Peter Corris - Forget Me If You Can

‘Would you care to introduce yourself to these ladies and gentlemen, Mr Hardy? As you know, they are charged with deciding whether or not you are a fit person to hold a private enquiry agent’s licence.’

‘And who are you?’

‘Dr Campbell. I’m the Chairperson. My speciality is the socio-psychological profile of applicants.’

‘Holder, in my case.’

‘Yes. Although suspended.’

‘Well, perhaps I could just give them my card, but that’d be assuming they’ve got time to read it. They’re busy people, I imagine.’

‘I can understand your resentment at these proceedings, but now you’re being insulting which won’t help your cause. I gather that you’re a rather aggressive individual.’

‘I don’t know. I was an amateur boxer as a kid, then I was in the army, then I was an insurance investigator. I’ve been a private detective for fifteen years. They’re pretty violent occupations at times, but whether I was aggressive to begin with or the jobs got me that way, I don’t know. Question of nature and nurture, I guess.’

‘An interesting observation. You’re an educated person?’

‘Not really. I did a year of Law at university, but I didn’t do well at it and dropped out.’

‘Why?’

‘I thought Law might be about law, which I was interested in. I found out it was about money.’

‘You’re not interested in money.’

‘My Irish gypsy grandmother told me I’d never have any.’

‘Irish gypsy. That’d account for your dark appearance and the beaky nose… I’m sorry to be personal… This is irrelevant.’

‘That’s okay. The nose has been broken a few times. I don’t recall my grandmother’s nose. She was five foot one and a hundred pounds, so I’ve got a bit more than a foot and sixty pounds on her.’

‘I notice you use the imperial measures rather than the metric. Isn’t that rather old-fashioned of you?’

‘Yes. I’m old-fashioned in some ways, but I wear a digital watch.’

‘So you do, and you’re looking at it. Are you an impatient man?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you an intelligent man, Mr Hardy?’

‘I don’t think there’s an intelligent answer to that question. My guess is that the thing you’re most likely to overestimate is your own intelligence.’

‘I see. I thought you were a little defensive about dropping out of university.’

‘Maybe. If I’ve got a reputation for anything it’s for seeing matters through. I like to finish things off, if I can. I feel bad if I can’t.’

‘That’s the first serious thing we’ve heard you say.’

‘You come to me with a serious problem and pay me serious money and you’ll see how serious I can get.’

‘Do you smoke and drink?’

‘Stopped smoking years ago. Sometimes I go a day without a drink if I’m too busy or I forget.’

‘Where do you do most of your work.’

‘In Sydney. All over the city. I’ll go to the bush if I have to, but I prefer pavements to paddocks.’

‘What sort of work do you prefer?’

‘I take what comes along. The client has to be at least as honest and ethical as me.’

‘How honest and ethical is that?’

‘Impossible to answer. As much as I can be while doing my job.’

‘What are you afraid of?’

‘Boredom, bureaucrats and bullshit.’

‘I was told by one of your referees that you were charming. We haven’t seen much of that in this interview.’

‘I’m sorry. You were right. I resent these proceedings and I’m a bit tense. The charm tends to drop away when I’m tense. When this is all over, I’ll be charming.’

‘How would you describe your relations with the police?’

‘I find it hard to be charming with the police.’

‘What about with other professionals you come in contact with?’

‘I try to avoid doctors and politicians. I deal with lawyers a lot. Some are okay. I don’t mind journalists. I like beekeepers.’

‘Really? Do you know many beekeepers?’

‘Not many.’

‘How do you feel about cars?’

‘They’re necessary.’

‘Guns?’

‘Useful-sometimes, rarely.’

‘What is the role of the private enquiry agent in the general scheme of law and order, in your opinion?’

‘Big question.’

‘You must have thought about it.’

‘Yeah. I’d say we’re at the end of a chain, a sort of last resort. People have been let down by ringing other numbers in the phone book.’

‘That sounds rather… negative.’

‘I don’t think so. It means the private detective can turn people away, exploit them or help them. His choice.’

‘And which do you do?’

‘Apparently, it’s not for me to say. It’s for your committee to decide.’

‘Mmm. You’re not married, Mr Hardy?’

‘Divorced.’

‘Children?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I think that’s all I need, Mr Hardy. Thank you. I’ll hand you over to the other members of the committee.’

‘Thank you, Dr Campbell and… uh, I like your dress.’

Senior Detective Sergeant Martin Oldcastle said, ‘I can’t tell you how much I hate doing this, Hardy.’

I looked at him-fifty-four and beginning to show it in face and body, hair retreating and almost completely grey, thick-lensed glasses. ‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘Really encourages me to take the job and give it my best.’

‘You know what I mean. Jesus. I’ve been in the force for nearly forty years. Loved it. Now I feel that every bloody copper in Australia’s out to get me, ‘cept Mickey, of course.’

Oldcastle had blown the whistle on a clutch of policemen, a few senior, most junior, to himself. These officers were involved in extortion, covering up of crimes from murder on down, witness intimidation and the organising of armed robberies. Oldcastle’s story was that he’d stumbled across the skullduggery when he happened to be present at the death of ‘Irish’ Jack Murphy. Murphy was a long-time prison escapee, hit man and standover merchant who was shot by police in Coogee three years back. Oldcastle was only marginally involved with the task force that cornered Murphy, who had fired several shots but taken a great many more himself.

Oldcastle was concerned that the force had been excessive and, with no-one else close by, he bent over the supposedly dead body to examine the wounds. Murphy told him with his dying breath the names of the corrupt police (several of whom had been in on the shooting) and some details of their activities.

‘I was shocked, I admit it,’ Oldcastle had told me at our first meeting a few weeks back. ‘I’d seen crims shot before. Our blokes, too. I wasn’t a cherry or anything like that. I’d wounded men myself. But there was something about this- Irish was practically blown to bits and still he was talking. That was what got to me. If he’d been stone dead, as he should’ve been… Okay, end of story. Or if he’d just been pinged and was talking. Right, I could’ve understood that. But the way it was, shit, I had to believe him. I had to! Didn’t want to, didn’t want to fuckin’ be there. But I was, and my life’s never been the same since.’

It was Oldcastle’s mate, Mick Gordon, who’d suggested that he come and see me. This was after Oldcastle had poked around, working on his own time, taking considerable risks, to accumulate evidence that indicated a number of police officers were far worse criminals than any they had put away or were ever likely to put away. I’d got to know Mick when he worked at the Kings Cross station. He was one of those men, and they’re not unknown in the police force, who you instinctively like. He told a good yarn and listened well; he smiled easily but took serious things seriously. He effaced himself in a curious way but remained a strong personality in your memory. We’d got on as well as a copper and a private investigator can. The time came when Martin Oldcastle felt ready to present his evidence and confided in Gordon, whom he’d known since school days in Darlinghurst.