Crooked (16 page)

Tanner stopped short. ‘Did you now?'

Gus nodded.

‘And what did he say?'

‘Nothing,' said Gus. ‘At least, nothing that was relevant to the O'Connor case.'

‘I see,' Tanner replied heavily. ‘I thought we'd come to some sort of arrangement last time we spoke, but maybe I got it wrong.'

Gus felt his face redden. ‘No, I reckon you didn't.'

‘So you've agreed to take orders?'

‘I guess so.'

‘And you're going to like it?'

Gus nodded again.

‘Well, you don't look it.'

Confusion flared on Gus's face.

Tanner almost laughed. ‘You don't look like you're liking it, not one single bit.' He cuffed Gus on the cheek. ‘By Christ, I'll make a copper out of you yet.'

Charlie had arranged himself in the attitude in which he wished to be discovered, taking his early morning tea in the cramped space between the desk and the window, affecting to study something in the horrors of the light well. But when the door finally opened and Tanner walked in with his lackey in tow, not even the most meaningless of pleasantries came to Charlie's rescue. He held up a finger, mimed the word ‘shush' and bundled Tanner out into the hall.

‘I thought we agreed that we're talking alone?' said Charlie, pointing at the shut door with his head.

‘If it's young Finlay you're talking about, no worries. He's sweet.'

‘He doesn't look particularly sweet to me. He came to see me after O'Connor was shot.'

‘I know. Did you tell him anything?'

‘Of course not.'

‘Then there's nothing to worry about. So let's go back inside and talk to the bloke.'

Charlie hesitated, but Tanner stood his ground.

‘This is a murder inquiry, Charlie. You do what I say.'

Charlie considered it prudent to back down, if only for a moment. He went back inside and seated himself behind the barricade of his desk, elaborately straightening all the objects along it. The opening exchanges were politeness itself. Tanner
told Charlie that he hoped Charlie wouldn't hold anything out on him, and Charlie replied that, since they already had so many square dealings behind them, Tanner ought to feel confident about finding him unchanged in his attitude. Charlie tried out the litany of plausible-sounding phrases he had worked up that morning, trying to convince himself he was getting the better of Tanner. But Tanner's continued silence made him uncomfortable, and slowly any conviction he had oozed away.

Eventually Tanner turned to his underling. ‘Go wait outside.' He waited for Gus to leave before turning back to Charlie. ‘So, Charlie. Why don't you tell me what's wrong?'

‘I don't think you understand –'

‘Why don't you try me?'

‘Reilly was a client. It goes to confidentiality. So if you've got nothing further to say –'

‘But I do have something further to say. Don't think for one minute that I can't bring you down without damaging myself, because nobody in this town would take it into their heads to question a copper. A bloke who's out there, risking injury, putting his life on the line, making the place safe for a citizen to walk at night. But you, well, like I said … I reckon that's different.'

Charlie lifted his head, suddenly conscious of the air being brackish and the light disappearing, and the mauve shadows ghosting over the shabby interior. He was thoroughly unsettled by the time Tanner quite cheerfully asked him to pour him a drink, as if there was nothing amiss and the threat had never been made.

‘Well, Charlie,' Tanner put his drink down on the desk blotter beside him. ‘I guess you better tell me all about it.'

Charlie tried circumlocution. ‘Of course, I knew Reilly from way back. There wasn't anybody grew up in the back slums of this town didn't know who he was. He was a very good middleweight –' Tanner glanced meaningfully at his watch and
Charlie hurried on, unsure if it was a newly devised strategy of truth telling or some cowardly instinct that made him divulge what he did. ‘I guess you know Reilly was a Labor supporter from his earliest days. He worked as a chucker-outer at regular and impromptu Labor meetings in the back-city neighbourhoods where he grew up. Reilly had friends in the old Labor Cabinet and half the Sydney City Council in his pocket. Of course, Askin gets himself elected and it all comes unstuck.'

‘Which is when Reilly comes to you?'

‘Reilly heard I'd got contacts. People who could arrange for him to make a donation.'

‘Who was it?'

Charlie hesitated, but only for a second. ‘Askin.'

Tanner let out a long silent whistle.

Charlie rushed on, trying to explain it all away. ‘Frank Browne arranged it.'

‘Yeah, I know who he is,' said Tanner. ‘Well, good then,' he added, in an altogether different tone. ‘Charlie, you old rogue. Why didn't you tell me about this? I thought we were mates?'

‘It wasn't my story,' said Charlie, almost feebly.

‘Well, I reckon I can keep it quiet. But I'm warning you, this is a matter on which I intend to collect.' Tanner appraised Charlie judiciously, then picked up his hat and walked out the door.

Charlie stayed at his desk and massaged his sore brow. He had exercised his own judgement in going into business with Tanner, but now he didn't like it one bit. He was beginning to see how far and in what ways Tanner could be a danger to him. He also began to wonder if there might be some means of escape, of shaking him off. He
must
shake him off, or stumble along until his long-cherished dreams slipped further from reach.

Gus drove Tanner back to the Hat Factory in silence. He was more than a little curious about the few words he'd heard, but he didn't press Tanner about what was going on, and the silence seemed to drift along with them as they entered CIB.

There was a flurry in the air. Groups of detectives crowded the halls. Civilian employees shifted typewriters and boxes of case notes. Tanner was accosted by a Girl Friday and stalked off to see Allan. Gus pushed his way down the hall.

‘What's up?' he asked Agostini, who was rushing around the door.

‘Haven't you heard? Scientific Investigations have discovered a notebook among Reilly's belongings containing the sorts of names that shouldn't be found on such a bloke in such circumstances.'

‘What names?'

‘Ask Wally,' said Agostini, shaking his head. ‘Got to go,' he added, and went banging out the door with the rest of his bunch.

Studiously Gus checked his messages and locked his gun in the bottom drawer of his desk. Then, finding himself alone, he wound his way down the corridor to Scientific Investigations. Driscoll was sitting at one end of a long metal table, resting his big colourless cheek in the palm of his hand. On the table in front of him, an assortment of objects were encased in clear
plastic evidence bags, including a brown leather wallet, a fine-tooth hair comb, a small metal nail file and a number of traffic tickets.

Gus made his approach. ‘Agostini told me you'd found something big.'

‘Yeah, that's it,' said Driscoll, lifting his cheek slightly. He pushed a small black calf-bound notebook across the table. ‘That was found among Reilly's belongings. In it are the names of individuals, together with amounts signifying money.'

‘Blackmail?' Gus picked up the book.

‘No, I don't reckon that'll fly. They're particulars of people Reilly must've had dealings with.'

Gus opened the book gingerly, turning the pages, running his eyes down the lists. Every once in a while he let out a gasp. ‘This is guaranteed to blow the whole crime world wide open.'

‘I guess that would explain why we're burying it then.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘I mean they'll investigate the thing on some sort of level, but only because it would look a bit strange, all of us coppers sitting around on our backsides, doing nothing about it. Then, after a while, they'll call it a “waste of resources” and give it away.'

‘I reckon you're being a bit cynical.'

‘I reckon I'm not. I'm telling you as soon as I copped a look at that thing I took it to Allan, on account of not wanting to see the thing buried. Allan says to me, “Aren't you jumping to conclusions?” So I say to him, “I'm most certainly not. Everything's there, identities are revealed and incriminating evidence is given. What else do you need?”' Driscoll removed a small flask of Vickers from behind a jar of formaldehyde. He offered some to Gus.

Gus shook his head.

Driscoll took a swig. ‘Allan says, “Yeah, but the mere presence of names in a notebook doesn't prove anything. There
are people who might know criminals quite innocently: the plumber who fixes his toilet, the man who mends the tiles on the roof of his house.” He says, “It's a dangerous thing to suggest simply because some bloke with a criminal record dies, or is murdered, or whatever, that all sorts of people should be subject to innuendo and allegation.” “But it's not allegations,” I say. “And they're not plumbers and tradesmen, they're politicians and high-ranking cops.”'

Driscoll added, in an altogether different tone, ‘Are you sure you won't join me?'

‘Too early,' said Gus.

He put the flask back. ‘Well, Allan asks me, “What exactly are you suggesting I do? Send a truckload of coppers marching into these people's houses?” I say, “So we're just doing nothing?” and he tells me, “I'm not saying that we're not looking into the matter. Just that we could be embarrassed if we don't proceed cautiously.”'

Gus tried to be reasonable. ‘Well, maybe he's right about that. We have to go carefully with something this big. I mean the names in the book –'

Driscoll cut him off. ‘I tell you what else Allan says. I'm turning to go, and he asks, “What are you going to do?” I say, “How do you mean?” and he tells me, “Well, you don't want to prejudice your career, for instance?”'

‘He couldn't have meant it.'

‘Jesus,' Driscoll swore. ‘Look at the names in the book. Look at the officer in charge of the investigation.'

‘What do you mean?' Gus's face drained of colour.

‘I mean Reg Tanner's there. He's there in the book.'

‘He can't be.'

‘Well, he is,' said Driscoll, as if he was relishing the thought.

Gus could see where things were headed. He didn't go there. ‘It doesn't mean a thing. Tanner's a detective. He doesn't
get to choose the company he keeps. Besides, it was Tanner who authorised the raid that shut down Reilly's club in the first place.' Driscoll laughed, and Gus said reproachfully, ‘I'm not seeing anything particularly funny in this situation. Maybe you should lay off the grog.'

‘Maybe,' said Driscoll.

Chastened, Gus said, ‘What are you going to do?'

‘I'm giving it to Allan, of course. He'll shove it under the hugest bloody carpet he can find. Shove it halfway to China, if he can. I've done my bit. I'm seeing no reason to get involved any further.'

Allan tried to keep the story quiet. Then it grew. ‘GAMBLING MURDER' ran the
Sun
. ‘Dick Reilly, 59, Blasted to Death in Busy Double Bay. Victim of …

‘EXECUTION IN PUBLIC' –the
Mirror
went for a more colourful angle, with a three-page spread designed to bring the trappings of the high crime life to the public's attention. ‘$100,000 home! $17,000 car!' with photographs showing the palatial interior of Reilly's Castle Cove mansion and its sweeping views out over Middle Harbour. Outwardly Allan expressed his disgust, but he was secretly relieved that they hadn't discovered the worst of it. On a more worrying note, the paper also called the public's attention to the city's ‘rising wave of lawlessness', compiling a ‘Dossier of Death', containing a ‘grim list of Sydney's unsolved gangland killings'. The editorial demanded action:

As Allan had predicted, the longer the investigation took, the stormier things got, with coverage spreading quickly from the murder itself to the flourishing of illegal gambling in general. ‘BACCARAT BOOMS,' ran the
Mirror
. ‘12 games! No arrests!' ‘We have no sympathy for gangsters and criminals who get themselves killed preying on people's weaknesses,' the article ran. ‘But it is the police who should be getting tough with these baccarat schools and their organisers. The players can find the games easily enough. Why not the police force?'

Allan made the critical mistake of ringing the editor and answering this accusation in person. ‘Police action is taken at all times and in all cases when evidence of any unlawful gaming or wagering is forthcoming,' he told them. The news editor put the quote under a headline that said, ‘REALLY, MR ALLAN?' and in boldface type underneath, ‘Come off it, Norman! Your Boys Don't Know the Way? Ask Anyone at the Cross!'

It was obvious that a change of tactics was in order. Allan asked Tanner to try calling some reporters who owed him a good turn. He was rewarded with a quote, which Allan read with some satisfaction over his bacon and eggs the following morning, ‘Since Norman Allan took over as Police Commissioner, life has been unpleasant for criminals – they've been booked and chased and charged and kept on the move. My detectives have got more confidence in Commissioner Allan than they've had in anybody
for years.' Allan also gave permission for some trustworthy reporters to accompany task-force detectives on a series of gaming raids, and was rewarded with several blow-by-blow accounts of acts of police heroism on the spot. The reporters dubbed the task force the ‘squad to end squads', destined to shut down ‘every night trap and gaming room on the east-side of the Harbour'. But within days the task force was reduced to rousting out winos and molls to rack up arrest rates.

‘SILENCE IN GANGLAND,' ran the
Mirror
. ‘Raids fail to gain lead to murderer!' And more generally, ‘MURDER DEAD-END'.

Gradually, as each deadline followed the next and nothing appeared, Allan was able to convince himself that the story was dwindling. But, as things turned out, this was a terrible presumption, a point that became rapidly apparent when a three-paragraph item appeared in the middle pages of the
Mirror
stating how a black notebook had been recovered from the body of murdered crime boss Dick Reilly, and that the notebook contained ‘the names, addresses and silent telephone numbers of prominent Sydney identities.' The story continued, ‘At least nine of the names have shocked high police.' The story was expanded in pieces, with speculation adding names to a growing list. Bookmakers were singled out, as were gamblers, moneylenders and civic authorities – this last inclusion raising a storm at the Monday morning meeting of the Sydney City Council.

Desperate, Allan rang Premier Askin, who asked his good friend Frank Packer to play the matter down. Packer obligingly ran an editorial asking, ‘Would it have sounded so sinister if the book had been green?' But it was already too late. The names of several well-known politicians were entangled in the rumours, together with the startling revelation that the notebook contained figures, representing sums of money, indicating the size of each pay-off.

Allan didn't need to open a paper. On every street corner the news was front page.

Why indeed, thought Allan, as his black unmarked clunked into the gutter outside the State Office Block, a thoroughly modern edifice with a sun-dazzling tower of glass and steel with bronze cladding. He squinted through the dust and dazzle at the crowd of reporters gathered in the forecourt beside the green spiral-shaped fountain. Seeing him, the reporters jumped to their feet
like a long line of puppets jerked up on a string, and came clambering across the square.

Allan turned to his underling. ‘So, are you getting rid of that lot, or do you expect me to?'

‘What do you reckon you're playing at?' said Askin, swinging around on one heel and yelling at Allan as he came down the room. Askin was standing in front of a large picture window, the city spread out beneath him, almost as if from the tips of his shoes. Here were the white-capped waves of the Harbour, with sailboats and ferryboats chugging up water, and ribbons of grey terraces unravelling in every direction, and the smokestacks of factories lighting up the edges. Askin swung back to the window, arms outstretched, fingers extended, as if appealing to the rackety metropolis for an answer.

‘It wasn't my people,' said Allan glumly. ‘It wasn't my fault.'

But Askin seemed not to hear him. ‘You said you could keep it quiet. You said you could keep everything out of the papers.'

Allan opened his mouth to say something further, but one glance at Askin told him the course was unwise.

Askin went on, ‘I fixed it for you when Labor was demanding your resignation. I stood by you when I could've buried you and your whole blasted police force. I ought to have sacked you. I ought to have sacked the whole lot of you. But I didn't. Do you want to know why?' Seemingly unable to find a satisfactory answer to this, Askin sank back against the edge of his desk. ‘Hell, I thought we had an arrangement?'

Allan finally got it out. ‘But it wasn't my people. It was the bankruptcy boys who discovered the notebook when they went through his house.'

‘You telling me you stuffed it?'

‘Not exactly –' said Allan. ‘The thing is … well, it turns out Dick Reilly was an undischarged bankrupt. It seems he defaulted on a loan for some radios, and the bank pinched the guarantor bloke for the missing cash. Naturally enough, this bloke asks Reilly for his money back, only Reilly refuses, so the bloke applies to the Bankruptcy Court and has him declared. Soon as Reilly dies, the Bankruptcy Court sends their boys round to impound the movables, and they discover the notebook that was leaked to the press.'

Askin sprung off the edge of his desk. ‘How much did he owe?'

‘Four hundred.'

‘But everybody told me the bloke was that rich.'

Allan shrugged, ‘Officially speaking, he didn't have a penny to scratch himself with.'

Askin appeared to think the matter over for several seconds. ‘That Labor mob, they're not going to let this go.'

‘Well, I reckon I can help it blow over.'

‘I doubt it,' said Askin. ‘You know why they're doing this, don't you?'

Allan decided to play dumb. ‘Should I?'

‘Because I was born in a back slum and grew up in a shack out at Ironbark – and Renshaw, he can't stand to see a working-class bloke turn himself into somebody. I've got me a knife-edge election coming up, and he thinks this smear is his ticket. He reckons he can knock me because there's some minister involved –'

‘That isn't quite right.'

Allan pulled a brown vinyl briefcase up onto his lap, clicked open the locks and brought out a notebook encased in a clear plastic envelope, with a tag saying ‘Evidence' hanging off it. He tapped it with a finger. ‘I think you'll find the key word is “former”. There's a former minister involved –'

Askin lifted the notebook gingerly out of its bag. Allan could almost read his lips as they moved through the long list of
names, which included several notable backbenchers, and finally Jack Mannix, ex-Minister for Justice in the former Renshaw Cabinet. Askin took a sharp intake of breath.

Allan nodded sagely. ‘That's what the fuss is really about.'

Askin actually whistled. He gave the document another glance before laying it and the evidence bag carefully down on his desk. ‘Of course, those blokes … It doesn't surprise me.' He opened a drawer, extracted a cigar and chewed off the butt. He picked up a lighter and began turning the cigar over the flame until the orange end was flaring. ‘And I reckon I know exactly the right person to put the wind up them.'