record, what did the guy look like from the back?’

Clive shrugged. ‘Big. Dark.’

‘Big like tall, or big like fat? Dark like me or dark like Aboriginal or Islander?’

Clive is short, fair and plump. His only exercise is fishing. ‘Big like you and dark like you, only bigger, darker and younger. I’d almost say of Middle Eastern appearance, as the expression goes, except … yeah, no beard. Trouble, Cliff?’

In a way, Clive lives vicariously through me, or did when I was a licensed detective. He was bitterly disappointed when I got scrubbed and now he seemed to be a bit cheered up that there was some action.

‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘Could be. Hope not. What was his car like?’

‘Shit. They all look the same these days, don’t they? White.’

‘Thanks, Clive. I might need a statement from you for the insurance.’

‘No problem. What’s missing?’

‘Computer.’

‘Fucker. Hey, he wasn’t a junkie or like that. You know—thongs and jeans. He wore a business shirt, pants and shoes.’

I thanked him again and went inside.

Frank arrived a few minutes later. Expecting him, I left the front door open, and he found me in the living room picking up books.

‘Untidy bugger, aren’t you?’

‘I had an uninvited visitor.’

‘I thought you had an alarm system.’

‘I do. So did Lily. You can get round them if you know how.’

‘That’s true.’ Frank set the plastic bags he was carrying on the stairs. ‘Lebanese,’ he said, ‘and a bottle of that plonk you like.’

‘Thanks. Just the job and just for you and this shit I’ll break my rule and hoe into the felafel.’

I dropped the book I was holding onto a chair and we went into the kitchen. Frank knew where the corkscrew and the glasses were. He opened the bottle of Houghton white and we spread the food out in its containers on the bench. Plastic forks, paper napkins—nothing flash about me and Frank. I hadn’t eaten much in the past few days and found I was hungry. The food was good and the wine was cold.

‘So,’ Frank said, after we’d lowered the level in the bottle and dug well into the food, ‘what was the object of the search, as we say in the courts?’

‘Clive next door saw the bloke scuttling off with my computer. The mess suggests he was looking for disks or drives—Lily’s. Someone must have nutted out that she worked here a bit.’

‘And?’

I pointed to my jacket hanging on the door handle. ‘I found it first and carried it on me. I wish he’d come looking for
me
.’

‘Mmm, I can imagine. What did you learn?’

‘She was working on a few stories, the way she did. Two of ’em look like possibles. Both seem to involve the police, one more than the other.’

‘So that’s why you want to know about Gregory?’

‘And a guy named Kristos.’

I’d never doubted that I could trust Frank. Although our differences regarding professional conduct and temperament surfaced from time to time, we’d been through too much together to ever call it quits. It amounted to him protecting the integrity of the police service, which he still fundamentally believed in, and me trying to stay within the confines of the law as much as I could. Volatile, but viable.

As I slugged down more wine and picked at the remaining food, I laid it all out for him—the removal of DS Williams from the investigation, Lee Townsend’s theories about the cleansing of Lily’s computer and drives, the apparent laxity of the official investigation. Frank listened in silence.

‘That it?’ he said as I poured the last of the wine.

‘Not quite. Lily’s solicitor tells me I’ve inherited half of her estate. Quite a lot of money. That seems to have sparked a new level of interest in me from this Kristos, whoever he is and whatever rank he holds. It reads like an excuse to me, seeing as how I didn’t kill her.’

Frank looked up from loading a fork with tabouli. ‘I know that, Cliff. I know that you’ve only killed two men, both crims and in self-defence.’

‘Three,’ I said. ‘You’ve forgotten one.’

Frank shrugged. ‘Same thing. Two for me. Fucking hated it.’

‘Too bad everyone doesn’t feel the same. Would this Kristos—’

‘Detective Sergeant Mikos Kristos.’

‘—be a big, dark bloke who dresses formally?’

Frank nodded.

‘There’s a fair chance he’s the one who nicked my computer and conducted this bloody search. Mate of Gregory’s, is he?’

Frank’s expression spoke volumes of disappointment and disillusion. Until recently Sydney had been relatively free of revelations of police corruption. But riots in the western suburbs and on the southern suburbs beaches had tested police mettle and divided public opinion about the usefulness and commitment of the cops. A major scandal could only do serious damage. Even though Frank was out of the firing line he still had friends in the force and clung to a belief in it. I could see his desire to help me struggling inside him with other impulses.

He made his decision and pushed the food away. ‘Vince Gregory has some glandular disorder that causes him to smell bad no matter how often he washes or changes his shirt, but that’s not the worst smell about him.’

Frank told me he believed that Gregory was corrupt, but had high-level protection because he was an effective player in the complex police/criminal game. He didn’t know the details.

I told him about the two stories Lily had been working on that seemed to have possibilities of police involvement— the media guy money laundering through a casino, and the politician protecting some Mr Sin.

‘Both big money matters,’ Frank said, ‘and with the potential to do serious damage to big reputations. Do you know the names?’

‘No, she used a code in her notes and drafts. I’ve got some idea of what it signifies, but it’s far from clear. I was going to sit down with Townsend and try to get a better picture.’

‘But?’

‘Someone’s told me Townsend’s not to be trusted.’

‘In what respect?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll be asking—it’s Tim Arthur, who used to work with Lily. He was playing golf this morning. That’s why I was over there.’

‘I wouldn’t let Townsend know what you know about Lily’s writing until you check him out. If that’s what got her killed, you have to be absolutely sure that anyone who knows about it is trustworthy.’

I nodded. ‘So far, it’s just you, me and Arthur. I trust all of us.’

Frank’s more of a lateral thinker than me. ‘On the other hand,’ he said, ‘if Townsend’s dirty and only recruited you to see if you could bring more of Lily’s stuff to light, knowing that you succeeded might flush out whoever killed her.’

‘Yeah, me as bait. It might work, but to be honest, Frank, being without standing, as you put it, and with no gun, I’d prefer to come at it some other way if possible.’

Frank smiled. ‘You’ve got another gun, don’t tell me you haven’t.’

I shrugged. ‘You know what I mean. I was lucky to stay out of jail the last time. If I was to wound or kill someone now I’d be gone. Investigation’s the name of the game—my journalist mate Harry Tickener should be able to help on Townsend—at least until the approach dead-ends. Then I’d go for the Richo option—whatever it takes.’

Frank said he’d try to make some low-key enquiries about what sort of general connections Gregory had and particularly if there was someone in IT on the inside who was close to him.

‘If Townsend wants to get to me before I can check on him, I could tell him that our enquiry’s in train and it wouldn’t hurt to talk about the break-in. If he’s clean he’ll be interested, if he’s not he’ll know anyway.’

We cleared away what was left of the food and put the empty bottle in the box where empty bottles go.

‘I’d like to help you clean up, Cliff, but …’

‘I bet,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Frank. It’s a lousy time for me but you’re helping. The work helps, too.’

We were on our way to the front door. Frank turned back. ‘I need a piss. That wine’s run straight through me.’

He knew where to go and when he got back and was zipping up, I said, ‘Hey, what about this Kristos?’

‘Don’t know anything about him.’

‘Okay. I was thinking I might contact Williams and try getting something out of him.’

I opened the door and began to usher Frank out. I reminded him of the loose tiles and the dodgy step. A car, slowed by the hump at the top of the street, went past and Frank’s body turned rigid as he propped.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Did you see that driver? The one in the light blue Falcon?’

‘No. I was worried about you falling down the steps. Why?’

‘Fuck it. I haven’t seen him for a few years, but I’d swear that was Vince Gregory.’

8

‘T
here’s a big apartment complex down the way, maybe he lives there,’ I said.

‘Last I heard he lived in Longueville.’

‘Girlfriend? Boyfriend?’

‘Vince Gregory hasn’t got any friends of any kind. He was checking up on you.’

‘Did he see you, Frank?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll hang around for a bit and see if he comes back.’

We stood on the cracked front path for a few minutes but no one showed.

‘You all right to drive, Frank?’

‘No. I wasn’t expecting to be. I left the car up in Broadway. I reckon I’ll be right by the time I walk back there with a coffee or two on the way.’

He set off towards Glebe Point Road and I went inside the house. A knock sounded at the door within minutes.

I opened it to see a man in a suit and a light overcoat holding up a card.

‘DI Gregory, Mr Hardy. I’ve been ringing your mobile for an hour or more.’

‘It’s in the car. I’m still not used to being contactable wherever and whenever. You could’ve tried the landline.’

‘I did. It was out of action. Can I come in? We have to have a talk. Here or somewhere else.’

I let him in and went straight to the telephone. It had been disconnected and it looked as if someone had been investigating the working of the fax and answering machine. They’d have got bugger-all from that.

Gregory looked around the untidy room with an expression impossible to read. I held up the phone jack.

‘Disconnected by whoever broke in and did this.’

He nodded. He was in his forties, solidly built but barely medium height, maybe a shade under. Roundish face, closely shaven but with bristles showing already. Thinning dark hair. I moved some books from two chairs and got a bit closer to him. A definite smell, something like old damp socks.

‘Have a seat if you want. Sorry not to be more hospitable. I gave a statement to DS Williams. Good man, I thought.’

If Gregory knew I was provoking him he didn’t show it. He shrugged out of his coat and folded it over the arm of the chair clear of where he sat. His suit was immaculate. I waited for him to preserve the crease in his trousers the way his type do, but he didn’t. He sat back and took a notebook from his pocket.

I pre-empted him. ‘What’s this in connection with, Inspector?’

‘The death of Lillian Truscott. I’ve learned that you’re a beneficiary under the terms of her will.’

‘Yeah. That means I killed her. Lock me up.’

‘That’s not funny.’

‘No, it isn’t. Get on to something that is.’

‘As I passed by, I saw former deputy commissioner Frank Parker here with you.’

‘He’s an old friend. We had some lunch and shared a bottle of wine. Sorry, it’s all gone.’

I was getting to him, bit by bit. He was one of those forceful, middle-sized men of no more than average intelligence, used to having people dance to his tune. You meet them in the police and the army and in politics. Gregory’s shirt was done up to the neck and his tie knot was tight. He’d kept his suit jacket buttoned. I was in shirt sleeves and slacks, and with half a bottle of wine in me. Relaxed. He didn’t like it.

He shoved the notebook roughly into his pocket, threatening the lining. ‘Hardy, I happen to know someone that plays golf at Moore Park. He tells me he saw you deep in conversation with Tim Arthur—who used to make a nuisance of himself with Ms Truscott—looking over a page of notes. And at the wake for Ms Truscott you spent a good deal of time with the poor man’s John Pilger, Lee Townsend.’

‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘You know your subversives and have spies on your books. The Stasi would be proud of you. It’s not too late. Get over to the US—spying on their citizens is all the go just now.’

Gregory sucked in a breath to calm himself. As a detective, he’d come up against take-the-piss crims and lawyers often enough not to blow his cool completely. He looked around the room, noting the cobwebs, the missing newel posts on the stair rail, the worn carpet.