Gun Control Read online

  ‘First I’m going to ask, where were you at six o’clock in the morning?’

  I thought she might take offence but she didn’t, or not seriously.

  ‘Asleep. I’d worked late and I’m a very deep sleeper.’

  ‘All right then, did you love him?’

  ‘Yes, and there was nothing maternal about it, in case you’re thinking . . .’

  ‘I’m not thinking anything, Ms Troy.’

  She straightened her shoulders and slowly allowed the tension to drain away from her face and body. She pointed to my half-full glass.

  ‘Come and have some more wine. I’m sorry for the dramatics but I’ve had a hard time since Patrick’s death. People have been . . . solicitous, but there’s often been something else behind what they say.’

  I sat. ‘What else?’

  She raised her plucked eyebrows and I noticed for the first time how carefully she’d made up her face. She had high cheekbones, a long, straight nose and very full lips and had done everything possible to enhance those features and distract from the fine lines around her eyes.

  She laughed. ‘I suppose it’s a mixture of “Well, he was just a toy-boy, what can you expect?” and “Mutton dressed up as lamb”.’

  ‘A twenty-nine-year-old isn’t a boy. I don’t even know what he really looked like. Was he good-looking?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘I’d say he was lucky to have you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Neither of us spoke for a minute or so and then I pulled out my notepad, just as a prop. ‘There was something I wanted to ask you. I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate but I think now that it is. Did you see the gun Patrick used?’

  ‘Yes, it was lying right beside him.’

  ‘Can you tell me what kind of gun it was? Was it a handgun or . . .’

  ‘It was a Glock G22 automatic.’

  5

  ‘You know about guns?’ I said.

  ‘Pistols,’ she corrected. ‘I know about pistols, rifles and shotguns. I worked at the Police and Justice Museum before the Powerhouse.’

  ‘The Glock’s a police weapon.’

  ‘Not exclusively. I think you can buy one online if you know how to go about it.’

  ‘Was it the standard model or the smaller one the plain-clothes guys use?’

  ‘Now you’re assuming it was a police pistol. I can’t be sure. I was upset, as you can imagine. I know it was a Glock . . . the standard one, I think.’

  I nodded and stood.

  ‘You haven’t finished your wine.’

  ‘I have to drive.’

  ‘You have to drive and I have to be fresh for work. Fair enough. The dead have the power to cripple us but I’m not going to let that happen to me. I’m moving on.’

  It seemed like an invitation to another question.

  ‘Why did he kill himself, Ms Troy?’

  ‘Because he only had brief periods of not hating himself.’

  ‘Again, why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Have you any idea how he got hold of the gun?’

  She moved to steer me to the door. ‘Try his mother; she despised him almost as much as she despised her husband and hated me. Goodnight, Mr Hardy.’

  Driving home, I reflected that of course she was right—although it was widely used by police around the world, the Glock automatic was a commercial product and readily available. I knew it had a fifteen-shot magazine and an elaborate safety mechanism that meant it was unlikely to go off in your holster or if you dropped it. At a guess it would be expensive. I thought my bikie contact would know if there was anyone locally who specialised in Glocks, but Frank’s implied reference to police and gun dealing couldn’t be ignored.

  Ben Corbett lived in a below-street-level flat in Erskineville. It was the sort of place that would’ve been flooded in the days when Erskineville was a slum area, but the suburb had undergone a big upgrading and Ben could now count on remaining dry in a Sydney downpour. He’d bought the flat when he was earning good money as a film and TV stuntman, part-timing as an outlaw bikie. A bike accident that should have killed him got him a compensation payout in return for life in a wheelchair.

  Ben wasn’t the kind of guy you phoned up for an appointment. You knew for almost certain he’d be at home and would see you if you had the right credentials—a packet of Drum tobacco and a bottle of Bundaberg rum. The following morning I equipped myself with these things and drove to Erskineville.

  Someone had rigged up a pulley system that allowed him to haul himself up the too-steep ramp he’d had constructed from his flat to the street. It was a typical piece of Corbett bravado, along with refusing to have a motorised wheelchair. Wheelchairs are heavy and Ben weighed a hundred kilos plus, but he was one of the strongest men I knew and he could do it easily. He delighted in the challenge the ramp presented to his visitors and was notorious for the speeds he reached in his wheelchair on the street.

  I walked cautiously down the ramp and knocked on the door. I heard swearing inside the small flat and the turning of wheels before the door opened.

  ‘Hello, Ben.’

  ‘Hardy, you cunt. What do you want?’

  I held up the bottle and the now plain-packaged tobacco. ‘Information, Ben. What else?’

  ‘Not buying?’

  I’d bought, or rather rented, a pistol from him when I’d needed one in my unlicensed period. I shook my head. ‘Just a chat.’

  ‘It’ll cost you.’

  ‘That’s okay, I’m working.’

  ‘Lucky fucking you. Come in.’

  He spun the wheelchair around and scooted it across the room to where he had an electric fire burning. Mild outside, it was cold in the flat. He had the television playing and he muted the sound. A big ashtray on a table held the butts of his mid-morning rollies and he already had a streaked glass beside it.

  ‘Coke’s in the kitchen,’ he said. ‘Get yourself a glass and bring it in.’

  ‘You seem almost glad to see me, Ben.’

  ‘I’d be glad to see any-fucking-body except two of my three ex-wives.’

  I knew what this meant but I played along. ‘You make an exception for one of them?’

  ‘No, she was a skaggy cunt, but she was on the bike with me and she’s fucking dead.’

  I went through to the grubby kitchenette, opened the fridge, got a bottle of Coca-Cola and took a reasonably clean glass from the draining board. I cracked ice cubes into a bowl and brought everything back to where Ben was sitting. I’d left the tobacco with him and he was already sniffing it suspiciously as I drew up a chair.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I said.

  ‘It’s this plain fucking packaging. You reckon it’s the real stuff?’

  I opened the rum, poured a solid slug into Ben’s glass, added a little Coke and one ice cube. My drink was weaker but not too weak. I didn’t want a macho tirade.

  ‘Who knows?’ I said. ‘Some of the cigarette smokers put a coloured plastic case over the cancer warning.’

  ‘Wimps,’ Ben said. He rolled one from his existing packet, took a deep drag and let the smoke trickle out to contribute to the dark yellow stains in his bikie’s beard and moustache. He took a heavy pull on his drink.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Glocks,’ I said.

  ‘What about ’em?’

  ‘Do you handle them?’

  ‘Fuck, Hardy, what sort of a question is that?’

  ‘Come on, Ben, you know how we stand. I wouldn’t dob you in, you’ve got too much on me.’

  ‘I suppose that’s right.’ He sucked down smoke and rum. ‘I wouldn’t touch the fucking things. Too expensive and too easy to trace. Not a lot of them around.’

  ‘So who does?’

  He stared at me through the smoke. I’d been to the ATM; I reached into my wallet and fanned out five one-hundred-dollar notes like a poker hand.

  ‘Not enough,’ he said.

  I added two more hundreds and a fifty. ‘That�
�s it.’

  Ben took the money and slid it under his glass. He was a sloppy drinker and the wet glass left a ring on the topmost note.

  ‘Dusty Miller,’ he said.

  ‘Where would I find him?’

  ‘In the fucking Blue Mountains. He runs a smash repair place in Katoomba.’

  ‘A chop shop?’

  He shrugged. ‘Could be.’

  ‘I hope he’s not a mate of yours, Ben. Not the sort of bloke you ring up and warn.’

  ‘Are you kidding? He’s a Bravado and I’m a Fink, or was.’

  ‘Once a Fink always a Fink.’

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  ‘Just making sure.’

  ‘He’s an arsehole. I wouldn’t give him a drink if he was dying of thirst. What’s this about, Hardy? Do you need a gun?’

  ‘No, I’m all legal now. I’ve got one.’

  He nodded. ‘Better be quick. Dusty’s on borrowed time, so I’ve heard.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  He shook his head and I snatched the bottle away.

  ‘Okay, okay. I don’t know much about it but the word is Dusty’s got an in with some cops and with all this shit going on that kind of fuckin’ arrangement can only last so long. That’s all I meant.’

  I finished my drink, pushed the bottle back, and got ready to leave. Ben poured himself a refill.

  ‘Hardy,’ Ben said, ‘d’you know anything about this stem cell stuff that’s supposed to be able to fix spinal injuries?’

  ‘Just what I read and see on the news, but we’ve probably got the wrong government now to move that ahead.’

  ‘Fuck, is that right?’

  ‘How did you vote in the last election?’

  ‘I don’t fuckin’ vote. I’m an Enzedder, didn’t you know?’

  I moved to the door. ‘Take care of yourself, Ben.’

  He looked up from expertly rolling another smoke. ‘Why’re you saying that?’

  ‘It’s just an expression. I say it to everyone.’

  I left and inched my way up the slope into a bright day and had to blink a few times to adjust to the light after the dimness of Ben’s flat. I also needed a few breaths of fresh air to clear the atmosphere of smoke, booze, anger and despair.

  It wasn’t true that I used that expression all the time. If Ben had police contacts and everyone was so jumpy about guns, he was as much in danger as protected. And now there was a connection between him and New Zealand, where I’d been told guns were sourced. All his associations could be dangerous, and mine too.

  Back at the office, the next thing on my list was Mrs Greenhall. I didn’t feel like driving to Nowra on the off chance, so I rang the Revitality Clinic to see if they had visiting hours over the weekend.

  ‘Which guest did you wish to see?’ asked the professionally smooth receptionist, who’d introduced herself as Tracy.

  ‘Mrs Jillian Greenhall.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Mrs Greenhall is not . . . encouraged . . . to have visitors at the moment.’ The silky voice was very firm.

  ‘And when might she be,’ I imitated her telling pause, ‘“encouraged” to see people?’

  I was told I could try again the next week to see if the situation had changed, and instructed to have a nice day. Another dead end, for the moment.

  I spent what was left of the day catching up on paperwork, then went home with a takeaway curry and a nice bottle of white for dinner to go with the book I was reading.

  6

  I didn’t much like the thought of fronting a Bravado bikie gun dealer, who ran what was possibly an illicit car repair business, without a weapon. I didn’t have a gun so I went for the next best thing—money. Over the weekend I spent time in the gym and the pool at Victoria Park and made several visits to an ATM. When I set off on Monday morning I had a full tank of petrol and three thousand dollars. My Falcon was in very good condition but it was old and it’d be credible for me to claim it needed attention. At the very least I hoped to get a look at Dusty Miller and work out what to do next.

  Like most Sydneysiders I’m ambivalent about the Blue Mountains. We’re glad they’re there but, with snow in the winter, searing heat in the summer and no significant sports venues, we feel it’s a kind of foreign territory to be visited very selectively. The trick to driving there is to pick your time of departure. Anywhere around peak time and Parramatta Road and the M4 can be a nightmare. The mountain road narrows after Emu Plains as you go up and is constantly under repair and upgrade. Eighty k is the rule for most of the way but it can drop suddenly to sixty through the towns and there are frequent forty-k school zones. Sneaky speed cameras are another hazard.

  I left Glebe at eleven and encountered my share of the go-slows. There were still signs of the 2013 bushfires around Springwood, another factor that plays into our feelings about the mountains. We don’t like hearing about the loss of lives and houses and we don’t like the smoke that drifts down into the city.

  I got into Katoomba just before one, with the heater working against the cold outside air. I was tired after the drive, eager for something to eat and ready for a drink to relax me and some coffee to spark me up. The Paragon café was the best source for all three. I took a seat, ordered shepherd’s pie and peas with a glass of the house red. When the food and drink arrived I used the tomato sauce dispenser liberally. A Maroubra boy can’t eat shepherd’s pie without swamping it in tomato sauce.

  I got directions to Miller’s Smash Repairs from a waiter in the café.

  ‘Won’t be open until a good bit later,’ he said.

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Dusty’s a bikie, right? They roar off on Saturday arvo to do whatever it is they do and don’t get back till late Sunday. Pissed, usually, so he doesn’t open till late.’

  I found the workshop at the end of a narrow street a few blocks back from the main drag. The street straggled through some low-grade housing until, once past the workshop, it became a track leading off into rugged bushland. A hand-painted sign identified it and oil stains on cracked concrete, a few rusty oil drums, some decaying batteries and an untidy pile of threadbare tyres confirmed the nature of the business. The junk also suggested neglect, if not indifference.

  The fibro and weatherboard building had a long, low skillion at the back that looked like living quarters. It had a separate electrical connection from the workshop and a TV aerial. It was very quiet; none of the other houses in the street seemed to be occupied just then, and traffic noise from the main road was muted. Birds fluttered and called as I slammed my car door. I walked to the double doors of the workshop and rattled them, getting no response.

  I had three thousand dollars in my wallet and a rolled-up newspaper in my hand. Inside the newspaper was a forty-centimetre length of lead pipe. I followed a path of poorly laid concrete blocks around to the side of the skillion. Twin small windows were too dirty to look through and a larger one further back had been broken and patched over with heavy cardboard.

  There was a bricked sitting area at the back with some rickety chairs, milk crates filled with empty beer bottles and cans, and a few hubcaps doing duty as ashtrays. The back door was a ramshackle affair and had a broken panel mended with a sheet of thick Perspex. When I knocked on the solid part of the door there was no response. I waited. You don’t go straight in after a no-response; you wait, watch and listen.

  There was no sound from within or without other than the occasional bird call that seemed incongruously sweet and pure in that semi-derelict setting.

  I was wearing a long-sleeved denim shirt under a corduroy jacket and I retracted my arm and used the shirt cuff to try the door handle. It turned easily and I pushed the door open with my foot. I eased into the room that served as a cooking, eating and smoking area. A leaf-cluttered skylight didn’t do much against the dimness. The place was a mess, with chairs overturned, broken glass on the lino floor, a cupboard spilling food tins and packets, and clothes strewn about. The clothes smelled of urine an
d shit.

  A half-open door led to another room and as I pushed at it I was hit by a familiar odour. People smell things differently. I’ve heard some say blood has a metallic reek, others speak of a chemical tang—maybe it depends on the blood. I was picking up the familiar acrid, raw smell I associated with a lot of blood fairly recently spilled.

  The bedroom was the one with the dirty twin windows that let in just enough light to let me see something I hope never to see again. A big man lay on the bed. He was naked; his head had been virtually pulped; his long beard was blackened by blood, and a grey ponytail, tied with a leather thong, had been lopped off and stuffed into his mouth. Both earlobes were bloody and ragged where earrings had been torn away.

  His pale, flabby body had bruises from shoulder to hip and dozens of burn marks that had bled and attracted flies. The bedding underneath him was sodden with blood, sweat and urine. I leaned against the doorjamb and fought a strong urge to throw up. This had to be Dusty Miller and the reason for his torture wasn’t hard to guess—to find out where he kept the guns. It looked as though he’d held out for some time and I wondered if he’d given up the information. Hard to tell. The signs were that the torturer had lost control but it could’ve been he’d got what he wanted and then had had his fun.

  I left the room, stepping carefully so as not to leave any boot marks or fibres or the hundred and one other things that forensics can use to place you at a crime scene. I exited the back room and pushed the door shut with my elbow. I worked my way slowly to the front of the building. My car, sitting there, suddenly looked to me like an advertising sign: HARDY WAS HERE!

  I’d asked about Miller in the café. True, it had been busy, but would the waiter remember? I could have been seen driving to the workshop even though I hadn’t noticed anyone around. Were the Falcon’s tyre treads distinctive? Had I touched anything? I didn’t think so but it was impossible to be sure.

  Contacting the police wasn’t an option. Frank had warned me that I’d been flagged as a gun-nuisance. It wasn’t likely the cops would regard me as a suspect for Miller’s murder, but the delays they could cause and the obstacles they could put in my path could just about take me out of business.