Master's Mates Read online

  ‘In a taxi?’

  ‘No, sir. She waits, the taxi comes and then another car. She gives money to the taxi man and then she leaves in the other car.’

  ‘What kind of car?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Can you describe the car?’

  ‘Big,’ she said.

  I was in my office when O’Connor’s call came through. I was staring at the computer screen, which was something I was likely to do more and more as time went on. It made me wonder how much longer I wanted to do this kind of work.

  ‘Hardy, what the devil are you playing at leaving a message like that? If you’re trying to humiliate me it’s been tried by experts.’

  ‘No. Hard though it might be for you to believe, I wasn’t thinking about you at all. Not really.’

  ‘Are you drunk? I take it this is about your meeting with the wretched Master?’

  ‘I’m not drunk, although I’m thinking about it. This isn’t about Stewart, it’s about Lorraine. Let me read you what’s on my computer screen.

  ‘“Hardy, stay out of this or she’s dead.”’

  21

  BRYCE O’Connor looked around my office as if he was thinking he wouldn’t park his golf cart in a place like this. In fact I’d cleaned it up a bit while I was waiting for him, more to give myself something to do while I was thinking than out of professional pride. Eventually he sank into the uncomfortable client’s chair and was so agitated he didn’t notice the discomfort.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  I gave him what I had, referring to my notes, producing the photographs, printouts of the emails, everything. He was in his business suit, but somehow his grooming seemed to have slipped a little. I’d have thought a criminal lawyer would be fairly used to the seamy side but maybe he’d always tried to keep himself aloof, and aloof wasn’t really an option now.

  ‘We have to go to the police with this,’ he said when I’d finished.

  ‘Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear. The police, some police, are involved in this up to their necks. So are some lawyers, some customs people, possibly some politicians.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking it through. All I’ve been trying to do is to make up some ground for Master, because that’s what Lorrie wanted even if he didn’t.’

  ‘I understand that. My object has been the same.’

  ‘So you say. Maybe I believe you.’

  ‘I resent that.’

  ‘Resent away. For the moment, I’m going to trust you.’

  He was younger than me, better educated, much richer and with far better prospects, but he knew that he was out of his depth this time. His natural inclination, a well-worn groove, would be to patronise a sub-professional like me and refuse to be talked down to, but he knew he had to take it.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘My object’s changed. Now I’m worried about Lorrie and her alone. Master’s just an incidental as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘You’re the avenue to him. What you have to do is tell him about this. Tell him his children have been threatened and his wife’s been kidnapped and—’ ‘You didn’t say anything about the children.’

  ‘Think about it. How else do you reckon they got her out of the hospital, got her to fake a call for a taxi and got her into a waiting car?’

  ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘You have to talk to Master. He must know more about this Eastman or West or whoever he is. He has to tell us how to get a line on him.’

  He nodded eagerly. ‘Then the police?’

  ‘Maybe, depending on the quality of the information. In a strange way this latest development works in our favour.’

  He looked at me as if I’d suddenly started speaking in Esperanto. ‘How on earth do you arrive at that conclusion?’

  ‘My guess is that by taking Lorrie, this bastard who’s doing all this shit thinks he’s gained a greater measure of control over Master and me. I think he’s wrong as far as Master’s concerned, at least. I think he’s broken cover.’

  He agreed to talk to Master and report back as soon as possible. I stressed that it had to be in person, that I didn’t trust any of the usual means of communication. I also told him to make reassuring arrangements at Lorrie’s place of business and at the house.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like whatever your high-priced brain can think up. You’ve made a lot of money out of the Masters, and now you’re going to earn it.’

  He protested. ‘I’m a busy man.’

  ‘Make time. If this setting up of Master comes out, it doesn’t look good for you either way.’

  He was a few steps from the door but he stopped. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If you were part of it you’re going to stink; if you weren’t, you’re going to look foolish.’

  He considered that. ‘And you have the say?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  I was on thin ice and I knew it. I didn’t really think that O’Connor was involved at the dirty end, or anywhere along the line, but it suited me to keep him on his toes. The more agitated he was, the more it should communicate to Master and I wanted him to be very edgy, at least as edgy as me. I had a sense that Eastman/West was under pressure and that he was operating alone. He seemed to be a hands-on type and they don’t like delegating and trusting others. Snatching Lorrie, I judged, was out of character. He tended to clean the decks immediately he was threatened. Where the present pressure was coming from I could only guess. Maybe the shipment had arrived. Maybe his various masters were getting alarmed at the body count. Perhaps his judgement was faltering. Good. But all that meant was that mine had to be spot-on.

  One thing was for sure, I wasn’t going into this on my own. I needed allies. Still using the mobile, much as I disliked it, I phoned Frank Parker and arranged to see him later that night.

  Frank and his wife Hilde, a former tenant of mine, live in Bronte in a modest semi with a view of the water, meaning it’s worth a hell of a lot more money than they paid for it. Their son Peter, my anti-godson, drops in now and then when he can spare time from his travels for Greenpeace. Frank met me at the door and shook my hand; Hilde hugged me; Peter wasn’t there.

  ‘I think he’s in Nepal,’ Hilde said, ‘doing something with the Fred Hollows Foundation.’

  ‘Vietnam,’ Frank said, pouring scotch.

  Hilde shrugged. ‘Who knows? You look stressed, Cliff.’

  ‘He always looks stressed except when he’s pissed,’ Frank said. ‘It’s the only way he knows how to look.’

  ‘More stressed then.’

  Frank nodded. ‘Yeah. What is it, Cliff? How can I help?’

  Frank has no secrets from Hilde. I envy their relationship which seems to be based on affection, shared experience and something else. I’ve had the first two in my time, but I’ve missed out on the something else. Just being with them has a calming effect on me, and I was able to tell them the story fully and reasonably coherently, only backing up a few times to fill in things when they asked questions.

  ‘Jesus, Cliff,’ Frank said when I finished. ‘That’s a sticky one, even for you.’

  ‘I know.’

  Hilde shook her head and went off to make coffee. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and she could see that the whisky was getting to me. I could feel it too. But I wanted more and had some. Hilde came back with a coffee pot on a tray with plates of rye bread, sliced ham, cheese and pickles.

  ‘Bit late for that, love,’ Frank said.

  ‘I don’t think so. Cliff is . . . what’s the word? Whacked. But he has to stay awake while you make your calls. He’ll have to contribute something probably. Then he can sleep in Peter’s room.’

  What if Peter breezes in from Nepal or Vietnam? I thought. I was losing it, as Sinatra said on his deathbed, but I knew Hilde was right and I accepted a mug of black coffee after she depressed the plunger. I loaded up a slice of the rye bread. �
��You heard her, Frank,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to put you through it but . . .’

  Frank, in his early sixties but still limber from golf, swimming and love, rose from his chair and poured himself coffee. ‘Save me some of those bread and butter cucumbers,’ he said.

  That was Frank. What I was asking him to do was to call in favours he’d rather not call in and talk to people he’d rather not talk to. There was no point in going to straight shooters in the federal or state police, Frank was going to talk to some of those others—the bagmen, the fixers, the jokers, as they were known. Frank’s contacts would be mostly retired by now, some voluntarily, some by mutual agreement. But they stayed in touch with the criminal world they’d paddled in for so long. They had to—there were networks of obligation there as well. They went to each other’s funerals, sometimes sporting their Masonic regalia, put condolence notices in the papers, and some genuinely grieved and some breathed sighs of relief.

  I sat with Hilde and drank coffee and ate some of the food she’d laid out and we talked about her stints as Third World dental assistant and about Peter, of whom she was very proud.

  ‘I’m sorry to put Frank through this,’ I said. ‘He’ll hate talking to some of those bastards.’

  Hilde nodded. ‘Yes. But in a way he won’t mind too much. He misses it all sometimes. I can tell. I see him going off to golf and I know that it’s a substitute for what was his real life.’

  ‘You and Peter are his real life.’

  ‘Yes. I know that and he knows it and that’s what makes it all right. Better than that. Good. But I could feel a . . . rise in his foot. No, what am I trying to say?’

  After so many years in Australia, Hilde’s English is fluent but some things still trip her up.

  ‘A spring in his step,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. He is interested. A little bit of this sometimes is better for him than golf and gardening. I hope it’s just a little bit.’

  ‘It will be.’

  We talked about nothing in particular for a while until Frank came back. He had a pad with some notes on it in his hand. ‘I’ll have to eat this when we’re finished. Put it on a piece of bread with ham and pickles.’

  ‘You are a fool,’ Hilde said.

  Frank settled himself and poured some coffee. He added a touch of whisky and consulted the notes. ‘Couldn’t get much on Warren North, which is apparently his real name. Shadowy type. With ASIO for a while, then undercover for the feds. The feeling is he went rogue some time back but still represents himself as official when it suits him. Plausible in the part, they say.’

  ‘A killer?’

  Frank nodded. ‘Rumoured to be. You know what it’s like in that game. More veils than Salome.’

  ‘No clues as to where he might go for a bolthole, especially with a hostage?’

  ‘Nothing. But you’ve got a bit lucky on the other side of the street. It’s all a bit vague, but there’ve been rumours of a shipment of heroin coming in and the usual channels being bypassed. And that’s made certain people very unhappy.’

  Frank drank his spiked coffee and went quiet. I knew what he was thinking. He hated the bent cops and the semi-bent ones, and especially those who kept their own hands clean while facilitating the dirty work to be done by others. They were paid off, not in money, but in information that allowed them to make certain arrests and claim successes and earn promotions and perks—personal assistants, study tours, legitimate performance increments to their salaries. Frank could probably have gone to the top if he’d played this game but he refused and he hated dealing with those who had played it.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘The name North rang a bell or two and a couple of people are on the lookout for you. It’s going to cost you money.’

  ‘There’s money.’

  ‘And it could get messy. If this information’s right, North could be regarded as expendable.’

  ‘He’s killed three people that I know of. I regard him as a waste of space.’

  ‘Yeah, but you’ll have to put some distance between yourself and him when and if the moment comes. You know what I’m saying, Cliff. You’ve got a few counts against you and there’s people keeping score.’

  He was referring to my several licence suspensions and my brief stint in Berrima gaol. I tried for a contrite look.

  ‘Here’s one of the parts you won’t like. You have to have a meeting with Black Andy Piper. I don’t even like saying his bloody name.’

  22

  EX-CHIEF Inspector Andrew Piper, known as Black Andy, was one of the most corrupt cops ever to serve in New South Wales. He’d risen rapidly through the ranks, a star recruit with a silver medal in the modern pentathlon at the Tokyo Olympics. He was big and good-looking and he had all the credentials—a policeman father, the Masonic connection, marriage to the daughter of a middle-ranking state politician, two children, a boy and a girl. Black Andy had played a few games for South Sydney and boxed exhibitions with Tony Mundine. He’d headed up teams of detectives in various Sydney divisions and the crimes they’d solved were only matched by the ones they’d taken the profits from. His name came up adversely at a succession of enquiries and he eventually retired on full benefits because to pursue him hard would have brought down more of the higher echelon of the force than anyone could handle.

  I knew that Frank had had several collisions with him and had come off worse each time. I’d run into him once myself when I was trying to help my client face down a protection racket in the Cross. Black Andy and two of his offsiders had discouraged me to the extent of putting me in hospital for a few days. My client paid up and then sold up.

  Frank and I sat silent with our memories.

  ‘Piper,’ Hilde said. ‘I remember him.’

  ‘You should,’ Frank said. ‘He put the hard word on you the way he did with every good-looking wife of every policeman.’

  ‘He had dyed hair,’ Hilde said. ‘And cold eyes.’

  Frank sipped coffee that had to be cold by now. ‘That’s him. His hair was as black the day he left as the day he started.’

  ‘Where and when?’ I said.

  Frank suddenly looked weary, as if bad memories and lost causes had tired him. ‘Tomorrow at noon. Greek restaurant opposite the Marrickville RSL.’

  ‘Does he know where . . . North is, or where he might be?’

  Frank shrugged. ‘The word is that he might, if anyone does. I’d like to go along with you and give him a few kicks to the balls. That’s what he did to you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Him and two others.’

  ‘Time to sleep,’ Hilde said. ‘A kick to the balls never solved anything.’

  Peter’s room, still bearing some traces of his presence in the form of books on shelves and rock star posters, was strangely comforting. The three-quarter bed had a secure feel to it, unlike my bed, which somehow always feels as if there should be someone in it with me. As I drifted off I wondered if Peter had ever slept here with a girlfriend. Probably, and with Frank and Hilde’s blessing. Very different in my day . . . My mind was wandering and I was checking off things that had improved, with painless dentistry at the top of the list.

  I slept soundly for a couple of hours and then was wide awake with a mildly buzzing head from the whisky. I dressed and crept around the familiar house in my socks. I drank several glasses of water with three aspirin and sat by the living-room window watching the day come to life. I opened the window and heard the seagulls on the beach and the hum of early morning traffic. I wondered where Lorrie was and what she was seeing and hearing. I knew she was tough, but confinement does strange things to the mind and some people never recover from it.

  It had been a mistake to take her to the Balmain meeting. My judgement had been affected by the attraction I’d felt for her. The mistake had made her vulnerable, but North could probably have taken her from wherever she was. I wasn’t going to rack myself about that, but I wasn’t going to give myself good marks either. Again, I considered O’Connor’s role in the scheme
of things. Had he been complicit? Had the guard at the hospital backed off too readily? That made me think of Hank Bachelor and his stun gun, probably now in police possession. Like the rest of Jay and Fay’s money. I could use some of that money now. I’d told Frank money was available but I hadn’t thought it through. Another thing for O’Connor to sort out.

  The daylight had won the battle with the dark and the water and aspirin had put the headache to rest. I was thinking about eating when I heard the unmistakable sound of someone else in the house trying to be quiet. Frank came into the room wearing a dark blue nightshirt that reached just below his knees. He stopped when he saw me at the window.

  ‘Looks good on you, Frank,’ I said. ‘No buttons, no cord to lose.’

  ‘Hilde likes ’em. Peter takes the piss of course. What’re you doing up this early?’

  ‘Raking it all over, what else? This could end badly, mate.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  I nodded and went back to worrying. When Frank returned he handed me a mug and the warmth and smell of it lifted my mood a fraction.

  ‘One thing I forgot to tell you last night,’ Frank said. ‘Carmichael and Hammond are okay. You could bring them in.’

  ‘Thanks, Frank. That’s good news. Any tips for dealing with Black Andy?’

  ‘I understand he’s a lot smoother now, married to a judge and with all those legal connections.’

  ‘Hold on. He was married to some politician’s daughter. A fashion designer or something.’

  Frank shook his head. ‘She finally left. No, he’s married to Mary Pappas. She’s—what’s wrong?’

  The name had hit me like a short left hook. When I’d told Frank the story I hadn’t given him all the names. ‘Frank, tell me about these legal connections.’

  ‘Oh, his daughter from the first marriage, she’s married to John L’Estrange, the barrister, and—’

  ‘Jesus Christ. You’ve just named the judge and the prosecutor at Master’s trial. Black Andy must be in this up to his neck.’

  ‘I’ve never heard that Pappas is . . . flexible, but . . . She’s a hardliner, sure, but I don’t know about corrupt.’