by Peter Corris
appeal denied
PETER CORRIS is known as the ‘godfather’ of Australian crime fiction through his Cliff Hardy detective stories. He has written in many other areas, including a co-authored autobiography of the late Professor Fred Hollows, a history of boxing in Australia, spy novels, historical novels and a collection of short stories about golf (see www.petercorris.net. He is married to writer Jean Bedford and lives in Sydney. They have three Bedford and lives in Sydney. They have three daughters.
PETER
CORRIS
appeal denied
A CLIFF HARDY NOVEL
Thanks to Jean Bedford, Jo Jarrah and Tom Kelly.
The Northern Crimes Unit of the New South Wales Police Service does not exist, and all characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance between actual people and circumstances is coincidental.
First published in 2007
Copyright © Peter Corris 2007
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218 Email:
[email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:
Corris, Peter, 1942– .
Appeal denied: a Cliff Hardy novel.
ISBN 978 174175 0 966 (pbk.).
1. Hardy, Cliff (Fictitious character) – Fiction.
2. Private investigators – New South Wales – Sydney –
Fiction. I. Title.
A823.3
Set in 12/14 pt Adobe Garamond by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Lesley McFadzean
Contents
part one
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
part two
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
part one
1
Following my last major case, I was given a suspended sentence for various offences. This, together with an earlier serious infringement and a brief prison spell, caused the police board that handles the licensing of private enquiry agents to scrub me for life. To raise a bit of money, I handled a few minor matters before the hearing was held but that was it. I lost the appeal against their decision. The next step was an appeal to the Administrative Decisions Tribunal and I lost that one, too. Appeal denied.
‘That’s it, Cliff,’ my solicitor, Viv Garner, said when he gave me the news. ‘Unless you fancy the Supreme Court and the High Court of Australia.’
‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘You gotta know when to fold ’em.’
‘So what’ll you do now? You’ve got no super. Your house’s worth a bundle but you’ll never sell it, will you?’
I shook my head. The house in Glebe was worth a lot of money, even in its rundown condition, but there were a lot of reasons why I wouldn’t sell it. First, call me parochial, but I wouldn’t want to live anywhere on the planet except there. Second, it held too many memories—of my first wife, Cyn, when we were young and in love, and then when we weren’t; of Hilde Stoner, my ex-tenant and still a friend, now married to Frank Parker, another friend; of the women and clients and cops and enemies who’d trooped through bringing love and money and death and destruction. Too much to give up. Plus, I couldn’t bear the thought of packing up all the stuff. Inertia is a powerful force.
‘I’ll think of something,’ I told Viv. ‘I had a thorough check-up from Ian Sangster the other day and he reckons I’m good for quite a few years yet.’
‘Yeah, you look all right given the life you’ve led. Full head of hair, not much grey, not much flab. How d’you do it?’
‘A pure heart. You might have to wait a bit for your cheque.’
Viv mimed shock. I shook his hand and left the house in Lilyfield from where he runs his slimmed-down business. He had heart trouble a while back and his wife monitors him closely. After the trouble I’ve given him over the years, I think she’d like to see me out of the picture, but Viv and I go back a long stretch. She knows that I do him good in a way, keep him in touch with the gritty stuff, and I make sure to give her my charm on full wattage.
I went for a wander around the streets with no destination in mind, just to do some thinking. The appeal process had taken eight months. No income and the usual bills flowing in. Funds were low and winter was coming on— heating costs, a close-to-leaking roof to have fixed and the Falcon needed attention. At least the mortgage was cleared and my daughter Megan was in paid employment as a doctor in a hospital series on TV. Not that she’d ever been a drain because I hadn’t even known about her until she was almost twenty, but there had been the odd sling and in its own way acting is as precarious a profession as private enquiry.
I think best when walking or drinking and best of all when walking towards somewhere to have a drink. I headed for a pub I knew in Victoria Road. The wind had an edge to it and I buttoned my blazer. The loss of my licence had closed doors. For years some of the big private enquiry firms had tried to recruit me and I’d knocked them back. Same story with security companies. Those lines of work were out now except, perhaps, as some sort of consultant. I didn’t fancy that. It meant briefing people twenty years younger than me and writing reports—office work. In the past I’d done some casual teaching in the PEA course at a TAFE college. It wasn’t a bad sideline gig—talking about old cases, bringing along the odd cop and crim to talk to the classes, scouting locations where things had gone down—but I couldn’t see the TAFE people employing me again.
I got to Victoria Road where the traffic seems to get heavier from one day to the next. The walk hadn’t helped, maybe a drink would. The pub was boarded up, out of business. It was happening all over the city—pubs closing down, waiting to become something else. Even Glebe had lost one, the Harold Park. Were new pubs being opened? I didn’t think so. Wine bars maybe, with the beer at five bucks a middy.
Lily Truscott, my live-out lover, was waiting for me when I got back to Glebe. She knew I’d been to see Viv and pointed to the bottle I was carrying.
‘Are we celebrating?’
‘Not exactly, unless ridding the profession of an undesirable for good and all makes for one. Some people seem to think so.’
‘I’m sorry, Cliff. That’s tough.’
‘I’ll open this and soften the blow. Usually works.’
Lily is a freelance journalist. She rose to the top of the tree but found being an editor not as much fun as reporting. A bit like me really. So she took a pay-out and now does ver
y well doing what she does best. She has a knack, not given to many, of making financial stories interesting. She has a house in Greenwich; I go there occasionally and she comes to my place, also occasionally. The occasions are pretty frequent.
We sat out in the pale sunshine in my tiny, badly paved courtyard where the weeds poke through and attempt to lift the bricks with a certain amount of success. We drank some wine and ate olives and cheese. It had rained the night before and water was dripping from a section of clogged guttering and rusted downpipe. Over the years, leaves and dust had built up in the guttering to provide fertile soil for a variety of botanical species.
I watched the drops for a while and poured some more wine. ‘Viv’s solution to the income problem is to sell the house.’
‘What’s his solution to the what-do-I-do-with-my-life problem?’
‘He’s a lawyer—he left that up to me.’
‘How far have you got?’
I raised my glass. ‘To here.’
‘Yeah, alcoholism’s a sort of career. I guess we all flirt with it.’
‘I gave it a try when Cyn left me, and a few other times since. Didn’t quite take.’
Lily nodded. She’s been through the mill—a divorce, broken relationships, an abortion or two. She once spent a couple of weeks in Silverwater on a contempt charge for refusing to reveal a source. In a funny way our careers have run parallel. She even likes boxing and it was at the fights where her brother was on the card that I met her.
She plucked at a weed and a brick came loose. She has strong wrists. ‘ASIO’s recruiting,’ she said. ‘Intelligence, for want of a more accurate word, is a growth industry. They take on all types. You’re ex-army, aren’t you? What rank?’
‘Second lieutenant.’
‘You’d have to learn to pronounce it lootenant, but they might like you.’
‘As Marlon Brando said to his agent when he was asked whether he’d be willing to be interviewed by Kenneth Tynan, “I’d rather be boiled in urine”.’
Lily laughed. ‘You could write your memoirs.’
‘Boiled in urine. Tell you what, let’s see if there’s a film within driving distance we could stand to watch.’
There wasn’t. We saw films pretty regularly and had similar tastes—political thrillers, biopics, historical stuff. We’d already seen what was on offer that appealed and the rest were animations and dumb dross. We kept promising ourselves we’d see some foreign flicks as recommended by David and Margaret, but somehow never got around to it. We had a meal in Newtown where I have an office I no longer need. Luckily, the lease is running out. We went back to my house and made love. She was gone in the morning the way she almost always is and the way I tell myself I like it—almost all the time.
Our deal is that we talk about whatever it is we’re engaged on. I hadn’t had much to say recently. Pursuing clients who still owed me money, keeping fit in the gym and trying not to think about the future beyond the last appeal submission don’t make for interesting chat. Lily, on the other hand, always has three or four stories on the go and gives me the juicy bits. I enjoy what she says at the time but forget it pretty quickly. I usually read the published stories, or skim them.
A slightly cold morning. Coffee and the paper. No breakfast. To the gym for a forty-five minute light workout scoffed at by the gymaholics—the women with real bicep definition, the men with six-pack abs. We exchange insults in between grunts. The steam and the smell of chlorine drew me to the spa and I soaked there for a whole fifteen minute cycle, showered and got dressed feeling fit, moral and bored shitless. I was retired and very far from self-funded. Was there a support group? Did I need counselling? Any point in ringing Lawsie and complaining about a system that required private enquiry agents to wear kid gloves? I was sure I’d get a hearing.
It went on like that for a couple of days. A long overdue cheque came in and eased the pain a bit. There was still a couple of grand outstanding. Some people seem to think that being de-licensed equals no need to pay. To fend off a wave of anger and self-pity, I rang Frank Parker, retired from the New South Wales Police with the rank of deputy commissioner. Sitting pretty on his pension.
‘Cliff. How’s it going?’
‘Ratshit, thanks, Frank. How d’you fill in the time?’
‘Oh, you know. Tennis, reading, bit of volunteer work here and there.’
‘Is that satisfying?’
‘I spent the last years in the job in an office shuffling paper, mate. It’s better than that. Time hanging heavy?’
‘Yeah, and the wolf ’s slinking towards the door.’
‘I’ve had you in mind. Did some web research. You can work as a PEA in the ACT without a licence. At least for now. How would you feel about Canberra?’
‘Much the same as I’d feel about Hobart.’
‘You know the solution. Sell the crumbling Glebe fortress to some IT couple with money coming out their arseholes. Buy a townhouse in Coogee. Learn to surf.’
‘I was surfing when I was ten years old.’
‘How often since then?’
‘Not often.’
‘There you go, learn to surf again. Or how about bush-walking? You could meet up with Bob Carr.’
‘Yesterday’s man. What does the new bloke do when he takes off his suit?’
‘No idea. But you have to find something that you want to do, that you’re good at and will bring in a buck.’
‘I know. Thanks, Frank. I’ll think about it.’
But I didn’t have to think about it because two days later Lily was murdered.
2
The sequence of events went like this: at 10.30 am I got a telephone call.
‘Mr Cliff Hardy?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Detective Constable Farrow of the Northern Crimes Unit. Ms Lillian Truscott had your name in her passport as the person to contact in the event of an accident.’
That was news to me. ‘She’s had an accident?’
‘I’m sorry to tell you, sir, that Ms Truscott is dead.’
I felt the room spin and I had to lean against the wall. I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles cracked. Lily had always been a wild driver and inclined to take risks with the breathalyser. ‘A car accident?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What then? When?’
Constable Farrow didn’t answer and I could hear muted mutterings as she shielded the phone. Then her voice came through, shakily but clear. ‘Ms Truscott’s body has been taken to the mortuary in Glebe. We’d be obliged if you could identify her.’ Police-person Farrow sounded about twenty.
‘How did she die?’
‘Would you like a police car to pick you up, sir?’
‘Listen, Constable, I was in the army and I’ve been a private investigator for longer than you’ve been alive. I’ve been around death. How did she fucking die?’
Maybe Farrow was twenty-five. Her tone hardened. ‘Detective Colin Williams will meet you at the mortuary in half an hour. Thank you, Mr Hardy.’
It was just down the road. I didn’t know the morgue was in Glebe when I moved there. It’s an odd fact, but not many Sydney people know where it is—probably don’t want to know. I was there in fifteen minutes with grief and anger raging. I parked in a no-standing zone and walked across to where a man in a suit stood near the entrance to the building. He was youngish and fit-looking with a face arranged for compassion. Maybe. He put out his hand.
‘Mr Hardy?’
I ignored the hand. ‘You Williams?’
He was young but he’d been in the job long enough not to take any shit. The hand dropped and the body straightened. ‘DS Williams, yes.’
‘How was she killed?’
I was older, greyer, unshaven, dressed sloppily, driving a beat-up car, but he was bright or experienced enough to know an angry and potentially violent man when he saw one. And he wasn’t going to give any more ground than he had to. He turned away and took a step towards the entrance.
Almost over his shoulder he said, ‘She was murdered. Come with me, please.’
I followed him through the heavy street doors, past a desk where he flashed his credentials and down corridors with vinyl flooring and fluorescent lights. Let’s go artificial when we’re dealing with the essential reality of death. I’d been here before and knew it wasn’t anything like on TV, where they slot the dead into freezers and people stand around in green scrubs and white hats waiting to perform autopsies and mutter into microphones in hushed, concerned tones. Sydney doesn’t have enough suspicious deaths to justify the dramatics.
Williams led me to a small, plain, antiseptic room of the sort you might go to for a blood test. A body, covered by a sheet, lay on a trolley.
‘Show me,’ I said.
An attendant in white overalls was standing nearby and Williams gave him a nod. He went to the trolley and pulled back the plastic sheet.
It was Lily and it wasn’t Lily. The same features, hair, throat, lines and the asymmetries that make up a face. But no living face is that still, showing that the life current has been turned off. I’d seen corpses embalmed and made ready for the ground or the flames, and she didn’t have that frozen, painted look. In a strange way that difference helped to give me some distance at a moment when I needed it. I nodded at Williams and stepped back.
We retraced our steps until we were outside the building again. I hadn’t noticed the cold when I left my house in a shirt and jeans but I did now. I shivered as the wind hit me. Williams turned his back to the wind and lit a cigarette. He held out the packet to me and I was tempted but refused.
He took a few deep draws, exhaled and the wind carried the smoke away. ‘We have to talk,’ he said. ‘This is your turf, Hardy. Where?’
I told him to follow me and I drove to the coffee place in Glebe Point Road next to where the Valhalla Cinema used to be. A lot of places in Glebe used to be where they aren’t anymore. Too many. I found a parking spot in Hereford Street, went inside and ordered a long black. Williams must have parked well away because he took ten minutes to arrive and looked pissed off. Maybe because I hadn’t ordered him a coffee. The place was thinly populated and I picked a corner furthest from the other patrons. Williams ordered at the counter and sat down. We didn’t speak until the coffees arrived, mine only thirty seconds before his. Service can be slow but cops have a way of speeding it up and a savvy Glebe coffee bar worker can usually spot a cop.