Gun Control Read online

  ‘Hello, Cliff,’ Hilde said, her voice still German-accented after decades in the country. ‘We’ve not seen you for some time.’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, one thing and another.’

  ‘You sound stressed. How’s your heart?’

  Fuck my heart, I thought, just get me Frank. But I said something polite and meaningless.

  ‘Cliff,’ Frank said when he came on the line. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘Why does there have to be trouble?’

  ‘Hilde said you sounded stressed.’

  ‘Just angry,’ I said. ‘I’ve been getting the runaround.’ I took a deep breath and gave Frank an outline of what I’d been hired to look into and the reception I’d had from my police contacts.

  ‘I didn’t expect them to pour out their hearts, Frank, but I thought I might get a name or a point in the right direction at least.’

  I heard what sounded like a long, exasperated sigh before Frank spoke again. ‘Can’t talk about this on the phone, mate. You’d better come over here.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon as you can.’

  It was getting late and with two sizeable glasses of wine inside me I didn’t fancy driving to Frank’s place in Paddington. I told him I’d be there mid-morning.

  There are many things I’m unsure of, but I’m as sure as I know the sun will come up that Frank Parker never took a dishonest dollar in his forty years of police service. It just wasn’t in his nature to do it, which is not to say that he’d always played by the book. In the old days he’d probably committed his share of physical violence and used threats and intimidation. His friendship with me hadn’t helped his career but his honesty, energy and success rate had overcome that disability. In his retirement he was regularly consulted for advice by serving police.

  I had these thoughts as I walked from Pyrmont to Glebe. I enjoyed the walk to and from the office on days I wasn’t expecting to be driving anywhere, especially on a mild spring night like this. It gave me time to think and helped keep my weight down. The fish market was doing a roaring trade and I bought some dory fillets to cook for dinner.

  I answered the knock at the front door at around 7 am. I’d slept for almost seven hours, pretty good these days, when I seem to sleep less than when I was younger. I was in pyjamas and a dressing gown and had been about to make coffee.

  ‘Cliff Hardy?’

  There were two men at the door. The one who’d spoken wasn’t in uniform, the other one was and it didn’t belong to the army, the navy, the air force or St John’s Ambulance.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Let’s see the warrant card.’

  He took out his wallet, flipped it open and held it close enough for me to read.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Stuart McLean,’ I read.

  He pronounced it the Scottish way, ‘McLain’.

  I looked over his shoulder, not hard to do because he was only about 175 centimetres tall and I’m 190. ‘And you are?’

  The uniformed man was tall enough to look me in the eye. ‘Senior Constable Hawes,’ he said.

  ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘We’ve come to inspect how you secure the .38 Smith & Wesson pistol you’re licensed to own.’

  ‘Secure?’

  ‘That’s right. You’ll be aware of the regulation that requires you to keep the gun under lock and key and the ammunition similarly secured separately.’

  ‘That’s a tongue twister,’ I said. ‘Similarly secured separately . . . I’d have to say it slowly.’

  McLean sighed. ‘You’re known for your pissy little jokes, Hardy. I have the authority to look at the gun.’

  There was nothing else for it. I led them down the passage to the cupboard under the stairs and showed them where I kept the gun—zipped into a pocket of a leather jacket hanging deep in the cupboard. The .38 was fully loaded; I had ten bullets zipped into another pocket.

  ‘Separate,’ I said.

  McLean almost smiled. ‘But hardly secured. This is a serious violation. I’m confiscating the weapon and ammunition. You can apply to have it returned when you can demonstrate that you have two storing boxes, separately located.’

  I shrugged. ‘Sounds like a visit to Mitre 10. Well, I wasn’t planning on shooting anyone today.’

  With evident satisfaction McLean said, ‘You’ll find they’re a speciality item and quite expensive.’

  Constable Hawes produced a heavy plastic bag from a pocket and dropped the pistol and the bullets into it while McLean wrote out a receipt.

  Hawes had a gruff bark but his manner, in contrast to McLean’s, was almost friendly. ‘Combination or key lock, Mr Hardy. Your choice.’

  I escorted them back to the door.

  ‘Please don’t say “Have a nice day”,’ I said.

  McLean didn’t even look back as he avoided the broken tiles on the path. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Quick work,’ Frank Parker said when I told him about the visit later that morning. We were sitting outside near his small pool, drinking coffee. Frank was getting up from time to time to scoop leaves out of the pool with a net attached to a long pole.

  ‘What’s going on, Frank?’

  He got up to do a scoop and to give himself time to think. He deposited the leaves in a box and came back to his chair and the coffee.

  ‘It’s one of those if-I-told-you-I’d-have-to-kill-you situations.’

  ‘But you will tell me.’

  ‘Reluctantly. Cliff, I know you have dealings with media people like Harry Tickener and trade information with them, but I’m serious—not a word of this to anyone, ever.’

  I nodded. Frank was basically a very serious guy but what he’d said had struck a more than serious note, even for him. With a touch of warning about it.

  ‘You know there’s a lot of political pressure coming down about gun control. It’s mostly bullshit but there are a few real problems. Handguns are coming in from unlikely sources, even from New Zealand, would you believe. A couple of the bikie gangs have established new chapters there and gun know-how is part of their recruiting procedure. Trading in guns makes them feel good. Apparently they get into New Zealand cheaply somehow from Eastern Europe and there’s money to be made off-loading them over here. And now the network exists.’

  ‘I didn’t know anything about this.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to. That’s the way the GC unit wants to keep it.’

  ‘I’m guessing you mean a gun control unit,’ I said. ‘An undercover mob.’

  ‘Yes and no. It has an undercover layer and a more public face, but some of its operations are completely covert.’

  ‘That sounds very dodgy to me. What about accountability?’

  Frank didn’t answer.

  ‘So McLean and Hawes are part of the public face?’

  ‘I’d say so.’

  ‘But why would they target me? I was just making an enquiry about a piece of evidence connected with a sad event with no suspicious circumstances.’

  Frank drained his cup, got up and went in pursuit of more leaves that had dropped from a tree with a branch that reached close to the pool. He performed the action he’d done a thousand times before with a long stroke and the flick of a wrist.

  ‘I wish you’d stop doing that. Let the fucking Kreepy Krawly deal with the leaves.’

  He shook the leaves into the box and sat back down. ‘You are stressed.’

  ‘I just don’t like being targeted by the cops for a technicality. Okay, a careless mistake.’

  ‘There’s a special sensitivity about anything to do with the police and guns.’

  ‘Now we’re getting to it. Why?’

  ‘The unit’s had its problems, apparently. I’m not in the loop but I hear things. Questions have been asked about its . . . accountability, as you called it.’

  ‘And that’s all you’ll tell me?’

  ‘No, I’m also telling you to be careful.’

  ‘It was a simple factual enqu
iry,’ I said. ‘It just needed a couple of simple answers. Are you saying that particular gun could have been . . . improperly disposed of?’

  ‘I have no idea, but you’re not the person to find out. You’ve been flagged, mate. You did a bit of time for destroying evidence—a gun—and you came very close to being prosecuted. You tried to shoot that bloke at Balmoral and chucked the gun in the bay.’

  ‘I was upset then and I’m getting upset now.’

  ‘Leave it alone. My sense is that it’s political, which means dirty. All I know is that certain structures and people are under pressure.’

  ‘Like who?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Are you protecting your pension, Frank?’

  He looked at me and I raised my hands defensively. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘Forget it. I didn’t hear what you said. I’m getting old and deaf.’

  4

  Frank went back to scooping. I said my goodbyes to him and Hilde and left. I’d been warned off investigations before but usually by people on the wrong side of the law, not by those sworn to uphold it. I’d signed a contract to do something and I didn’t like the idea of reneging on it. There were other people I could approach if I knew what type of gun Patrick Greenhall had used.

  I knew an ex-stuntman and bikie, rendered paraplegic by an accident, who dealt in illegal guns. He knew others in the same game and their specialities. But without knowing whether the gun was a rifle or an automatic pistol or a revolver, I was flying blind at take-off.

  I decided on a two-pronged approach. I went to the gun shop in George Street in the city and bought two combination-lock strongboxes. They came with lock bolts to allow them to be fixed to walls or floors. I cleaned out a kitchen cupboard. My handyman skills are limited but they were enough for me to be able to sink a couple of bolts through the gyprock into the masonry and fix the boxes side by side to the wall. Separated only by a few centimetres, but separated.

  I called my lawyer, Viv Garner, told him the story and left him to contact the police about how to proceed in getting my pistol back now that I had the right set-up.

  ‘If you have any problems, Viv,’ I said, ‘just let me know.’

  ‘Problems? You? Okay, what problems? It’s just a matter of . . . where were the police who took the bloody thing from?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You didn’t ask?’

  ‘They took me by surprise. I’ve got their names though.’ I gave him the names.

  ‘There’s a bit of work in this,’ he said. ‘I hope you’re getting paid.’

  ‘I hope so, too.’

  As I cut the call I had a fleeting thought that I might have exposed Viv to some danger or pressure. I dismissed the idea; he was a highly respected member of his profession and big in several legal associations. The only black mark against him was his association with me, which his colleagues put down to a touch of eccentricity. Viv said it pleased him to be provided with a spark of excitement in his otherwise dull, dutiful life.

  I thought about the suicide of Patrick Greenhall and the people likely to have been present following it. The paramedics, uniforms and detectives, the SOCO until it was determined to be a suicide, and a police doctor. Not much chance of getting information from any of them, but there was one other person—Greenhall’s partner. She’d found him and must have seen the gun. At the very least, no matter how upset she’d been, she should be able to tell me if it was a rifle or a handgun.

  Greenhall Senior had given me her mobile number and I rang it. Five months was long enough to recover, I thought.

  A crisp, educated voice. ‘Alicia Troy.’

  I explained who I was but left a little vague what it was I’d been hired to do. She listened without commenting. I said I’d like to talk to her.

  ‘Why?’

  I thought it best not to ask the crucial question bluntly. I said, ‘To know more about Patrick, his habits, his movements. That’s if you’re willing to talk about it.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I have the address of Patrick’s flat in Balmain. Are you—?’

  ‘My flat, ours.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll be home from work by six-thirty. You could come then.’

  ‘Where do you work, Ms Troy? Mr Greenhall didn’t tell me.’

  ‘He wouldn’t. At the Powerhouse Museum. I was Patrick’s boss.’

  The flat was in Glassop Street near Elkington Park. Biggish block and if she was up high enough, Ms Troy would have a decent view of the water. Good security and an efficient lift, but second level at the back. View of houses and back yards only.

  Alicia Troy surprised me. She was a tall, handsome woman with a good figure, dressed in a long horizontally striped blue and white skirt and a black sweater. She had abundant dark hair and a confident manner. She was also at least forty years old, probably more. She smiled when I failed to conceal my surprise.

  ‘Expecting someone younger, Mr Hardy?’

  ‘I was.’

  She ushered me into a short passage that led to a large room. It was well appointed, with good furniture and appliances, but not what I’d anticipated for a presumably well-paid professional couple. She pointed to a corner where there was an arrangement of chairs around a small table.

  ‘I’m drinking white wine. Would you like some?’

  I said I would and forced myself to stop scanning the place, wondering where Patrick had killed himself. She came back with a bottle of Houghton’s classic white and two glasses. She rucked up the long skirt she was wearing and settled herself into a chair opposite me across the table. The bottle was already open; she poured two large glasses.

  She smiled. ‘I can’t stand being given a third of a glass,’ she said. ‘They know a person’s going to need a top-up or two so what’s the point?’

  ‘I’m with you,’ I said. ‘They probably say too much affects the bouquet or something, but I’m more interested in the amount and the taste.’

  We both took healthy swigs.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘poor Patrick. I have you at a disadvantage, don’t I?’

  ‘You have and I’m embarrassed. I know how old he was and I was told he was youthful-looking. So I made assumptions. I’m sorry. As you saw, I expected someone more Patrick’s age. Not very imaginative of me. And this place—again, not what I thought.’

  ‘It was my flat originally and he moved in about eighteen months ago. We smartened it up a little. Our tastes matched pretty much. We renegotiated the mortgage. I’ve changed things a bit more since he died.’

  ‘What about his friends? Can you give me any names?’

  ‘He didn’t have friends,’ she said, echoing Timothy Greenhall. ‘Nor do I, really. We didn’t need them. We were each other’s friend.’

  ‘Colleagues at the museum?’

  ‘We never saw any of them after hours. In fact, he probably only ever talked to them at meetings. We all work hard on our own projects during the day, we don’t sit around chatting in the coffee room.’

  That sounded like a dead end, or at least something that could be put on the very back burner until I ran out of other ideas.

  I asked a few more questions and she told me something about her relationship with Patrick. I sensed that it was an edited version, only natural since she was talking to a perfect stranger with no claims on her candour. She poured more wine and stopped talking.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ she said.

  ‘I’m wondering why you’re telling me so much. I know it’s not everything, but I don’t flatter myself I’ve won your confidence to this extent.’

  Again, the smile. ‘You surprise me, too, Mr Hardy. When you phoned, with that voice I imagined an ex-policeman, damaged by disillusion, booze and tobacco.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m bruised a bit by those things but not too damaged. While we’re being frank, you implied that Timothy Greenhall had reservations about the nature of y
our relationship with Patrick. Could you spell that out?’

  ‘Can’t you guess? His only son moving in with a divorcee nearly fifteen years older? And as for his wife . . .’

  ‘Patrick’s mother?’

  ‘Yes, although you wouldn’t know it from her behaviour. I’d be more inclined to doubt her maternity than his paternity.’

  ‘What do you mean? Was there any question about Timothy being the father?’

  ‘Patrick wondered, when he was depressed. Apparently Mr Greenhall made some cracks about it over the years, along the lines of “Well, you don’t take after me, but I know why that is.” ’

  She leaned forward. ‘It’s probably bullshit—I could see a lot of his expressions and mannerisms in Patrick—but Mr Greenhall’s a very devious and manipulative man under that conventional exterior. He was probably needling Patrick’s mother in some roundabout way. And she’s even worse.’

  I sat back, surprised at her vehemence; the chair creaked.

  ‘I’m sorry’, she said. ‘The wine’s making me garrulous and bitchy. It happens.’

  I’d had enough of this. I wanted to shake her up a bit. I drank some wine and let my eyes drop to the dove-grey carpet. It looked new.

  ‘Where did he do it?’ I said.

  ‘Over there near the window.’ She pointed to the floor and to a large wall hanging. ‘The blood hit the wall where that hanging is and there was quite a lot on the floor. I got a new carpet . . .’

  She didn’t break down the way Greenhall Senior had but there was a crack in her composure. I stood and crossed to where she said Patrick had stood. It had been at 6 am in winter and it would have been dark. He’d have been looking out at some house lights and streetlights, nothing more.

  She’d collected herself while I stood there and her voice was steady. ‘It’s a funny thing but I feel I can talk to you and it’s about time I talked to someone. We’re supposed to be enlightened these days but I can tell you that a woman who takes up with a much younger man is in a kind of prison of disapproval. Turn around! Aren’t you going to ask me if I loved him?’

  I turned. Her fine-boned face was a mask of strain and stress.