by Peter Corris
‘That was dangerous, too.’
‘It was a long time ago and I was well ahead of the technological curve. The companies are mostly defunct, and some of the police involved are dead or retired.’
‘But not all.’
He sighed. ‘No, not all. That’s where Patrick comes in. We never got on well. I was too busy, I think I told you that.’
‘What about his mother?’ I interrupted. ‘Where was she in all this?’
He gave me a sharp look, as if wondering who I’d been talking to.
‘She knew nothing about it. Jilly was very young when I married her. We had the children pretty quickly but . . . motherhood didn’t suit her. It was a mistake. She resented everything about me and Patrick reminded her of me. Kate wasn’t ever Jilly’s idea of a feminine creature even when she was young. It was all a mess.’
He shook his head, as if surprised at telling me so much.
‘Then when Patrick got the museum job I tried to get on better terms with him and I let him look at some of my early designs and prototypes with a view to contributing them to the museum. And just as I’d done, he started looking into things. Snooping. I had my insurance safely hidden, so I thought, but Patrick came across it. We had a row. He threatened to expose me.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I got someone to break into his flat and collect the evidence—the films and tapes—he’d taken away. I destroyed it in front of him. Then he was killed. When I saw what had happened I knew that the people I’d dealt with back in the day had done it. It had their stamp.’
‘Killed why?’
‘Because he’d seen the films and heard the tapes.’
‘How would they know that?’
‘He must have told someone, one of his drug contacts perhaps. Who knows what an addict will say?’
‘I thought he was clean by the time he had the museum job.’
Greenhall shook his head. ‘He tried.’
‘Better to kill you.’
‘No, I’d told them I had copies and that I’d made preparations for them to go to the appropriate places if I was harmed. It wasn’t true. I didn’t have copies, but I’ve often found threats themselves have force, whether they can be backed up or not. Killing Patrick was a warning to me to continue as before.’
I sat back and tried to let all this sink in. Even if it was basically true there were gaps and questions. There was one in particular but I decided to hold back on it. I had my own agenda now. Greenhall was staring at nothing, seeing nothing.
‘If I can sort any of this out it’s going to cost you.’
‘I know. It’s already cost me my son.’
‘Now we get to it, Mr Greenhall,’ I said. ‘You knew Patrick was murdered, so what was your real motive in coming to me?’
‘I knew that once you started investigating something would shake loose. I knew Parker would help you. I thought it would lead to whoever murdered my son.’
‘You’re a very duplicitous man, Mr Greenhall.’
‘You have no idea.’
‘You must know the names.’
He shook his head. ‘Four or five names only. I don’t know which of them are alive or dead or how to contact them. If I’d told you all this at the start you’d have sent me on my way.’
‘Probably,’ I said. ‘As it is, your plan to shake things loose has put a couple of admirable people who came to me for help in great danger and stretched my relationship with an old friend.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Are you? I doubt it. Just suppose I can find out who’s responsible and Frank Parker can help to get a clear run at him or them. That’ll expose you when all the dirty washing gets aired.’
‘Mr Hardy, my wife is mentally unbalanced, my son’s been murdered because of me and my daughter dislikes me although I’ve tried to help her financially. On the other hand, I’ve produced some things that have benefited humanity and there’s one more major advance in surgical equipment I have to see through some very complex financial, political and technological stages. Whatever happens now, however much dirty washing you air, I calculate there’s time enough for me to get the project accepted. After that, I really don’t care.’
15
I was sure Greenhall still hadn’t told me everything. There was the question that Harry’s student contact had raised about how Precision Instruments had stayed afloat. It hadn’t seemed appropriate to bring it up while Greenhall had been in confessional mode, but it left me wondering whether he’d continued his association with criminals he’d helped from time to time early on. It was a definite possibility.
He left and I watched him walk to his Audi. He was upright and purposeful, very much the CEO. I remembered commenting in our first interview that his son had some heavy burdens. Well, Greenhall was carrying his share and hiring me hadn’t exactly off-loaded them.
It was well after midday; I poured a glass of white wine and washed down the required pills. That left me feeling hungry. I walked to the delicatessen a few blocks away, bought a salad sandwich and took it back to the office.
I put the half-full wine glass on the desk along with the sandwich and the piece of paper on which Greenhall had written five names in his neat, slightly back-sloping script:
Owen Patmore
Charlie Henderson
Luke Soames
Tony Cantello
‘Rooster’ Fowler
Two of the names jumped out at me. ‘Charlie’ could be the ‘Chas’ in Hawes’s recording and Soames-Wetherell was the name of bikie Paul’s lawyer. Connections—the investigator’s friend, sometimes the only friend. Good wine, good sandwich and a shaft of optimism to go with them.
I rang the hospital and was told that Hawes was showing signs of improvement but was still a long way short of normal function.
‘Has he had any visitors?’ I asked.
‘Only his wife.’
‘What are the visiting hours?’
‘There aren’t any in intensive care.’
No help. With the list of names, Cathy Carter might be able to identify the voices on the recording now but where was she? Not at home, that was for sure, but close by, almost certainly. But I didn’t fancy hanging around RPA for who knew how long waiting for her to turn up. Efficient watching takes manpower.
I finished the wine and the sandwich and brushed the crumbs and the wrapper into the wastepaper bin. That just left the note and those names, especially Soames. I took the card Paul had given me from my wallet. I was frustrated and impatient but I told myself not to be. There was no urgency. What I needed was calm, efficient procedure, something I have never been very good at.
I rang Viv Garner and asked him what he knew about Arthur Soames-Wetherell SC.
‘He’s not the man for us,’ Viv said, ‘we don’t need him.’
‘Us? We?’
‘I assume you’ve got yourself in the shit again and need a barrister. Not him.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s a comedian. Tells jokes to juries.’
‘I like him already. Does he win?’
‘Wins some, loses some.’
‘Don’t we all? No, I just have to talk to him about something and wanted to be sure he’s not a bagman in somebody’s pocket.’
‘There you go again with the crummy jokes. You’ll get along well with Arthur. No, he’s okay. Eccentric, does pro bono work for asylum seekers, rides a bike to his chambers.’
‘A motorbike?’
‘No, a pushbike. Why did you say that?’
‘Just a thought.’
‘Your thought processes are weird.’
‘I hope so.’
‘Should I be standing by?’
‘No, mate. I’m playing this by the book.’
‘I’ll stand by, then.’
I rang Pennyfeather Chambers, gave my name, and was put through promptly to Soames-Wetherell.
‘Mr Hardy,’ a light musical voice said, ‘I’ve been expecting your call.’
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The Pennyfeather Chambers housing Soames, Pearson and Soames-Wetherell were on level three of a building in Martin Place with a medical insurance office on the ground floor. That seemed appropriate because a quick web check of the legal firm revealed that it had a specialty in medical malfeasance. The lift took me up to a carpeted and well-appointed reception area with a well-appointed young woman behind the desk. She used the intercom and directed me down a passage to Soames-Wetherell’s office. Some of the rooms I passed had glass doors and walls but Soames-Wetherell was ensconced behind solid oak. I knocked, got the call and went in.
The lawyer was already on his feet and moving towards me. Fifty plus, medium-sized, trimly built with greying auburn hair and a neat beard. The suit, the shirt, the tie, the shoes, the desk, the bookshelves, the conference corner were all standard fittings; the only offbeat note was the foldaway bicycle leaning against an ornate coat rack that held a helmet, gloves and a padded parka.
His handshake was firm. He steered me to the conference corner where there was a table with six chairs. He left the head-of-the-table chair vacant and sat down opposite me.
‘Paul told me you’d be in touch,’ he said.
‘Paul is your . . .?’
‘My nephew. My sister’s boy.’
‘And what did he tell you?’
He held up his hands. ‘Whoa, now. That’s not how it works, with all due respect. Paul’s well disposed towards you, I must say. Admiring even, which is unusual for him. I need to know why you’re here.’
‘And I need to know what sort of person he is, because I want his help and I have to know if I can trust him.’
‘To do what?’
‘To play a part in a very tricky situation and not to let his interests override mine.’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘That’s a tall order. Paul’s a hard man to dictate to.’
‘First he was a boy, now he’s a man. We have an interest in common, but unless I get some assurance that there’s not going to be some bikie freak-out, I’ll be on my way and you can tell him we had a pleasant chat.’
‘You and he are very alike.’
‘Not so’s you’d notice.’
‘I mean the direct assertiveness. It’s a rare quality.’ He waved his hand in the air. ‘Most people . . . lack all conviction, while . . .’
‘Yeats,’ I said. ‘Don’t patronise me, Mr Soames-Wetherell.’
‘I’m sorry. You want to know about Paul. He’s a remarkable man, extremely intelligent. He acquired two degrees by correspondence while . . .’
‘Being a bikie.’
‘While serving three years in the navy as a diver, three in the Timor peacekeeping force and, yes, as a bikie. He saved lives in Timor through his diving skills and again in his . . . present role.’
‘How many convictions?’
Soames-Wetherell smiled. ‘You’re provoking me. None at all.’
‘Not even with the present crackdown?’
‘That’s absurd and it’ll pass. In fact I think there’ll be a backlash against it. People imagine the motorcycle clubs are monolithic. They aren’t. They’re factionalised, and the Bravados are a prime example. True, there’s a criminal element, focused on guns and drugs. I believe you saw one of the consequences of that.’
‘Dusty Miller, yes. Very unpleasant.’
‘Just so. There’s another element that’s devoted to the welfare of ex-service personnel suffering from post-traumatic-stress syndrome, substance abuse and various forms of social and mental disability. Paul heads that group and struggles every day to try to shift the focus of the Bravados and other clubs to those kinds of concerns.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘Do you? It doesn’t mean they don’t make money from drugs and welfare and insurance fraud. He once pointed out to me that it was exactly what pharmaceutical companies and a sizeable number of the rest of the population do. You spent some time with them. Did Paul appear to have authority?’
‘Up to a point.’
‘Did he express any interest in taking over Miller’s illegal enterprises?’
‘No.’
‘Did he contrive to speak with you in private?’
I nodded.
‘How did he handle the more violent members of the club?’
I thought about it and his actions came vividly back to me. ‘I’d say he manipulated them and me to achieve the result he wanted.’
He shrugged. ‘There you are.’
‘So he’s clever and manipulative. Is he trying to achieve respectability for the Bravados and others?’
Soames-Wetherell smiled. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
‘It’s a pipe dream.’
‘It probably is, but those people I’ve mentioned need some help and he’ll supply it, as best he can, at least for a while. It’s better than nothing. What’re these spineless governments who throw young people into these hell holes as part of their geopolitical strategies doing for them when they come out covered in shit?’
I stared at him and he stared back. ‘Not every SC in a smart suit is a right-winger, Mr Hardy. Because I can afford to, I do some pro bono legal work for the kinds of people Paul helps in practical ways. Or tries to, against the odds. I pose as an erratic eccentric, but I crack some nuts from time to time.’
I sat back and thought about what he’d said. This uncle and nephew were something else, something new to my experience. He left me to think while he went to a coffee machine in a recess and did things. After a few minutes he brought back two plastic cups of dark, aromatic coffee.
‘No milk, I’m afraid. Don’t believe in it. Nothing dairy or metal should touch coffee, ever.’
I’d heard that before. I sipped the coffee and, again, it tasted as good as it smelled. ‘What’s Paul’s surname, by the way?’
He smiled. ‘Soames or Wetherell, according to what suits him at the time. The name sort of drifts around in the family, sometimes with the hyphen, sometimes not. To pick up your point, it may be a pipe dream but it’s Paul’s dream, at least for now.’
‘And when it snuffs out?’
‘I believe he’ll go into politics.’
I almost choked on the next sip of coffee. ‘That’s bizarre.’
‘Is it any more bizarre than Godwin Grech fooling Malcolm Turnbull, James Packer at Barangaroo and Tony Abbott becoming prime minister?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘There’s a call for MPs to have more experience than a law degree and a stint as a political staffer or a union official. Paul would meet that requirement well and truly. Now, what did you want him to do for you?’
‘Watch out for someone, possibly follow them. Depending on how things develop, give me some back-up if things get sticky.’
‘I see, and what would you do for him?’
‘With luck, find out who killed Dusty Miller.’
‘I hope you realise, Mr Hardy, that while you see this interview as you getting an assessment of Paul, he’ll see it as him getting an assessment of you through me.’
‘Hard to miss that.’
‘To answer your basic question, I’d say Paul would be capable of handling what you want. And if you can identify who killed Miller he’d consider himself in your debt.’
‘Would he exercise restraint if it came to that? Or, rather, would he be able to control his . . . criminal elements, as you call them?’
He spread his hands. ‘Hard to say. More coffee?’
‘No thanks. What assessment of me will you give him?’
‘Positive, within limits.’
‘What limits?’
He smiled. ‘Still under consideration. While we’re navel gazing, what did Viv Garner tell you about me?’
Inevitably, my attention drifted to the bike. ‘He said we’d get along because we both tell crummy jokes.’
He laughed. ‘Well we haven’t done that, have we?’
‘Got along?’
‘No, told crummy jokes.’
‘You’re trying to anticipate my decision.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Nice try.’
The angle of the head and the tone of voice were precisely the same. ‘You sound just like him.’
‘We’re close. I’ll email you. I have your details from the website.’
I stood slowly, trying not to let joints crack and show how much I needed the stretch.
‘One last thing, Mr Soames-Wetherell. Luke Soames, policeman, any connection?’
‘A cousin.’
‘Are you in touch?’
‘I don’t go to séances.’
‘He’s dead?’
‘So we believe. He disappeared about . . . oh, about twenty years ago. Good afternoon, Mr Hardy.’
16
I’d walked from my office to the lawyer’s chambers in the city and now I walked back again. A web search on the names Greenhall had given me turned up information only on Owen Patmore and Grantley ‘Rooster’ Fowler. Patmore had competed as a pistol shooter at Commonwealth and Olympic games and had retired as an inspector from the police service in 1993. He’d died of a heart attack three years later. I crossed him off the list.
Fowler was charged with perjury, falsifying evidence and conspiring to pervert the course of justice. He served three years in prison and was discharged from the police. I put a tick beside him and a question mark beside Luke Soames.
My inbox pinged and there was a message from Soames-Wetherell consisting of nothing more than a mobile phone number. I rang it.
Paul’s smoother voice. ‘Yes, Hardy?’
Well, I thought, he said he had my number.
‘I’ve been to see your uncle Arthur.’
‘Obviously, and . . .?’
‘He seems to think we can work together on a you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours basis.’
‘Who scratches first?’
‘You do. I want you to watch visitors to the intensive care ward of the Royal Prince Alfred Hospital in Camperdown. Have you got someone who can hang around there and not chew tobacco and spit on the floor?’