Peter Corris - Appeal Denied

‘Right. Did he take notes?’

‘You kidding? He left that to the sheila and her Palm Pilot-Constable What’s-her-face.’

‘Farrow?’

‘That’s it. She seemed okay, for a copper.’

I thanked her and rang off. Here was a new player and a new level of interest, and I wondered why. I got the answer within a few minutes when Tony Truscott appeared at my door. He was wearing sweats and said he’d been doing some jogging.

‘From Hunters Hill?’

‘Fuck, no. Around your Jubilee Park here. Lily… told me about it. Jogging’s so fucking boring you need to have something to look at. I like the water and the birds and the trees and the bridge, you know.’

‘Yeah. Coming in, Tony?’

‘No, mate, I have to be at the gym in half an hour. It was a good bash for Lily, wasn’t it?’

‘Sure was. So…?’

Like most boxers, Tony had trouble keeping still. It was fatal to do so in the ring, and the habit carried over into everyday life. He swayed and jiggled, just a little. ‘I heard from Lily’s solicitor about her will. Just wanted you to know, man, that it’s cool with me. You were good for her.’

‘Thanks, Tony. I dunno… it broke me up a bit.’

‘Yeah, well, the thing is, this fucking copper came around trying to make a big thing of it.’

‘Detective named Kristos?’

‘Yeah, you know him?’

In a strange way I felt I did, even though it was only the second time the name had come up. I’d met them before- middle-ranked officers aspiring to climb higher in the eyes of their loftier bosses.

‘Heard of him,’ I said. ‘What did he have to say?’

‘Wanted to know all about you, but his fucking meaning was clear-reckoned you could’ve killed Lily for the money.’

‘What did you say, or do?’

Tony was really jiggling now. ‘Jerry would’ve been proud of me. I wanted to hit him, first off. Then I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. But I just told him to leave my home.’

I had to smile. The expression was so unlike Tony, I could imagine the control it had taken to produce it.

‘What did he do?’

‘What could he do? He’s a big bastard who looked like he’d have a go if I’d been willing. He had this sexy policewoman with him and didn’t want to look a wuss. But off he went. He’s bad news, Cliff. If you need some help

‘Like I said before, I’ll ask. Thanks, Tony. Go and sweat some more.’

He turned and moved down the path to the gate. He threw a punch at an overgrown bush, maybe a weed. ‘Are you…?’

‘I’m on it, mate. However long it takes.’

He nodded and threw a combination. ‘I’m moving up. The WBA title’s vacant. I could be in for a shot. Next one’s for Lily, Cliff.’

‘God help him,’ I said.

All I had to work with were Lily’s encrypted initials. I remembered Tim Arthur, at the wake, saying how closely he and Lily had worked on some stories. Would he know about her code? Arthur had retired in his mid-fifties as an editor, presumably on a big pay-out, but he wrote an occasional column for Blackstone, a magazine dealing with legal matters. I called the magazine and got a phone number for Arthur. I rang him and he agreed to meet me. He was due to play golf at Moore Park at midday but he said he’d get there an hour early for some practice and I could talk to him then.

The sky was leaden with rain threatening, but golfers will play any time except when there’s lightning and thunder. It was cold, too. I rugged up and drove to the course. It was mid-week and the car park was full, evidently a competition day. I squeezed into a spot between two 4WDs. The youngster in the pro shop told me that I’d find Arthur in the second bay at the driving range.

It was a massive concrete and steel structure with a roof and about thirty spots for the golfers to hit balls down into an area of a couple of acres. A machine to scoop the balls up was parked at the end of the range and when I arrived there were twenty or more devotees hitting, cursing, hitting again. Arthur was a tall, rangy bloke, still thin in his early sixties, and to my ignorant eye he seemed to have a smooth stroke. I watched him hit six or seven balls a very long way and couldn’t see why he needed to practise.

He caught sight of me and gestured for me to wait. He put the club he’d been using back in his bag, selected another and hit again. This time the balls didn’t go nearly as far but they described pretty, looping arcs and Arthur seemed satisfied. He put the club back, left the ball bucket that was almost empty where it was, and wheeled his buggy towards me. The others were still hitting and Arthur put his finger to his lips and led the way out of earshot.

We’d met once or twice before the wake and only briefly then. We shook hands. ‘Did you want to have a hit? You look like you’ve got the build.’

‘No, thanks. I’m a golf virgin and think I’ll stay that way. You looked good. What’s your handicap?’

‘Nine. Used to be four. Age adds the strokes. What’s on your mind, Cliff? Has to be Lily.’

According to the signs, we were walking towards the first tee. I told him I was unsatisfied with the police investigation and was following up some lines of enquiry of my own. I said Lily had been working on some stories and I had drafts and notes and thought they might have a bearing on her murder.

‘Possibly,’ he said. ‘She was a goer. We both got death threats when we were working on an immigration scam story. How can I help you?’

We reached the tee and sat down. A group of players were hitting and there were two other groups of four standing by. Arthur’s companions hadn’t yet arrived so I had time. A voice over the PA system told the next group to hit. I took my notebook from my pocket and showed him the list of initials that had been sprinkled through Lily’s notes.

‘Can you make any sense of these? Did Lily let you in on her codes when you were working together?’

He nodded. ‘A bit. Let’s have a look.’

I handed him the sheet and he scanned it. ‘Let’s see, yes-POW, that means police officer, don’t ask me why. BW stands for bureaucrat of some kind; SB means politician. I assume it stands for scumbag. I don’t recognise the others. Oh, yeah, VER indicates a clergyman.’

‘Rev, reversed.’

‘You got it.’

The next group was called up. They completed their practice swings and lined up.

‘What about the initials, sometimes two, sometimes three or four. They have to be names, right?’

‘Yes, but she scrambled them just as it suited her. So that HJW could be John Winston Howard or William Henry Jones. She knew what she meant. That’s about as much as I can tell you.’

I already knew about the scrambled name initials, but he was trying to be helpful and I thanked him.

We sat in silence watching the next group hit off. Four players, two groans, two calls of ‘Great shot’ and they were away. I saw Arthur signal to a new arrival. I didn’t have him for much longer and I racked my brains to think if there was anything more to get from him.

‘I’m working on the theory that something Lily was currently working on led to her death,’ I said. ‘But you mentioned death threats in the past. Does anything strike you as a long-term possibility? Someone with a standing grievance?’

‘I’d have to think about that. We stepped on quite a few toes, Lily and I. A few people went to jail and there was at least one suicide. I’d have to get back to you after I refresh my memory at home.’

He took a glove from his pocket, pulled it on and flexed his fingers. Another salute to a member of his group. I gave him my card with the mobile number and email address. He looked at it before putting it carefully in his shirt pocket.