Saving Billie ch-29

by Peter Corris

  Why is it that, with emails and mobile phones, people are harder to get in touch with than ever? Probably because they move around more. There's spam, so they put off reading emails or wipe them by mistake; the mobiles go on the blink, run out of charge and there are blank spots where they don't work. Whatever the reason, I couldn't get in touch with Hank. I was swearing about it when Lily Truscott rang me.

  She doesn't beat around the bush, Lil. 'Anything on Greaves yet?'

  'Not yet. Maybe soon.'

  'Like when?'

  'Don't hold the page, Lil. Put in an ad.'

  'I'm not the editor anymore, remember? Oh well, is there anything I can do for you?'

  'Thanks. No. Why?'

  'You sound stressed, Cliff. Not your upbeat self.'

  We talked for a while about nothing in particular and I felt better. I changed into my gym gear and helped

  Tommy in the yard so that by evening I was tired. Tommy, Sharon and I cleaned up the remainder of the lunch food as well as plenty of toast. Billie slept or sulked. I slept.

  22

  I'd been in the QVB a few weeks before buying audio books for my daughter Megan at the ABC shop on the second level of the three-gallery structure. She was going on tour with a theatre company-a lot of boring bus travel. Megan's an addicted reader but, like me, she gets sick trying to read in a bus. Okay on trains and planes. I got her The Woman in White and The Surgeon of Crowthorne. Seemed like a balanced selection. I remembered noticing that the coffee shop had been busy, and I wanted plenty of people around when I confronted Clement and Greaves, to deter them, or more likely their backups, from doing anything violent.

  After her additional doses of antibiotics, Billie was feeling a lot better in the morning and was beginning to harass Sharon about her money. I told Sharon to hold off until the afternoon when I hoped to be able to report some development. I had no real expectations; I just wanted to break the deadlock and see where the chips fell.

  Clement and Greaves had to be in the dark about a number of things. Clement didn't know that Rhys Thomas was really working for Greaves. God knows what he'd been told about the death of his son. It depended on how Thomas and Kezza had played it, but it was unlikely to be the truth. Greaves had to be wondering about McGuinness and what had happened to the woman he'd had abducted and paid out money for with no result.

  With the two women squabbling and Tommy sweating as the day promised to be a scorcher, I was happy to leave Lilyfield. After sleeping in my underwear and sporting a three-day-old shirt, I wasn't feeling fresh. For my own sake, I wanted something to happen, almost anything.

  Before leaving the house I wiped Jonas Clement's gun clean of my prints and put it in a green bag. It was a Beretta nine millimetre with the latest word in silencers attached. Highly illegal, but a nice gun if you like guns.

  Thomas's pistol was a Glock. There was blood on it- Thomas's or Clement's, I couldn't be sure which. But I'd only handled it by the muzzle so that Thomas's prints were still on the butt. I wiped the muzzle carefully and put it in with the other one. I wrapped a plastic bag around the handles of the green bag. When I took it off there'd be no prints of mine.

  Hank Bachelor hadn't been available so I called Steve Kooti. I had the feeling that Kooti, despite his sincerity in turning over a new leaf, still hankered deep down for something more exciting.

  'I just want you there as a presence,' I said. 'You don't have to say or do anything.'

  'What if I want to say or do something?'

  'I'll trust your judgement.'

  'And this gets the mess cleared? Tommy can get on with his job and that?'

  'I hope so.'

  'You don't fill me with confidence, Hardy.'

  'Mate, I play it by ear. Are you in?'

  (T) 5

  'I'm in.'

  I found a parking place near the old Fairfax building in Jones Street and walked the rest of the way. The promised thirty-eight degrees were rapidly approaching and I was sweating by the time I got to the QVB. As arranged, I met Kooti on the escalator and we went up to the top level. Then he hung back and I went along to where a row of tables sits beside the gallery. It was eleven fifty exactly and Clement was there. He looked a very different man from the one I'd seen at his party not long back. His face was pale and drawn; his tie knot was slipped down and his shirt was crumpled. He fiddled nervously with the sugar sachets on the table.

  I circled stealthily and came up behind him. 'Don't turn round,' I said. 'I'm Hardy and this is your boy's gun.'

  I dropped the green bag at his feet.

  'Rhys Thomas was quicker on the draw. His gun's in here, too, with his prints on it.'

  He half turned, then stopped the movement. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Thomas standing almost hidden by a pillar twenty metres away.

  'What the hell do you mean?'

  'I don't know what he told you, but Thomas shot your son. I was there. I saw it. He's working for Barclay Greaves. Speak of the devil, here he is.'

  Greaves came striding towards us; he was early and agitated. Clement gave a roar of anger. He sprang from his seat and rushed at Greaves, who saw me, stopped and looked confused. Clement swung a wild punch that caught Greaves on the side of the head. He threw up his hands, lost his balance and hit the rail. His arms flailed and it seemed he might right himself, but he was clawing at thin air and he went over. His head cracked on the rail a level below. He let out a strangled cry and fell the rest of the way to the ground. Had to be thirty metres.

  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?'

  '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 le
gal 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 de-licensing 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.