Appeal Denied: A Cliff Hardy Novel

by Peter Corris

  The man who’d been attacked was sitting now and wiping his face. The other one was dealing with the escort who had champagne ruining her hairdo. By then I was at the table and had the woman by the arm. She was swearing and unsteady, whether from shock or insobriety I couldn’t tell. I got a firm, incapacitating hold on her, and moved her away before anyone at the table could react.

  ‘Security,’ I said as loudly as I could. ‘I’ll deal with this.’ I half carried the struggling woman out of the room. She fought me, but she wasn’t in a fit state to do much damage and I managed to get her into a quiet corner away from the noisy bars.

  ‘Don’t struggle,’ I said in her ear. ‘I’m not security and I’m not a cop. I want to help. Let’s get out of here.’ She was at the end of her tether, went limp and let me lead her out of the hotel onto the pavement, where a cold wind swept down on us. She wore only a light blouse and I took off my blazer and draped it over her shoulders as I propelled her along the street.

  ‘Help?’ she said. ‘How can you help? He’s dead. They bloody murdered him, the bastards.’

  She wore a wedding ring. ‘Mrs Williams?’ I said, still with a grip on her arm.

  ‘Yes. Who’re you? I don’t know you.’

  ‘I met your husband,’ I said. ‘I thought he was a good man. I need to talk to you.’

  I found a coffee bar not far away and got Mrs Williams seated. She was still agitated, but calmer, resigned to being moved about. I decided she wasn’t drunk. I ordered two flat whites. We sat quietly. She handed me my jacket with what was almost a smile.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I really freaked them, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did a good job of that all right.’

  The coffees came and I encouraged her to put sugar in hers. She did and drank it scalding hot without seeming to notice. She had a strong, pale face, dark hair and the look of someone usually well in control. Not now. She played with the spoon, moved her free hand up to her face and looked for a moment as if she was about to bite her fingernails, which were short and well-shaped. She saw what she was doing and pulled her hand away.

  ‘Haven’t bitten my nails since I was a kid,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t have a cigarette on you?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be right back on them if I’m not careful. Gave them up when I got pregnant with Lucy. Col tried but he couldn’t. I made him smoke outside.’

  Tears came to her eyes and she wiped them away with a napkin before drinking more coffee.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I suppose I should thank you. Those bastards could’ve given me a rough time. They’re mates with everyone in that place. You seem to know who I am. Who’re you?’

  I told her as much as I thought she needed to know to understand why I’d butted in. She listened quietly, told me her name was Pam when I told her mine. She stopped fidgeting and nodded when I finished.

  ‘Col told me about the journalist being killed.’

  ‘Did he tell you he’d been taken off the case?’

  ‘Yes, but not why. He never talked about his work in detail. Bottled it all up. But when he got shot I knew who’d done it.’

  I sensed she didn’t mean it literally and I waited for her to elaborate.

  ‘That was Gary Perkins back there, a Chief Superintendent and a bloody crook. I don’t know the other one—some sleaze or other. They’re hand-in-glove with the money men.’

  ‘They? You mean Perkins, and who else?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not sure. I shouldn’t even have known that much, but I heard Col on the phone a few times when he didn’t know I was around. He was getting more and more upset as time went on. I tried to persuade him to transfer, even resign, but he wouldn’t. Once he said, without meaning to, that he couldn’t.’

  ‘How did you interpret that, Pam?’

  ‘I didn’t like to think about it, but I reckon he must have been caught up in some of the corruption. Turned a blind eye, took some money, I don’t know. The other day I talked to a friend of mine who was the wife of another man in the unit. He died of cancer. She said he told her before he died that Perkins and some of the others were thieves and murderers. She said her bloke was scared for his life because Perkins didn’t trust him and took him off a case that was a murder Perkins was covering up. When I heard that I put two and two together with Col being taken off the case involving your … partner. And I just snapped. I’m on this lousy medication for depression. It screws me up. But I took some and had a big vodka to give myself courage, and you saw what I did.’

  ‘You’ve put yourself at risk.’

  ‘I don’t care. My sister’s staying with me for a bit. She lives in Queensland and I’m going to move up there with Lucy. Get away from all this shit.’

  ‘I hope that’s going to happen soon.’

  She smiled and some of the tension went out of her face, leaving it alert and appealing. ‘Tomorrow. I’m not really brave. I just had to do something.’

  ‘I understand. That’s why I’m trying to get evidence on why Lily was killed. I’m picking up bits and pieces and you’ve helped me.’

  She shrugged. ‘Can’t see how. I haven’t got any evidence.’

  ‘Do you think your friend might have?’

  ‘Hannah? I don’t know. She might. She’s still furious about Danny’s death. She reckons the strain of working in the unit brought on the cancer. Probably not true, but …’

  ‘I’d like to talk to her.’

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘Very.’

  She looked hard at me and seemed to be making a judgement. ‘I’d say you’re every bit as tough as them. I’d love to see them screwed. I’ll phone Hannah tomorrow before I go. If she’s willing to talk to you, I’ll phone you and tell you where to find her and that.’

  I gave her my card. She said she’d driven from Lane Cove and was all right to drive home. I said I’d follow her to make sure she was safe. Her car was parked around the corner from mine and I gave her my jacket again for the short walk.

  The wind was cold and she drew the jacket around her. She put a hand into one of the pockets and took out my keys.

  ‘What d’you drive?’

  ‘An old Falcon.’

  ‘An honest man’s car.’

  She put the keys away and took out my Swiss army knife. ‘Col always carried one of these.’

  ‘Do you know anyone in the unit you can trust?’ I asked.

  ‘No. I’ve had condolence calls from some of them and I expect I’ll get cards, but it’ll be bullshit.’

  ‘A woman called me to tell me about Lily. A detective named Farrow. Is she—?’

  ‘Jane Farrow? She threw herself at Col at a party. That slut. She’d fuck anything that moved. She’s the last person I’d trust.’

  16

  What had started out as a fishing expedition had possibly landed a fair-sized catch. Pam Williams struck me as a sensible, level-headed woman who’d allowed herself one uncontrolled outburst. Fair enough. If Hannah whoever-she-was, widow of Danny whoever-he-was, had any hard evidence to use against Perkins and the others, perhaps Jane Farrow’s dangerous plan wouldn’t be needed.

  After following Pam to a modest block of flats in Lane Cove—a fair distance and a few grades down from Townsend’s bijou cottage—I drove home in a better frame of mind. It was late and I hadn’t eaten. I felt like a solid drink and thought I’d better act on the Graham Greene principle—I’d read that Greene’s only real interest in food was to act as a blotter for alcohol. Scrambled eggs and toast go down as well at midnight as at any other time, I reckon, and particularly with a solid scotch and soda.

  I got the notebook I was using to replace the stolen one and started to make my diagrams and doodles. I’ve done this for years—writing names, connecting them with arrows and dotted lines according to the firmness of the information, and scattering exclamation points and question marks through the scribble. Tim Arthur had told me not to trust Townsen
d, but Harry Tickener had provided a satisfactory explanation for that. But here was a whole new expression of distrust—Pam Williams vis-a-vis Jane Farrow. Given that I’d already wondered why Farrow would have had any intimate connection with Gregory, her name now deserved a heavy underlining and a big question mark.

  Townsend rang in the morning to ask about my progress. I claimed to be making some without giving details. I said that the name Gary Perkins, mentioned by Jane Farrow, had come up and I was looking into him.

  Townsend didn’t sound very impressed and I suspected he knew I wasn’t telling it all. Perhaps I should have added a few notes of frustration. I tried to cover up by asking him about his progress, but he saw through that.

  ‘You’re hedging, Cliff. I thought we were in this together.’

  I had to come clean, not only to stay onside with him, but to test his commitment to the investigation, given his relationship with Farrow. ‘I’m hearing things about Jane,’ I said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘You’ve had time to think about it. What’s your take on this plan of hers?’

  ‘I don’t like it, but she’s got us over a barrel. Unless we come up with something better she’ll go ahead anyway. There are other journalists, other private eyes for that matter. And you aren’t even one of them, strictly speaking. So, have you come up with anything better?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’ve got a call waiting. Get back to me when you decide what the fuck you want to do.’

  He hung up and I couldn’t blame him. He could tell I felt myself to be on shifting ground and that doesn’t inspire confidence. I moped around the house for a while and then the phone rang.

  ‘Hardy.’

  ‘Mr Hardy, this is Pam Williams. I’m calling from Mascot. Lucy and my sister and I are on our way to the sunshine state.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Hannah Morello is gung-ho to talk to you. Here’s her phone number and address.’

  She rattled them off, with the airport lounge noise in the background. I scribbled them down and thanked her.

  ‘Maybe you can come back when all this is over,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t think so. Know what? Sydney’s overpriced and overrated. Bye.’

  Good exit line. I rang Townsend and told him I had an informant ready to talk about police corruption in the Northern Crimes Unit—possibly in possession of hard evidence.

  ‘You were going to keep this from me?’

  ‘I just got confirmation. I’m inviting you to sit in on the meeting, on one condition.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That you don’t tell Jane anything about it until we follow it up, check it out, see what we can make of it.’

  A hesitation, then he said, ‘Agreed.’

  ‘How will I be sure? We’re talking several deaths here.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  I’d rather have had his mobile phone and every other means of communication he possessed under my control, but there was no way. Still, I played it cautiously. I said I’d call him back with a meeting place and time.

  I rang Hannah Morello and told her who I was.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for your call,’ she said. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘I’ve got your address. When?’

  ‘Just as soon as you can get here.’

  Promising. She lived in Drummoyne. I said one hour. I rang Townsend and arranged to meet him at a point some distance from the Morello address in forty minutes. I drove to Drummoyne, scoped out the Morello house, and took up a spot where I could see Townsend arriving. I’d made sure I wasn’t followed; I wanted to be sure he wasn’t. Dead on time, he arrived in a sporty yellow Mazda. The place I’d chosen had a view of the water at Iron Cove if you walked fifty metres. Townsend sat in his car for a few minutes, got out and went to where he could see the view. Who wouldn’t? The day was clear and the water was blue and Sydney’s waterways have an attraction all their own, no matter what Pam Williams thought.

  A few cars passed, none slowed or circled. Looked to be all clear. I drove along and pulled up beside Townsend. I got out. He turned, saw me, turned back.

  ‘Great view,’ I said. ‘Used to be more interesting when there were working docks and shipyards. That’s what I think. What d’you think?’

  He didn’t take the bait. ‘Trusting, aren’t you?’

  ‘No. One of the reasons I’m still alive.’

  ‘What was the point?’

  ‘To make sure you weren’t followed.’

  ‘That is, I didn’t tell Jane.’

  ‘Among other possibilities.’

  ‘You’re a bastard, Hardy.’

  ‘Wish I had a dollar … Let’s go and talk to a woman who might be able to help us a lot.’

  Hannah Morello lived in a terrace house in a street a block or two back from the river. Maybe a glimpse of the water from the top storey. Not many cars parked in the street at that time of day. We opened the gate and in two strides—two and a half for Townsend—were at the front door. I knocked and the door was opened almost immediately. Hannah Morello was lean and dark with a beaky nose and a strong chin. She wore jeans and a sweater, sneakers.

  ‘Mrs Morello, I’m Cliff Hardy. This is Lee Townsend.

  I know I didn’t say he was coming but—’ ‘I know Mr Townsend from the television,’ she said. ‘Please come in.’

  She ushered us into the front room. It was a sitting room with a TV and stereo set-up, pleasantly furnished. A wall had been knocked out to make a double space out of the two front rooms with the second one serving as a dining room. Standard terrace renovation—a big hammer, an r.s.j. and a skip, and you’re in business.

  We sat on vinyl lounge chairs around a low table. She offered us coffee. We refused. She sat very straight in her chair, tense, but with a determined look, while I ran through a quick preamble on what we were doing, what we expected to do and how we hoped she could help us.

  ‘I can,’ she said. ‘I’ve been waiting for the chance. Didn’t know what to do, but when Pam Williams phoned me I knew my bloody chance had come.’

  Townsend shot me an enquiring look. I hadn’t told him about Pam Williams, but it was the quickest of glances so as not to distract her.

  ‘We know that Gary Perkins and others are corrupt,’ I said. ‘We know that they’ve connived at murder, maybe committed it or had it done. But we haven’t yet got any proof.’

  ‘I have.’

  Townsend leaned forward and his handsome face took on an expression of confidence and reassurance. This was the way he appeared on television—uncannily bigger, stronger, smarter.

  ‘When you say that, Mrs Morello, what do you mean?’

  ‘I have photographs my husband took.’

  ‘Photographs that incriminate Perkins?’

  ‘And that Greek.’

  ‘Kristos,’ I said. ‘What about Vince Gregory?’

  She shrugged. ‘Dunno about him.’

  Townsend took a device the size of a cigarette packet from his jacket pocket. ‘This is a miniature digital recorder,’ he said. ‘Would you be willing to let me record you when you put the photos on the table here and tell us briefly what they are and how you come to have them? You don’t have to act, just speak clearly.

  I can keep your face out of the frame or have it pixelated if you wish.’

  She didn’t even blink. ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘And bugger that. I’ll look the lens full in the face if you want.’

  Townsend nodded. ‘Let’s do it.’

  She left the room and I heard her mounting the stairs. Townsend smiled at me. ‘Technology, Hardy. Out of your depth, are you?’

  I’d read about these gadgets, never used one, but I knew the language. ‘Hope you’ve got a big enough memory card.’

  He smiled and checked the thing over. ‘I never did hear about this Pam Williams, although I can work out who she is.’

  ‘You’ve heard now. She put me on to Mrs Morello just before she decampe
d lock, stock and barrel to Queensland. It worries me the danger this woman is putting herself in.’

  ‘That’s why I offered to mask her identity.’

  ‘Big of you, but that won’t do it.’

  ‘Let’s see what she’s got first. Play it by ear after that. She looks pretty … capable.’

  Hannah Morello came back carrying a manilla folder. She stood in the archway looking at Townsend, who lifted his camera and nodded. She walked into the room and spilled the contents of the folder onto the table. A couple of photos fell off the edge. Nice drama. Night shots. Black and white, at least a dozen of them.

  Townsend filmed the action and then lifted the camera to film her as she sat down. She’d tidied her dark mane of hair and put on a little makeup. Changed her sweater for a dark silk shirt. She used her left hand to point to the photographs, her wedding ring glinting.

  ‘My name is Hannah Morello,’ she said. ‘I am the widow of Detective Sergeant Daniel Morello of the Northern Crimes Unit of the New South Wales Police Service. These photographs were taken by my husband. They show Detective Senior Sergeant Mikos Kristos murdering the journalist Rex Robinson. My husband died of cancer some time after he took these pictures. I found them later among his effects. I believe the stress he underwent as a result of what he discovered about his colleagues caused or accelerated his cancer. I want justice.’

  17

  Hannah Morello gestured for Townsend to turn the recorder off.

  ‘From things he said, my guess is that Danny had talked to Robinson about what was happening in the unit. Perhaps it was off the record. I’m still guessing, but I think he didn’t trust Robinson. You’d lose the ability to trust, working in that place. Somehow, he was on the scene when this happened. Maybe he was following Robinson, or even Perkins. I don’t know.’