Gun Control

by Peter Corris

  An exasperated sigh came over the line. ‘Go on.’

  ‘There’s a woman, thirtyish, short, blonde, medium build, who’ll visit a man named Hawes. I want her followed and the address of where she’s staying. She’s a cop on leave and smart. I don’t want her spooked.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I talk to her. And you become the beneficiary of whatever I learn.’

  There was a snort of laughter. ‘You spent too long with Uncle Arthur picking up the legal chat. That sounds all right. What about Greenhall?’

  I was sure I hadn’t mentioned Greenhall to him. ‘Who?’

  ‘I believe Uncle Arthur tried to high-hat you by quoting Yeats and you told him not to think you were dumb.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Same here. You showed me that note. How long do you think it took me to find a company called Precision Instruments and learn a bit about it?’

  ‘You take the points.’

  ‘Don’t forget it.’

  ‘We’ll get to Greenhall in time.’

  ‘When is this woman likely to visit?’

  ‘I don’t know; that’s why I can’t do the job myself.’

  ‘Because you’ll be busy doing what?’

  ‘Investigating.’

  The snort came again. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘How’s the tooth?’

  ‘I took your advice. I went to the dentist and had it pulled. When something goes bad on me I get rid of it.’

  I sat back and thought through the day’s developments. I wasn’t exactly stalled, I had balls in the air, but nothing was likely to happen imminently. Presumably it would take some time for Paul to set up his watcher and there was no telling when Cathy would visit Hawes. It depended on his condition and whatever, if anything, she had in mind to do. I planned to ring Frank Parker and ask him about the names on Greenhall’s list, but I’d pushed Frank a bit too hard last time and thought it best to wait a while. I could do with a mental break.

  I rang Megan.

  ‘Fit us in, can you?’ she said.

  ‘Fair go, love. I . . .’

  ‘Cliff, I was pulling your leg. Jesus, if you lose your sense of humour you’re fucked.’

  ‘I know. I’ve been told today that my crummy jokes were part of my appeal. I’ll have to be careful.’

  ‘We’d all love to see you.’

  ‘How about sevenish?’

  ‘I’ll order in Lebanese.’

  ‘I’ll pay.’

  ‘Don’t overdo it.’

  ‘Is Ben still into aeronautics?’

  ‘Entomology.’

  ‘Jiminy Cricket!’

  She laughed. ‘See you then.’

  I drove to Newtown and cruised the streets around Megan’s flat, not only to kill time but to be sure I didn’t have a motorcycle escort or any other kind of tail. I tried to switch off from the case but little snippets kept jumping in at me. I realised I should have told Paul the kind of car Cathy drove to help his watcher. I smiled to myself as I thought how the conversation might have gone.

  ‘Registration?’

  ‘Didn’t get it.’

  ‘Call yourself a detective?’

  The visit went well. Ben popped his question as soon as I was through the door.

  ‘Cliff, how many legs does a centipede have?’

  ‘Gidday, Benny, nice to see you, a hundred.’

  ‘Wrong. It’s forty-two. They just called it a centipede, like a hundred, because it was a lot.’

  ‘And they’d be hard to count.’

  ‘Yeah, except under a microscope. I wish I had a microscope.’

  I looked enquiringly at Megan and Hank.

  ‘For Christmas, maybe, if the interest lasts.’

  I read Jack a couple of stories before bed. Ben was allowed to watch an episode of The Night Garden before he was packed off with his creepy-crawly encyclopedia.

  We demolished the Lebanese meal, with Megan getting up from time to time to deal with the boys.

  ‘How’s it going, Hank?’

  ‘Real well. Paranoia’s good for business.’

  Hank had learned the PIA business from me. Got qualified and set up on his own. These days he specialises in sweeping for listening devices, installing security systems and various IT functions beyond my understanding or wish to understand. He told me that the Romanian gang skimming ATMs and reaction to the UK phone hacking scandal had brought in work.

  ‘Thank you, Rupert,’ I said.

  He raised his glass.

  ‘What are we toasting?’ Megan said when she returned.

  ‘It’s who,’ I said. ‘Rupert Murdoch.’

  She scooped up some hummus onto a bit of flatbread. ‘The Dirty Digger, eh?’ she said. ‘Screw him.’

  17

  I slept late the next day. I showered, I shaved. I made and ate a bigger breakfast than usual and listened to Radio National longer than usual. I was putting off phoning Frank Parker, but Cathy Carter saved me the trouble. When I was halfway up Glebe Point Road to buy the paper my mobile rang. It was Frank.

  ‘Cliff, what the hell have you been up to?’

  ‘Where d’you want me to start? What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve just had a hysterical phone call from a woman claiming to be a police officer and saying she’s involved with you in a police corruption investigation.’

  I don’t like talking while walking. I sat on a brick wall and swore because it was damp from overnight rain.

  ‘What?’ Frank said.

  ‘It’s nothing. That was Constable Cathy Carter, attached to the GCU. Her husband, who’s also a GCU officer, is in hospital in intensive care. I’m investigating a murder, not police corruption, but I have to tell you the lines intersect.’

  ‘Didn’t I advise you to steer clear of the GCU?’

  ‘Couldn’t help it, Frank. It’s not the unit itself, not directly, it’s . . .’

  ‘Not now. Is this woman in danger?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ve taken steps to find her. I’ve . . .’

  ‘I’m coming over to see you. You can give me all the bloody details then. I hope you haven’t cocked things up by blundering in.’

  ‘Cocked what up?’ I said, but the line went dead.

  Frank arrived an hour later looking angry and not his usual cool self. We’ve known each other longer than I care to remember and mostly rub along perfectly well with just the occasional hiccup. This felt more like a serious breach.

  We nodded at each other as if neither knew what to say, until we were in the kitchen and I was making coffee. It was petty of me but I wasn’t going to break the silence. Frank is retired and I’m still working and entitled to make some mistakes. Plus, I didn’t think I had.

  Frank accepted the coffee and stirred three spoonfuls of sugar into it. I’d never seen him do that before, although I know my coffee always turns out bitter.

  ‘Who’s in hospital?’ he said at last.

  ‘Acting Sergeant Colin Hawes.’

  Frank sipped his coffee but clearly didn’t even taste it. ‘How does he come to be in hospital?’

  ‘Piecing things together, it looks as though he was gathering evidence on GCU people’s connections with . . . rogue elements—sort of faces from the past. Seems to have stumbled onto some revealing stuff.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘Recorded phone conversations.’

  ‘Jesus. Who has that material?’

  ‘Constable Carter has some. If there’s more only Hawes knows where it is.’

  ‘What put him in hospital?’

  ‘Two men in balaclavas wielding those kinds of heavy torches used by . . .’

  ‘Okay, okay. Has he got any protection?’

  ‘He was admitted by his wife as the victim of an accidental fall.’

  ‘Is he going to make it?’

  ‘He’s built like a front-row forward. Last I heard there was some im
provement in his condition.’

  ‘She told me there’s been some deterioration.’

  ‘What did she want from you, Frank?’

  He shook his head. ‘She said she wanted you and me to work together.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re doing—not really. I never do.’

  ‘And I don’t know that you’re doing anything, except that you must be doing something because you’re here and giving me the look.’

  ‘The look?’

  ‘The look that says I’m more trouble than I’m worth. Am I, Frank?’

  ‘I can never decide. Sorry, no, I don’t mean that.’

  ‘Just like I didn’t mean it when I accused you of protecting your pension.’

  He burst out into a laugh that was louder and lasted longer than it needed to and the tension between us dropped away.

  ‘So we’re quits on insults. My pension’s safe because I’m working with a task force that’s targeting the GCU, past and present, and it’s a delicate operation, as you can imagine. Now what the fuck are you doing and what have you got to drink?’

  Over a bottle of cheap red wine we exchanged information. I told him about Hawes and showed him the note. I gave him the names Greenhall had given me and what little I knew about them. He scribbled them down and didn’t comment. He said the task force had been set up almost a year ago because whispers had reached the higher-ups that GCU was dirty in the past and not too clean in the present.

  ‘Was Hawes an inside man for your people?’ I asked.

  Frank shook his head. ‘No, we have a couple but they’re proceeding at snail’s pace and we’re not entirely sure they haven’t been got at. Can you quote me that stuff you heard on the voice recording?’

  ‘Not exactly. The name Chas was mentioned. Whoever Chas was talking to had killed someone and was looking to kill someone else—to eliminate someone who was . . . ratshit, that’s it. And would talk.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘It was just a snippet. There were two disks. God knows how much stuff was on them.’

  ‘Think hard, Cliff. No other names?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sure? Nothing more?’

  ‘Let me think . . . meetings—there was talk of a meeting. The other voice said Chas used to love meetings. Then they laughed.’

  Frank leaned back in his chair and took a slug of the rough red. ‘It’s something to go on. I’ll put it to our analysts.’

  ‘Analysts?’

  ‘They tease out meanings from whatever information we give them.’

  ‘I could use one.’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand a word they say. The stuff Hawes got on to is crucial but if we put a guard on him in the hospital word could get back and people could run for cover.’

  ‘How could they hide?’

  ‘By applying pressure. That’s how a cover is kept in place—promotions, demotions, pensions past and present, postings good and bad. There’s lots of ways.’

  I poured the last of the wine. ‘You haven’t mentioned politicians.’

  ‘I mention politicians as seldom as I can.’

  We were back on comfortable terms although I was aware Frank had avoided some areas. Such as the role of Timothy Greenhall in the whole business. He knew I’d want to protect my client as far as possible and I knew his overriding concern was for the health of the police service. Those objectives could mean some mutually understood lifting of the carpet and sweeping. So far so good, but I knew the really hard question for me was coming up and I had a corresponding one for him.

  ‘What have you done about finding this Constable Carter?’ Frank asked.

  ‘Have you ever heard of a lawyer named Soames-Wetherell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you think of him?’

  ‘What does it matter what I think of him? Don’t tell me you’ve been talking to him about all this stuff.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’d still like to know your opinion of him.’

  ‘He’s erratic but not the worst of them. A good advocate when he’s got material to work with and he’s in the mood, but I can’t see how he’d help you find someone.’

  ‘Not him, his nephew, name of Paul.’

  Ever the copper, Frank said, ‘Paul who?’

  ‘Soames or Wetherell, take your pick.’

  ‘Jesus, Cliff, what is he? One of your dodgy PIA mates?’

  ‘No, he’s a bikie, aspiring to be the leader of the Bravados.’

  18

  ‘A bikie?’

  ‘No ordinary bikie, Frank. This guy’s got a degree and military service behind him.’

  ‘A lot of them are ex-army, it’s part of the trouble.’

  ‘There are signs that someone from the old GCU might have offed Dusty Miller. Paul’s keen to know the truth. I spent some time with the bikies recently, not voluntarily.’

  ‘Funny you didn’t mention your bikie connection earlier.’ He studied me, looking for cuts and bruises. ‘How come they didn’t work you over?’

  ‘A couple of them wanted to but I discouraged them. They weren’t ex-military, just slow and dumb. Paul sort of eased my way out.’

  ‘Paul? You’re buddies?’

  ‘No, I’m using him and he’s using me.’

  I explained about getting the Bravados to watch for Cathy Carter and to report to me when she was located. Frank listened with a sceptical look on his face. I smiled at him and he knew what was coming next. He reached for his empty glass.

  ‘Should I open another bottle, Frank?’

  ‘Better not.’

  ‘Okay, your turn to come clean. What can you tell me about Charlie, Tony, Luke and Rooster?’

  He sighed. ‘I knew Charlie Henderson. He was a desk man, an organiser, not a front-line copper. He wasn’t long in the GCU, too old. He retired before the shake-up. Cantello went out under a cloud, excessive force accusations, I think. I suppose he got his super but it wouldn’t have been that much. He was a late intake and low level the whole time he was in.’

  Frank glanced at his scribbled list. ‘I’ve never heard of Soames.’

  ‘Which suggests what?’

  He shrugged. ‘Deep undercover, most likely.’

  ‘I’m told he disappeared.’

  ‘They do. That’s what they’re good at, among other things.’

  ‘Rooster?’

  ‘I think you know something about him from the tone of your voice.’

  ‘A bit. Guesswork. How bad was he?’

  Frank swayed from side to side, almost rocking in the chair, which wouldn’t have stood up to it. ‘Do you know how hard this is to do, Cliff?’

  ‘Of course I do. Ninety-nine point something of police these days are honest public servants. Most of them aren’t too bright because they don’t have to be. They do shitty jobs and see dreadful things and it’s a wonder more of them don’t go off the rails. They mostly don’t eat their guns like the Americans, but they suffer.’

  He nodded. ‘Quite a lot get out as soon as they can and they have bad habits and bad attitudes towards society in general.’

  ‘I know, I’ve met a few of them. Then there are the bad apples, the very bad apples. Is that what Fowler was?’

  Frank nodded. ‘Grantley Fowler was one of the worst. Behind the matey nickname that made him sound like a man of the people, he hid a very complex personality. He was a chameleon—brutally tough in one context and incredibly sophisticated and smooth in another. He probably stole a couple of million and was responsible for quite a few murders. He was supposed to have bashed someone to death with a torch he’d had specially weighted.’

  That fitted with what Cathy had said about the attack on Hawes.

  ‘I’d never heard of him until I checked the web. He didn’t seem like such a big fish.’

  My kitchen chairs aren’t that comfortable but that wasn’t why Frank got up and started to pace. It
was embarrassment and anger.

  ‘This gets right down to it. Fowler got a deal. He went up for perjury and other pretty low-level charges. He did very soft time under protection.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Three reasons. His actual crimes were so bad that if they’d been revealed the papers like the old National Times would have had a field day with the police and we were already on the nose just then. There was no law allowing the confiscation of assets acquired through crime then either and Fowler had property, bank accounts and investments all safeguarded by lawyers.’

  Frank stopped pacing.

  ‘What’s reason three?’ I said.

  ‘He had things on senior people in the force and on politicians.’

  I still had half a glass of wine left. I swilled it down and shook my head. ‘Very interesting, Frank, and it looks as though Greenhall ran into him at some point and benefited somehow, at least in the short term. But if Fowler got away almost scot-free with millions, he’s too big to be involved in the present stuff. It’s nasty and generates money, but not on the scale you’re talking about.’

  ‘That was then, this is now. Our information is that Fowler lost out big time in the GFC and in addition he got badly burned somehow, possibly by a woman. Our analyst says that’s a guess based on a large amount of data on corporate collapses. Don’t ask me to explain it, because I can’t. I told you what they’re like. The point is, our work to date suggests that a cash-strapped Fowler, old though he is, could be back in the game. That’s why it’s so important to get hold of this Hawes material.’

  ‘It could’ve been Fowler talking to Henderson?’

  ‘Our voice experts would know. We have Fowler on tape from back in the day.’

  ‘Voices change over time.’

  ‘They have ways of compensating for that.’

  ‘Jesus, Frank, all this high-powered technology and it comes down to stuff that came my way because I did some basic spadework for a client.’

  ‘There’s other things going on. This is just a strand.’

  ‘That’s no comfort.’

  ‘Since when did you expect comfort?’

  He was right. I was seldom in what they call the comfort zone, and when I was it was probably because I didn’t really know what was happening or wasn’t doing the job right.