There’s a big apartment complex down the way, maybe he lives there,’ I said.
‘Last I heard he lived in Longueville.’
‘Girlfriend? Boyfriend?’
‘ Vince Gregory hasn’t got any friends of any kind. He was checking up on you.’
‘Did he see you, Frank?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll hang around for a bit and see if he comes back.’
We stood on the cracked front path for a few minutes but no one showed.
‘You all right to drive, Frank?’
‘No. I wasn’t expecting to be. I left the car up in Broadway. I reckon I’ll be right by the time I walk back there with a coffee or two on the way.’
He set off towards Glebe Point Road and I went inside the house. A knock sounded at the door within minutes. I opened it to see a man in a suit and a light overcoat holding up a card.
‘DI Gregory, Mr Hardy. I’ve been ringing your mobile for an hour or more.’
‘It’s in the car. I’m still not used to being contactable wherever and whenever. You could’ve tried the landline.’
‘I did. It was out of action. Can I come in? We have to have a talk. Here or somewhere else.’
I let him in and went straight to the telephone. It had been disconnected and it looked as if someone had been investigating the working of the fax and answering machine. They’d have got bugger-all from that.
Gregory looked around the untidy room with an expression impossible to read. I held up the phone jack.
‘Disconnected by whoever broke in and did this.’
He nodded. He was in his forties, solidly built but barely medium height, maybe a shade under. Roundish face, closely shaven but with bristles showing already. Thinning dark hair. I moved some books from two chairs and got a bit closer to him. A definite smell, something like old damp socks.
‘Have a seat if you want. Sorry not to be more hospitable. I gave a statement to DS Williams. Good man, I thought.’
If Gregory knew I was provoking him he didn’t show it. He shrugged out of his coat and folded it over the arm of the chair clear of where he sat. His suit was immaculate. I waited for him to preserve the crease in his trousers the way his type do, but he didn’t. He sat back and took a notebook from his pocket.
I pre-empted him. ‘What’s this in connection with, Inspector?’
‘The death of Lillian Truscott. I’ve learned that you’re a beneficiary under the terms of her will.’
‘Yeah. That means I killed her. Lock me up.’
‘That’s not funny.’
‘No, it isn’t. Get on to something that is.’
‘As I passed by, I saw former deputy commissioner Frank Parker here with you.’
‘He’s an old friend. We had some lunch and shared a bottle of wine. Sorry, it’s all gone.’
I was getting to him, bit by bit. He was one of those forceful, middle-sized men of no more than average intelligence, used to having people dance to his tune. You meet them in the police and the army and in politics. Gregory’s shirt was done up to the neck and his tie knot was tight. He’d kept his suit jacket buttoned. I was in shirt sleeves and slacks, and with half a bottle of wine in me. Relaxed. He didn’t like it.
He shoved the notebook roughly into his pocket, threatening the lining. ‘Hardy, I happen to know someone that plays golf at Moore Park. He tells me he saw you deep in conversation with Tim Arthur-who used to make a nuisance of himself with Ms Truscott-looking over a page of notes. And at the wake for Ms Truscott you spent a good deal of time with the poor man’s John Pilger, Lee Townsend.’
‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘You know your subversives and have spies on your books. The Stasi would be proud of you. It’s not too late. Get over to the US-spying on their citizens is all the go just now.’
Gregory sucked in a breath to calm himself. As a detective, he’d come up against take-the-piss crims and lawyers often enough not to blow his cool completely. He looked around the room, noting the cobwebs, the missing newel posts on the stair rail, the worn carpet.
‘This place is in bad repair, Hardy, and you’re out of work. Permanently. Suddenly you’re in the money, but you’re a chancer, always were. You seem to be conducting an investigation which you’re not entitled to do, but it could just be a blind for a crime you committed, or commissioned. What do you think?’
He was a hard man to read-apparently very confident, a quick recoverer from being goaded. If he was involved in Lily’s death or covering it up, he was playing an edgy game. He looked rather pleased with his analysis so just maybe he was genuine about it. Confusing.
‘I don’t think anything about what you just said, Inspector. I didn’t let it get anywhere near my brain.’
He got up and collected his neatly folded coat. ‘You’re by way of being what we call a person of interest. Your alibi has a big time hole in it. I wouldn’t be surprised if I found it necessary to pull you in for further questioning.’
I stood as well. You don’t let anyone threatening you take the high ground. ‘What about this mess? Whoever did it stole my computer. What do you make of that?’
Gregory shrugged into his coat and a wave of the musty smell came towards me. I was tempted to react but didn’t. Either he couldn’t smell it himself or he wore it as a badge of honour. He was full of energy, full of bounce. ‘Like you, I don’t think anything, except maybe that you did it yourself. I wouldn’t put anything past you, Hardy. What does puzzle me is you and Parker. He was a good cop as far as I know, although you two flew a bit close to the wind recently.’
‘You’re very well informed. I wonder why you can’t find who killed Lily.’
‘Give me time, Hardy, give me time. I’ll see myself out.’
‘No, I’ll see you off the premises if you don’t mind.’
‘Keep your mobile to hand and fix your phone.’
He went out the door and down the path, leaving the gate open. Light rain was falling and he moved smartly to his sky blue Falcon, a model about ten steps in advance of mine, parked across the street. He was a vain man, and thin dark hair doesn’t look good wet. I let him have the last word. It didn’t cost me anything and if it made him feel he was one up on me that was all right. It was very early in our relationship and I knew I’d see him again.
The smell from Gregory was so strong, a house-proud person would have fumigated. I spent the next hour or so tidying up the spare room and living room and mulling over how things stood. It was confusing to say the least, with Townsend and Frank Parker both pointing the finger at Gregory, while Tim Arthur appeared to have no time for Townsend, the one I’d been thinking of working with.
And, based on our less than friendly meeting, my reaction to Gregory was very ambivalent. If he was up to his ears in some conspiracy to do with Lily’s death, then he was a pretty good actor. The removal of Williams and the doubts of Constable Farrow, as reported by Townsend, counted against him. What of DS Kristos? Had he stolen my computer? Was he playing a lone hand or operating with someone who wasn’t even in the picture yet?
As Dylan says, ‘You gotta trust somebody.’, and I trusted Harry Tickener to give me the drum on Arthur and Townsend. I also needed to get out of the house. Harry, who has done everything in journalism from copy boy in the old hot metal type days to major broadsheet editor, now runs the online newsletter Searchlightdot. com — a thorn in the side of the big end of town and anyone else it gets in its sights. Harry particularly likes media scams, so perhaps I could get a line on Lily’s story that focused on that. Seemed like a plan.
I drove to Leichhardt where Harry had his office and walked in on him without knocking. He expects me to do that. He has only one part-time staffer, another journalist, and no overheads like a receptionist or secretary. In the nineties there was much talk of the paperless office. It never happened, but Harry got pretty close when he stripped down to the newsletter.
His shiny head was held low over the keyboard, bending his spine the way forty years on the job had carved it, but he can still straighten it, just. A quick glance to identify me and a single finger held up to get me to wait. Harry is a gun-touch typist and I guess, like a pianist, he can take the odd finger away and not lose the beat. He clicked and clacked as I sat down and looked around the big, well-lit space that held books, magazines and framed prints, but none of the stacks of paper you expect to see in writers’ workplaces.
‘Sorry about Lily, Cliff,’ Harry said when he finished. ‘You know I don’t have anything to do with funerals and wakes.’
I did. Harry’s father was a mortician and Harry claims he saw enough death and heard enough talk about it when he was young to last him forever.
‘Let me guess,’ Harry said. ‘Even though you’ve been wiped as a PEA you’re investigating Lily’s murder and running into lies, damned lies and bullshit.’
‘That’s about right. I’m particularly interested in two characters in your field-Tim Arthur and Lee Townsend.’
I put them in that order deliberately and it seemed to have an effect on Harry. ‘Oh, shit, those two. No love lost there.’
‘How so?’
‘They fell out over the rights to a story a few years ago. Some kind of conflict about exclusivity of an interview or some such crap. Right and wrong on both sides, I expect. Townsend got the inside running and got a Walkley.’
‘So if Arthur says Townsend’s not to be trusted, it’d be over some professional matter rather than meaning he’s untrustworthy in general?’
Harry shook his head. ‘Aggressive, a go-getter, small man syndrome and all that, but he’s a genuine investigative type with a lot of chutzpah.’
‘Okay. Have you heard anything about someone in the media being involved in money laundering?’
Harry’s desk is bare, no photos to gaze at, no pencil to chew, no paperclips to bend. When he has to think he just thinks. He shook his head. ‘Nothing comes to mind now that Kerry’s gone, and he was always more into tax minimisation than anything more risky. When you say media person, d’you mean owner, presenter, actor, what?’
‘I don’t know. Try this on for size-a politician, no gender specified, using influence with the immigration deadheads to help someone in the sex-slave business.’
‘Lily’s stories, right?’
I nodded.
‘State or federal politician?’
‘Dunno.’
‘There was a pollie in Victoria allegedly in on an immigration fiddle, but it didn’t have the juice that you’re talking about. This is young-gun, out-on-the-street stuff, Cliff. I’m just an old man sitting at my desk listening to the winds of change and discord.’
I smiled. ‘Purple prose like that and your readers’ll be screaming.’
‘They scream at me and I scream at them. Instant feedback. It’s part of the fun.’
‘Thanks, Harry. Townsend has put me on to some things. Looks like I’ll be working with him.’
‘Good luck.’
Normally, Harry would insist that in return for information he gave me I’d give him the inside track on the story, if there was one. He seemed to sense that with something this personal it wasn’t appropriate.
I left the office and walked to the car park behind the theatre complex. I usually park there to put the old heap in the shade and with luck prolong its life. Now, late in the afternoon, it was in deep shadow. As I approached a voice somewhere ahead of me shouted and I looked up in that direction. A strong arm wrapped around my neck and expert fingers felt for the carotid artery. I blacked out, floated, and didn’t feel anything when I hit the ground.