Copper

By Peter Corris

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.

‘I don’t mind telling you, Cliff,’ Gordon had said to me, ‘I advised Marty to forget the whole thing. To go for early retirement, take his package and get to buggery out with all his friendships intact and no bloody trouble.’

It was typical of Gordon that he would be frank in that way, both to Oldcastle at the time and to me later. But Oldcastle hadn’t taken Gordon’s advice. When, inevitably, yet another enquiry into police corruption was announced, Oldcastle submitted a sample of his material anonymously, was encouraged to supply more and eventually offered himself as a witness. His safeguard, supposedly, was that only the enquiring commissioners knew the areas and names his evidence covered, but it wasn’t long before that vessel leaked and Oldcastle got his first death threat. The first of many. The commissioners offered him protection, of course, but how safe does the fox feel when the huntsmen are offering him protection against the hounds? Mick Gordon had sent him to me after the death threats and here we were, discussing round-the-clock seclusion and protection for six days before his first appearance and for as long as he was singing.

One of my difficulties was that Oldcastle wasn’t very likeable. He appeared to lack a sense of humour, although stress might have blunted it—give him that. He was a driven type, by reputation a workaholic as a policeman. He had no family, a plus from my angle—no way to reach him through dependants; but he was a cold customer—not self-obsessed, which is uncongenial but human, but rather not concerned with other people, almost oblivious of them except as tokens in some bureaucratic, institutional game. Mick Gordon appeared to be his only close friend. That was understandable, Gordon had the touch to bring out the human characteristics, even in an automaton like Oldcastle.

He got up from his chair and stared out the window, adjusting his glasses, no doubt thinking about cleaning them, although any blurriness was certainly on my panes rather than on his lenses. ‘After the shooting,’ he said slowly, ‘they offered us all sorts of counselling—psychologists, trauma and guilt experts, hypnotists, relaxation advisers. All bullshit. No limit to the medical backup—leave, tranquillisers, sleeping pills. Union all over them. Some of the blokes took some of it on board as a bludge, you know? Even though they’d actually enjoyed blowing Murphy away. I understand that. I can’t say I ever felt upset about the couple I shot, and one of them wasn’t ever much good after that.’

‘What’s the point?’ I said.

‘The point is there’s bugger-all of that now, is there? I need tranquillisers, I need leave and counselling and how much d’you reckon I’d get if I was to explain what I’m doing and ask for it? You think the union rep’d be on the blower offering me support?’

I still hadn’t decided to take the job and the element of self-pity in this outburst didn’t make him any more appealing. But at least he was feeling something.

‘Just exactly what are you doing?’ I asked.

He left the window and sat down. He adjusted his glasses and squared his shoulders. He was clean-shaven, wore a neat blue suit, white shirt and dark tie; no rings, no lapel pins. His watch was stainless steel on a leather strap. He was a plain man who apparently had no need for the accessories a lot of cops these days trick themselves out with—moustaches, bracelets, signet rings. ‘I’m trying to put a bunch of murdering, thieving, lying bastards in gaol where they belong,’ he said.

Of course there was a lot more to my question than that. I meant, among other things: Why are you going against the traditions of the institution you’ve spent your life in? But Martin Oldcastle wasn’t the sort of man to serve up easy answers to questions like that. Too honest. That honesty tipped the balance in his favour, but I had one more question.

‘If I take this on, it’s going to cost money. You’re looking at seven or eight thousand dollars.’

‘Not a problem.’ Flatly, like that.

‘Well…’

He leaned forward across the desk. ‘I’ve been a senior police officer for twenty years. I’ve got no family. I don’t drink much and I don’t gamble. I bought my flat back when a decent place to live in didn’t cost the bloody earth. I drive a 1988 Falcon. I play bowls at the weekend and I go on bus tours around Australia in my holidays. It’s my life we’re talking about and I can afford to pay you if you’ve got the guts to take it on.’

Maybe the choice of car swung it, maybe the bus tours. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘I’ll need two signatures—one on a contract and one on a cheque.’

* * * *

What I was signing up for was personal protection of Oldcastle for every hour of every day I could manage. That’s somewhere well short of twenty-four. I had to sleep and I had to deal with other things from time to time. Luckily, if that’s the word, I wasn’t in any kind of relationship just then that required any attention. Still, thinking you can protect someone just by becoming their Siamese twin is a mistake. You lose perspective and flexibility. For example, it’s useful to walk around a subject’s neighbourhood a few times to get the feel of the place. You don’t want the subject there with you. You need to call on a few of the neighbours, lying your head off about why you’re ringing their bells, and you need to be alone when you do it. You need to drive the subject’s car to the supermarket and buy a frozen pizza and a bottle of wine and see if anyone takes an interest. Stuff like that, and you need trustworthy backup while you’re away and that costs money and makes you anxious. It isn’t my favourite kind of work ...

Surprisingly, Oldcastle turned out to be an easy guy to spend time with. He was quiet and knew how to occupy himself, probably from long practice. He read, mostly travel books and biographies, watched television and videos and did cryptic crosswords. His collection of LPs, cassettes and CDs surprised me. He listened to everything from Beethoven to the Black Sorrows. He told me that Joe Camilleri was the equal of any American or British modern musician and I listened and had to agree. The classical stuff tended to make me sleepy. He noticed me nodding off somewhat during something by Brahms or Bach or Haydn, one of them, and he turned the music off.

‘Show you something,’ he said.

He switched the light off in the room, slid the glass door open and went out onto the balcony. I followed him—a body that knows something about bodyguarding is that much easier to guard. He drew my attention to a smashed and twisted section of the aluminium door frame and some deep pitting of the bricks nearby. ‘You’d know what this is, wouldn’t you, Hardy?’

‘Sure. How close were you?’

‘Too bloody close.’

The damage was on a level with my nose. Oldcastle was about five foot ten, say, two and a half inches shorter than me. Forehead or temple, depending. Fatal either way.

Oldcastle stepped back inside, turned on the light and went across to a drinks tray that he kept near the fridge. Old-fashioned set-up but nothing wrong with it. He lifted a bottle of Cutty Sark and looked at me enquiringly. I nodded and he poured two solid ones over ice. We sat down well away from the still-open door.

‘Cheers,’ Oldcastle lifted his glass, drank and pointed at the balcony. ‘Trouble is, I couldn’t tell if they were meant to miss and just scare me, or if the shooter wasn’t quite up to it. The light would’ve been tricky at the time.’

I drank. I hadn’t had any Cutty Sark for a long time and it tasted good. The way we were going we’d be Cliff and Marty in no time. ‘Did you report the shooting?’

He shook his head. ‘Didn’t even tell Mick.’

‘Why not?’

He shrugged and knocked back some more whisky. ‘No bloody point. He’d only worry all the more. I was still in my anonymous phase then, anyway, and couldn’t tip my hand.’

‘Any guesses as to who it was?’

I regretted the question as soon as I’d asked it. I didn’t want to know who Oldcastle was naming or anything about them. Not my problem. I wanted to walk right away from this when he’d sung his song and let everything go through official channels after that. If his evidence was as good as he made out, there’d be warrants sworn against his enemies as soon as he stopped talking. So far, Oldcastle had recognised that as my unspoken position, but the memory of the bullets fired at him and the loosening effect of the good Scotch caused him to drop his guard.

‘I bloody know who it was. Lance Christenson. He put four bullets into Murphy and his was the first name Murphy said to me. He was a champion rifle and pistol shot but I’ve heard his eyesight’s not what it was. Had to be him. Another drink?’

He’d loosened his tie, tossed his Scotch off and was clearly inclined towards another. Why not? I thought. Later, I wished I’d gone for a long walk instead. Oldcastle had told the truth when he’d said he didn’t drink much. Two more Cutty Sarks and he was well away. I got names and dates and places and amounts. Trouble was, I was complicit. I suppose I could have stopped the flow, but I was interested—professionally, and like any tabloid paper reader. I knew some of the cops, some of the lawyers and some of the crims and a couple of the women. One of them, Lettie Morrow, I’d known very well indeed, and that presented a serious problem.

Lettie was a beautiful woman with a light brown skin, black hair and slanted eyes. Her ancestry could have been Aboriginal, Polynesian, African or Asian or a mixture of any or all. Lettie didn’t know or care. She’d been abandoned in a taxi hours after being born and had been raised in institutions and foster homes. She was intelligent and athletic, did well at school and stayed out of trouble until she was twenty and had almost finished her nursing course. She met Royce Brown and that was the end of the straight life for Lettie. Brown had been dead for five years when I met Lettie but she had photographs of him and you could see what he had on offer—incredible goods looks, a fine physique and a smile to make their knees knock. He was also a heroin addict and a sociopath.

Lettie stuck with Brown for ten years—most of which he spent in gaol—had a child by him, used smack with him, turned tricks for him, did anything. She was arrested for this and that, served some time. When Brown OD’d she fell apart for a while, then got herself back together, got her nursing qualification and worked as a drug counsellor. We had a brief, intense affair and although I hadn’t treated her well we stayed friends afterwards. We’d lost touch though and Oldcastle said she’d taken up with Lance Christenson and was deeply involved in his operations—providing girls, entertaining contacts, laundering money.

‘What’s he look like, this Christenson?’ I asked.

‘He looks like Errol Flynn, and acts like him.’ That made sense. Lettie had made fun of my battered face, claimed to appreciate ‘pretty’ men and lamented that they were in short supply— at least the kind that liked women. I still had a load of guilt about Lettie. I didn’t exactly blame myself if she’d drifted back under the influence of a handsome bad man, but I felt I owed it to her to find out how deeply she was implicated in Christenson’s activities. The way Oldcastle told it, she’d take a long fall with him when he told all he knew. There was too much that was good and strong in Lettie for me to allow that to happen without at least giving her a warning. Big problem of the semi-professional—conflict of interest.

Doctors and lawyers, clergyman and accountants have pretty clear guidelines for their conduct. Playing on both sides in a conflict is out—the patient, the client, the parishioner gets the full commitment. In this game, it’s rather different. We operate in the gaps between the systems—the media, the law, police, prisons— and we see up close how the systems work in their own interests first and foremost. I’ve always felt that people should come first, especially people I like. I thought about it after Oldcastle had staggered off to bed. If Christenson already knew that Oldcastle was going to bucket him, there couldn’t be any harm in tipping Lettie, who might not know, the wink.

I continued to think about it through the next day which was only three days before Oldcastle was due to give his evidence. That night I turned the body over to two of Pete Marinos’ men to guard. Pete runs a medium-sized agency on professional lines. I’d been using his services when required on the Oldcastle case and this was just an extension of the same. I felt nervous about it though and told the two guys what to do more times than I should have. Oldcastle had been hungover and tetchy in the morning, but by evening he seemed calm and unconcerned about my taking leave of absence.

‘I expect you’ve got a woman to see,’ he said.

‘That’s right, as it happens.’

‘I could never get along with women. I liked them all right but I couldn’t ever tell if they were fair dinkum. Never found one I could trust.’

I couldn’t think of anything to say to that. I left the flat, resisting the temptation to give just another tip or two to Pete’s men, and called the last number I had for Lettie on the car phone.

‘Lettie Morrow.’

‘Lettie, this is Cliff Hardy.’

‘Hello, Cliff. Hell, it’s been a while since I heard from you.’

‘Yeah. I wonder if we could get together for a drink tonight? I’ve got a couple of things to talk over with you.’

‘Sure. I’m not doing anything tonight. Bit knackered to tell the truth. Why don’t you get a bottle of that white wine you like, what is it again? Some bloody bird?’

‘Cockatoo Ridge.’

‘That’s it. Get a bottle and come over. You remember where I am.’

I did, a small semi in Elizabeth Bay or Woolloomooloo, depending on how you thought of it. For Lettie it was the Loo, always. I don’t know what made me resist the invitation: the sexual connection between us had been very strong but I didn’t need that complication just now. In public was safer.

‘No fear. My earning curve is up just now.’

She laughed. She had a great laugh and I almost reneged. ‘You can say the words, Cliff, but that don’t make it true.’

‘C’mon, Lettie. This isn’t on the cheap. Why don’t you throw on something flash and meet me at the Berlin Bar in an hour.’

‘Now that is a serious offer. Why not? Sure, see you there, Cliff.’

The Berlin Bar was in Elizabeth Bay. Lettie could walk there in her five-inch heels. I knew she loved the place because it catered to her sense of the dramatic. She might arrive in a dinner suit and top hat, a la Dietrich, or in almost nothing, a la Madonna. No way to tell. What I did know was that her favourite drink—champagne with a shot of cognac—would cost a bomb. I was wearing a suit—as I’d taken to doing because it saves thinking about what to wear—so I was dressed okay for the Berlin. What I didn’t have was nearly enough money in my wallet. My first port of call was an autobank.

* * * *

The Berlin Bar was at street level and brightly lit for the first third of its depth so people could be seen and admired from the street. I parked as close as I could get and under a light. It was still fairly early; the place wasn’t crowded and I got a table near the front with a good view of the street, the door, the bar and anything else you might want to see. I hadn’t been there for some time but it hadn’t changed; why would it? You can’t do any better than full most nights at outrageous prices. I ordered a bottle of French champagne, two flutes and a quadruple cognac in a small snifter. The change out of a hundred dollars was barely worth putting in my pocket and it crossed my mind that I might have trouble putting this event on my expenses.

All such thoughts vanished when I saw Lettie approaching the table. Being old-fashioned, I stood up politely, but I think I was really signalling to the other patrons that she was with me. She wore a grey satin dress that dipped low in front and ended at mid-thigh, a black silk jacket that seemed to part from and cling to her as she walked; the inevitable spike heels. Her hair was loose on her shoulders. She walked straight up and kissed me on the mouth.

‘Hi, Cliff, you bastard.’

She was high on something; there was a slightly unfocused look to her slanted eyes and an odd, upwards angle to her neck.

‘Hello, Lettie. Sit down and have a drink. I hope you haven’t switched to Jack Daniels.’

She sat, looked at the ice bucket and glasses and a slow smile spread across her wide, thin-lipped mouth.

‘You beauty.’ She poured a good slug of brandy into a flute and let me fill the glasses. She drank half of hers in a gulp. All this was new—she used to be a sniffer, a taster, a sipper. I drank some champagne, the first drink I’d had for the day and not a bad way to start. Lettie looked older than she should and was using make-up to correct some of the damage. She still looked terrific but there was a line here, a sag there that suggested what was to come. She finished her drink and poured another. She used to be able to drink all night and not show it, but that was in her old style. With this fast-lane technique something else was possible. She was high, but also nervous.

‘So,’ she said.

‘Do you know a man named Lance Christenson, Lettie?’

‘Cliff, did you expect me to wait?’

‘Does that mean yes?’

She smiled and shrugged, not an easy thing to do, but she was full of those tricks. ‘You left such a hole in my life, Cliff.’

‘This is serious, Lettie.’

‘Drink up. You’re making me feel like the greatest lush in Elizabeth Bay, which I’m not. What d’you expect me to say? Sure, I fuck Lance. He’s got a big dick. Bigger’n yours.’

I poured some more champagne into my glass and took a drink. Somehow it didn’t taste as good. Lettie was fidgeting with a purse she’d taken out of the pocket of her jacket. I didn’t like to think about what was in it apart from money and her flat keys.

‘Lance has got some bad trouble coming his way,’ I said. ‘I don’t want you to end up with a share of it. What’s happened to you, Lettie? I thought you had it all together?’

‘You thought! Fuck you! Fuck what you thought! You know what I saw and heard when I was doing that drug work? Catholic boys who’d been buggered by priests; Koori girls who’d been raped by Salvation Army blokes. Not just once, Cliff, and not just in one fucking hole either.’

‘Take it easy.’

‘I can’t take it easy. I couldn’t, I mean. In the end I couldn’t take it any more. The holier the talk, the worse the abuse.’

‘So, it’s a shitty world. Everyone knows that. It’s no reason to take up with

‘You wouldn’t know a thing about it.’ She drank again, poured some more and put the rest of the cognac down in a swallow. Her mouth was set now and the sparkle in her eyes wasn’t just alcohol and drugs. She was very, very angry and I got ready to have something thrown at me. Suddenly, she shook her head as if to let all the anger fly out along with her frothing, bouncing hair. She grinned at me and pushed her chair back. ‘Excuse me, darling. I’ve got to go and powder my tits.’

She walked towards the toilet clutching the pocket purse. Heads and eyes followed her. There was something about Lettie that absorbed all your attention. I began to hear the bar noise—conversation, bottle-clinking and background music—for the first time. I also took notice of the customers. Same-sex and mixed-sex couples, singles ... Too late. A big, darkhaired man with regular features dropped into a chair on my left. Another man, smaller and much less handsome, sat where Lettie had been. Some people claim to be able to tell cops on sight. Not me, but I can recognise two legitimate warrant cards when I see them. They were produced and put away too quickly for me to read the names, but I didn’t have to guess at the identity of the guy with the classic profile that was half-turned towards me.

‘Lance Christenson,’ I said.

‘Chief Inspector to you.’

I kept my eyes on the man opposite me, who struck me as more threatening of the two. Christenson was a little fleshy, less than fit and very self-satisfied. The other one, who was fair, with light eyes behind slightly tinted glasses, looked hungrier and keen to impress. Ambition is a very dangerous quality.

‘For now,’ I said. ‘I didn’t catch your chum’s name.’

Christenson smiled, showing perfect white teeth, probably veneered at great expense to law-abiding citizens. ‘His nickname’s Flick. Know why?’

‘I know you’re going to tell me.’

‘One Flick, and they’re gone. You’re going to be one of them, Hardy. Gone for good, unless we can talk a little sense into you.’

It was going to be a matter of timing. Just for a second, I wondered whether it was worth hanging around to swap shit with Christenson. I decided it wasn’t and slammed my reversed left fist backwards into Flick’s Adam’s apple. Done right, the blow will kill a man but I knew I wouldn’t have the force to do that with my left hand. Also, Flick had reacted. He was late, but not too late to deflect some of the force upwards towards bone rather than soft tissue. He sagged and gasped for breath just the same, and I grabbed him, hauled him up, his arm twisted to breaking point behind his back. He let me take him. He knew enough about this stuff not to get into busting his own limbs.

It happened quickly and probably didn’t look so bad to the Berlin Bar patrons—one big man dragging a smaller one towards the door which wasn’t so far away. Another big man was following at a respectable distance and not saying anything. Could’ve almost been a lover’s quarrel in that setting. I was almost to the door when I saw Lettie emerge from the toilet. She saw what was happening but it didn’t seem to worry her as she headed sinuously towards the table; she was in that neutral state where the only things that matter are inside your skull.

I dragged my man through the door and out onto the footpath. I didn’t fancy pulling him all the way to my car and didn’t think I’d have to. Christenson came out under the neon sign that showed a Marlene lookalike in fishnet stockings and top hat with a cane between her legs. He stood there as if he knew what an effective visual it made.

‘Let him go, Hardy,’ he said.

‘My car’s not that close.’

‘Too many lookers-on. We won’t bother you.’

People from the bar and passers-by were standing around getting an eyeful. I loosened my grip but stayed ready to knee him in the kidneys if I had to.

‘You and your dog mate’re in for a surprise, Hardy. A very big surprise.’

That was an exit line if ever I’d heard one and a theatrical type like Christenson wouldn’t waste it. I slung Flick down into the gutter and walked away to my car.

* * * *

I hadn’t learned a thing, except that Lettie was back in the life and probably in deeper than before. It wasn’t hard to understand—unless they’re incredibly lucky, abused people gravitate to those who will abuse them. Christenson was a user of people, a handsome man with a charming smile and a heart like a hailstone. I was sorry about Lettie, but her problems predated me and were deeper and wider than mine, which disqualified me as a helper. I have enough difficulty fighting off the attractions of booze oblivion and violent solutions without trying to save souls. I would write Lettie off the way I had others and I’d feel bad about it from time to time.

Personal survival with a few basic principles intact is the bottom line. The threat to me had been real, but precisely how far Christenson and his offsider would have gone was hard to gauge. Christenson certainly hadn’t looked anxious, but his type runs on confidence and they have it and use it so much they can become insensitive to hostile forces. My involvement had concerned him enough to get Lettie to play a part and to bring his enforcer along. Men like Christenson see life as a series of deals, wins and losses, debts and credits. To some extent tonight he’d exposed himself, showed some of his cards with no result. He wouldn’t be happy.

I tried to comfort myself with these thoughts as I drove, not forgetting to watch out for tails and observers. Nothing. It was twenty minutes before I realised that I was driving towards my place in Glebe, not Oldcastle’s flat in Dover Heights. I didn’t want to spend another night on his couch, hear his catarrhal cough in the morning and eat high-fibre cereal for breakfast with the TV on. I wanted a tuna and mayonnaise sandwich and my own cut-price Scotch, my own bed and books, radio in the morning with black coffee and toast with butter. I phoned in, was told everything was quiet and left the night watch to one of Pete’s men. I circled a few blocks in Glebe until I was sure I hadn’t attracted a following and did two passes of my house, looping down towards the water and back around until I was sure there was no-one hanging around out front or in the back. If there was anyone there they were good and deserved their chance.

I went into the house and tried to enjoy the anticipated familiar things. I couldn’t. All I could think of was Christenson’s statement: ‘You and your dog mate’re in for a surprise, Hardy. A very big surprise.’

What the hell did that mean?

* * * *

Two more days to get through. I told Oldcastle what had happened at the Berlin Club. He identified Christenson’s companion as a Detective Constable Fraser. ‘That man should never have been allowed in the police force. He’s vicious. I don’t know about him killing people, but he’s marked a few one way and another, women as well as men.’

‘What d’you think Christenson meant about a surprise?’

Oldcastle shook his head. ‘No idea. All I know is I should have spoken up a lot sooner. You know what worries me, Hardy? There must be a hell of a lot of people who know about this—other police, politicians, journalists, blokes in your game. And they keep quiet. Why?’

I studied him. The one night on the booze was just that, one night. He was perfectly composed again now—clean-shaven, collar and tie on in the morning when he didn’t have to go anywhere, polished Oxfords. He was preparing himself for an ordeal in the only way he knew, by following routines, keeping up appearances. My respect for him had grown, but his limitations were obvious—a lack of imagination, a wish to remain apart from the real current of life. It might make him a compelling witness or a feeble one, hard to tell.

I answered his question in an offhand way saying that people worked their own territory and didn’t look for trouble. He shook that off like a dog shedding water.

‘No,’ he said sharply. ‘It’s worse than that. It’s fear. Fear! Citizens afraid of the very people sworn to protect them. What could be more screwed up than that?’

An idealist, I thought. Dead dangerous.

We got through the next two days without incident. Oldcastle told me that he had all his physical evidence in a safety deposit box in a city bank and he made arrangements to call there immediately before he was due to front the enquiry.

‘It’s better you don’t know which bank,’ he said. ‘No one knows except me.’

‘Suits me,’ I said. ‘Will we be able to carry it all?’

He patted a battered briefcase he kept in the room he called his study. It contained a desk, a filing cabinet filled with copies of National Geographic and Australian Geographer and several bookcases holding his collection of travel books and biographies. I knew what was in the filing cabinet because I’d sneaked a look; in fact I’d done a fairly thorough search of the place at odd times when opportunities presented. When you’re guarding someone like Oldcastle, you’re also guarding what he knows and what he’s got. As far as I could tell, he had nothing significant in the flat.

We ate something from the microwave and had a glass of light beer each. It was a warm night and Oldcastle seemed to enjoy the drink. None of Pete’s boys were around; there’d been absolutely no signs of any trouble and I was going to stick by Oldcastle right up until he walked through the door to the enquiry room.

He got up to make coffee and I poured another couple of inches of beer. ‘What’re you going to do when this is all over?’

He spooned the coffee into the filter. ‘If everything goes well, Christenson and all the other bent bastards’ll be off the force and in gaol. I’ll go back to work.’

It was hard to believe that he was serious, but everything in his body language and manner suggested that he was. I sipped the last of the beer and was looking forward to the coffee. Oldcastle would do a crossword and listen to music. I’d get on with reading Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil and maybe have a Cutty Sark before bed.

A knock on the door startled me out of this pleasant anticipation. Oldcastle lived a lonely life and, apart from a neighbour dropping in to discuss something about the maintenance of the block and a misdirected pizza deliverer, there hadn’t been any callers. I waved Oldcastle back towards the kitchen, unshipped my .38 and moved to a position beside the door. You don’t stand in front of the door and you don’t put your eye to the spyglass in these situations, not if you value your life. You keep a few bricks between you and whoever is outside.

‘Who is it?’ I said.

‘It’s Mick Gordon, Cliff. Open up. I have to talk to Marty.’

Gordon’s voice carried well and Oldcastle heard it. His pleasure was evident. ‘Mick,’ he said. ‘Let him in, Cliff. It’ll be good to see him.’

It was the first time this cold, aloof man had used my name. I was touched in an odd way. I put the gun away and unlocked the door. Gordon came in, eyeing me warily. He wore a sports shirt and slacks, smelled faintly of Scotch and was carrying a newspaper. His shirt was sweat-damp under the arms and in front, but it was warm and the flat was three levels up and Gordon was a little overweight.

Oldcastle stuck out his hand and the two men shook. ‘How are you, Mick? Jeez, it’s good to see you. No other bugger ... Well, never mind. I’ve got the coffee on. Is there any of that beer left, Cliff?’

I shook my head. Gordon grinned at me. ‘Bloody wowser doesn’t even keep a few cans in the fridge. Can you believe it? No, coffee’d be fine, mate. In a minute. Look, there’s something I’ve got to talk over with you.’

‘Sit down, Mick,’ Oldcastle said.

Gordon reached into the pocket of his shirt and took out his cigarettes. ‘You know me, Marty. Can’t talk without smoking and I know how you feel about smoking inside.’ He put a cigarette between his lips and moved towards the open door to the balcony, raising the lighter as he went. Oldcastle followed him.

‘What is it, Mick?’

Looking back, I should have spotted it, but it all seemed so natural at the time—the smile, the cigarette, the lighter, the casual, familiar gesture. They stepped out onto the balcony. The curtain was drawn back, the room light was on. I didn’t hear the shot but the glass door shattered and blood, bone and brain matter splattered against the wall. I shouted uselessly and jumped forward, knocking over a chair. When I got to the balcony Gordon was standing over Oldcastle, who was lying against the door with half of his head blown away.

‘I told him not to do it,’ Gordon said.

He raised the lighter and lit his cigarette. He took a long drag and blew the smoke out in a steady stream. He looked at me. His expression was half-sorrowful, half-defiant and I knew what Christenson had meant by a surprise. ‘I can give you the names of two senior members of the force and a lawyer who’ll take an oath I was playing cards with them tonight.’

‘Don’t bother,’ I said.