by Peter Corris
‘I’m good at that. Anyone who does a triathlon should know how to do it. I’ve done it twice to blokes younger than you who didn’t know their hearts were iffy.’
‘They say I’m good for quite a while yet if I look after myself. Which I do, more or less.’
‘You look pretty good. Not much flab.’
‘None at all on you.’
‘I’ll get the wine.’
We sat in the bed and drank the wine. We filled each other in on what we’d been doing over the past couple of years—solid journalistic work for her and plans for a book on crime in the Hunter Valley, and some interesting cases for me in amongst the routine stuff.
Marisha was still on the right side of fifty; I’d crossed that line. We stayed close, but the days of multiple fucking were past for both of us. We fell asleep before even getting near to talking about why I’d contacted her.
I woke up alone in the bed and had the momentary feeling of not knowing where I was or even who I was. But the sensation passed almost immediately. The bed was warm from Marisha’s body and retained her scents of sea, sweat and sex. Light flooded into the room through the open door. I pulled on my boxers and went into the sitting room where Marisha was standing by the big window with the curtain drawn back. She wore a blue silk dressing gown.
‘There’s your view,’ she said.
It was all I thought it would be—a busy road contrasting with silent dunes, an empty beach and the ocean rolling away forever. I put my arms around her and she rested back against me.
‘It’s why I bought the place.’
‘Wise move.’
‘I’ll make some coffee, then you can tell me why you’re here.’
She was slipping back into professional mode. I told her I needed to get some pills from my bag in the car. I had a quick shower, dressed and got the pills. I arranged them in the palm of my hand and ran the tap for a glass of water. She watched me as I swallowed them.
‘Every day?’
‘Every bloody day.’
‘You didn’t bring the bag up,’ she said. ‘Not planning to stay? Love me and leave me?’
I kissed her. ‘Not this time.’
‘Meaning there’ll be others?’
‘I hope so.’
She began to spoon coffee into a plunger pot. ‘Me too. So what’s on your mind?’
‘More who.’
She smiled. ‘There’s no one else around, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘Glad to hear it, but I was thinking of Jobe Tanner.’
She dropped the scoop and coffee spilled over the bench. ‘My God! How the hell did you know?’
8
When she’d calmed down, Marisha explained that Jobe Tanner was one of the principal sources she was using for her book on crime in the Hunter Valley.
‘This is utterly hush-hush,’ she said. ‘Until now literally no one knows about it.’
I had to wonder about that after what Pete had said.
‘How did you get him to talk?’
‘It wasn’t easy. Took almost a year of negotiation. But eventually things fell my way. He’s getting old and he’s found religion. He wants to go out with a clean slate—well, a cleaner one.’
‘He’s snitching?’
‘Not exactly. He’s not naming names. Not of live people, that is. Plenty of dead ones. He’s pointing me in the right directions, showing me how things were done.’
‘Were done?’
‘Are still being done, but not by him. Now you have to tell me why you scared the shit out of me. What’ve you heard?’
I tore a paper towel from the roll, put it under the lip of the bench and swept the coffee grounds into it while I thought what to say. I tapped the grounds into the pot. ‘I haven’t heard a single thing about Jobe doing anything but being the tough, controlling bastard he has the reputation for.’
‘What then?’
I explained about being pressured by the Tanners without saying much about what had taken me to Bathurst. I told her I’d seen Pete McKnight.
‘Pete keeps himself informed,’ I said, ‘and when I said I needed a counterweight to Hector and Joseph he just stressed Jobe’s name.’
‘How do you interpret that?’
‘One, that there’s friction between father and sons and I’d already got a whiff of that. Two, that he believes Jobe is what he’s always been. That suggests your secret is safe.’
‘Mmm, maybe. I really need this coffee, then you can tell me what you want me to do.’
She made the coffee, warmed some croissants and we sat at the kitchen table. She was still anxious and I could understand why. If word got out that Jobe was talking there would be some very nervous and nasty people around. I was undecided about what to ask her. The last thing I wanted to do was add to her anxiety.
‘I suppose I was going to ask if you knew anyone who knows him and could help get me to see him, but now . . .’
‘I’ll think about it. How long can you stick around?’
‘Not long. I’m supposed to see the guy I went to Bathurst to see pretty soon.’
‘You haven’t said much about him. Should I know more?’
‘Just this—the Tanner brothers are hoping to make some kind of big score with him when he gets out. Do you know of anything that might fit that picture—a drug shipment, a big robbery take unaccounted for, a scam that needs a finishing touch?’
‘I’ll think about that as well. Are you looking for a connection between the Tanners’ interest in the guy in prison and your client’s interest in him?’
‘I can’t see how there could be. Boil it all down and the events are separated by over a century. But I have to consider the possibility.’
We fixed on where and when we’d meet later and left the flat together. Marisha drove off in her Subaru without telling me where she was going or asking me what I was going to do. She kissed me goodbye, but a lot of the heat had gone out of things on her part. It couldn’t be helped; she was involved in something delicate and dangerous and I’d blundered into it. She had to decide whether helping me was worth the risk. That meant weighing a lot of work against something very new and maybe ephemeral. The odds were against me.
I located a swimming pool with a gym attached and spent the morning working out and struggling through twenty laps.
I was walking to my car, thinking about lunch, when my mobile rang. Wakefield. I realised I hadn’t contacted him after my meeting with Twizell.
‘Hardy.’
‘I thought I’d have heard from you before this.’
‘I’m sorry, things got complicated.’
‘Complicated how? Did you put my questions to him?’
‘Yes, and I’m sure he knows something, but he’s bargaining with us. He wants you to use your influence to . . . help him at his parole hearing.’
A pause, then an impatient grunt. ‘Well, tell him I will.’
‘I think he’ll want something more concrete.’
‘That’ll take time.’
‘That’s what he’s got.’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’
‘No, and my sources were right, the Tanners are keeping a close eye on him and they’re putting pressure on me.’
‘To do what, kill him?’
I laughed. ‘No, it’s not clear what they have in mind. I’m in Newcastle trying to find out.’
‘You’re where? You’re supposed to be in Bathurst.’
‘As I said, it’s complicated.’
‘Hardy, if you’re trying to string this out . . .’
‘Listen, Professor, some very nasty people have threatened me and my family. I take exception to that and I’m trying to deal with it, but it’s connected somehow to Twizell. I’m dealing with different parts of one thing here, I think.’
Something about my tone of voice must have made an impact. I could almost see him moving the phone away from his ear, backing off. When he spoke again his voice was placatory.
‘I�
�m sorry. I have faith in you. When do you see Twizell again and what exactly does he want?’
I told him and he said he’d try to pull some strings. I said I’d call him after tomorrow’s meeting with Twizell and that was it. He’d shown no interest in my statement about a threat. I opened the car door and froze when I saw another little foil package sitting on the seat. I took a tissue from my pocket, used it to pick up the foil, blew my nose on the tissue and went to the nearest rubbish bin to drop it in.
I got in the car and began to worry. No surprise that the Tanners had reach in Newcastle, but how did they know I was there? And if they’d picked me up yesterday, had they tracked me to Marisha’s place? If that wasn’t enough to worry about, I could always turn my attention to Wakefield. He seemed indifferent to the Tanners. Was that just single-mindedness, or did he know more about the Tanners and the state of things in Newcastle than he was letting on?
I didn’t feel like eating but I had to fill in the time somehow and I thought I’d go back to the place where I’d had dinner the night before. I was a few blocks away from it when a police car cruised up and waved me into the kerb. One of the uniforms got out while the other sat with his radio phone at the ready. I wound down the window and put my hands in clear view on the wheel.
‘Could I see some ID, please, sir.’
I showed him my driver’s and PIA licences.
‘I’ll have to ask you to accompany us to the station.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m sure they’ll tell you when you get there. Are you going to cooperate?’
‘Can I follow you?’
‘We’d prefer that you didn’t.’
They do that. Sometimes it’s because they want to look the car over, sometimes because, in this day and age, a man without a car is just that much more vulnerable. Hard to tell which in this case. He stepped back as I opened the door and rewound the window. You lock this model Falcon with the key. I was about to do that when he stopped me.
‘I’ll take the keys. Someone’ll collect the vehicle.’
They were interested in the car.
Newcastle police station was on Watt Street, not far from the harbour in one direction and the ocean in the other. There were other institutional buildings nearby, like the Anglican cathedral and a hospital. The building had the unimaginative, solid lines common to most police stations. The detectives’ room, to which one of the uniforms took me after doing some business at the front desk, was tidy, unlike some, and dominated by clicking computer keys, like most.
The uniform conducted me to a corner of the room where a man sat at a desk with his hands folded, watching our approach.
‘Detective Inspector, this is Cliff Hardy.’
‘Right. Any trouble?’
‘No, strikes me he’s done this before.’
‘I bet. Okay, thanks, Bill. Have a seat . . . Mr Hardy. I’m Kerry Watson.’
I nodded and sat. He was fortyish, red-haired and freckled, a little overweight in a dark blue shirt that was a bit too tight. He looked tired; his desk was covered with files and sheets of printout and there were post-it notes stuck here and there on the shelves. If I’d had to deal with all that I’d be tired too.
‘When did you arrive in Newcastle?’
‘Why am I here?’
‘Let’s get a few things sorted and I’ll tell you. You’re licensed for a firearm. Where is it?’
‘In my car.’
‘I’m not sure that’s legal.’
‘It’s unloaded and secure. Your boys’ll find it if they’re any good.’
‘They’re good.’
‘That’s one thing then, what else?’
‘What’s your business here?’
‘You know better than that. My business is my business.’
He shook his head and a few dandruff flakes dropped onto his shoulders. ‘Not really. It’s customary for people in your . . . line of work to check in with us when you arrive. You didn’t.’
‘Customary doesn’t mean you always have to do it. I wasn’t planning to stay long.’
‘How long?’
I shrugged. ‘Depends.’
He took a notebook from the pocket of his jacket hanging over the back of the chair, turned a few pages. ‘You paid a call to Peter Wilson McKnight.’
‘That’s right. Can we stop this? What’s going on?’
‘McKnight was found dead in his office this morning. He’d been shot through the head.’
9
Watson watched closely for my reaction and I didn’t have to pretend to be shocked. He sighed and flicked through his notebook.
‘Your car was spotted in the parking bay of McKnight’s building at 6pm.’
‘Right, and I left about thirty minutes later.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘I went straight to a restaurant in Market Street and would’ve been there before seven. I’ve got the bill.’
He nodded. ‘For your expenses.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Must be nice.’
‘When was Pete killed?’
‘Pete? You were good friends?’
‘Not really. He was always Pete, the way Pete Sampras is Pete.’
‘Who? Oh yeah, the tennis player. Before Federer. He was killed around 10pm. Where were you then?’
‘With a friend.’
‘Name?’
‘Not unless I have to. You don’t really think I killed him, do you?’
‘No, but it might be helpful for you to tell us what you wanted to see him about.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘He’s no loss, anyway. Did you know McKnight was a bagman for the Tanners?’
‘No.’
‘You’re surprised?’
‘I haven’t seen him for quite a few years. People change.’
‘For the worse in his case. When his wife left he got on the piss, started gambling, got in deep with the loan sharks. One thing led to another.’
‘He didn’t look particularly prosperous.’
‘No, the Tanners probably bought him by paying off his debts or putting them on hold. They like to control people on the cheap. That’s their speciality.’
He wasn’t telling me much I didn’t know apart from the information about Pete. He put a few more questions to me which I deflected. His heart wasn’t in it. When an ex-cop-turned-private-detective forms an alliance, however reluctantly, with criminals, you have a recipe for trouble. Pete’s killer would have to be looked for in a dozen different directions and the police didn’t have the time or the motivation. When Watson took a phone call, responding in a series of grunts, my interview was over.
‘Your car’s in the back parking lot. Your keys are at the desk. If any information that might help us comes your way, get in touch.’
I said I would, collected the keys, located the car and drove a few blocks at random to see if I was being followed. Nothing. The contents of the glove box had been left on the seat and I had to assume the police had found the catch that opens the lockable section I’d had Hank install behind the glove box. They’d have learned that the gun hadn’t been fired recently.
I followed my original intention and went back to the same city restaurant for lunch. I try not to drink before 6pm, but circumstances dictate behaviour and hearing shocking news seemed worth a drink. I had two glasses of red with my focaccia. I hadn’t been close to Pete McKnight but I drank a toast to him. Too young to die. His attitude during our talk made more sense now. Maybe he thought he was doing me a favour warning me away from the Tanners and only my disappointment had led him to name the patriarch. Then again, maybe he’d told the Tanners I was coming to Newcastle.
I strung the food and wine out for as long as possible and then took a walk around the harbour, the beach and the city. I got to the coffee bar at the appointed time to find Marisha there already. I could tell by her body language, stiff and somehow hostile, that things had changed.
Still standing, I said, ‘Wh
at’s wrong?’
‘You’ve blown it,’ she said.
‘Blown what? How?’
She shook her head dismissively. ‘I should have known.’
I sat down finally. ‘You’re not making sense, Marisha. Known what?’
‘Lily told me that the one thing that worried her about you was that you were a magnet for trouble. She said you drew it towards you and she had a suspicion that you liked it that way. In the end you . . .’
I knew what was coming. A lot of people thought Lily had been killed because of me and what I did for a living. It wasn’t true and I thought Marisha knew enough to understand that. I’d run into the problem too many times to be angry and now I was just disappointed. That must have showed because she relaxed some of the tightness in her expression and let her shoulders sag.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t say . . .’
‘You shouldn’t think it. It’s not true. But I didn’t know she felt like that about me. She never said.’
‘She loved you.’
We sat in silence for a while. Then she picked up her computer bag and handbag from the floor and stood.
‘You heard about Pete?’ I said.
‘Yes, and about you being taken in by the cops.’
‘Just for a talk.’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t bring you and Jobe together. Not after today. Goodbye, Cliff.’
She walked out with her long athlete’s stride and didn’t look back.
Two disappointments for the price of one. A waitress who’d hovered and then withdrawn, probably thinking she was witnessing a lovers’ quarrel, approached with a tentative smile. I ordered coffee I didn’t really want just to accommodate her.
I toyed with the coffee, thinking how badly things that had seemed so promising had gone. I was no closer to getting something to play off against the Tanner brothers. Pete McKnight had implied a serious rift between them and the father and that seemed likely to widen to a yawning gap if they found out what Jobe was up to. Promising, but I couldn’t reveal that without bringing Marisha into the picture. I needed something solid to neutralise the Tanners, get some cooperation from Twizell for Wakefield and bow out of the whole thing.