Appeal Denied: A Cliff Hardy Novel (7 page)

‘This place is in bad repair, Hardy, and you’re out of work. Permanently. Suddenly you’re in the money, but you’re a chancer, always were. You seem to be conducting an investigation which you’re not entitled to do, but it could just be a blind for a crime you committed, or commissioned. What do you think?’

He was a hard man to read—apparently very confident, a quick recoverer from being goaded. If he was involved in Lily’s death or covering it up, he was playing an edgy game. He looked rather pleased with his analysis so just maybe he was genuine about it. Confusing.

‘I don’t think anything about what you just said, Inspector. I didn’t let it get anywhere near my brain.’

He got up and collected his neatly folded coat. ‘You’re by way of being what we call a person of interest. Your alibi has a big time hole in it. I wouldn’t be surprised if I found it necessary to pull you in for further questioning.’

I stood as well. You don’t let anyone threatening you take the high ground. ‘What about this mess? Whoever did it stole my computer. What do you make of that?’

Gregory shrugged into his coat and a wave of the musty smell came towards me. I was tempted to react but didn’t. Either he couldn’t smell it himself or he wore it as a badge of honour. He was full of energy, full of bounce. ‘Like you, I don’t think anything, except maybe that you did it yourself. I wouldn’t put anything past you, Hardy. What does puzzle me is you and Parker. He was a good cop as far as I know, although you two flew a bit close to the wind recently.’

‘You’re very well informed. I wonder why you can’t find who killed Lily.’

‘Give me time, Hardy, give me time. I’ll see myself out.’

‘No, I’ll see you off the premises if you don’t mind.’

‘Keep your mobile to hand and fix your phone.’

He went out the door and down the path, leaving the gate open. Light rain was falling and he moved smartly to his sky blue Falcon, a model about ten steps in advance of mine, parked across the street. He was a vain man, and thin dark hair doesn’t look good wet. I let him have the last word. It didn’t cost me anything and if it made him feel he was one up on me that was all right. It was very early in our relationship and I knew I’d see him again.

The smell from Gregory was so strong, a house-proud person would have fumigated. I spent the next hour or so tidying up the spare room and living room and mulling over how things stood. It was confusing to say the least, with Townsend and Frank Parker both pointing the finger at Gregory, while Tim Arthur appeared to have no time for Townsend, the one I’d been thinking of working with.

And, based on our less than friendly meeting, my reaction to Gregory was very ambivalent. If he was up to his ears in some conspiracy to do with Lily’s death, then he was a pretty good actor. The removal of Williams and the doubts of Constable Farrow, as reported by Townsend, counted against him. What of DS Kristos? Had he stolen my computer? Was he playing a lone hand or operating with someone who wasn’t even in the picture yet?

As Dylan says, ‘You gotta
trust
somebody’, and I trusted Harry Tickener to give me the drum on Arthur and Townsend. I also needed to get out of the house. Harry, who has done everything in journalism from copy boy in the old hot metal type days to major broadsheet editor, now runs the online newsletter
Searchlight dot.com
—a thorn in the side of the big end of town and anyone else it gets in its sights. Harry particularly likes media scams, so perhaps I could get a line on Lily’s story that focused on that. Seemed like a plan.

I drove to Leichhardt where Harry had his office and walked in on him without knocking. He expects me to do that. He has only one part-time staffer, another journalist, and no overheads like a receptionist or secretary. In the nineties there was much talk of the paperless office. It never happened, but Harry got pretty close when he stripped down to the newsletter.

His shiny head was held low over the keyboard, bending his spine the way forty years on the job had carved it, but he can still straighten it, just. A quick glance to identify me and a single finger held up to get me to wait. Harry is a gun-touch typist and I guess, like a pianist, he can take the odd finger away and not lose the beat. He clicked and clacked as I sat down and looked around the big, well-lit space that held books, magazines and framed prints, but none of the stacks of paper you expect to see in writers’ workplaces.

‘Sorry about Lily, Cliff,’ Harry said when he finished. ‘You know I don’t have anything to do with funerals and wakes.’

I did. Harry’s father was a mortician and Harry claims he saw enough death and heard enough talk about it when he was young to last him forever.

‘Let me guess,’ Harry said. ‘Even though you’ve been wiped as a PEA you’re investigating Lily’s murder and running into lies, damned lies and bullshit.’

‘That’s about right. I’m particularly interested in two characters in your field—Tim Arthur and Lee Townsend.’

I put them in that order deliberately and it seemed to have an effect on Harry. ‘Oh, shit, those two. No love lost there.’

‘How so?’

‘They fell out over the rights to a story a few years ago. Some kind of conflict about exclusivity of an interview or some such crap. Right and wrong on both sides, I expect. Townsend got the inside running and got a Walkley.’

‘So if Arthur says Townsend’s not to be trusted, it’d be over some professional matter rather than meaning he’s untrustworthy in general?’

Harry shook his head. ‘Aggressive, a go-getter, small man syndrome and all that, but he’s a genuine investigative type with a lot of chutzpah.’

‘Okay. Have you heard anything about someone in the media being involved in money laundering?’

Harry’s desk is bare, no photos to gaze at, no pencil to chew, no paperclips to bend. When he has to think he just thinks. He shook his head. ‘Nothing comes to mind now that Kerry’s gone, and he was always more into tax minimisation than anything more risky. When you say media person, d’you mean owner, presenter, actor, what?’

‘I don’t know. Try this on for size—a politician, no gender specified, using influence with the immigration deadheads to help someone in the sex-slave business.’

‘Lily’s stories, right?’

I nodded.

‘State or federal politician?’

‘Dunno.’

‘There was a pollie in Victoria allegedly in on an immigration fiddle, but it didn’t have the juice that you’re talking about. This is young-gun, out-on-the-street stuff, Cliff. I’m just an old man sitting at my desk listening to the winds of change and discord.’

I smiled. ‘Purple prose like that and your readers’ll be screaming.’

‘They scream at me and I scream at them. Instant feedback. It’s part of the fun.’

‘Thanks, Harry. Townsend has put me on to some things. Looks like I’ll be working with him.’

‘Good luck.’

Normally, Harry would insist that in return for information he gave me I’d give him the inside track on the story, if there was one. He seemed to sense that with something this personal it wasn’t appropriate.

I left the office and walked to the car park behind the theatre complex. I usually park there to put the old heap in the shade and with luck prolong its life. Now, late in the afternoon, it was in deep shadow. As I approached a voice somewhere ahead of me shouted and I looked up in that direction. A strong arm wrapped around my neck and expert fingers felt for the carotid artery. I blacked out, floated, and didn’t feel anything when I hit the ground.

9

G
etting the blood back to your brain when it’s briefly been cut off is very different from the aftermath of being bashed or punched. The first time it happened to me was in the army, when a hand-to-hand-combat instructor did it by accident. A Japanese tough guy did it again somewhat later and not by accident. The recovery has a sense of unreality about it—a feeling of
what the hell
happened?—
and then there’s a very stiff neck and an awareness of any other injuries incurred. In this case I had a pair of bruised knees and a bump on the forehead where my head had hit the car as I went down, and some aches. Nothing serious, aside from the humiliation.

I hoisted myself up and felt for my wallet in the hip pocket—still there. I reached quickly into the zippered pocket of my jacket. Zip open, disk, thumb drive and page of notes missing. I leaned back against the car and cursed myself for not copying the disk and the notes and putting the thumb drive somewhere safe. My head and jaw ached— another symptom of the brief blackout. For some reason I ground my teeth hard each time this had happened in the past. I was close to grinding them now, in anger.

Unable to break my anti-mobile habit, I’d left the phone in the car. I retrieved it, located Townsend’s card in my wallet and called him. You always expect to get a message whoever and whenever you call—nobody’s ever actually available, including me. But Townsend was, and he answered.

‘It’s Hardy,’ I said. ‘Things are happening and I need to see you. Tell me where and when and make it now if not fucking sooner.’

‘You’re not making sense, but I’m at home in Lane Cove and you can come here if you want, or I can meet you somewhere.’

Could I drive to Lane Cove feeling the way I did? I thought I could. It’s always an advantage to meet someone you’re assessing on their home ground, providing no weapons are involved. I got Townsend’s address, something a journalist doesn’t give out to just anyone, and said I’d be there as soon as I could.

‘How soon’s that?’

‘Why? Got a date?’

‘Have it your own way. I’ll be here.’

I hadn’t meant to antagonise him, but I hadn’t meant not to.

Townsend lived in a small sandstone cottage not too far from the Lane Cove National Park. If I sold my terrace I could probably afford one similar—if I wanted to live that far from Jubilee Park, the Toxteth Hotel, Gleebooks, the Broadway cinemas and the Dave Sands memorial. I didn’t.

It was dark by the time I got there and he’d thoughtfully left a light on above the front door. I went through a neat garden, up a neat path and some well-maintained steps to a porch with tiles that hadn’t lifted and that had been swept clear of leaves. In a quieter mood it would’ve made me feel ashamed of the look of my place.

I rang the bell. Townsend came quickly to the door, opened the security screen and almost took a backward step.

‘What happened to you?’

I hadn’t given any thought to my appearance, but when I looked down I saw that my pants were torn at the knees and when I touched the bump on my forehead my hand came away wet.

‘Come inside and get cleaned up.’

The immaculate exterior of the house was reproduced inside. Townsend showed me down a short passage of polished boards to a bathroom with all mod cons—spa bath, ceiling radiator, heated towel rails.

‘Use what you want,’ Townsend said, ‘and I’ll make you a drink. Scotch, is it?’

‘Thanks. A bloody big one.’

I ran water, used a flannel and towel, and dumped them in the basket provided. I’ve got a milk crate for the purpose, better ventilated. I found bandaids in a drawer and laid one over the graze just below the hairline and above the boxing scars that puckered my eyebrows. I rinsed my hands and mouth and felt considerably better. Out in the passage I heard Townsend talking and went towards the sound.

He was sitting at a pine table in the kitchen with a glass in hand and using his mobile. There was a bottle of Dewar’s, another glass, a carafe of water and ice in a bowl on the table.

‘Gotta go,’ Townsend said and hung up. ‘Sorry, Hardy. Have a drink. I wasn’t sure of your … proportions.’

I sat and poured a generous measure of the whisky and added ice. I took a long pull and poured some more. I was suddenly very tired and wanted to close my eyes.

‘Thanks,’ I said after another drink. ‘Looks like I landed in the right place.’

‘Is anything hurting? You need painkillers?’

I held up my glass. ‘This’ll do.’

You gotta trust somebody
, and anybody who offers you the whole bottle has a good chance of getting the nod. I was in a mood to talk and couldn’t see any reason to hold back, so I told Townsend everything from whoa to go. He kept quiet and didn’t react, even when I said that Tim Arthur had badmouthed him. I made no excuses about my carelessness in protecting the record of Lily’s work, and admitted that I had my doubts about Gregory’s involvement. I didn’t mention Harry Tickener’s reference to the small man syndrome.

I worked my way through the scotch in my glass and eyed the bottle when I finished.

‘I’ve got a spare room,’ Townsend said. ‘You can stay the night if you’re worried about driving over the limit.’

I poured another solid one. ‘Thanks. About all I need right now is for the cops to pick me up driving pissed. What d’you make of it all?’

‘How much do you remember of Arthur’s translation of Lily’s codes and initials?’

‘Good point. Got a pen and paper? That fucker took my notebook, not that there was anything in it.’

Townsend went into an adjacent room and came out with a pen and a lined pad. I printed out POW, BW, SB and VER with their equivalents, but not many of the scrambled initials came back to me. I put down IRS, IAD and HON but without any confidence—they could’ve just been echoes of familiar initials. I tore off the sheet and passed it to Townsend, telling him the initials could all be wrong.

‘Not a hell of a lot of help,’ he said. ‘The upside is that it wouldn’t be much help to the opposition either.’

‘No. There was enough detail in the stories, as I’ve outlined them to you, to tell anyone involved what line she was following. He, she, they have the advantage now.’

‘She?’

I shrugged. ‘Avoiding sexism.’

‘Cute. Sorry. This has thrown me a bit. I thought we were on the right lines with Gregory, but you have your doubts. I don’t know anything about this Kristos. From what you said, the line on him is a bit ragged.’

‘Yeah. Frank didn’t know anything about him either, and the identification of him as the one haring away with my computer is very iffy. I’ve been told he was big and that was a strong arm that went round my neck, but …’ I shrugged again and the stiff neck hurt. Townsend noticed, left the room and came back with a foil of paracetamol capsules. ‘You’re done for the day, Hardy. Have a couple of these and get your head down. We’ll look at it all tomorrow.’