‘I don’t mind telling you, Cliff,’ Gordon had said to me, ‘I advised Marty to forget the whole thing. To go for early retirement, take his package and get to buggery out with all his friendships intact and no bloody trouble.’
It was typical of Gordon that he would be frank in that way, both to Oldcastle at the time and to me later. But Oldcastle hadn’t taken Gordon’s advice. When, inevitably, yet another enquiry into police corruption was announced, Oldcastle submitted a sample of his material anonymously, was encouraged to supply more and eventually offered himself as a witness. His safeguard, supposedly, was that only the enquiring commissioners knew the areas and names his evidence covered, but it wasn’t long before that vessel leaked and Oldcastle got his first death threat. The first of many. The commissioners offered him protection, of course, but how safe does the fox feel when the huntsmen are offering him protection against the hounds? Mick Gordon had sent him to me after the death threats and here we were, discussing round-the-clock seclusion and protection for six days before his first appearance and for as long as he was singing.
One of my difficulties was that Oldcastle wasn’t very likeable. He appeared to lack a sense of humour, although stress might have blunted it-give him that. He was a driven type, by reputation a workaholic as a policeman. He had no family, a plus from my angle-no way to reach him through dependants; but he was a cold customer-not self-obsessed, which is uncongenial but human, but rather not concerned with other people, almost oblivious of them except as tokens in some bureaucratic, institutional game. Mick Gordon appeared to be his only close friend. That was understandable, Gordon had the touch to bring out the human characteristics, even in an automaton like Oldcastle.
He got up from his chair and stared out the window, adjusting his glasses, no doubt thinking about cleaning them, although any blurriness was certainly on my panes rather than on his lenses. ‘After the shooting,’ he said slowly, ‘they offered us all sorts of counselling-psychologists, trauma and guilt experts, hypnotists, relaxation advisers. All bullshit. No limit to the medical backup-leave, tranquillisers, sleeping pills. Union all over them. Some of the blokes took some of it on board as a bludge, you know? Even though they’d actually enjoyed blowing Murphy away. I understand that. I can’t say I ever felt upset about the couple I shot, and one of them wasn’t ever much good after that.’
‘What’s the point?’ I said.
‘The point is there’s bugger-all of that now, is there? I need tranquillisers, I need leave and counselling and how much d’you reckon I’d get if I was to explain what I’m doing and ask for it? You think the union rep’d be on the blower offering me support?’
I still hadn’t decided to take the job and the element of self-pity in this outburst didn’t make him any more appealing. But at least he was feeling something.
‘Just exactly what are you doing?’ I asked.
He left the window and sat down. He adjusted his glasses and squared his shoulders. He was clean-shaven, wore a neat blue suit, white shirt and dark tie; no rings, no lapel pins. His watch was stainless steel on a leather strap. He was a plain man who apparently had no need for the accessories a lot of cops these days trick themselves out with-moustaches, bracelets, signet rings. ‘I’m trying to put a bunch of murdering, thieving, lying bastards in gaol where they belong,’ he said.
Of course there was a lot more to my question than that. I meant, among other things: Why are you going against the traditions of the institution you’ve spent your life in? But Martin Oldcastle wasn’t the sort of man to serve up easy answers to questions like that. Too honest. That honesty tipped the balance in his favour, but I had one more question.
‘If I take this on, it’s going to cost money. You’re looking at seven or eight thousand dollars.’
‘Not a problem.’ Flatly, like that.
‘Well…’
He leaned forward across the desk. ‘I’ve been a senior police officer for twenty years. I’ve got no family. I don’t drink much and I don’t gamble. I bought my flat back when a decent place to live in didn’t cost the bloody earth. I drive a 1988 Falcon. I play bowls at the weekend and I go on bus tours around Australia in my holidays. It’s my life we’re talking about and I can afford to pay you if you’ve got the guts to take it on.’
Maybe the choice of car swung it, maybe the bus tours. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’ll need two signatures-one on a contract and one on a cheque.’
What I was signing up for was personal protection of Oldcastle for every hour of every day I could manage. That’s somewhere well short of twenty-four. I had to sleep and I had to deal with other things from time to time. Luckily, if that’s the word, I wasn’t in any kind of relationship just then that required any attention. Still, thinking you can protect someone just by becoming their Siamese twin is a mistake. You lose perspective and flexibility. For example, it’s useful to walk around a subject’s neighbourhood a few times to get the feel of the place. You don’t want the subject there with you. You need to call on a few of the neighbours, lying your head off about why you’re ringing their bells, and you need to be alone when you do it. You need to drive the subject’s car to the supermarket and buy a frozen pizza and a bottle of wine and see if anyone takes an interest. Stuff like that, and you need trustworthy backup while you’re away and that costs money and makes you anxious. It isn’t my favourite kind of work…
Surprisingly, Oldcastle turned out to be an easy guy to spend time with. He was quiet and knew how to occupy himself, probably from long practice. He read, mostly travel books and biographies, watched television and videos and did cryptic crosswords. His collection of LPs, cassettes and CDs surprised me. He listened to everything from Beethoven to the Black Sorrows. He told me that Joe Camilleri was the equal of any American or British modern musician and I listened and had to agree. The classical stuff tended to make me sleepy. He noticed me nodding off somewhat during something by Brahms or Bach or Haydn, one of them, and he turned the music off.
‘Show you something,’ he said.
He switched the light off in the room, slid the glass door open and went out onto the balcony. I followed him-a body that knows something about bodyguarding is that much easier to guard. He drew my attention to a smashed and twisted section of the aluminium door frame and some deep pitting of the bricks nearby. ‘You’d know what this is, wouldn’t you, Hardy?’
‘Sure. How close were you?’
‘Too bloody close.’
The damage was on a level with my nose. Oldcastle was about five foot ten, say, two and a half inches shorter than me. Forehead or temple, depending. Fatal either way.
Oldcastle stepped back inside, turned on the light and went across to a drinks tray that he kept near the fridge. Old-fashioned set-up but nothing wrong with it. He lifted a bottle of Cutty Sark and looked at me enquiringly. I nodded and he poured two solid ones over ice. We sat down well away from the still-open door.
‘Cheers,’ Oldcastle lifted his glass, drank and pointed at the balcony. ‘Trouble is, I couldn’t tell if they were meant to miss and just scare me, or if the shooter wasn’t quite up to it. The light would’ve been tricky at the time.’
I drank. I hadn’t had any Cutty Sark for a long time and it tasted good. The way we were going we’d be Cliff and Marty in no time. ‘Did you report the shooting?’
He shook his head. ‘Didn’t even tell Mick.’
‘Why not?’
He shrugged and knocked back some more whisky. ‘No bloody point. He’d only worry all the more. I was still in my anonymous phase then, anyway, and couldn’t tip my hand.’
‘Any guesses as to who it was?’
I regretted the question as soon as I’d asked it. I didn’t want to know who Oldcastle was naming or anything about them. Not my problem. I wanted to walk right away from this when he’d sung his song and let everything go through official channels after that. If his evidence was as good as he made out, there’d be warrants sworn against his enemies as soon as he stopped talking. So far, Oldcastle had recognised that as my unspoken position, but the memory of the bullets fired at him and the loosening effect of the good Scotch caused him to drop his guard.