by Peter Corris
I got the drinks, didn’t bother about the nuts, and went back. Jane Farrow had emptied her glass and pushed it to the edge of the table. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hardy. We’re all under a lot of strain here.’
I put the glass of white in front of her. ‘Strain relief,’ I said. ‘You’re right. Me too.’
I sat and Townsend sipped what was left in his glass before pulling the fresh one towards him. ‘You were at the sharp end today, Hardy, trying to contact Williams.’
‘No, he was at the sharp end and I think I helped to put him there.’
I told them about my phone-tapping suspicions and the possibility that Kristos was involved. Jane Farrow drank some wine and made a movement that suggested she’d have buried her head in her hands if she lacked the control she obviously had.
‘It’s getting to be too much for me,’ she said.
‘What is?’ I said.
‘D’you know what happens to whistleblowers in the police?’
I could think of a few who’d lost weight and a few who’d lost blood, not to mention their jobs. ‘Can’t recall any who went onward and upward.’
She almost snarled. ‘You’re not taking this seriously.’
‘Ms Farrow, you haven’t given me anything to take one way or another. I don’t care about you and I don’t care about the police. I care about finding out who killed Lily Truscott and putting that person through as much severe and long-lasting misery as I can.’
‘Easy, Hardy,’ Townsend said.
‘Easy my arse. This is good plonk, but otherwise I feel I’m wasting my time.’
She gave me a hard stare. ‘The Northern Crimes Unit is seriously corrupt. Not all of the divisions, not everybody, and not all the time, but there’re people pulling strings, making sure that things run the way they want and taking drastic steps when certain matters come up.’
‘Matters like?’
‘Like murder. Lillian Truscott wasn’t the first journalist to be killed. Do you remember the Rex Robinson case?’
I didn’t, must have been too caught up in my own problems, but Townsend obviously did. ‘Freelance,’ he said. ‘Killed in his car about a year ago. Brakes failed and he went through a railing into the water. Where was that again?’
‘Northbridge. I’m sure he must’ve got on to some of the stuff I’m talking about and was … taken care of.’
‘By a policeman?’ I asked.
She shrugged. ‘Or someone contracted by a policeman and police used to take the investigation precisely nowhere.’
‘That’s a throwback to the old days—the green light and all that stuff.’
Jane nodded. ‘Bit before my time, but if you say so. You need to understand the history of the unit.’
Townsend sat very still. I looked at him and he looked steadily back. ‘This is more than I’ve heard from Jane so far,’ he said.
‘Let’s not start talking about someone present as if they’re not here again,’ I said. ‘You’ve got my attention, Ms Farrow.’
‘Jane, for Christ’s sake. I’m putting my life in your fucking hands, both of you. Let’s pretend we at least know each other.’
Townsend put his arm around her shoulders and she let it stay there. She was very stressed and had done a good job of concealing it, but the facade was cracking.
A man like me, with a battered dial and the hooded, distrustful eyes inherited from my Irish gypsy grandmother, has difficulty looking comforting. I’ve been told I have a voice like Bob Hawke on a good day, so I can’t soothe that way either.
‘I’ll say this,’ I said. ‘I think you’re a very brave woman and I admire bravery. My guess is you want our help— Lee’s and mine—as much as we want yours. Can we start from there?’
Jane drew in a deep breath and drank some of her wine. Townsend did much the same and they exchanged smiles.
‘You fucking charmer, you,’ Townsend said.
I put on the brogue. ‘Irish.’
‘Hardy’s not Irish,’ Jane said.
‘And other things. Can we get a feed here? I’m bloody starving.’
We went next door to a fish restaurant. Suited me. Townsend had grilled sardines and salad and ate like a bird, while Jane Farrow and I ploughed into the barramundi. She seemed to appreciate the extra time it gave her and I wondered if she might change her mind. We shared a bottle of white.
I felt I should get the ball rolling as we cleaned up the chips. ‘Aren’t you worried some of your colleagues might see you in this company, Jane?’
‘No. The high-ups have their designated watering hole, the Lord of the Isles in St Leonards, and the drones have theirs, or they go home to their wives, girlfriends and boyfriends.’
I nodded. ‘Lee, what’s on your mind?’
‘You know me,’ Townsend said. ‘I’ll stick a camera in anyone’s face, put a foot in any doorjamb. But this is different. I’m genuinely worried about what might happen to Jane if … if she puts flesh on the bones of what she’s just told us.’
‘I’m doing it,’ Jane said. ‘I can’t stand it any longer. Let whatever happens happen.’
She told us that the Northern Crimes Unit had been put together from a group of other police outfits and was designed to liaise closely with business, community, political, educational and church organisations to provide a coordinated anti-crime set-up that would be a model for other areas.
‘It was kept hush-hush, but it sounded good and quite a lot of people in the force, good people, were attracted to join it. But it turned out to be bullshit. None of the organisations could get on together. The business people were out for a big buck like always, the God squaddies were getting madder and more right-wing by the minute, the state and private schools were at each other’s throats. The whole thing fell apart. The good people left and the force had to offer accelerated promotion and special conditions to attract people. That’s why I joined—to get on. But a lot of the others who joined saw the opportunities to run profitable sidelines—mainly escort agencies, immigration scams, and supplying drugs to the affluent middle-class workaholics.’
‘How long has this been going on?’ I asked.
‘At its worst, a couple of years.’
Townsend said, ‘How was it kept under wraps?’
‘It’s the lower north shore and the harbour beaches, Lee,’ Jane said. ‘Nothing nasty is supposed to happen here, and a lot of bribery money gets spread around to keep mouths shut.’
We ordered coffee and I had to wonder if Townsend had a tape recorder on him somewhere. It was hard to imagine him letting all this just go out in the ether. As for me, I wished I could have taken notes, because some of the things Jane said chimed with what little I’d gleaned from Lily’s files—immigration fraud, the sex industry. The stuff about drugs to the well-heeled was new, but maybe Lily’d had a code for drugs that I didn’t know.
‘You look sceptical,’ Jane said to me.
‘No, not really. It’s just so big and … amorphous.’
‘Lily must have got wind of it somehow,’ Townsend said. ‘She never hinted …?’
I shook my head. ‘Never, but she was like that. She didn’t talk about her stories until they were nailed down.’
Townsend said, ‘The questions, as far as Cliff ’s concerned, correct me if I’m wrong, are—who did she get the information from and who found out about it?’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘And what are the questions for you, Lee?’
‘How to write, broadcast, film, whatever, the story and get it out while protecting Jane.’
The coffee arrived.
I looked at Jane, who was spilling packets of sugar into her cup, stirring, adding more, stirring, until Townsend gently stopped her.
‘Jane?’ he said.
She stopped stirring, took a sip of the coffee and grimaced at the sweetness. ‘I grew up in Mt Druitt,’ she said. ‘We weren’t exactly welfare dependents, but not far from it. I got into the University of Western Sydney and did okay. I was pretty good at eve
rything. Not brilliant, but okay. My mum drummed into me that what you needed was a secure job where you could get on. A police recruitment guy, and a woman, came out to the uni. I applied and got accepted, went to the Academy. There were no fucking HECS fees then at the Academy the way there are now and I knew it’d be a while before I earned enough to have to pay back the uni HECS. I sailed through, did a stint in the country and was told about the openings at the Northern Command.’
She picked up her coffee cup, but I pushed mine across to her and put one packet of sugar in it and stirred. She smiled her thanks, had a drink, and went on.
‘Do you two city types understand that I’d never really been to Sydney at all? You can’t imagine what growing up in the west is like. You know the water’s that way and the mountains are over there, but they don’t seem to have anything to do with you. I’d had a few fleeting visits as a kid—school outing stuff, the Olympics, something forgettable at the Opera House one night. I’d never properly seen the harbour, let alone the northern suburbs and beaches. I was knocked out when I saw how terrific the place was, after where I’d come from. The whole scene got to me, the beauty of it, and I was happy working here. Then I saw what was going on in the unit. I knew that they were— fuck, how to put it?—polluters, with their scams and deals and cover-ups. I just want this beautiful place to be made beautiful again.’
13
A while ago Lily and I had been to an exhibition of police photographs dating back to the early years of the last century and running through to just after the Second World War. The show was at the Police and Justice Museum—sepia and black and white stuff, very stark, very dramatic. The notes that would have put the photos in context had mostly been lost, so the images had to speak for themselves with a minimum of interpretation. They did. They showed the underbelly of a city founded by lawbreakers and their punishers which bore their stamp down the generations. I loved Sydney, but I never imagined it could be as beautiful on the inside as the outside. Not a single street of it. After working on the seamy side for as long as I had, and associating with police and others who did the same, I knew that corruption and violence were an inescapable part of the scenery.
‘You’ve got that sceptical look again,’ Townsend said.
‘No. I’m just trying to remember when I last thought a beautiful place was capable of being good as well.’
‘You think I’m naive,’ Jane said.
‘Maybe, but in a bloody nice way.’
‘I’m not naive. What I just said might sound that way, but I’ve seen people corrupted and destroyed.’
I nodded. ‘These people, these string-pullers, do you know who they are?’
She hesitated before replying. ‘Yes. I’ve got a list.’
‘In general terms?’
‘A big developer, two politicians—one local, one state— an owner and an operator of several clubs.’
‘No minister of religion?’
‘No, why?’
‘Doesn’t matter. What area does this unit cover?’
‘Not that much—North Sydney, St Leonards, Crows Nest, across to Greenwich, and to Mosman on the east and up to Balmoral.’
‘Lot of people there.’
‘All the more to exploit.’
‘All the more to get upset.’
‘Look, I’ll tell you how it works. Give you an example. A developer wants to take over a site, put up a block of apartments, but it’s zoned commercial. He funnels some money to the councillors and they get a zoning variation so the citizens don’t have to be consulted— commercial-cum-residential. Up go the flats, but the developer has a criminal record and shouldn’t be in business. That’s when my colleagues step in. They let him get on with his building on the understanding that a certain number of the units are set aside for the girls and that brings in the drugs, automatically. The same police talk to the girls’ suppliers and make arrangements for other people living in the flats, or nearby, to be serviced. The cops take a percentage. It’s all kept quiet. Everybody’s happy.’
Townsend looked worried. ‘Wouldn’t it change the character of an area? Wouldn’t someone notice and complain?’
Jane shook her head. ‘People are too busy to notice. Do you know what sort of hours they work to keep their jobs and meet their mortgages? But you’re right, some have complained. They’re either intimidated or bought off. For a few, like Rex Robinson and Lillian Truscott, the intimidation went all the way, as I said. Anyhow, that was just an example. The development scams, rezonings, kickbacks to councillors—no one cares anymore. Just like no one expects the politicians to accept that the buck stops with them. It does, but not the way whoever said it meant.’
‘Harry Truman,’ Townsend said.
I said, ‘The man who dropped the atom bombs.’
Jane shrugged. ‘There you go. The other thing is, it’s intermittent and spread out and happening on a large and small scale all over the place. Especially at the beaches. A fuss blows up over something, usually some conflict of interest within the organisation, as I like to think of it. It’s not like it’s a criminal syndicate. It’s a loose organisation with people operating on a nod and a wink and a brown paper bag—the way it was in Queensland under Joh Bjelke-Petersen, I’ve been told. They settle it down and things go on as before, after a pause.’
‘What you say’s very convincing, Jane,’ I said, ‘but can you supply the evidence?’
She fiddled with the coffee cup. ‘This is the hard part. I’ve kept a detailed record of things I know happened— names, place names and dates. And I have personal knowledge of amounts of money involved in … some of the minor matters. I’ve got all this in a safe place, at least I hope it is. But I’m not going to come out of this squeaky clean. I’ve taken kickbacks myself. I had to, or I would’ve been sidelined. Or they would’ve made it so hard for me I’d have had to quit. That’s probably going to be difficult for you to understand.’
Townsend said, ‘Not necessarily, but it’s a complication in terms of your credibility.’
‘I know, but I’ve got every dollar documented and it’s all put away with the other stuff.’
She was very pale and her hands were shaking. Townsend put three fingers on her forearm and leaned a bit closer towards her. He was good at the body language— comforting, not condescending. I was sympathetic, but I didn’t feel I was getting a whole lot closer to my focus— who, in this tangle, spoke to Lily and who found that out and took the next step. Jane said it wasn’t her who put Lily on the track, but could I believe her? Professional, highly competent, concerned woman. Who more likely?
‘Cliff?’ Townsend said. ‘Where’ve you gone?’
‘I’m sorry. I’d like to know what your next move is, Jane. I mean, you’ve accumulated this … data. Why act now? And how?’
In fact, I had more questions: What was your relationship with Gregory and Williams? How did you team up with Townsend? Why were you happy to have me along at this meeting? Why are you prepared to blow the whistle now? But I let the questions I’d put stand.
Jane stopped fiddling and shaking. She drank some water, drew in a deep breath, and colour returned to her face. She glanced at Townsend and then looked straight at me. ‘I met Lee. As far as I could tell he wasn’t trying for a story, he was just …’
‘Attracted,’ Townsend said. ‘Right.’
‘So we talked, and then Lily Truscott was killed. I knew the name and that she was a journalist, and as soon as Colin Williams was reassigned, I made a connection to the sort of stuff I’ve been talking about and I spoke to Lee a bit more … specifically. And now we’re here.’
‘Lee,’ I said, ‘sounds as if most of this is all news to you.’
‘It is,’ Townsend said. ‘Jane has been very guarded. She gave me a few more hints when she heard I’d made contact with you.’
‘Why’s that?’ I said.
‘Because I want protection,’ Jane said. She broke off and took in another deep breath. ‘You’re driving, L
ee. Can I get a brandy?’
Townsend ordered two—one for her, one for me. Not my favourite drink by a long way, but I wanted to give her some kind of support and Townsend was bound to get the best stuff. I’d do my nocturnal sobering walk trick if necessary. The drinks came and Jane took a slug. Me too. Smooth.
‘I’ve got a plan,’ she said.
Jane Farrow’s plan was for her to meet with Vince Gregory, who was unhappy about her having broken off their affair. She intended to confirm that it was all off between them, to insult him and then tell him she was planning to report the corruption within the Northern Crimes Unit to the police ombudsman.
‘He’ll go nuts,’ she said. ‘He’ll be furious with me on both counts, but he’s a cold, calculating bastard and he’ll try to persuade me not to talk. I’ll say I need certain guarantees from Gary Perkins, he’s the Chief Super, and pretty much at the heart of the corruption, or very close to it.’
‘They’ll kill you,’ Townsend said.
She nodded. ‘They’ll try, but we set the meeting up so you can film and tape the discussion and the deal we strike, and we rely on Mr Hardy here to protect me. We film the attempt on me as well. A bit before it gets too heavy, I hope.’
‘It’s madness,’ Townsend said. ‘Far too dangerous.’
Then I got an insight into the obsession that had hold of her. She became almost coquettish: ‘Don’t you want the story, Lee?’
Townsend said nothing and she turned her attention to me. ‘If we get Gregory and Perkins on toast, they’ll dob in the others. They’ll talk. They’ll deal. It’s your best chance at getting a line on who killed Lillian. They’ll know.’
‘You’d give me a free run at them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Off-camera?’
She shrugged. ‘Why not?’
Obsessed, ruthless. Trustworthy? Impossible to be sure.