Peter Corris - Appeal Denied

A few cars passed, none slowed or circled. Looked to be all clear. I drove along and pulled up beside Townsend. I got out. He turned, saw me, turned-back.

‘Great view,’ I said. ‘Used to be more interesting when there were working docks and shipyards. That’s what I think. What d’you think?’

He didn’t take the bait. ‘Trusting, aren’t you?’

‘No. One of the reasons I’m still alive.’

‘What was the point?’

‘To make sure you weren’t followed.’

‘That is, I didn’t tell Jane.’

‘Among other possibilities.’

‘You’re a bastard, Hardy.’

‘Wish I had a dollar… Let’s go and talk to a woman who might be able to help us a lot.’

Hannah Morello lived in a terrace house in a street a block or two back from the river. Maybe a glimpse of the water from the top storey. Not many cars parked in the street at that time of day. We opened the gate and in two strides-two and a half for Townsend-were at the front door. I knocked and the door was opened almost immediately. Hannah Morello was lean and dark with a beaky nose and a strong chin. She wore jeans and a sweater, sneakers.

‘Mrs Morello, I’m Cliff Hardy. This is Lee Townsend. I know I didn’t say he was coming but-’

‘I know Mr Townsend from the television,’ she said. ‘Please come in.’

She ushered us into the front room. It was a sitting room with a TV and stereo set-up, pleasantly furnished. A wall had been knocked out to make a double space out of the two front rooms with the second one serving as a dining room. Standard terrace renovation-a big hammer, an r.s.j. and a skip, and you’re in business.

We sat on vinyl lounge chairs around a low table. She offered us coffee. We refused. She sat very straight in her chair, tense, but with a determined look, while I ran through a quick preamble on what we were doing, what we expected to do and how we hoped she could help us.

‘I can,’ she said. ‘I’ve been waiting for the chance. Didn’t know what to do, but when Pam Williams phoned me I knew my bloody chance had come.’

Townsend shot me an enquiring look. I hadn’t told him about Pam Williams, but it was the quickest of glances so as not to distract her.

‘We know that Gary Perkins and others are corrupt,’ I said. ‘We know that they’ve connived at murder, maybe committed it or had it done. But we haven’t yet got any proof.’

‘I have.’

Townsend leaned forward and his handsome face took on an expression of confidence and reassurance. This was the way he appeared on television-uncannily bigger, stronger, smarter.

‘When you say that, Mrs Morello, what do you mean?’

‘I have photographs my husband took.’

‘Photographs that incriminate Perkins?’

‘And that Greek.’

‘Kristos,’ I said. ‘What about Vince Gregory?’

She shrugged. ‘Dunno about him.’

Townsend took a device the size of a cigarette packet from his jacket pocket. ‘This is a miniature digital recorder,’ he said. ‘Would you be willing to let me record you when you put the photos on the table here and tell us briefly what they are and how you come to have them? You don’t have to act, just speak clearly. I can keep your face out of the frame or have it pixelated if you wish.’

She didn’t even blink. ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘And bugger that. I’ll look the lens full in the face if you want.’

Townsend nodded. ‘Let’s do it.’

She left the room and I heard her mounting the stairs. Townsend smiled at me. ‘Technology, Hardy. Out of your depth, are you?’

I’d read about these gadgets, never used one, but I knew the language. ‘Hope you’ve got a big enough memory card.’

He smiled and checked the thing over. ‘I never did hear about this Pam Williams, although I can work out who she is.’

‘You’ve heard now. She put me on to Mrs Morello just before she decamped lock, stock and barrel to Queensland. It worries me the danger this woman is putting herself in.’

‘That’s why I offered to mask her identity.’

‘Big of you, but that won’t do it.’

‘Let’s see what she’s got first. Play it by ear after that. She looks pretty… capable.’

Hannah Morello came back carrying a manilla folder. She stood in the archway looking at Townsend, who lifted his camera and nodded. She walked into the room and spilled the contents of the folder onto the table. A couple of photos fell off the edge. Nice drama. Night shots. Black and white, at least a dozen of them.

Townsend filmed the action and then lifted the camera to film her as she sat down. She’d tidied her dark mane of hair and put on a little makeup. Changed her sweater for a dark silk shirt. She used her left hand to point to the photographs, her wedding ring glinting.

‘My name is Hannah Morello,’ she said. ‘I am the widow of Detective Sergeant Daniel Morello of the Northern Crimes Unit of the New South Wales Police Service. These photographs were taken by my husband. They show Detective Senior Sergeant Mikos Kristos murdering the journalist Rex Robinson. My husband died of cancer some time after he took these pictures. I found them later among his effects. I believe the stress he underwent as a result of what he discovered about his colleagues caused or accelerated his cancer. I want justice.’

Hannah Morello gestured for Townsend to turn the recorder off. ‘From things he said, my guess is that Danny had talked to Robinson about what was happening in the unit. Perhaps it was off the record. I’m still guessing, but I think he didn’t trust Robinson. You’d lose the ability to trust, working in that place. Somehow, he was on the scene when this happened. Maybe he was following Robinson, or even Perkins. I don’t know.’

Townsend and I examined the photos. They were blowups and a bit grainy but clear enough. The sequence was: a man-bulky in a heavy coat and unidentifiable with a cap pulled down low-leaning in to talk to a driver with another car behind; Kristos leaving the second car; a man, presumably Robinson, being threatened with a pistol by the one who’d been talking to him; Robinson getting out of his car; Kristos putting Robinson in a headlock; Kristos and the other arranging a limp Robinson behind the steering wheel of his car; the man leaning in across the body, presumably turning on the engine; Kristos behind the wheel of the second car with his front bumper only inches from the back bumper of Robinson’s car; a blurry image of a moving car; a shot of a broken railing from a point overlooking a steep drop to a body of water.

‘Well?’ Hannah Morello said.

Townsend carefully, almost reverently, arranged the photos into a neat pile. ‘Extraordinary,’ he said. ‘Can I record again with you saying how you came to find these and why you haven’t done anything about them until now?’

‘Why not?’

I put up a warning hand. ‘Just hold on a minute. Do you realise the danger you’re putting yourself in, Mrs Morello? When Kristos knows about this material he’ll probably try to kill you.’

It was clear she hadn’t considered it. ‘Why?’ she said. ‘There’s the evidence against them, cut and dried.’

‘No, he’s right,’ Townsend said. ‘Photographs can be faked or doctored with modern technology. This set needs your statement to make them solidly credible. Have you got children?’

That hit home. ‘Two,’ she said, ‘Josh and Milly, six and eight years old.’

‘You’d need protection,’ I said. ‘Someone to stay here to keep watch on the children, and on you when you’re out and about.’

She lost some of the upbeat manner. ‘I hadn’t thought it through. How long would we be talking about?’

I said, ‘Difficult to know. There’d be an enquiry and a trial. You’d be in danger all that time.’