Peter Corris - Master's mates

‘Karl Knopf says he’ll talk to you, Cliff. He’s stationed in Darlinghurst so you could drop in and see him. Here’s his number.’

‘Thanks, Peter. He sounded interested, did he?’

‘He did when I told him about the customs guys.’

I was about to take a bite but I dropped the sandwich on the desk. ‘What?’

‘Verdi was posted to Brisbane and Baxter to Perth.’

‘Soon after the trial?’

‘Right.’

‘Something’s going on.’

‘Looks like it. Be careful, Cliff.’

‘Why d’you say that?’

‘Customs is federal. Don’t get caught in the middle of a state and federal fuck-up. It’s not a good place to be.’

I thanked him again and hung up. I finished the sandwich and the coffee without tasting them. Then I wet my finger and picked up the crumbs I’d dropped on the desk as I thought. In the old days I’d have smoked but now crumb-picking would have to do.

I dropped the sandwich wrapper in the bin and wandered to the window. St Peters Lane isn’t much to look out on unless you happen to like the feel of old Sydney, which I do. It’s narrow, trapped between the buildings that front onto William Street and the weathered sandstone of the church. It’s a sun-starved stretch, cold and windy in winter and shadowy in summer. There’s no parking and it’s never become a shooting gallery. It’s not a place to linger in, so why was a man standing down there, staring up at my window and ducking out of sight when he saw me?

I’m mates with Stephanie Geller, aka Madame Stephanie, who runs a mail order, and these days online, astrological business in the office adjacent to mine. I have her key and occasionally let people into her waiting room when she’s late.

‘Zay like to be kept waiting, Cliff,’ she once told me. ‘So zay can feel zee vibes.’

She wasn’t around, so I let myself into her office, which commanded a longer view of the lane than mine, and peeked out. No watcher. Had he followed me from Watsons Bay? Through all that traffic that’s slowly strangling Sydney? No way to tell.

I phoned Knopf but he wasn’t interested in having me visit him at his place of business.

‘I’d say it’s time for a drink, wouldn’t you?’

‘Sure.’

‘Know a place where there’s never any cops?’

‘Never? No.’

‘I do.’ He named a pub in Oxford Street with an almost exclusively gay clientele and said he’d be there in an hour.

‘How will I know you?’

‘I know you, Hardy. I was a shit-kicking constable when you used to hang around with Frank Parker. I was his driver for a while.’

‘Sorry, I don’t remember you.’

‘Why would you? One hour.’

I put the phone down and tried to remember when Frank had a driver. He’d risen to Deputy Commissioner and had certainly had a driver then, but before that, as a chief inspector and a super? There must have been a few of them and they all blurred into one. Knopf sounded resentful and almost hostile, and nominating a gay bar? Looked like I was in for an interesting interview.

Years on the job should equip you to know if you’re being watched or followed and to some extent that’s true, but if the watcher or follower is good enough, and has enough cutouts, it can be tough. I walked to where I’d parked the car, as alert as I could be for the false moves, the little slips, but there was nothing apparent. I started the engine and let the old Falcon warm up after sitting for a while on a cool day and busied myself with the choke while I looked around. I drove to within a couple of blocks of the hotel by a route that should have been tricky to track. Still nothing. Either not there or very, very good.

Friday night, early, but the buzz was starting to build. The difference in behaviour between gays and straights I reckon is not that much. Quiet straights and quiet gays go out early, drink and eat and go home. Party types go out late and drink, eat or don’t eat, and stay out. The Beaumont Bar in the Prince Regent Hotel was dark and sedate, with k d lang playing softly in the background and a few pokies whirring quietly.

A couple of dozen people were scattered around, some at tables, some at the bar, some playing the pokies. Men and women, couples and singles, one group of three. All quiet. The barman, a handsome Polynesian wearing makeup and a pearl necklace, was the only person advertising. I ordered a beer and took a stool at the bar. The barman served it with a small bowl of nuts.

‘You sure you’re in the right place, brother?’

I lifted my glass. ‘Sydney, Australia. You bet.’

He laughed. ‘You’re right there.’

A very tall, very slim man had walked in. Suede jacket, black T-shirt, earring. He nodded to a couple of people and to the barman. He shot out a hand that was thin and hard with rings on three fingers. ‘Karl Knopf.’

I nodded. ‘Cliff Hardy. I remember you now. You drove for Frank when he was a super. Too tall for the job, really.’

‘That’s right. He was a good bloke, Parker.’

‘The best. What’re you drinking?’

‘What d’you expect, creme de menthe?’

‘Let’s get this straight-no, bad choice of words. You’re gay and I couldn’t care less. Okay?’

He smiled. ‘Just having fun in a grey old world on a grey old day. Glass of red, Timmy, please. Bottle, not cask. Mr Hardy will pay. He’s on expenses from a rich client.’

The barman uncorked a bottle and poured. ‘Why can’t I meet someone like that?’

‘You mean Mr Hardy?’

‘Shit, no, I mean his client.’

Knopf tilted his head to the left and we went across to a table at a distance from the other patrons. I took the nuts with me. We sat and we both had a drink and ate some nuts.

‘So,’ Knopf said. ‘What d’you want to know?’

‘Your impressions about the evidence presented in the Stewart Master case.’

‘Four kilos of top grade heroin.’

‘Handled by?’

‘Master and Master alone.’

‘Was that unusual?’

‘No. The supplier usually wipes it clean.’

‘Why didn’t Master wipe it?’

Knopf shrugged. ‘Didn’t expect to be caught.’

‘Careless.’

‘Very.’

‘I feel we’re fencing, Senior. Did anything strike you as unusual about the evidence?’

‘Like?’

‘Christ, I don’t know. Is it possible for someone’s fingerprints to get on that sort of packaging without them ever having touched it?’

‘You should’ve been his lawyer. It’s possible. Prints can be transferred with the right technology. Highly unlikely though.’

‘You weren’t asked that?’

‘No.’

‘And you didn’t volunteer it?’

‘I was a witness for the prosecution.’

‘Looking back?’

He shrugged and drank some wine. I’d finished my beer and a few of the salty nuts and was ready for a refill.

‘Senior?’

‘Don’t call me that. It’s Karl. It’s impossible to say. It didn’t come up at the time and I’d have to look at the stuff all over again from that perspective. And that’s impossible.’

‘Why?’

‘Why d’you think? The stuff’s been destroyed.’ He finished his wine and got smoothly to his feet. ‘My buy. Old, is it?’

I nodded. The place was filling up and the noise level was rising. Something louder was playing on the sound system and the pokies were buzzing along with the conversations. In days gone by the atmosphere would have been smoky. Not now. Knopf came back with the drinks and slid into his seat.

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Peter Lo said you were interested when he told you the customs officers had been posted north and west. Why’s that?’

He had white wine this time and took a long swig. His eyes moved around the room as if he was checking it out for the last time. ‘Jesus, I don’t know why I’m talking to you.’