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
There’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.’