Peter Corris - Appeal Denied

Hank stands around 188 centimetres and would be about a super-middleweight, maybe a light-heavy. He has a big man’s hands and it was interesting to see him doing delicate work with miniature pieces of equipment.

‘Hey, Cliff, my man-’ He broke off, remembering about Lily, who he’d met a few times and liked. His tone became more sober. ‘How’re you doing?’

We shook hands. ‘Okay, Hank. No need to tread softly. In fact I’m investigating Lily’s death and getting into a lot of shit. It’s sort of doing me good.’

He laid the bits and pieces down on his workbench. ‘I imagine it would. Want to come inside for coffee or something?’

‘No, mate. I won’t interrupt you just now. Think you might have a bit of time later?’

‘For you, sure.’

I told him about the break-in at my place, the bypassing of the alarm system and my suspicion that the phone was bugged. I gave him a key and asked him to check on how the intruder got in and dealt with the alarm and if the phone had been tapped. He asked a few questions about the alarm and shook his head at my answers.

‘Antediluvian, man. Want me to put in something better?’

I wasn’t sure I needed it but I agreed. I asked him to ring me on the mobile about the bugging. Hank had given up active PEA work when he married. His wife was Australian, an ambitious professional who wanted to fit in a family somehow, and didn’t want a husband running around the city at all hours in low company. I suspected Hank still had yearnings for just that. He confirmed the suspicion.

‘Anything else I can do? Need some backup?’

‘I’ll tell you if I do. You better make yourself known to Clive, my neighbour on the left. After the fuss he’ll be keeping an eye out.’

‘Will do.’ He consulted his watch. ‘Be over there in an hour or two. Where will you be?’

‘Drinking with a cop and a journalist.’

‘Of course. SOP.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Standard operational procedure. I’ll get back to you, Cliff

Hank is ex-US military and he likes to talk that way when he gets a chance. Luckily, it’s not often. I thanked him and we chatted for a few minutes while I displayed a polite, basically ignorant interest in his work. As I drove away I started to think about what I might do as an alternative to PEA work. Nothing came to mind. Depending on the size of Lily’s legacy there was no need to think about that for now, or perhaps ever. But there was no way to feel good about it either.

The Falcon chugged on the uphill stretches. Lily had laughed at me for keeping it. I stopped at a light and it was as if she was there in the car with me. She’d scoffed every time I spent money on keeping the car going and shook her head at the glove-box that was still full of cassettes-Piaf, Janis, Dylan, Van Morrison, Dire Straits-long after the cassette player had ceased to function.

‘Petrol’s going to hit two bucks a litre soon, babe,’ she’d said. ‘And your fucking V8’ll cost you a fortune. You need a fuel efficient compact with a CD player and an air-conditioner that works.’

‘It heats in winter,’ I said. ‘Sort of. And in summer I can park in the shade and wind the windows down.’

But she was right of course. I needed a new car and she’d made it so that I could afford one. The thought made me sad and then angry.

It was getting close to six o’clock and I hadn’t had a drink all day. Failing a pub, a wine bar in Chatswood sounded like just the go. Standard operational procedure.

Winter seems to come early to Chatswood-maybe a matter of the tall buildings blocking out the light and trapping and channelling the winds. The suburb was a bit of a dump in the early days, with one of the grottiest railway stations you’d ever see. My ex-wife Cyn urged me to locate my business there. She said Chatswood was going to grow. She was right, but I didn’t take her advice. They say you can see the Blue Mountains from the upper levels of the towers. Not sure I could’ve handled that- more of a water man myself. I parked underground, the gloom adding to the winter feel. I didn’t know the wine bar and Townsend’s directions were sketchy, but a thirsty man can always find a drink. The place was more than half full on a Thursday night and looked as if it might get fuller.

Some wine bars are so dark you trip over the first stool you come to; others are so bright you need shades. The Chat Room, as it was trendily called, was somewhere in between. Non-smoking, soft music, long bar with a section where clustering was encouraged-nice touch-otherwise tables and booths.

I spotted Townsend in a corner booth, obviously chosen for as much privacy as possible. The woman with him had short, no-nonsense blonde hair and wore a white blouse and a dark jacket. I got a glass of red and a complimentary bowl of nuts. I walked over to the booth, wondering which of them to sit next to. Townsend decided the issue by shoving across and leaving an obvious space on his side.

‘Cliff Hardy,’ he said, ‘meet Jane Farrow.’

We exchanged nods as I sat down. She had a glass of white, barely touched; he was halfway through his red. I put the nuts in the middle of the table.

‘Saw you on the news,’ Townsend said. ‘Briefly.’

‘That was the idea.’

Jane Farrow picked a few nuts from the bowl, ate them and took a sip of wine. I guessed her age as late twenties. She was good-looking in an unstudied, unadorned way, as if she knew she had no need to tizz up to attract attention from the discerning. Smooth skin, good teeth, firm jaw, wide, full mouth, thick hair framing an oval face. No rings in her ears or on her hands. Strong hands.

I took a pull on my glass. ‘You’re the fourth person from the Northern Crimes Unit I’ve met, Ms Farrow,’ I said. ‘Are you here to tell us what the hell is going on with that mob?’

She glanced at Townsend. ‘Is he always this direct, Lee?’

Townsend nodded. ‘I’m afraid he is. Of course, he has reason to be.’

I drained my glass and stood. ‘Tell you what,’ I said. ‘I’ll go to the bar and get two reds and a white and I’ll come back. If you’re still talking about me in the third person I’ll pour them all over you. Okay? Deal?’

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.’