‘I don’t like it, but she’s got us over a barrel. Unless we come up with something better she’ll go ahead anyway. There are other journalists, other private eyes for that matter. And you aren’t even one of them, strictly speaking. So, have you come up with anything better?’
‘Maybe.’
‘I’ve got a call waiting. Get back to me when you decide what the fuck you want to do.’
He hung up and I couldn’t blame him. He could tell I felt myself to be on shifting ground and that doesn’t inspire confidence. I moped around the house for a while and then the phone rang.
‘Hardy.’
‘Mr Hardy, this is Pam Williams. I’m calling from Mascot. Lucy and my sister and I are on our way to the sunshine state.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Hannah Morello is gung-ho to talk to you. Here’s her phone number and address.’
She rattled them off, with the airport lounge noise in the background. I scribbled them down and thanked her.
‘Maybe you can come back when all this is over,’ I said.
‘I don’t think so. Know what? Sydney’s overpriced and overrated. Bye.’
Good exit line. I rang Townsend and told him I had an informant ready to talk about police corruption in the Northern Crimes Unit-possibly in possession of hard evidence.
‘You were going to keep this from me?’
‘I just got confirmation. I’m inviting you to sit in on the meeting, on one condition.’
‘Which is?’
‘That you don’t tell Jane anything about it until we follow it up, check it out, see what we can make of it.’
A hesitation, then he said, ‘Agreed.’
‘How will I be sure? We’re talking several deaths here.’
‘You have my word.’
I’d rather have had his mobile phone and every other means of communication he possessed under my control, but there was no way. Still, I played it cautiously. I said I’d call him back with a meeting place and time.
I rang Hannah Morello and told her who I was.
‘I’ve been waiting for your call,’ she said. ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘I’ve got your address. When?’
‘Just as soon as you can get here.’
Promising. She lived in Drummoyne. I said one hour. I rang Townsend and arranged to meet him at a point some distance from the Morello address in forty minutes. I drove to Drummoyne, scoped out the Morello house, and took up a spot where I could see Townsend arriving. I’d made sure I wasn’t followed; I wanted to be sure he wasn’t. Dead on time, he arrived in a sporty yellow Mazda. The place I’d chosen had a view of the water at Iron Cove if you walked fifty metres. Townsend sat in his car for a few minutes, got out and went to where he could see the view. Who wouldn’t? The day was clear and the water was blue and Sydney’s waterways have an attraction all their own, no matter what Pam Williams thought.
A few cars passed, none slowed or circled. Looked to be all clear. I drove along and pulled up beside Townsend. I got out. He turned, saw me, turned-back.
‘Great view,’ I said. ‘Used to be more interesting when there were working docks and shipyards. That’s what I think. What d’you think?’
He didn’t take the bait. ‘Trusting, aren’t you?’
‘No. One of the reasons I’m still alive.’
‘What was the point?’
‘To make sure you weren’t followed.’
‘That is, I didn’t tell Jane.’
‘Among other possibilities.’
‘You’re a bastard, Hardy.’
‘Wish I had a dollar… Let’s go and talk to a woman who might be able to help us a lot.’
Hannah Morello lived in a terrace house in a street a block or two back from the river. Maybe a glimpse of the water from the top storey. Not many cars parked in the street at that time of day. We opened the gate and in two strides-two and a half for Townsend-were at the front door. I knocked and the door was opened almost immediately. Hannah Morello was lean and dark with a beaky nose and a strong chin. She wore jeans and a sweater, sneakers.
‘Mrs Morello, I’m Cliff Hardy. This is Lee Townsend. I know I didn’t say he was coming but-’
‘I know Mr Townsend from the television,’ she said. ‘Please come in.’
She ushered us into the front room. It was a sitting room with a TV and stereo set-up, pleasantly furnished. A wall had been knocked out to make a double space out of the two front rooms with the second one serving as a dining room. Standard terrace renovation-a big hammer, an r.s.j. and a skip, and you’re in business.
We sat on vinyl lounge chairs around a low table. She offered us coffee. We refused. She sat very straight in her chair, tense, but with a determined look, while I ran through a quick preamble on what we were doing, what we expected to do and how we hoped she could help us.
‘I can,’ she said. ‘I’ve been waiting for the chance. Didn’t know what to do, but when Pam Williams phoned me I knew my bloody chance had come.’
Townsend shot me an enquiring look. I hadn’t told him about Pam Williams, but it was the quickest of glances so as not to distract her.
‘We know that Gary Perkins and others are corrupt,’ I said. ‘We know that they’ve connived at murder, maybe committed it or had it done. But we haven’t yet got any proof.’
‘I have.’
Townsend leaned forward and his handsome face took on an expression of confidence and reassurance. This was the way he appeared on television-uncannily bigger, stronger, smarter.
‘When you say that, Mrs Morello, what do you mean?’
‘I have photographs my husband took.’
‘Photographs that incriminate Perkins?’
‘And that Greek.’
‘Kristos,’ I said. ‘What about Vince Gregory?’
She shrugged. ‘Dunno about him.’
Townsend took a device the size of a cigarette packet from his jacket pocket. ‘This is a miniature digital recorder,’ he said. ‘Would you be willing to let me record you when you put the photos on the table here and tell us briefly what they are and how you come to have them? You don’t have to act, just speak clearly. I can keep your face out of the frame or have it pixelated if you wish.’
She didn’t even blink. ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘And bugger that. I’ll look the lens full in the face if you want.’
Townsend nodded. ‘Let’s do it.’
She left the room and I heard her mounting the stairs. Townsend smiled at me. ‘Technology, Hardy. Out of your depth, are you?’
I’d read about these gadgets, never used one, but I knew the language. ‘Hope you’ve got a big enough memory card.’
He smiled and checked the thing over. ‘I never did hear about this Pam Williams, although I can work out who she is.’
‘You’ve heard now. She put me on to Mrs Morello just before she decamped lock, stock and barrel to Queensland. It worries me the danger this woman is putting herself in.’
‘That’s why I offered to mask her identity.’
‘Big of you, but that won’t do it.’
‘Let’s see what she’s got first. Play it by ear after that. She looks pretty… capable.’
Hannah Morello came back carrying a manilla folder. She stood in the archway looking at Townsend, who lifted his camera and nodded. She walked into the room and spilled the contents of the folder onto the table. A couple of photos fell off the edge. Nice drama. Night shots. Black and white, at least a dozen of them.
Townsend filmed the action and then lifted the camera to film her as she sat down. She’d tidied her dark mane of hair and put on a little makeup. Changed her sweater for a dark silk shirt. She used her left hand to point to the photographs, her wedding ring glinting.
‘My name is Hannah Morello,’ she said. ‘I am the widow of Detective Sergeant Daniel Morello of the Northern Crimes Unit of the New South Wales Police Service. These photographs were taken by my husband. They show Detective Senior Sergeant Mikos Kristos murdering the journalist Rex Robinson. My husband died of cancer some time after he took these pictures. I found them later among his effects. I believe the stress he underwent as a result of what he discovered about his colleagues caused or accelerated his cancer. I want justice.’