by Peter Corris
‘Hardy . . .’
The voice was harsh, threatening, and my nerves were still on edge. Acting on instinct I swung the pipe in the direction of the threat and felt it hit solid flesh.
‘Christ.’ The voice was thinner now and I was almost knocked off my feet as the very big man in a police uniform collapsed.
Senior Constable Hawes was stunned but not concussed or seriously injured. His cap and thick curly hair had absorbed much of the impact and he seemed to be blessed with a strong neck and a hard skull. I helped him inside, sat him down and got him some paracetamol and a glass of water. He swallowed the pills, blinked a few times and handed back the glass.
‘How do you feel?’
‘Foolish,’ he said. ‘Do you always have a blackjack in your hand?’
‘You were unlucky. I’m sorry.’
‘My fault. I should’ve been more careful.’ He put his hand to the side of his head, took it away and examined it. ‘No blood. No harm done.’
‘This is weird, if you don’t mind me saying so. What the hell are you doing here and why isn’t your first action to arrest me for assault?’
‘Because I need your help. Tell you what, to square us up I could do with a drink.’
So could I. I gave him a choice of wine or whisky and he chose the whisky. We moved to the kitchen and sat opposite each other at the bench with big measures of scotch and the bottle of Bell’s and a bowl of ice within reach. He stuck out a big, freckled hand.
‘Colin Hawes.’
We shook. ‘Senior Constable,’ I said.
‘Acting Sergeant.’
‘Congratulations.’
He almost winced. ‘Don’t know for how long.’
It took him quite a while and a fair bit of whisky to tell his story, but the long and the short of it was that he had evidence that some former members of the GCU had been, and still were, involved in precisely what they had been commissioned to stamp out—illegal importation and sale of firearms.
‘And worse,’ he said.
‘Such as?’
‘You have to understand that this isn’t serving members of the force. When the unit was set up it included civilians and a few retired cops—consultants, researchers and such. At first the unit had a green light.’
‘Why?’
‘The politicians were panicked about terrorism. No, that’s not it; they were spooked by the shock jocks and the tabloids; they worried about being seen as not doing anything about it. The unit was bloody window-dressing, a response to that perception rather than to anything real.’
‘How could that work? I thought it was supposed to be covert.’
‘There’s covert and covert. Certain operations were made more or less public. The pollies could hint that they were . . . taking the right steps.’
He sighed and rubbed at the side of his head. His pale blue eyes looked tired and strain showed in the tightening of his jaw and the way he looked at his almost empty glass. I offered him more scotch but he shook his head.
‘Things got out of control. Some of the people in the unit crossed the line—they harassed people who had some clout. They took pay-offs. There was a shake-up and sackings and resignations.’
Reminiscent of the Armed Hold-up Squad, which had green-lighted armed hold-ups, I thought. ‘So far, so good,’ I said.
‘Yeah, but now there’s a group who used to be in the unit running a racket that involves not only guns and bribes and protection, but other things—corruption of customs officers, providing guns to crims, financing drug deals and lots of other stuff.’
‘If it’s known who they are they should be easy to crack down on. And if they’re no longer police, why the big problem?’
‘It’s not so simple. They know too much and there’s a massive cover-up going on. If it all came out about the shit things the unit did back when it had a free rein, the stink would spread across the whole force. So they’ve got some high-level protection. Not collaboration exactly but . . . policy at a pretty high level . . . call it damage control.
‘It’s getting to be a problem for me. I can see it happening and honest cops are getting drawn into it. The answer to your question, Hardy, and the reason I’m here is the same—because of former Deputy Commissioner Frank Parker. An enquiry you made about a gun was logged and that’s what sent McLean here to check on where you kept your weapon. Everyone knows you’re tight with Parker and I reasoned you’d ask him about the . . . harassment.’
‘You were right.’
‘I guessed he’d tell you something about the GCU, not too much.’
‘Right again.’
‘He wouldn’t know what’s going on. It’s a bad scene, Hardy, and big. The people I’m talking about are tied in with a few politicians and political advisers and some shonky lawyers. There’s a lot of money involved and a lot of careers and reputations.’
Cop cover-up, I thought. I don’t need this. ‘McLean seemed like an all-right guy.’
‘McLean’s a good example. He does what he’s told.’
‘If you know all this you should be talking to ICAC.’
He shook his head. ‘You know what happens to whistle-blowers. Have you ever seen one in the police come out on top? There’s an unspoken system for managing dissidents. I’ve got some evidence but I acquired it illegally. That fact can be manipulated, as you can imagine. The thing is, this kind of cover-up is corrosive and it spreads. For example, I’m sure someone involved has his eye on me and I’ve been promoted to keep me sweet. That worries me. I’ve got the feeling I’m being watched. I don’t feel happy about going home. You’re vulnerable at home in all sorts of ways.’
‘I can see how that would worry you, but what do you want me to do?’
‘Set up a meeting with Parker. If I can convince you I’ve got something serious to say we can both convince Parker. I don’t know him, you do. The word is you have . . . influence with him.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. We’ve done favours for each other from time to time.’
Hawes’s voice took on a desperate tone. ‘Look, I’ll make a statement to him and produce the evidence. He’s an absolute cleanskin—no baggage—one of the few at that level. He should be able to . . .’
‘Do what?’
He shrugged. ‘Something . . . Look, there’s someone else involved in this with me. I . . .’
He suddenly sagged sideways. Colour drained from his face and he closed his eyes briefly before straightening himself and reaching for his glass.
‘Sorry,’ he said, grinning. ‘Stress, plus your blackjack.’
I thought Hawes was manipulative. It didn’t mean he wasn’t genuine.
‘I have to think about this,’ I said. ‘Can I reach you tomorrow?’
He tossed off the last of his drink and the expression on his big, plain face was troubled. ‘I’m not sure. I’ve got nowhere safe to go.’
I offered him the spare room for the night and he accepted. The bed was already made up. I gave him a towel and I heard him shower and close the door. It was early to go to bed but he looked all in. I was tired myself but I hadn’t had to wrestle with his problems and I hadn’t been hit on the head with a lead pipe.
I spent the rest of the evening making a few notes on what I’d learned during the day and constructing one of my diagrams connecting up people and facts in boxes, joining them with solid or dotted lines according to the value of the connection. It sometimes helped.
I wasn’t hungry but I had heart medication to take and I’d learned not to take it on an empty stomach. I finished off the bread and cheese from the night before and washed the pills down with the bit of wine still left. My thoughts were scattered: I wanted to ask Hawes if he had any information on the Dusty Miller killing but that meant trusting him a bit further than I was willing to go. I thought I might show him the locked boxes I’d installed just for fun. And that was such a silly idea I knew I’d done all I could usefully do that day.
After a lot of driving, whisky a
nd wine I slept soundly. I got up feeling a bit frowsy, thought about making coffee and knocked on the spare room door. No answer. I opened the door to an empty room, with the bed neatly made and the damp towel spread on the back of a chair. I went downstairs and found a note anchored by the whisky bottle on the bench. A newspaper and a magazine had been pushed aside to make room for a sheet of notepaper. Slanted block capitals:
THANKS, HARDY. THERE’S SOMETHING I HAVE TO DO. I’LL GET BACK TO YOU. HAVE THIS FOR FREE—YOUR CLIENT’S INVOLVED IN THIS. GUNS ARE PRECISION INSTRUMENTS. CH
9
It’s an uncomfortable thing to discover that not only has your client held back information but that he or she may be culpably involved in the very matter you’ve been commissioned to investigate. There seemed no reason why Hawes would lie to me and it was impossible to ignore his statement. Clearly, I needed to find out more about Greenhall’s business before I confronted him with the information.
Harry Tickener has a lot of people feeding information to him for his newsletter—from players, managers and journalists with the good oil on a variety of sports to political insiders and financial analysts. I emailed him asking for an appointment to discuss Precision Instruments. Harry usually gets back to me quickly but I was impatient and rang his office and made the appointment for that afternoon. My phone rang immediately I finished the call.
‘Cliff, Viv.’
‘Shoot,’ I said.
He groaned. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that.’
‘No you don’t, it makes your day.’
‘Stop it. Ring Acting Sergeant Hawes and make an appointment for someone to inspect your gun security. Here’s the number.’
He read it off and I wrote it down with a feeling of disbelief that must have been apparent when I thanked him.
‘You sound edgy. What is it now?’ he said.
‘It’s complicated.’
‘What else is new? I have to go. I’m briefing a barrister named Paul Salmon who charges two thousand an hour and if you call him a big fish I’ll never speak to you again.’
‘I owe you, Viv.’
‘You certainly do.’
He cut the call and I sat there looking at a screen that pinged twice and threw up two messages—one from my server offering me an upgrade and one from my daughter to tell me that my grandson Ben had a hard question for me. I didn’t need an upgrade and I had all the hard questions I could handle.
I rang the number Viv had given me and got a voice message in Hawes’s distinctive gruff tones.
‘You’ve reached City Command. Please leave your number and your call will be returned.’
Which told me precisely nothing. Was Hawes in the wind or was he in the ground? I left my mobile number.
I rang Megan and told her I was busy but that I was looking forward to Ben’s question.
‘Give me a hint what it’s about,’ I said.
‘What d’you reckon? Dinosaurs, of course.’
‘I know bugger-all about dinosaurs.’
‘Better mug up. The Wikipedia entry runs to about twenty pages. Eighty footnotes, from memory. Good luck.’
I drank two cups of strong coffee and listened to the ABC news station. Dusty Miller didn’t figure; storms in various parts of the world did. Two drive-by shootings in the western suburbs got a mention. The phone rang and I answered it.
‘This is Constable Cathy Carter from City Command, Mr Hardy. Returning your call.’
‘I was expecting Acting Sergeant Hawes.’
‘He’s on leave. I assume this is to do with your weapon.’
I told her that I’d installed locked boxes and she said an officer would contact me to make an appointment to inspect the security.
‘When?’
‘I really can’t say.’
‘That’s not satisfactory.’
‘Are you anxious to recover the weapon, Mr Hardy?’
‘I don’t think that’s an appropriate question, Constable.’
She realised she’d made a mistake and sounded flustered. ‘You’ll be advised of the time.’
I thanked her but I was speaking to a dead line.
I went to the gym and threw myself into an ambitious routine. Wes Scott, owner, trainer and philosopher, came up as I was drooping sweatily over the sitting bench press. He took my towel and fastidiously wiped down the equipment. He’d greyed up over the years but hadn’t put on a gram of fat, a reproach to us all.
‘Cliff,’ he said, ‘what gives, my man?’
‘ “I gotta world of trouble on my mind.” ’
‘Middle of the road in my humble opinion. Pulling a muscle ain’t going to help now, is it?’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘What I always do—talk to a friend, if you have one.’
Harry Tickener was a friend of long standing and when I turned up at his Darlinghurst office in the late afternoon he already had some notes scribbled ready for me and two stubbies of low-carb beer. We screwed the tops off and touched bottles.
‘To the new century,’ he toasted.
‘Shit, Harry, we’re well into it.’
‘I need to slow it down, it’s going too fast. Don’t you feel that? Don’t you get to Saturday and think how can it be Saturday again already?’
‘Sometimes I do; sometimes I think it can’t come soon enough.’
‘There speaks a man who has variety in his life. Enviable. Get those hops into you.’
‘Do they still use hops to make beer?’
‘I haven’t the faintest fucking idea. You’ve bowled up an interesting one here, Cliff. Give me the drum.’
That was the way we operated. When I enlisted Harry’s help I first had to tell him almost everything about the case I was working on. He accepted that it wasn’t for publication and on his part he didn’t tell me more than he judged I needed to know about his sources.
I outlined the Greenhall matter and some of its twists and turns—the apparently mutual antagonism between the women, the suspicion that Patrick Greenhall hadn’t suicided and the suggestion that Precision Instruments might not be the squeaky clean operation it was supposed to be.
‘That’s a very bad pun, even for you.’
‘Unintentional.’
‘Nothing’s unintentional with you, mate. I learned that a long time ago. Why the stress?’
That was Harry; he always probed for more and I always gave it to him. ‘Police involvement.’
‘Right, understood. Well now, Tommy Greenfall and Precision Instruments.’
‘Tommy Greenfall?’
‘That’s what he was called when he came fourth in pistol shooting at the 1980 Olympics.’
‘Is that a fact?’
‘It’s a little known fact. Do I go on?’
I nodded and took a long swig of the beer. It suddenly tasted more interesting.
Harry consulted his notes. ‘With the US out of the picture, the Moscow games didn’t get the attention the Olympics usually attract and no one really cares about who comes fourth anyway. But there was a whisper in pistol-shooting circles . . .’
‘Be hard to hear a whisper in those circles.’
‘Fuck off. A whisper that Tommy had modified his pistol illegally. It got hushed up but he never competed again. He changed his name slightly, got first-class honours in engineering at UNSW and the rest is history. From your expression and the fact that you’ve stopped drinking, I gather this is interesting.’
‘Right. What do they whisper in finance circles where they can be heard above the clicking of the keys?’
‘This ’n’ that, but it’s a long time ago, and there doesn’t seem to be any info on how he got his start-up capital, which is always the tricky thing, as you and I know from not having had any to speak of.’
‘And now he’s riding high with profitable patents and exports.’
‘Yes and no. A couple of the patents are being challenged in the US, where they make a business out of such things, and the exports are very high val
ue, which gave him a surge. But volume’s not that great and there’s strong competition from places that don’t play by the rules.’
As two who didn’t always play by the rules ourselves, we toasted each other with more beer.
‘I hasten to add,’ Harry said, ‘that there’s an element of speculation in this. There’s a kid doing a PhD on how some big, medium and small companies survived the GFC. He says Precision Instruments is only a footnote, but there’s something curious about it.’
‘Curious or suss?’
‘He reckons you don’t use judgemental terms in an economics thesis in case one of your examiners has a vested interest.’
‘As befits someone in a three-piece suit.’
He almost choked on his beer. ‘You only make jokes that bad when you’re unsure of what you’re doing.’
‘You’re absolutely right. I’m going to have to tackle Greenhall directly and I don’t know what to say to him. I’m possibly going to talk myself out of a job.’
‘Leaving you with a lot of unanswered questions.’
I nodded and finished the beer. ‘Is there anything else, Harry?’
‘One more thing. Greenhall’s wife is from money but it was all in a family trust. She got income from it but no access to the principal, so she couldn’t provide any of the initial capital. Also, she couldn’t have helped him through the GFC if he had problems then.’
‘Why not?’
‘She was a drunk by then and the family had tightened the strings—practically cut off her money supply altogether.’
My mobile rang as I was leaving Harry’s office and Constable Cathy Carter told me she would call at my house at 5 pm to inspect my security arrangements.
‘If that’s convenient,’ she added.
‘What if it isn’t?’
‘Then there could be a considerable delay. With Acting Sergeant Hawes on leave, work is piling up.’