He barely looked up from one of the papers as I came in. ‘Sleep all right? Coffee’s made. Croissants in the bag there.’
‘Coffee’ll do fine.’ He was wearing a tracksuit and sneakers. ‘Jogging?’
‘Walking,’ he said, still reading. ‘Jogging’s bad for the joints. How do you stay trim?’
‘Trimmish. Gym, walking, diet, worry.’
‘That’ll do it. How’re the head and the knees?’
‘Okay. I might take a couple more of your bombs with the coffee just for insurance.’
I sat and drank coffee, took two more capsules and watched him rapidly process the newspapers while he sipped coffee. He was a picture of concentration; I almost expected him to take notes. Didn’t have the nerve to interrupt him. Eventually he pushed the last paper away.
‘Sorry. Ingrained habit.’
I nodded. ‘Lily was the same. Let’s get down to it. Have you got an opinion on which of the two stories is most likely to be the one that got her killed? That’s if it wasn’t something else altogether.’
‘Like what?’
‘Dunno. That’s one of the things I’ll be taking up with your bete noire, Arthur.’
‘I’m over that, Hardy. Well over it. Yes, I’d go for the media person laundering money. Dodgy politicians will usually only go so far, at least in this country. They stop short of killing people. In the US and the Philippines, some parts of Europe, there’s so much more at stake. I’m going to dig around and see if I can get a whiff of what she was on to.’
‘And a possible connection to Gregory.’
‘Right. One thing though-can you remember which story VER, meaning a minister of religion, cropped up in?’
I tried. I poured more coffee. After the break-in at the house and the attack on me, the quiet sifting through Lily’s work seemed to have happened a long time ago. I tried to recollect my jottings about the codes, their organisation on the page.
‘The money laundering story, I think. Can’t be positive.’
‘Good. It’s a hook. And I do so like to see a God-botherer with his nuts in the blender.’
I was starting to like Townsend.
10
Townsend said he’d work on finding out more about the media money launderer, if he could. He had an arrangement to meet Constable Farrow at a wine bar in Chatswood at 6 pm and thought it’d be a good idea if I came along.
‘What’s her grievance exactly?’ I said. ‘She’s taking a risk talking to you, even if she does fancy you, and an even bigger one talking to me.’
Townsend smiled. ‘You underestimating my charisma, Hardy?’
‘I reckon charismas overrated in general.’
‘What? Invented by some sawn-off?’
‘Your sensitivity’s showing.’
He laughed. ‘You’re a prick, Hardy, but you’re right. I don’t know what her game is. There’s something wrong in that Northern Crimes Unit. It’s the line to follow though, you agree?’
‘Yeah. But it’s all a bit weird-Gregory, Williams, Kristos, Farrow. Who else? What’s the big picture? What’s the overall structure of the unit?’
‘I thought your friend Parker’d fill you in.’
‘Not really. Things’ve changed a bit since his day, as he admits. There’s units within units, outsourcing of functions even…’
Townsend shook his head as I moved to rinse my mug at the sink. ‘Cleaner does it all,’ he said. ‘But you’re right again. It’s hard to get a handle on anything these days. The word responsibility has dropped out of everyone’s vocabulary since this federal government took over. It’s all spin, spin, spin, spin.’
On the drive home, I thought over what Townsend had said. It was all true and words were changing their meaning almost daily, as with ‘rendition’, mutilated by the US military. ‘Media’ was a loose term anyway. It could mean almost anything to do with communications-satellite services, internet facilitators, software corporations, as well as the good oldies like radio, print, television and film. What this meant was that anyone or any group seriously involved and seriously threatened had a hell of a lot to lose.
I bundled up Lily’s clothes and took them to the St Vincent de Paul shop as I’d intended. I threw out two pairs of tights and panties and put her few books on the shelves with mine. Getting rid of the clothes made me feel lousy; keeping the books made me feel just a little bit better. Over the couple of years we’d been semi-together, Lily had given me books as Christmas and birthday presents and written in them. I checked a few of the inscriptions and smiled-Lily’s irreverence always made me smile.
Sick of being passive, I hunted out DS Williams’s card and called him on his mobile. Got lucky. Got him.
‘Williams.’
‘Cliff Hardy. I want to talk to you.’
‘What about?’
‘Come on, Sergeant, you know there’s something shitty going on in your unit. It’s leaking information for one thing, or it might be disinformation. Doesn’t matter. And there’s a trail to be followed with a couple of people following it.’
‘You?’
‘And others. Something’s going to blow open sooner or later. Where d’you want to be standing when it happens, and who with? Because I can tell you there’s going to be casualties.’
He wasn’t dumb. ‘If you’re so confident, why do you need to talk to me?’
‘To speed things up.’
A long pause and I could hear the click of the lighter, the inhale and exhalation. Sometimes a sign of tension, but not always. He must have been out and about somewhere. Where, I wondered? Doing what?
‘I suppose we could meet. Where are you?’
Chess, I thought.
‘At home. Where’re you?’
‘Milsons Point. There’s a little park down near North Sydney swimming pool. D’you know it?’
‘No. Aren’t there coffee places along there? What about a pub?’
‘Don’t piss me off more than you have to, Hardy. I don’t want to be seen in a public place with a… with you.’
I agreed to meet him there in an hour. That gave me time to retrieve the Colt. 45 automatic from under the loose floorboards in the hall cupboard, clean and oil it and check on the quality of the ammunition. Frank was right. I had another gun, but only one. The Colt was heavy and I preferred a revolver, but this had come my way a couple of years back without any trace and had been too good an opportunity to pass up. I kept it wrapped in oilcloth in a cool storage place. I’d tested it a few times and found it was in perfect working order. It had been some years since meeting policemen in the open had been a dangerous thing to do in Sydney, but who could forget Roger Rogerson and Warren Lanfranchi?
I drove across the Bridge and down to Milsons Point. I found a parking spot behind the railway station and walked towards the water past the coffee places, lawyers’ offices and the Random House building. The day was cloudy and there was a stiff, cold breeze. I was wearing a flannel shirt, sweater and leather jacket and needed every layer. The park was a pocket handkerchief affair with a couple of covered sitting areas. Pretty nice in good weather, bleak today.
The harbour was grey under the cloud, but rain was unlikely at least for a while. There was no one else in the park, so it was far from being a good meeting point if you were worried about being seen.
I sat on a hard seat and began to wonder if I was being set up. The place had some high-rise buildings around it- possible sniper points. I had the. 45 in a deep pocket in the jacket. I fingered it and told myself not to be ridiculous. The time for our meeting came and went. I decided to give Williams another ten minutes before phoning. I waited, phoned and got no response-no answer, no message.
I tried to gather my thoughts and impressions about Williams. He’d seemed competent and under control in our first meeting. Maybe a bit pressured and rattled by my phone call, but still coping. Puzzling. I waited a little longer, phoned again and got the same result. I left the park and decided to walk around the area a bit in case he was lurking, keeping an eye on me, wondering what I’d do if he didn’t show. The neighbourhood wasn’t as parked up as it would have been in better weather. I doubt there were many swimmers, even in the heated pool. A block away, in a cul-de-sac, I saw a red Camry that fitted my memory of Williams’s car. There aren’t too many of them about in that colour. The street was quiet. I crossed it and approached the vehicle.