Appeal Denied: A Cliff Hardy Novel

by Peter Corris

  He could probably see us, or was bluffing that he could. But he was scripting the scene for now, and I played along.

  ‘Yes, they’re here.’

  ‘Right. The caravan park. Stop at the gates and wait. I’ll tell you the cabin number when I’m ready. Approach on foot.’

  He sounded composed. In one way that was good, not in another.

  ‘Have you got a gun?’ I asked before he could cut the connection.

  ‘Bet your fuckin’ life I’ve got a gun. Several, and I’ll use them if I have to.’

  The phone went dead. ‘He’s heavily armed,’ I said. ‘But he doesn’t sound wired.’

  Parker said, ‘It’s not too late to call this off. He’s down there somewhere and he’s got drugs and guns he shouldn’t have. I could call it in, and we could take him as he is.’

  ‘We’d get nothing but bullshit, Frank. And if they locked him up you know the others’d find a way to get to him. He says he can tell me who killed Lily. That’s my focus. You said you were in.’

  ‘I am,’ Parker said, ‘just spelling it out for you. Townsend?’

  ‘I don’t know how much Cliff’s told you, Mr Parker, but it’s more than just a story for me. It’s personal as well. Bit like Cliff. Not exactly, but …’

  ‘Bugger you both,’ Parker said. ‘Let’s get to this bloody caravan park and play it by ear.’

  Townsend had the UBD on his lap and a small torch in his hand. ‘It’s down near the water as you’d expect,’ he said. ‘First left, second right.’

  A boom gate barred the entrance to the caravan park. Presumably the occupants had means of opening it. A few lights were on inside the area, but at this time of year there wouldn’t be many transients. Hard to tell how many residents. We sat in the car and did some more waiting. The sky was cloudy but cleared to reveal a bright moon. The Georges River water was calm, with no breeze blowing. The lights of Tom Ugly’s bridge were reflected in the water; the sounds of the traffic carried clearly and the car lights gave the scene its only movement. The stillness tested my nerves.

  The mobile beeped and I answered.

  ‘Cabin twelve,’ Gregory said. ‘Set off in ten minutes.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘A hundred metres down, bear right. There’s an overhead light. You’ll find it.’

  I told the others what he’d said.

  ‘Bugger that,’ Frank said. ‘Don’t let him call all the shots.’

  We got out of the car and approached the boom gate. Frank and I ducked under it.

  ‘Shit,’ Townsend said. ‘I need a backup battery. Hang on a minute.’

  He returned to the car, not moving any more quickly than he had to. I heard Frank give an exasperated chuckle.

  ‘He’s dancing to Gregory’s tune. Doesn’t want to upset him.’

  ‘He’s going okay though, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Frank said. ‘There’s a lot I don’t like about this.’

  Townsend took his time. He rejoined us without speaking and we walked down the gravel road. As my eyes adjusted to the shadows, I saw that the lights showing were mostly in cabins away to the left, towards the water. Gregory’s instructions were taking us in the opposite direction. A thick cloud obscured the moon just then and visibility dropped suddenly.

  I hadn’t realised it, but Frank and I, tall men, were striding, and Lee Townsend was almost trotting to keep up. Typically, he made no protest. When we were well down the road, a light showed off to the right. A cabin stood in a space mostly set up for transients’ caravans and vehicles.

  ‘Has to be it,’ Townsend said.

  We stopped as Frank extended an arm to keep us back. He appeared to be sniffing the air.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  The quiet and stillness were blasted by the roar of an engine. A motorbike. No lights, just the shattering sound receding as we stood there, helpless in the dark.

  21

  The noise of the motorbike didn’t spark any alarm inside the caravan park. Perhaps the residents were used to hoons disturbing the peace at night. We ran to cabin number twelve. There were lights on inside and the front door was open. Townsend, the youngest and fittest, got there first and barged in. The cabin was a one-room job— a sitting space, a bed, a kitchenette. The television was on with the sound muted, a fast food ad showing.

  Vince Gregory sat facing the television. His eyes were open but he wasn’t seeing anything. He wore a white shirt and the collar and shoulder on the right side were dark with blood. His left arm had flopped down beside the chair. I felt for a pulse but there was nothing. Townsend unzipped his briefcase and took out his recorder.

  ‘Don’t,’ Frank said.

  Townsend froze. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Just don’t.’

  Frank gestured for us to go outside and we did. He took out his mobile and stabbed the buttons. He gave his name, the location, reported the discovery of a body and agreed to remain where he was.

  ‘Jesus,’ Townsend said, ‘at least let’s have a look around. He was supposed to have evidence that—’

  ‘You really think it’d still be here, Lee?’ I said.

  ‘It could be.’

  ‘You go in there and start poking about,’ Frank said, ‘and you’ll leave fingerprints and DNA all over the place.

  We’re going to have a hard enough time explaining what we’re doing here without that.’

  ‘At least let me get a picture.’

  ‘No. The man was a police officer. Show some respect.’

  ‘Police officer my arse. He was a criminal.’

  Frank took a step and loomed over him. ‘You’re a one-man court of law, are you? You’ll stay here and shut up until the police arrive. Then you can say what you like.’

  In that mood Frank Parker could be pretty intimidating, but Townsend wasn’t cowed. He swore, swung away and made a call on his mobile. His voice was urgent, demanding—the little man with the big presence. From what I heard, I gathered he was contacting his lawyer. It looked as if I’d have to call on the services of Viv Garner yet again.

  The uniforms arrived first, then the detectives, then the forensic team. By this time the caravan park was well awake with people in their dressing gowns and slippers taking an interest and the resident manager, hastily dressed, talking to the police. Frank and I said we’d make statements at the right time under the right conditions. Townsend refused to say a word until his solicitor was by his side. The cops treated Frank with respect in deference to his former rank. Townsend got the treatment appropriate to a medium-ranked celebrity. It was only Frank’s presence that stopped them treating me like shit. If they’d known I had an unlicensed pistol in the pocket of my denim jacket they might’ve done it anyway.

  They said my car would be impounded. I handed over the keys. They bundled us into two of their vehicles—Frank in one, Townsend and me in the other—and took us to their HQ in Hurstville. Of course they found the .45 and confiscated my mobile. I took off the bulletproof vest and surrendered it. The others did the same. They put us in separate rooms.

  I prepared myself for a long and difficult night. The interview room was typically bleak—fluorescent light, no windows, plastic chairs, nondescript table, stand and plugs for recording equipment, and that was it. I draped my jacket over the back of one chair to give it a bit of padding, pulled another one over as a leg rest and stretched back and out as best I could. Nothing to read, nothing to eat or drink, nothing to do but think. Not the Lubianka or Guantanamo Bay, but bad enough to be going on with.

  As I sat there with my bones aching, my stomach growling and the need for a piss building, one thing was clear. Someone within the Northern Crimes Unit, or in the employ of someone within it, had learned of Gregory’s defection and taken steps to frustrate it. Very effective steps bearing the hallmark of two of the three earlier killings— the neat, one low-calibre bullet execution. That was the person I needed to find. We’d never know now whether Gregory had the name
and the evidence to back it up.

  Another thing. Whoever had got to Gregory had waited until he’d identified his visitors. I could hear Gregory’s voice on the phone: Hardy? Got Townsend and Parker with you?

  Not a comfortable feeling. He was out there, killing policemen, the most serious crime of all in the eyes of many.

  Midnight came and went and then it got weird. The door opened and a uniformed female constable beckoned me out and asked, not told, me to follow her. I went along a passage and up some stairs. She opened a door and ushered me in. Different setting altogether—carpet, windows, easy chairs, civilised lighting. Frank and Townsend, both nursing coffee cups, sat a little apart and two men in suits sat nearby—one middle-aged, fattish, fair; the other younger, dark. Suits but no ties, stubble—called out in the early hours.

  Lawyers? I thought. No. Cops, senior cops.

  Frank stood and did the introductions. ‘Cliff, this is Senior Superintendent Matthews and Superintendent Mattioli.’

  Matthews gestured towards a coffee machine and cups sitting on top of a bar fridge. ‘Have some coffee, Mr Hardy.’

  ‘Tell you the truth, I’d rather have a piss.’

  Matthews said, ‘Constable.’

  The uniformed woman was standing with her back to the door. She opened it and I went through. Before the door closed I heard Matthews say quietly, ‘I hope he isn’t going to be difficult.’ Must have known a bit about me.

  I pissed, washed my hands and face, felt better. Back in the room, I poured myself a cup of coffee, drained it in one go, poured another, sat down. Matthews dismissed the underling and cleared his throat.

  ‘My colleague and I are from the Internal Affairs Division, Mr Hardy. When Mr Parker had spoken to the Hurstville detectives we were contacted, and that’s why you and Mr Townsend are at this meeting.’

  I sipped the less than hot coffee. Didn’t speak.

  Mattioli picked up the ball. ‘We’ve had an interest in the Northern Crimes Unit for some time. We have intelligence on a number of officers, especially Gregory.’

  No rank, surname only—getting ready to have him carry the can?

  I glanced at Frank, whose nod told me to hear the man out.

  The two of them, playing good cop and better cop, went on for a while about the intelligence they’d gathered on the unit and their plan to conduct investigations of, and mount surveillance on, some of its members. That plan was still part of their agenda, although the night’s events had thrown a spanner in the works.

  ‘We want your cooperation,’ Matthews said, including Frank and Townsend by inclining his head towards them, ‘in keeping a lid on what happened tonight as much as possible.’

  I could hardly stop myself from laughing—it tends to happen when I hear bureaucrats talking about ‘intelligence’ —but I kept a straight face.

  ‘I’m listening,’ I said.

  Mattioli said, ‘We know you have a personal interest in—’

  ‘So does Pamela Williams,’ I said, ‘and someone else I won’t name. And—who knows?—maybe someone cared for Rex Robinson. Not likely, from what I’m told, but possible. Are you going to go along with this shit, Frank? Lee?’

  Townsend looked at the floor as if the pattern in the carpet was of intense interest. Frank stared at me. We’d known each other for a long time and been at the barricades together. He could read me and I could read him. He opened his hands, hot gospel preacher-style.

  ‘They’ve got us on all sorts of counts, Cliff—conspiracy for one. The prohibited equipment—the vests, plus your pistol—give them the terrorism angle if they want to use it. My pension could be at risk and Townsend’s whole career. It’s a lay-down misère.’

  Frank knew how much I hated card games and how hopeless I was at them. But his message was clear—don’t stir, not now.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I might play along if I hear a bit more.’

  Matthews said the other senior members of the Northern Crimes Unit would be called in for questioning and that their activities and finances would be subject to intense investigation.

  ‘They’ll be spooked,’ I said. ‘They’ll run for cover.’

  Matthews smiled. ‘I understand you were a boxer, Mr Hardy. What did Joe Louis say about … whoever it was?’

  ‘It’s pronounced Lewis, not Louey,’ I said, ‘and it was Billy Coon. Joe said, “He can run, but he can’t hide”.’

  Matthews wasn’t the least put out by my one-upmanship. ‘Exactly,’ he went on. ‘We’ll have two objects. One, to discover the connection between police officers and the deaths of the people Mr Hardy has referred to, and that of Inspector Gregory, of course. Two, to bring to an end the criminality that seems to have prevailed under the protection, possibly with the connivance of …’

  ‘Of?’ I said.

  Mattioli said, ‘That remains to be determined.’

  Townsend spoke for the first time since I’d come into the room. No knowing what had gone down before-hand. ‘I noticed that the police at the caravan park kept the media at a distance. D’you think you can sit on this?’

  ‘We’ll try,’ Matthews said, ‘with your cooperation.’

  The soft soap approach. I wondered where Townsend’s lawyer was. I also wondered whether Townsend had been given a chance, or had wanted, to talk to Frank about Farrow’s plan and the Morello photographs. Probably not. My guess was that he’d opt to keep exploiting the evidence we had—and the people involved.

  ‘Cliff?’ Frank said.

  I looked directly at Matthews, taking in the double chin, the stomach bulge over the belt slung below his gut. A self-indulgent man, but not a stupid one. A dangerous combination.

  ‘What’s our role in your ongoing investigation?’ I said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice but probably not succeeding. Matthews was tired; Mattioli was angry; Frank was resigned; Townsend showed no reaction.

  ‘Consultative,’ Matthews said.

  I said, ‘What does that mean?’

  Matthews scratched at a patch of stubble near his bottom lip that was irritating him, but not as much as I was. ‘Hardy,’ he said, ‘it means whatever the fuck I want it to mean.’

  22

  The same policewoman escorted us from the building. My keys had been returned and my car stood immediately outside the police station. They hadn’t returned my gun or the vests. Without speaking, we got in the car and I drove to Leichhardt where I’d picked up Frank and Townsend. Silence all the way. Private thoughts.

  ‘Sorry for the trouble, Frank,’ I said when I stopped. ‘Didn’t work out quite as we planned.’

  Frank opened the door. ‘Things seldom do, Cliff. But it worked out worse for Vince Gregory than for us.’ He reached over and patted my shoulder. ‘Take my advice and keep clear of it.’

  ‘You know I can’t do that.’

  ‘I know, but I had to say it anyway. Those two reckon they’ll keep me informed. I doubt it, but anything I hear I’ll pass on.’

  ‘They’re looking to pin the murders on Gregory and do a bit of housekeeping and that’ll be it,’ Townsend said.

  Frank got out of the car. ‘Maybe. I’ll be in touch, Cliff.’

  He walked to his car, opened it with the remote, and drove away. Townsend stayed where he was in the back.

  ‘This is all bullshit,’ he said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Them saying they’ll look into the finances, their fucking close investigation in inverted commas. It’ll be a cover-up.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So you’re not going to play along?’

  ‘Of course not. Frank knows I won’t. Did you hear anything of the discussion between him and Matthews and Mattioli?’

  ‘No. They seemed to have settled things before they brought me in, but I was told I wouldn’t be detained or charged and that I could call off my solicitor. So I did.’

  ‘And what did you tell them about Jane Farrow and Hannah Morello?’

  ‘Are you nuts? I told them f
ucking nothing.’

  ‘So we’re still after Perkins and Kristos with our original leverage. Vince Gregory was a … distraction.’

  ‘Jesus, Hardy, that’s a bit harsh.’

  I swivelled around and looked at him. ‘Gregory called you the poor man’s John Pilger.’

  Townsend laughed, then stifled the sound. ‘I’m flattered, I think.’ At that moment he sounded tired. ‘What’s the point?’

  ‘The point is, I don’t care about Gregory or your feelings or sensitivities. I’m going where I’ve always been going—to whoever killed Lily, and I’ll use you and Jane Farrow and Hannah Morello and anyone else to get there.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Do you? I want to carry through with Jane’s plan ASAP.’

  Townsend apparently felt at a disadvantage sitting in the back of the car. Vertically challenged as he was, he’d feel at a disadvantage sitting anywhere. He got out quickly and came around to my half-lowered window, taking the higher ground.

  ‘I can’t see that working,’ he said. ‘The NCU’s bound to be in an uproar. Anyway, her strategy was to work through Gregory and he’s dead.’

  His use of the acronym annoyed me. I was strung out from the frustration of the night’s events. ‘Fuck that,’ I said.

  ‘She switches her focus to Perkins.’

  ‘I’m not sure she’d—’

  ‘She carries through on it or I tell Perkins and Kristos she’s an informer and that we’ve got evidence from her of what’s been going on and who’s in the shit and we see where the chips fall.’

  He backed off a step. ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘Try me.’

  I started the engine and pulled away with minimum acceleration. He took a couple of steps as if he wanted to stop me, but he pulled up. I watched him for a few seconds—growing smaller in the rear vision mirror.

  I meant it at the time, but I’m not sure I could’ve carried it through. The odds against it working were pretty long, and the chance that Farrow would finish up dead were good. Someone in the picture was, or had the use of, an unscrupulous killer, and one dead police person more or less wouldn’t make much difference. It hadn’t needed spelling out to Frank and Townsend that we were all in danger from this person, if not immediately then later, depending on how things worked out.