Gun Control

by Peter Corris

  Things didn’t improve when Frank Parker rang.

  ‘Haven’t heard from you in a while, Cliff. What’s happening?’

  It was one of the times I couldn’t be open with Frank. What Soames, Paul and I were planning was full of dangerous possibilities and highly illegal to begin with. I couldn’t draw Frank into the scheme, he had too much to lose.

  ‘Still working,’ I said.

  ‘Cliff, I’m hearing disconcerting whispers.’

  ‘About what, Frank?’

  ‘About you and the company you’re keeping. And a . . . what looks like a defensive attitude.’

  So my bikie escort had been reported on and my presence at the Colin Hawes wake. ‘Are you giving me a warning, Frank?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that. I just hope you’re not off on some cowboy pursuit that could lead you into serious trouble.’

  ‘Trouble is my business.’

  ‘This is no joke. Information came through to us that you were at the scene of the Dusty Miller killing.’

  ‘Yeah, I beat him to death with a weighted torch after torturing him for an hour or two until he told me where his gun stash was and now I’m hoping to reduce my mortgage with the proceeds of its sale. Who’s this we, Frank?’

  ‘The group I told you about, trying to unscramble the GCU mess.’

  ‘Past and present?’

  ‘As much as possible.’

  ‘That’s not good enough. Your group’s likely to come up with names that have to be protected for the sake of the force. It might even find people who’re protecting the ones still killing and making dirty money. There’s been too much covering up, Frank, and you know it. It’s time for the light of day to shine on the past and present.’

  ‘You’ve located Rooster Fowler, right?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Cliff, Cliff, there’re eyes open everywhere. Someone from Soames-Wetherell’s office reported on a meeting you had there. I’m betting Luke Soames was there, and I’d trust him as far as I would Alan Jones.’

  I realised then that Frank had been probing for a purpose, working to an agenda that I had to hope was not entirely his own.

  ‘Come out with it, Frank. What’s this call all about?’

  There was a long pause. ‘I’m sticking my neck out making the call at all. Fact is there’s a feeling that you should either be held and questioned . . .’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘That’s the softer line—for failing to report Miller’s murder. The harder line is to put you out of circulation permanently by stripping you of your licence and prosecuting you for conspiracy.’

  ‘When, either way?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘Thanks, Frank. I appreciate it. I just wish you’d told me upfront before you started trying to pull my strings.’

  His voice was a whisper. ‘Yes, me too.’

  26

  We were all in position the following day, ten minutes before 8 am. Soames was looking distinguished in a suit and light overcoat; Paul and his ten bikies had gone to town on their hair, beards and uniforms. There’s something distinctly threatening about a denim jacket from which the arms have been ripped out or cut off with blunt scissors leaving ragged edges. Although the morning was almost cold, several of the bikies were bare-armed with tatts showing. One had a tattooed face, dreads and looked like an uglier version of Mel Gibson in Braveheart.

  Right on time Henderson appeared with the sheepdog. He wore a heavy coat and a scarf and seemed more stooped than the morning before, but that might just have been because I was beginning to feel sorry for him. The dog pulled at the leash and wanted to cross the road even though a car was coming, and Henderson had trouble holding it back. A dopey breed of dog, as Soames had said.

  Paul slipped automatically into the CO role. ‘Does he cross that bridge, Hardy?’

  ‘Headed that way yesterday.’

  ‘Creature of habit,’ Paul said, turning to his troops. ‘Half of you head back that way and cross the canal and the rest come up as soon as he steps on the bridge. Hem the fucker in. Medium revs, but keep ’em revving.’

  ‘Do we go onto the fuckin’ bridge?’ the tattoo-faced bikie asked.

  ‘Do whatever you think is scariest but, Kurt, make sure he can see you.’

  ‘He’s getting there,’ I said.

  Paul started his engine. ‘Go!’

  The bikes roared off in two directions and Soames and I walked slowly towards the bridge.

  ‘What d’you think of our Paulie?’ Soames asked.

  ‘He impresses me and worries me.’

  ‘Always did. Can you imagine how his mum felt about him?’

  ‘No. What about his dad?’

  ‘Mercenary, killed in Angola in the late eighties.’

  Under the direction of the mercenary’s son, the trap was sprung perfectly. By the time we got there, Henderson was in the middle of the bridge with the two bikie teams at either end, their engines rumbling. Kurt had run his bike up close to Henderson and a member of Paul’s team who’d ridden pillion had advanced from the near side, cut the leash and was feeding tidbits to the acquiescent dog. As we approached, Paul slammed his gloves together with a crack that sounded above the engines. He made a cutting gesture and the bikes sputtered and fell silent.

  Soames stepped onto the bridge. ‘Hello, Chas,’ he said. ‘How’s it going?’

  Henderson had been transfixed by the ugliness of Kurt. Now he stared at Soames through thick-lensed glasses. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘Luke Soames.’

  Henderson gripped the bridge’s rail to steady himself. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Yeah, risen from the dead,’ Soames said. ‘You’re going to help me put Rooster Fowler out of business.’

  ‘No,’ Henderson said.

  ‘Yes, or the boys here are set to put you in the canal—a bit here and a bit there and a bit further off.’

  Henderson’s puffy red face paled. He stared at the bikies as if just beginning to appreciate how they connected with him and Fowler. As he made the connection, Kurt’s smile, splitting the bizarrely marked face, was horrible.

  ‘I didn’t kill Miller,’ Henderson spluttered.

  ‘We know that,’ Paul said. ‘You wouldn’t have the balls. But you know who did and we’re going to make him pay—with your help.’

  ‘I’ve still got the torch, Chas,’ Soames said. ‘With blood and the prints and the DNA, and I’ll use it.’

  Traffic was building and other dog walkers and a few joggers were coming into the park. They’d avoid the bikie pack for a while but some would get on their mobiles.

  ‘We’ll have to adjourn this,’ I said.

  Soames nodded. ‘Who’s at home, Chas?’

  Henderson looked relieved at the mere mention of the word. ‘No one. Betty died two years ago and the kids are scattered.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ Paul said. ‘Stu, mind the dog.’ He gave a thumbs-up to the other bikies. ‘Thanks, guys. See you at the hill later.’

  The engines started. Kurt gave Henderson a last leer and wheeled his bike back off the bridge. Soames, Henderson and I started down the path back to the road. Paul rode ahead of us and parked immediately outside Henderson’s house. Trust him to have taken note of which one it was.

  Henderson was quiet, probably wondering how he could get out of the fix he was in. Soames gave him no room for doubt.

  ‘If you don’t do what we say, Chas, the next time you step outside that gate you’re a dead man.’

  ‘I’ve got friends,’ Henderson said.

  ‘You’re broke,’ I said. ‘And broke ex-cops haven’t got any friends, not really.’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘My name’s Hardy. I’m working for someone you probably still think of as Tommy Greenfall.’

  Henderson stopped in his tracks. ‘Working how?’

  ‘I’m a private detective investigating the murder of his son.’

  Henderson looked at me throug
h his pebble glasses. ‘We might be able to work something out.’

  Stu was ahead of us, playing with the dog, running away and letting the dog catch him for a reward. Henderson looked at the play bleakly as if he’d lost his only friend. Maybe he had.

  Soames prodded him back into focus. ‘Don’t be too sure about that. It’s a side issue. We’ve got Rooster dead to rights, as they say in those English cop shows, for killing Roy Carlton. You were there.’

  ‘Not really,’ Henderson said.

  Soames was a master at this. ‘Well, that could be negotiable.’

  Paul, back with us, contained his impatience with difficulty as we waited to cross the road. Once across, he held out his hand to Henderson. ‘Keys,’ he said.

  It was an old technique but a good one—strip the person you’re targeting of every bit of control. Stu was standing by, petting the dog. Henderson handed over the keys. Paul unlocked the gate and we entered a garden so neglected it shocked even me, a non-gardener. The grass was knee-high; the shrubs had grown out of control and the trees had dropped leaves and some branches. There was a rank smell of decayed vegetable matter, and weeds had almost taken over the gravel path to the porch.

  ‘Jesus, Chas,’ Soames said. ‘You’ve let things slip.’

  Paul had gone ahead, mounted the steps to the porch, kicked aside a tattered doormat and opened the door.

  Soames shook his head in disgust. ‘Hope it’s not as bad inside.’

  ‘It’s worse,’ Henderson said.

  He was right—the house smelled and looked uncared-for from the front passage through to the back sunroom. Dust had trapped the stink of cigarette smoke, takeaway food, unwashed clothes, rising damp, mould and dog. The long back yard was a jungle with wisteria threatening to envelop an aluminium shed and the Hills hoist.

  The living-room furniture consisted of a once presentable couch and chair set now scratched and torn and covered with dog hair. Soames sneezed violently as soon as he entered. Henderson suddenly seemed uplifted by the squalor.

  ‘Allergic to dogs, are you, Luke?’

  ‘I’m allergic to filth.’

  Paul pushed Henderson down into a chair and stood over him.

  ‘You shut up and listen.’

  Soames brushed the dog hair and ash from the arm of a chair and sat. ‘You’re going to ring Rooster Fowler, tell him I’m going to give the cops the evidence he knows I’ve got and you’re going to testify against him.’

  Henderson shook his head. ‘No way, and I can’t ring him. I don’t even know where he is.’

  ‘Hardy?’ Paul said.

  I took a punt. ‘We know you’ve been in touch with him. We have a record of a conversation where you discuss the security of the line, among other more serious things.’

  Henderson peeled off his scarf but left his heavy coat on. ‘Bit vague, that. Recorded by whom?’

  ‘By the late Acting Sergeant Colin Hawes of the GCU, that’s whom. Also beaten to death by your old mate.’

  Henderson’s myopic eyes flicked over the three of us. ‘He’s no mate of mine and I can’t contact him. He contacts me.’

  ‘I know where he is,’ I said. ‘You can have a chat.’

  ‘He’ll kill me.’

  ‘No he won’t,’ Paul said. ‘I guarantee it. And your protection. But I’ll kill you if you don’t cooperate. I guarantee that as well.’

  Henderson pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, fumbled one up to his mouth and lit it shakily. He inhaled deeply.

  ‘Fowler won’t believe you’ll use the torch. It’s your insurance.’

  ‘I’ve got cancer, Chas,’ Soames said. ‘I’m a ticking time bomb. I don’t need insurance. Funeral insurance maybe.’

  Henderson puffed away, flicking ash on himself and the carpet. He looked at Paul. ‘Protection?’

  Paul nodded. ‘During the trial and after.’

  ‘I get immunity?’ Henderson said to no one in particular.

  I said, ‘Fowler could be cited for three or more murders. You give evidence on a few of them, I’d say you’d be granted immunity because the prosecution’ll need everything it can get.’

  ‘Christ,’ Henderson said, ‘it’ll almost be a relief. That fucker . . .’

  ‘Save it,’ Paul said. ‘We’re at the crunch, Hardy. I hope you’ve got a plan.’

  ‘I have. The first thing is to keep Chas here under wraps.’

  ‘I’ve got a nice suite at the Connaught,’ Soames said. ‘He could be my guest for a few days.’

  ‘You’re not cutting us out are you, Hardy?’ Paul said.

  ‘No. You’re essential. It’ll take a day or so to set up. How would your blokes like a ride down to Camden?’

  ‘They’d love it.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure that’s where Fowler is. They’ll be needed to do something similar to what they did today.’

  Paul nodded.

  Soames sneezed again and this time he fought for breath. ‘I have to get out of here,’ he wheezed.

  ‘Well let’s go to the Connaught,’ I said. ‘A few tasty things must’ve been plotted there. Wasn’t Mr Rent-a-Kill a resident once? What was his name again?’

  Soames was standing with a handkerchief up to his face. ‘Chris Flannery. When I was undercover I once watched him strangle someone.’

  Paul, who’d made being unimpressed an artform, reacted. ‘Shit. Who?’

  ‘Someone who thoroughly deserved it,’ Soames said.

  Henderson heaved himself out of the chair. Going to the Connaught apparently appealed to him. Then he heard barking from outside and turned anxiously to Paul.

  ‘What about my dog?’

  Paul grinned. ‘Call it a hostage. Stu’ll take care of it. What’s its name?’

  Henderson had smoked his cigarette down to the filter and snuffed it out with his stained fingers. He flicked it away and picked up his scarf. ‘Roger.’

  ‘That’s appropriate,’ Soames said.

  27

  After Henderson had packed a bag and farewelled the dog, Soames drove him to the Connaught in his rented Saab. I dawdled along behind, turning over my plan in my mind and considering the only alternative—to lay out the whole thing for Frank Parker. Reluctantly, I had to reject that: I had no idea who the members of his group were and I had no confidence that there wouldn’t be a leak to Fowler. I didn’t know the extent of Rooster’s network still intact inside the police but I couldn’t take a chance. I knew I was putting my relationship with Frank on the block again, but my confidence now lay with Paul, Soames and Cathy Carter. They were the cards I’d drawn and I was determined to play them.

  Soames’s suite was not far short of palatial, with double glazing protection against the traffic three floors below and a view out over Hyde Park with the spiritual uplift coming from trees or church steeples, depending on your preference. Soames settled Henderson into the second bedroom and told him to stay there. Soames and I sat at a table in the broad, well-lit, temperature-controlled living space with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black and a bowl of ice.

  ‘Not too early for you, Hardy? I hear you’re a gymaholic.’

  ‘It’s afternoon in Auckland,’ I said.

  Soames poured.

  ‘Ever been a smoker, Hardy?’ he asked, shifting my glass across to me.

  ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘Find it hard to quit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Next question for you . . . Cliff. How much have you told Frank Parker?’

  Intelligence, or cunning, or both, seemed to be in the Soames/Wetherell genes. I’d been in enough military and legal conferences to know that there’s usually a critical question to be answered before the group can get down to business. The sharpest mind asked it and here it was.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said.

  ‘Why not? He’s been your friend and saviour for years. At times you could hardly have operated without him.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I said, ‘and I’m not going into any details. Fran
k knows I’m working for Timothy Greenhall and that I have suspicions about Fowler. He doesn’t know that I’ve found Fowler or that I have . . . allies. Not really.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘He knows something about the bikies, but he knows absolutely nothing about the . . . methodology I have in mind for snaring Fowler.’

  ‘You’re putting a long-term close relationship at risk.’

  ‘I know, and I’m pissed off about it, but that’s the way it is.’

  Soames leaned back and drank some whisky. I did the same.

  ‘It’s time I heard something about that methodology,’ Soames said.

  That night Paul and I took a trip out to Camden to look Fowler’s place over. It was dark when we arrived but the driveway from the gate to the main buildings was well lit and there seemed to be lights around the buildings themselves.

  ‘Heavy carbon footprint,’ I said.

  ‘I wonder the horses can sleep.’

  I tried to remember the layout on the website. ‘I think the horses are down the back somewhere.’

  Then more lights flicked off and, after a pause, on again.

  ‘Sensors,’ Paul said. ‘There’s people moving about.’

  ‘Be good to know how many and what kind. We have to get closer.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the fence have an alarm?’

  ‘Long fence. Let’s try up there where it goes closer to the house.’

  We worked our way along the fence line, keeping to the scrub a metre or two back from it. We reached a point where we’d be able to see more of what went on near the house through Paul’s night-vision goggles. The fence was a chest-high mesh affair and if it was electrified there was no sign of it. Paul slung the glasses around his neck, put his hands on the top of the fence and prepared to jump. Yet another light went on near a building close to the house and several dogs began to bark.

  ‘Shit.’ Paul moved back and we scrambled deeper into the scrub. Two men and two dogs arrived at the spot within a minute and we could see them clearly enough in the light of their torches. Big men, both with handguns.