Peter Corris - Appeal Denied

In the past, the bars favoured by the cops around Darlinghurst and the Cross were bloodhouses. The television series Blue Murder got it about right, with a little exaggeration for dramatic effect. There were drunken brawls between the cops, between the crims and between the cops and the crims. The occasional gunshot, the odd thrust with a broken glass. I was there myself once in a while, keeping my head down, but I saw an eye gouged out and half an ear bitten off. Blood everywhere.

I doubted that a modern North Shore police hangout would be in any way similar and I was right. The Lord of the Isles was a fancied-up old pub that was working the Scottish theme to death-tartan everywhere, claymores on the walls, full kilted figures in glass cases, bagpipes. A sign outside advertised a Tuesday trivia night with a well-known stand-up comic as moderator, a mid-week happy hour and Friday night exotic dancing in the Robert the Bruce bar. Hoots! Whoop-de-doo.

It was a bit after nine when I got there and the place was in full swing. The main bar was crowded with the younger set drinking European beers and Jim Beam and cola. The Royal Stuart bar was smaller, quieter, with older people, both sexes more formally dressed-the men, and some of the women, in suits. A few small groups stood at the bar, but most of the drinkers were at tables with bowls of pretzels and nuts, and short drinks.

I went to the bar, ordered a scotch, and saw Vince Gregory and Mikos Kristos at a table with two other men. Nothing advertised them as cops. They could’ve been advertising executives, merchant bankers

… A few other tables were occupied by similar groups of men. Possibly more police.

Gregory saw me first. He spoke to Kristos, who turned around to look at me. The other two didn’t react. Kristos made an elaborate show of finishing his drink and came over to the bar for a refill. He got it and moved along to stand near me, out of earshot of the other drinkers.

‘What the fuck are you doing here, Hardy?’

‘It’s a free country, last I heard. And they take my money here just as they take yours. While money’s being mentioned, what’ll you have?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘What about a wrestle? Graeco-Roman? Remember Roy and HG? That was brilliant.’

He stared at me as if I’d lost my mind, turned on his heel, started to walk away, but Gregory joined him. The musty smell about him was less strong, though still there. Maybe he’d showered and changed his shirt before coming to the pub. He’d had a few drinks and his tie was askew; his thin hair was sticking up at the back. His five o’clock shadow was a ten o’clock stubble. I thought of Lee Townsend’s immaculate grooming and how Jane Farrow appeared to appreciate it. I couldn’t see how she’d be attracted to Gregory. Unless there was a reason that had nothing to do with grooming.

Kristos shook his head and urged Gregory back to their table. I left the bar but I hung around. Gregory and Kristos left the pub soon after, looking worried. The other two went to the Robert the Bruce room to join in the fun. I followed them, bought a drink and took a seat. It was essentially a strip show, again with the Scottish theme-kilts and sporrans, dirks and tam-o’shanters coming off to AC/DC and Rod Stewart. Very tasteful. The room was darkish away from the stage, and I kept out of the eyeline of the two men anyway. One checked his watch and nodded. Soon after they were joined by two stylishly dressed young women. Escorts. A bottle of champagne arrived and their evening got underway.

I’d rattled Gregory and Kristos a bit, I thought, but hadn’t achieved much else. I was about to call it quits when a woman walked into the room, looked around and spotted the group I was watching. She was in her thirties, tall, casually dressed, neither particularly attractive nor plain. She strode through the tables, reached the one where my party was sitting and shouted something I couldn’t hear over the music. One of the men got to his feet and she picked up a champagne glass and threw the contents in his face. She grabbed another glass and emptied it over one of the women.

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.’