by Alex Palmer
He reached out and touched Grace’s hair. She jerked her head out of the way. Then Harrigan was standing in front of him.
‘It’s time you left, mate.’
Griffin turned, his blue eyes looking directly into Harrigan’s own, meeting his gaze without embarrassment. It was a detached stare. As a police officer, Harrigan had interviewed people with that look in their eyes; they were invulnerable to anything you said, to any emotion expressed. What are you seeing? he wondered. Me? As what? Whatever it was, Griffin didn’t answer him.
‘I said you should go,’ Harrigan repeated to his silence. ‘You’ve got your book.’
Griffin looked at Grace and Ellie, then at Harrigan again, and turned and walked out without a glance at anyone else.
Suddenly Harrigan’s publisher was there, smiling and professional. ‘The editor of the New South Wales Law Journal wants to talk to you,’ she said. ‘Do you have the time?’
‘Just give me a few moments,’ Harrigan replied. He spoke to Grace. ‘Are you okay?’
‘We’re okay. He’s gone. That’s all that matters.’
Later, when almost everyone else had gone, Harrigan went up to Toby, who was about to leave as well.
‘Sorry, mate. I didn’t get much time to talk to you.’
You were busy. Those two men, the old man knew the other one. I don’t think he liked him.
‘I don’t think Tony cares for anyone much except himself.’
What’s going on, Dad? Why are they interested in Grace?
Harrigan glanced back at Grace who was getting to her feet, still holding a sleeping Ellie in her arms. He saw her look in their direction.
‘I don’t know what’s going on. But I know something is. I can’t say more than that.’
You’ve got to take care. I don’t want anything to happen to Grace.
By then, she was with them. ‘What are you two talking about?’ she asked.
‘It’s a pity those two arseholes turned up and had to bother you the way they did.’
‘They’re gone now. Let’s forget about them. That’s all they deserve.’
They saw Toby into the Cotswold House van, waved goodbye to his friends and left. Harrigan had declined the publisher’s offer of dinner, wanting to take his daughter home. It was with some relief that he was finally able to pour himself a whisky and sit down to talk to Grace over something to eat.
‘Griffin knows you,’ he said. ‘Is he your target? He’s a dangerous man. You do know that.’
For once she answered directly. ‘Yes, we know that. I’m not treating him lightly.’
‘Have you got him under surveillance?’
‘What do you think?’
‘What are you doing?’ he asked after a short silence. ‘Stinging him in some way? I hope your backup’s out there.’
‘They are.’
‘You’re not going to tell me what you know about him or who he is.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Babe, does he believe you’re genuine? Can you just tell me that?’
‘Yes, he does. He’s responding to me in that way.’
‘I don’t like the way he looked at you. Have any of your inquiries turned over the Ponticellis?’ Harrigan asked. ‘Are they involved?’
‘I can’t answer that question. I can only say everything’s under control.’
‘When’s this going to be over?’
‘This time tomorrow night, I hope. I’m going to be late but I will be here.’
‘Jesus, I hope so,’ Harrigan said.
There was silence.
‘Clive fired Borghini today,’ she said.
‘What did he do? Stand up to him?’
‘All the time. There was no need for it. You don’t chase people like Borghini away. You work out how to handle them.’
‘It was a stupid thing to do,’ Harrigan said. ‘Mark’s very smart. Who’s going to take his place?’
‘Knowing Clive, a lapdog.’
‘And you’re telling me everything’s under control?’
‘Twenty-four hours and it’ll be over. I promise. After that I’m bailing out. I’ve made up my mind on that.’
‘I’ll be glad, babe. It’ll almost be back to normal.’ As much as Grace’s life could be described as normal, given the nature of her work. ‘But I wish Mark was still there.’
That night when Harrigan lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he tossed around the question of Griffin being under Orion’s surveillance. So far in his work he had turned over a trail of shadows, ghosts and missing people, something he’d made sense of only through constant speculation. Plenty of personal tragedy, any number of possible scenarios, but few facts. Joel Griffin was connected to his investigation through the Shillingworth Trust, if only because he was acting for the trust in the sale of two of their properties. But what if Orion had found other connections, ones Harrigan knew nothing about or had only guessed at? They had means of surveillance and investigation far beyond his capacities. Had he managed to walk into their surveillance? If he had, what would they do? Gaol him? No one had stopped him yet. He would keep going. The end was almost in sight.
He turned over to go to sleep, thinking that at least no one seemed to be stalking them any more. The last he’d heard from his tormentors was the SMS they’d sent. The thought stopped him there. People stop doing things when they’ve got what they want. Harrigan didn’t believe their stalkers had just gone away. Had they got what they wanted? Which was what?
He suddenly felt they were closer than they should be, that somehow they’d found a way into his house. It was a jolt of paranoia unlike any he’d felt. He pulled himself together but his thoughts returned to Griffin, how he’d acted tonight. As if he were the organiser, the one with a mission.
If you let them panic you, then they’ve won. Don’t lose your nerve. Take the next step. See what it tells you.
He willed himself to sleep. Tomorrow he would need all the strength he had.
19
Harrigan just had time to check his email before he left the house the next morning. His retainer had found Loretta Griffin’s husband, one Elliot Griffin. Both had been English migrants who had arrived here in the late 1960s and seemed to have failed to make a go of it. A drunk Elliot Griffin, just fired from his job, had attacked his wife with an iron bar in 1977 and been charged with attempted murder. In the end, he had served nine years for what the judge had described as a brutal crime. If alive today, he would be close to seventy. They’d had one child, Joel, as Harrigan had expected. Did Harrigan want her to keep searching for father and son? He sent her a message to start with missing persons.
He still arrived early at the Royal Exchange in Tempe. Eddie was already in the back room, nervously working his way through a beer. The room was near the entrance to both the beer garden and the toilets and on a quiet day it was possible to get in and out without being seen. Harrigan, who came in through the beer garden via an alleyway, found it as empty as he’d hoped it would be. He wondered why anyone would want to sit out there in the first place. It smelled of the toilets, which were old and hardly ever cleaned, and the ashtrays on the tables were always full.
The hotel opened early and the regular drinkers would be in the bar, in all likelihood smoking in there even if it was illegal. This was a pub where people came to drink seriously all day and no one was much interested in government regulations. The Royal Exchange dated back to the nineteenth century. The back room was a small closed-in space with stale carpet on the floor and a fireplace. Probably it had once been the ladies’ lounge or, as people had used to call it, the sows’ parlour. Harrigan had an arrangement with the licensee, also the barman, who would set it aside for him for meetings like this.
When Harrigan walked in, Eddie almost jumped out of his skin.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘You got here fucking soon enough. Don’t do that to me. Does that barman out there know how to keep his mouth shut?’
‘Just stay calm. With him, it’s see n
othing, hear nothing. Now, Joel Griffin. What work does he do for the family?’
Eddie looked around, as if expecting someone to be standing behind him.
‘I think he shifts money,’ he said very quietly. ‘Been doing it for years. For both Tonys.’
‘What do they give him?’
‘Well, he gets his cut. Other than that, muscle. If he wants something done, Mick’ll front up. Apparently there’s a couple of things that went down not too long ago.’
‘Does Griffin often need things done?’
‘Now and again. No, not that often.’
‘What about you?’ Harrigan asked. ‘Do you do things for him?’
Eddie shrugged. ‘It was work. Years ago. Not since before I was in the slammer.’
‘He’s managed to stay off everyone’s radar.’
‘He comes and goes. Spends a lot of time out of the country. Keeps himself quiet. Just real careful, you know. No one hardly ever sees him.’
‘What did you do for him way back when?’
‘A bit of snatching now and again. That’s all really.’
‘Where did these people end up?’
‘In the boot of his car. Still alive. What he did after that I don’t know. Don’t know any names either. Never asked.’
Eight years ago Eddie was in gaol. Ten years ago he wasn’t.
‘This doesn’t go past me,’ Harrigan said. ‘Do you remember an older woman, maybe seventy? Just before you went away.’
Eddie worked his mouth a bit, swallowing the beer. ‘Just between you and me?’ Harrigan nodded. ‘Picked her up at Wahroonga station. She was expecting a lift. Thought she was going to hospital.’
Finally, Harrigan had testimony to tie Griffin to at least one of the missing persons. Where was Jennifer Shillingworth now? If he found her, would he find Ian Blackmore?
‘Where’d you take her?’ he asked.
‘Ku-ring-gai National Park. We met Griffin there. I don’t know where he went after that. There’s something else about him.’ Eddie spoke like he was making his run. ‘He sells information.’
‘What information?’
‘He’s a fucking barrister, isn’t he. He talks to the people he’s defending. Like he talked to Chris Newell.’
‘Did he?’
‘Yeah, mate. And everything Newell told him, he sold to the family.’
‘What did he tell them?’
Eddie was thinking. There was something else besides fear at work. Cunning was sliding into his face. Searching for an advantage, whatever that might be.
‘Harrigan, you fucking told me to be here, even though if I’m seen with you, I’m dead. I don’t want to have to drop everything every time you want something. I know you’ve quit. But you still know everyone. You can pull strings.’
‘What do you want?’
‘It’s what you said, isn’t it? I reckon when Tony senior carks it—and that’s not going to be too long—I’m out on the street. Tony junior won’t give a shit. What am I going to do then?’
‘You tell me, mate,’ Harrigan said. ‘What are you going to do?’
Eddie took a long drink. His beer was almost finished.
‘I want protection,’ he said. ‘Twenty-four fucking hours a day so I can sleep at night.’
‘It’s not me that makes those decisions any more.’
‘Come on. You can still fucking ring people. I know you can.’
‘It depends on what else you’ve got. It had better be good.’
‘I reckon what I’ve given you is pretty good, but I’ve got even better than that. Something you’d know a bit about. Bianca. You’d remember her.’ Eddie grinned dirtily.
Harrigan, expecting to be told that Griffin had sold Newell’s information about Grace, was surprised to hear her name.
‘What about her?’
‘Newell killed her.’ Eddie finished his beer and pushed the empty glass away. ‘That’s what he told Griffin anyway. His brains were fried, I know that. Fucking didn’t know what planet he was on half the time. But he knew enough. From what he said, he did it all right.’
‘Are you telling me Tony senior was responsible for that shoot-out on Oxford Street?’
‘You bet he was. He wanted Newell. Griffin was supposed to get him off and out of gaol and then Tony could get him. He wanted to do it himself, you see. But Newell just kept digging the hole he was in. In the end, Tony says, fuck it, I’m not waiting any longer. I’m going to go in and get him. And he did. Is that worth protection?’
‘I don’t know yet, mate,’ Harrigan said. ‘You know a lot about what went on. If my old work mates go in, what’s the family going to tell them about you?’
‘I work for ’em, mate. What was I supposed to do?’
‘What did you do?’
‘I rang Newell. Told him the day it was going down. I said, you act up in court about eleven in the morning. Get yourself hauled out of there. He thought he was being sprung.’
The Judas kiss. It didn’t look as if it had kept Eddie awake at night. But Newell was dead, and that meant Grace was free of him.
‘I’ve got it all,’ Eddie went on. ‘Names, who did the shooting, everything. Tell you who was driving the van. Joe Ponticelli. He’s his granddad’s man. Mad like him. Okay? Let’s do a deal.’
‘You’ve got more information in there besides that, haven’t you?’
Eddie shook his head. ‘What else is there?’
‘Tony senior talking about Bianca. Anyone else’s name come up? Like mine? You want your protection. You fucking tell me now.’
‘You want to know? He hates your guts.’
‘I know that. And?’
‘That’s enough, isn’t it? Look…’ Eddie glanced around. ‘Tony junior, he just wants to move on. He didn’t want this mess. He’s going to tell you he had nothing to do with it. He said if Newell goes back to gaol, so what? Do it there. What does it matter who does it? Tony senior, he set that whole fucking thing up. What’s he got to lose? He’s mad and he’s dying.’ There was a twist of contempt in Eddie’s face. ‘The family’s not what it used to be. He doesn’t like that. He still wants to prove he’s king shit.’
‘It’s not enough, mate. There’s more, right?’
Eddie picked up his glass. ‘I need another beer.’
Harrigan grabbed his arm. ‘No, mate. You’re not going anywhere. What else is there?’
‘Fucking let go of me, Harrigan. Don’t you touch me!’
Eddie yanked his arm away, looking towards the door with a sick expression on his face.
‘Who are you expecting? Have you set me up? You have, haven’t you?’
Harrigan was on his feet, his gun out, getting out of the line of the doorway to where he could fire.
‘No, I wouldn’t—’
The door was kicked open but the two gunmen who stood there didn’t come inside. One shot from the doorway directly at Eddie. Eddie, on his feet, took the bullets with a gasp, no scream. ‘You fucking—’ he said, then staggered forwards to the floor. The other gunman, apparently expecting to find Harrigan also at the table, jerked his head in shock toward where Harrigan stood with his own gun out. ‘Drop your fucking gun,’ he shouted but it was too late. Harrigan had already fired twice from close range immediately the first gunman had shot at Eddie. His bullets cracked into the second gunman’s shoulder almost as he spoke, breaking the bone. The gunman staggered back, then tried to turn and leg it, crashing out the back door into the beer garden. In those brief moments, Harrigan recognised Mick Brasi. There were shouts from outside in the beer garden. The first gunman didn’t wait. He turned and ran out through the front of the hotel. Seconds later, two men were running after him shouting, ‘Police. Stop.’
Harrigan went to Eddie’s aid, kneeling down to feel his pulse. He was still alive but bleeding heavily, his breathing painful. His eyes opened. He stared at Harrigan but didn’t speak.
‘I’m getting you an ambulance, mate,’ Harrigan said. ‘You were spinning m
e a line, weren’t you? Keeping me talking.’
‘Fuck you, Harrigan,’ Eddie said. ‘It was all true. I still want my protection.’
He passed out.
The barman appeared in the doorway, ashen-faced. ‘Fuck!’
‘I’m calling an ambulance,’ Harrigan said. ‘He’s still alive.’
The two men who had chased the other gunman out through the hotel reappeared behind the barman. Both were armed.
‘No, you’re not,’ one of them said. ‘We’ll call an ambulance. Put your phone away.’
‘What the fuck’s going on?’ the barman asked in a panicky voice.
‘You’re closed for the day. As of now, no one leaves. Keep everyone out of this back room and don’t let anyone in the beer garden. Come on, we’ll close up together. And in regard to what’s happened in here, you saw nothing and you say nothing. Is that clear?’
Silenced, the barman was led away back to the bar. The second man had been speaking on the phone. He hung up and turned to Harrigan.
‘Ambulance is on its way. Outside now.’
‘What about Eddie?’
‘You can’t do anything for him. Out.’
Harrigan walked out. A third unknown man was holding a gun over Mick Brasi who was lying face down in the beer garden. Blood was pouring out onto the cement and he was gasping in pain.
‘We couldn’t shoot to stop the other one,’ said the man accompanying Harrigan. ‘Too many people in the bar. He got away.’
‘You were a bit late getting here, boys,’ Harrigan said. ‘Have you got any ID?’
‘Have you?’ the man with the gun asked.
‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,’ Harrigan replied dryly, one eye on Mick Brasi on the concrete. He was caught by the cold-bloodedness of this conversation while the man lay there in agony.
‘We don’t have to show ID.’
‘You’re from Orion,’ Harrigan said. ‘My partner’s got a standard-issue firearm just like that one.’
‘Did you shoot this man?’
‘I did. It was self-defence. If Eddie Grippo ever wakes up, he’ll tell you that.’
‘Was he going to kill you?’