I was restless and decided to go for a long walk. I needed the exercise after so much sitting. The knees felt better and I reckoned keeping the bits and pieces moving was the go, rather than letting them calcify and lock up. Medically specious probably, but it had worked for me over a long time and many injuries. The clear day had persisted although a breeze had started with a bit of snow-fields in it. Tracksuit time. I’d left the. 45, rewrapped but not hidden, in the locked cupboard under the stairs, which happened to be where I’d hung my daggy tracksuit last time I’d used it. I saw the bundle and had thoughts: Were Kristos’s break-in and headlock — if they had been his — just warnings? If so, what about now, after I’d spooked him and Gregory at the pub? Were Perkins and any others involved in the deaths of Robinson and Williams aware of me and threatened? What game was mystery woman Jane Margaret Farrow really playing?
I wasn’t going to skulk and hide, but it made sense to take precautions. I stripped down, put on the tracksuit and sneakers, and slid the. 45 into a bumbag.
I walked up Glebe Point Road to Broadway, around Victoria Park, back through the university and down John Street to the Crescent to wind up with a circuit of Jubilee Park. Five kilometres, maybe six-parks, higher learning, traditional houses, renovations, new apartment blocks, water views. The walk brought me out at the bottom of my street. It has nooks and crannies-lanes leading to adjacent streets, a couple of sets of steps and a postage stamp park. I did a few ups and downs on the steps, stretching the hammies. I looked over from the top step and stopped dead.
A light blue Falcon was parked in a lane with its nose a few metres back from the footpath. It was half hidden by plane trees and positioned to give it a perfect view of my front gate. From whichever direction I approached, I’d be in the crosshairs.
The steps I was on led to a narrow lane between two of the larger sandstone houses in the street. Million dollar jobs. Over the years, the owners had several times applied to have the pathway closed and its right-of-way status revoked. A few of us, on doubtful heritage grounds, had enjoyed ourselves resisting the applications and so far we’d been successful. I went back along the path, pushing aside the overgrown honeysuckle the two owners had planted to inhibit access.
I circled around the next street and came up the lane behind the Falcon, staying in shadow, silent in my sneakers, and with the. 45 in my hand. The person in the driver’s seat of the sky blue Falcon was solidly built, with thin, dark hair, scalp showing, besuited. Detective Inspector Vincent Gregory beyond a doubt.
I stayed a few metres back from the car, well-hidden but puzzled by his apparent inattention. He was almost slumped in his seat, but he had the window down. Did he have a sighted-in, silenced sniper rifle at the ready? No way to tell. It’d take a rifle to do the job from this distance. How long would it take him to bring it into play on me if I jumped him at the open window? Too long. But what if he had a pistol in his lap, or in his hand?
I decided that was ridiculous. I turned away to muffle the sound as I cocked the automatic.
What are you doing? I thought at that moment. Putting an unlicensed gun on a serving senior police officer? I had a moment of indecision at that point. Frank Parker’s message on the answering machine came back to me: Don’t go feral on this, Cliff. You’ll only come to grief.
I hesitated. How much more grief could I come to? Lover gone, career finished.
Gregory stayed slumped in his seat. Light a cigarette, I pleaded. Use your hands. But he didn’t.
I went forward as quickly and quietly as I could and had the muzzle of the. 45 in his right earhole before he could move a muscle. There were no weapons in view. He had one hand on the steering wheel, the other flat on the seat beside him.
‘Don’t even twitch,’ I said.
The musty stench from his body was stronger than ever. As he drew in a breath and let it out slowly, I caught a strong smell of alcohol.
‘I won’t,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe you’d shoot me, but I’ll still do what you say.’
‘What makes you think I won’t shoot you?’
‘Because you want to know who killed Lillian Truscott and why, and I can tell you.’
‘Why would you do that?’
He reached up and pushed the pistol away. ‘To save my skin, Hardy. To save my fucking skin.’
19
I didn’t like him, I didn’t trust him and I didn’t take any chances with him. I made him get out of the car, open his jacket and turn around to be sure he wasn’t carrying a gun. If any Australian policeman, private eye or crim has ever carried a pistol in an ankle holster, I’ve never seen it. With my gun in the pocket of my tracksuit pants I propelled him ahead of me, across the street, through the gate and up to the door. I had to reach for my keys and if he had any intention of attacking me this was his moment. He stayed as passive as a lamb and he hadn’t said a word on the way.
We went inside and I kicked the door shut. He turned around slowly.
‘You don’t need the gun,’ he said. Now that I was face to face with him the change since I’d last seen him, only a matter of hours back, was remarkable. The flesh on his face seemed to have sagged, fallen in, giving him a haggard look. His suit could have done with a brush and his top shirt button was undone and the tie knot was sloppy.
He reached into the side pocket of his jacket and took out a half-full flask of Johnnie Walker. The Gregory I’d first met would never have ruined the sit of his suit with something like that.
‘Wouldn’t mind a drop of water,’ he said.
I pointed down the passage towards the kitchen and followed him through. His previous arrogant strut had been replaced by a shamble. He slumped into a chair. I ran water into a glass and handed it to him. He topped it up with the whisky, drank half, held on to the flask.
‘You could arrest me for possession of an unlicensed pistol,’ I said, ‘and for threatening a police officer. Deprivation of liberty, maybe. Why don’t you?’
He sniffed as though he had a cold. ‘I’m not arresting anybody. Not anymore. What I’m concerned about is not getting arrested myself.’
He poured some more whisky, put the flask in his pocket and made a half-successful attempt to pull himself together by straightening up in his chair and patting down the hair that had stuck in patches over his skull. He nursed the drink.
‘You know what’s been going on in the unit, don’t you, Hardy?’
‘I’ve got a fair idea. The top cops are in with the money men and a couple of pollies doing all sorts of fiddles. Bribery and corruption. One murder has been covered up; another is in the process of being covered up. Then there’s the murder of Lily Truscott-that’s not going to be covered up as long as I have breath in my body. The thing is, Gregory, how do you know that I know this stuff?’
His eyes were red and he had difficulty focusing. ‘I know you talked to Pam Williams. Perkins didn’t know who you were when you butted in at the pub-thought you were the bouncer, like you said-but I did from his description of you.’
I shook my head. ‘I talked to her, but all she had were suspicions. You’re spooked and I’m glad to see it. You’re right. I know things, but the question remains-how do you know I know?’
‘You’ve been talking to someone in the unit.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Kristos.’
I did my best not to show surprise. ‘Maybe.’
‘Has to be. Didn’t fool me when you provoked him for the cameras where Williams got killed. Same when he fronted up to you at the Lord of the Isles. That was a blind. He’s in it with you and I can guess where he’s going to lay the blame.’
The man was delusional and paranoid, carrying a burden of guilt and fear of retribution. I had to guide him carefully in the right direction.