Saving Billie

by Peter Corris

  They say people sometimes witness violent scenes in the streets, think it’s a movie shoot, and move on. Not this time. Women screamed, men yelled, children rushed to the rail and were hauled back. Clement stood still, rooted to the spot by shock. I spoke quickly into his ear. ‘Tell the police where Scriven is and they’ll go easy on you.’

  I drifted away, signalling for Kooti to do the same as the crowd hemmed Clement in. I heard someone say his name and then mobile phones were out and the circus was in town.

  As I moved away I noticed Thomas disappear down the stairs. If Greaves had had a minder I didn’t see him. Kooti and I took the escalator down. The police and ambulance sirens were sounding before we reached the bottom. The area was empty, everyone either clearing out or gravitating to where Greaves had fallen.

  Like all bouncers and enforcers, Steve Kooti had seen some rough things in his time—eyes gouged out and ears bitten off—so he wasn’t too fazed, but he shook his head several times and didn’t speak until we were out in the street. ‘You set that up.’

  ‘I swear I didn’t. I thought they’d talk money.’

  ‘What was that you gave him?’

  ‘His son’s pistol, complete with silencer.’

  ‘So he’s standing there with a hundred witnesses. He’s bloody killed someone, and he’s holding an illegal weapon. The man’s in deep trouble.’

  ‘Save your sympathy, Steve. Have you ever heard him on the radio? Heard his views on minorities, welfare, single mothers?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s no loss. And the other one’s dead. I’ll pray for them. You’ve made a clean sweep, Hardy.’

  ‘I’m not patting myself on the back. If the cops get on to the security camera tapes I’m in for a rough trot.’

  ‘Okay, that’s your problem. But does this clear the decks? I mean . . .’

  ‘Tommy’ll be on his own in Lilyfield in an hour and none of this’ll touch him.’

  We reached Goulburn Street; he hesitated and then put out his hand, swallowing mine in his big, hard grip. We shook and he walked away, head and shoulders taller than the mostly Asian people around us.

  I stopped at a pub in George Street, bought a double scotch, and took it to a stool where I could sit and look out through a tinted window at Sydney on the move. Tinted windows soften the reality and I needed some softening just then. I’d been so focused on setting up the meeting, hoping for some sort of outcome, that Greaves’s fall hadn’t touched me emotionally. It did now. Like a lot of people, I’ve had falling nightmares. That terrifying feeling of being launched into space with no prospect of rescue and enough time to anticipate the contact resulting in oblivion or, worse, paralysis. Greaves had taken the fall for real, in real time, and the nightmare for him was a reality.

  I sipped the drink and told myself he’d probably caused the death of Lou Kramer and would most likely have disposed of Billie Marchant once she’d told him what he wanted to know. McGuinness, his undercover man, was a sleaze and Greaves’s plan to blackmail Peter Scriven was in no way in the public interest. No loss.

  After the first drink and those thoughts, I felt a little better and bought another because something else was still niggling. I worked at it but couldn’t tease it out. Needing food for fuel or comfort, I invested in a steak sandwich, with fries. When had they stopped being chips? I was a bit drunk as I ate the food without tasting it. The security camera was a worry, but would they have them focused on the coffee area and the ABC shop rather than the jewellery shops on all levels? Maybe not.

  I tramped back through the steamy heat to the car. It had picked up a ticket. Poetic justice. I sat in it for a while with the window down, hoping for a breeze. In Jones Street, in Ultimo? No chance. I decided I was sober enough to drive and started the motor. As always, the case was still buzzing in my head and, not unusually, there were unresolved questions. Principally, what did Billie know and would I ever find out?

  I steered overcautiously through the back streets until I realised that I was heading towards Glebe and home, instead of Lilyfield. Not as sober as I thought. I stopped, took a series of deep breaths, and then the disturbing subliminal thought came through to me: I remembered thinking, when I was in the QVB, wandering around after buying the talking books for Megan, how low the railing seemed and what a long drop it was to the bottom.

  23

  There was an air of gloom at Lilyfield. Tommy was chopping away but without his usual enthusiasm. Sharon was sitting on the back steps with a sketch pad and a pencil but looking as if her heart wasn’t in it. I’d been hoping to tell the tale, reassure everyone that the troubles were over. No way.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  Sharon made a few angry strokes. ‘Billie’s gone.’

  I gave Tommy a thumbs-up and sat down beside Sharon. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘She was a lot better, obviously. She said she wanted to go. I said she couldn’t until you got back. She threatened to go out on the street naked and flag down the first car. She’d have done it, too. So I had to do what she asked.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘I drove into Leichhardt, got five hundred bucks from the bank and bought her some clothes and other stuff. Got myself this pad for something to do. She had a shower, got dressed, took the rest of the money and split. Said she’d contact me.’

  ‘She went on foot?’

  ‘No, taxi—the phone’s on now. So, what’s been happening? Will one of those bastards track her down? Billie doesn’t exactly go about things quietly.’

  I told her what had happened and how Clement would have too much trouble on his hands to worry about Billie. She took it in without much joy. ‘So there’s a few people dead more or less over her, and we still don’t know what she knew or why she was so shit scared of the cops.’

  ‘Right, but at least it gets things straightened out. She’s not in any danger except from herself and you can go back to Picton and tell Sarah she doesn’t have to worry.’

  She got up, tore off the sheet she’d been working on, crumpled it and dropped it on the ground. ‘Yes. I’ll do just that.’

  Tommy looked enquiringly over as Sharon stomped into the house. She came out a few minutes later with her bag on her shoulder, jiggling her keys.

  ‘I’ll send you a cheque.’

  I shook my head. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  She nodded and went to where Tommy had paused in his work. She kissed him on the cheek and went through the gate to her car in the street.

  Tommy watched her go and came across to where I was smoothing out the drawing. ‘Hey, Cliff, I thought you and her might be . . .’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  The sketch was a portrait of Billie in full flight—hair flying, mouth open, fists clenched. It wasn’t finished, just an outline, but it spoke volumes about the way she’d behaved.

  Tommy sucked in a breath as he looked at it. ‘Yeah, that’s how she was. Didn’t know what the fuck to do.’

  ‘Nothing to do, mate. But now I’d like you to ring your aunty and explain that Billie’s shot through. Tell her she was a lot better and that she was going to see her own doctor.’

  ‘You want me to lie to Aunt Mary?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time, would it? You can get round her better than me.’

  He went into the house and I sat there as the afternoon sun lit up the yard and started to cast shadows from the taller trees. In time it was going to be a fine space for gardening, sitting, drinking, talking. I could imagine Mike there with his family having a great Italian time. Myself visiting.

  Tommy came out, swigging from a litre bottle of diet coke. ‘It’s cool,’ he said. ‘Didja get everything sorted?’

  ‘It kind of sorted itself. I’m pushing off now, Tommy.’

  ‘I’m goin’ to miss all this. I mean, like, doctors and nurses, good looking chick artist and a junkie and a detective. Like being on TV.’

  ‘Are you going to be all right here?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

&
nbsp; ‘It’s hard work and you’re all alone. Easy to think, “Fuck it, I need some fun.” You know.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Being a black cone-head on the dole isn’t fun. I’ve got a chance here with Mike and I’m gonna grab it.’

  ‘Are you going to look up your father?’

  ‘Thinkin’ about it.’

  I folded the incomplete sketch and stuck it in my pocket. We shook hands.

  ‘Thanks, Cliff,’ Tommy said.

  I wasn’t sure that I’d earned it, but I accepted it anyway, from him.

  A storm had been building all day and it broke as I was driving home. First, some big hailstones pelted down, big enough for me to feel them crunching under the wheels and to make me worry about the windscreen. The rain followed in bucketfuls; the gutters overflowed within minutes and we drivers were slowed to a crawl while trying to keep the revs up through water that was axle-high across dips in the roads.

  I parked outside my house, collected my bits and pieces and got thoroughly soaked just getting to the front door. I didn’t care. The air needed clearing, the dust needed laying, and I needed a shower anyway.

  24

  The security cameras had picked me up and the police hauled me in. Detective Senior Sergeant Piers Aronson, who I’d dealt with before, interviewed me in the Glebe detectives’ room. I had my solicitor, Viv Garner, present and I wasn’t expecting to have much fun. Aronson switched on the recording equipment, identified himself, me and Viv, and got down to it.

  ‘You were present in the Queen Victoria Building when Barclay Greaves was killed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you come to be there?’

  ‘I arranged the meeting between Jonas Clement and Greaves to try to resolve a matter I was working on.’

  ‘That matter was . . . ?’

  ‘Confidential between my client and myself.’

  ‘You don’t have that privilege,’ Aronson said.

  Viv said, ‘It’s a moot point, Senior. Depending on the client. I suggest you move on.’

  Aronson didn’t like it, but he wasn’t about to make an issue of it at this stage. ‘You handed a bag to Jonas Clement.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Video evidence says you did.’

  ‘Those videos are fuzzy and jumpy and people cross the line and make the action confusing in my experience,’ Viv said. ‘Are Mr Hardy’s fingerprints on this alleged bag?’

  Aronson wasn’t going to fall into a question and answer session. ‘You provoked Clement into attacking Greaves. What did you say to him?’

  ‘I forget. What does Clement say I said?’

  I’d told Viv all I needed to convince him that I hadn’t meant to bring about Greaves’s death. His advice was answer questions like this with a question about Clement, who would certainly be getting the best possible legal advice himself. Ride piggyback on Clement’s high-price brief.

  Aronson’s reaction confirmed Viv’s advice. He was discomfitted, almost angry. Clement had told them nothing damaging to me, possibly nothing at all. Aronson kept it up for as long as he could, hammering away at my lack of confidentiality protection, my absenting myself from the scene and my conviction some time back for destroying evidence and obstructing justice. Viv and I fended him off enough so that he eventually finished the interview.

  I thanked Viv and he left. I stayed where I was because I knew Aronson and I hadn’t finished.

  ‘Off the record, Hardy, I’m going to go after your licence as strong as I can. You’ve been up to some shit here and I’m sure you caused that man’s death. Does any of that worry you?’

  ‘The death, no. The licence, yes.’

  ‘Good. You can expect to hear from the appropriate people. I think you’re gone.’

  ‘I’ve been through it before and survived.’

  ‘Your luck’s run out.’

  ‘We’ll see. I tell you what, Piers. When you lot get a conviction against Jonas Clement and have him safely locked away for, oh, five to ten for manslaughter, we can get together and I’ll tell you all about it.’

  That’s how we left it. I’m still waiting to hear about the suspension of my licence, which is a good sign. The system is that suspension is followed by a searching interview with all sorts of bureaucratic bullshit, before an absolute delicensing can happen. I’m still hopeful.

  I followed the Clement case in the papers. Greaves, who was described as a financial adviser, had been dead on arrival, of course. Clement was charged with murder initially but the charge was reduced to manslaughter. Legal technicalities delayed the case coming to trial and it could be a while longer before it’s heard. Rumour has it that Clement’s defence is going to claim that the death of his son placed him under a strain and reduced his responsibility for his actions. Clement Junior’s death was attributed to an accident. Might work.

  Whether Clement used his information about Peter Scriven as a bargaining chip, I don’t know. In any case it was no business of mine. Scriven had chiselled honest people out of their businesses and savings and if he was being bled by Clement that was all right with me. They never recover any money from these crooks who do a runner anyway.

  Tommy did a terrific job at Mike’s place and went on to do the painting and repair work. Still at it, and Mike’s promised him a job driving when he’s finished. I drop around there from time to time and always come away thinking I should get someone to do a job on my place. Never get around to it, though.

  I went to Frank and Hilde’s on election night, looking forward to seeing them but not expecting any joy. They had a few other people over, ex-cops, social workers—the area Hilde had gone into—and tennis club friends. It was a good group, lively, with a good gender mix and a range of political positions that meant the results pleased some and displeased others. There was a good deal of chiacking in an Aussie way that really says we think all politicians are bastards at heart.

  Interest went out of the result very early and people started to drift away. Frank took me aside around 11 pm. We were both a bit depressed by the outcome, both a bit drunk.

  ‘I hear you’re sailing close to the wind with this Clement thing, mate,’ Frank said.

  ‘Yeah, I’m looking at a licence hearing. You going character witness for me?’

  ‘Did it before an’ I’ll do it again. You could be out on your ear.’

  ‘Viv Garner reckons just a suspension.’

  ‘Viv’s a bloody optimist, always was. Cliff, have you ever thought of packing it in and doing something else?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I dunno. You need a business plan. Sell that bloody great terrace and buy a flat and invest the balance and . . .’

  ‘Yeah, Frank?’

  ‘Fuck it, you won’t.’

  He was right there.

  Lily Truscott had agreed to come to the party with me even though I hadn’t been able to follow through with any dope on Greaves. Harry Tickener was there too, and he told me the publishers were trying to see if there was anything they could do with the draft bits of manuscript they’d got from Lou Kramer on Clement now that he was in the news. They were playing it very close to the chest so there was nothing for Harry. I’d disappointed them both, and we were all depressed by the election. But Lily came back to my place and stayed the night so the evening wasn’t a total loss.

  I got a cheque from Sharon in the mail although I hadn’t submitted an account. Enclosed in the envelope was a caricature of a bloke with grizzled grey-black hair, a broken nose, suspicious eyes and a humorous expression. Can’t think who it could be.

  Steve Kooti stays in touch with Tommy and I’ve run into him once or twice. He tells me that nothing much has changed out at Liston. John Manuma’s protection centre is still working its scams and the Island Brotherhood was celebrating the conservative victory in the federal election.

  ‘That’d be right,’ I said to him. ‘What about your mob?’

  ‘Greens.’

  I didn’t hear anything more abo
ut Rhys Thomas and for a while I watched out for bow-legged men with attitude, but I didn’t really expect to run into him. If he was smart he’d be far, far away, but given Clement’s connections there was a good chance that he was dead and buried.

  I thought that was it, filed the contracts, my notes on the case, the photos I’d taken outside Lou’s apartment block and Sharon’s sketch, and got on with other things, but Sharon turned up at my office one day out of the blue. She was in her overalls and sneakers so she wasn’t there to take me to lunch at the Mixing Pot. I sat her down and brewed some coffee.

  She tasted it and pulled a face. ‘That’s terrible,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t make good coffee,’ I admitted. ‘It’s always bitter. Other people use my gear and it turns out fine, but I can’t do it.’

  ‘Have you got anyone yet, Cliff? You know—a significant other?’

  ‘No, not really. You?’

  ‘Might have. We’ll see, but I came to tell you about Billie. She rang me and said she wanted to see me. She’s in Newcastle. I thought what the hell, good place, be a change, so I drove up there.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Two days ago. Of course, she wanted the rest of the money but that wasn’t why she wanted to see me. I mean, I could’ve sent her a cheque. So I went to her flat—nice place in the heart of the city. She looked pretty good— tarty as hell, but that’s Billie. She told me she was working in a high-class brothel. Drove me round a bit in her Celica, although she lost her licence a few years ago. Secondhand car but pretty good. She showed me the brothel, looked all right as such places go—not that I’d know.

  ‘But she was as nervous and edgy as anything. I thought it was the speed or the smack, but she swore she was off everything except a little coke sometimes to help her through the night. She was smoking something fierce but she always did, from the age of, I dunno, ten?

  ‘Okay, so we go back to her flat and she opens a bottle of wine. I give her a cheque for the rest of the money—after what I paid you and a few of my expenses. She hardly looks at it and then it comes out. I bet you can guess.’