black andy

by Peter Corris

I

’m a literary agent but I’m not ringing to talk to you about your memoirs,’ Melanie Fanshawe said quickly. ‘A couple of people in the business have told me about your . . .’

‘Rudeness?’

‘Not at all.’ Emphatic refusal. ‘This is something quite different. Professional. I can’t talk about it on the phone and I’m afraid I can’t get to you today. Could you possibly come to me? I’m sorry, that sounds . . . I’m sure you’re busy, too.’

She gave me the address in Paddington and suggested five o’clock. Suited me. I knew the area. There was a good pub on a nearby corner where I could have a drink when we finished, whichever way it went.

I was at her door a couple of minutes early. A tiny two storey terrace described by the real estate sharks as a ‘worker’s cottage’. The door, with a small plaque identifying the business carried on inside, was right on the street. No gate. One step up. I rang the bell and a no-nonsense buzzer sounded inside.

Heels clattered briefly on a wooden floor and the door opened. Melanie Fanshawe was solidly built, medium-tall, fortyish. She wore a white silk blouse, a narrow bone-coloured mid-calf skirt and low heels. Her hair was dark, wiry and abundant, floating around her head.

‘Mr Hardy?’

‘Right.’

‘Come in. Come through and I’ll make some coffee and tell you what this’s all about.’

I followed her down a short passage, past an alcove under the stairs where a phone/fax was tucked in. The kitchen was small with a slate floor, eating nook, microwave, half-sink and bar fridge. She pointed to the short bench and seats. ‘You should be able to squeeze in there.’

I could, just. ‘Small place you’ve got here.’

She laughed. ‘I inherited it from my grandma. She was five foot nothing, but I’ve learned to turn sideways and duck my head.’

‘I’ve got the opposite problem,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a terrace in Glebe that’s too big for me.’

She boiled a kettle, dumped in the coffee, poured the water and set the plunger. ‘How d’you take it?’

‘White with two.’

She lifted an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

‘I’m trying not to be a stereotype.’

She laughed again. ‘You’re succeeding. They didn’t tell me you were funny.’

I made a gesture of modest acceptance as she pushed the plunger down.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘This is it. I’ve got a client who’s written a book. No, he’s writing a book. I’ve got an outline and the chapter headings and it looks like amazing stuff.’

‘Good for him. And good for you.’

She smiled that slightly crooked smile that made you want to like her. ‘Yeah, sure. If he lives to finish it.’

I drank some of the excellent coffee. ‘Here comes the crunch.’

‘You’re right. This book tells all there is to know about corruption in Sydney over the past twenty years—up to yesterday. Names, place names and dates. Everything. It’s going to be a bombshell.’

‘But it hasn’t been written yet.’

‘As I said, the outline’s there and the early stuff is ready. He’s got the material for the rest—tapes, documents, videos. The thing is, as soon as it becomes known that this book’s on the way, the author’s life is in serious danger.’

‘From?’

‘Crims, police, politicians.’

I finished the coffee and reached for the pot to pour some more. ‘You’ve only got an outline. Some of these things fizzle. Neddy Smith—’

‘Not this one. This is for real. You know who the author is, and he specifically asked for you.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘As protection.’

‘Who are we talking about?’

She drank and poured the little that was left in the pot into her mug. ‘Andrew Piper.’

‘Black Andy Piper?’

‘The same.’

* * * *

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 as a 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 number of 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.

Melanie Fanshawe looked amused at my reaction to the name. ‘I gather you know each other.’

‘I’ve met him twice. The first time he had me beaten up, the second time it was to arrange to pay him blackmail.’

She nodded. ‘Doesn’t surprise me. Well, he’s telling all in this memoir—names, places, dates, amounts of money.’

‘Why?’

‘Did you know his wife died last year?’

I shook my head.

‘She did. Then he was diagnosed with cancer. He says he’s found God.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Which of the three?’

‘The last. Black Andy is a corrupt bastard, through and through. If Jesus tapped him on the shoulder, Andy’d have one of his boys deal with him out in the alley.’

‘He says he’s put all that behind him. Cleared himself of all those connections. He wants to tell the truth so he can die in peace.’

My scepticism was absolute. ‘Why not just write the book, confess to a priest, die absolved or whatever it is, and turn the royalties over to the church?’

She ticked points off on her fingers. ‘One, he’s not a Catholic. Some sort of way-out sect. Two, he needs the money—the advance for the book—to pay for the treatments he’s having to give him time to finish it.’

‘I paid him a hundred grand last year.’

‘As I said, he claims to have broken all those connections. No income. Some recent in-house enquiry, well after his retirement, stripped him of his pension. At the time, he didn’t care. But it’s different now. From what he’s told me, he had incredible overheads when the money was coming in—protection, bribes…’

‘Booze, gambling, women.’

‘All that. He makes no bones about it. It promises to be a unique inside account, Mr Hardy. A mega bestseller. He needs it and, frankly, so do I.’

‘How long does he think it’ll take?’

‘Six weeks, he says.’

‘That’s a lot of my time and someone’s money. Yours?’

She gave me that disarming, crooked smile again. ‘No, the publisher’s, if I can work it right. The thing is, publishing houses leak to the media like politicians. I’m sure I can get the contract we need for this book, one with all the money bits and pieces built in, but as soon as I get it the news’ll flash round the business and hit the media. I’ve told Andrew that and he says they’ll come gunning for him from all directions. That’s why he suggested, no, requested, you. Will you do it?’

It was too interesting to resist and I liked her. I agreed to meet Black Andy and talk to him before I made a decision.

‘But you’re more pro than con?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I’m intrigued. But we get back to it—six weeks solid is big bucks.’

‘I’ve got a publisher in mind who’ll be up for it.’

‘What about libel?’

‘He’ll cope with that as well. He’s a goer.’

‘Can I see what you’ve got from Andy already?’

She looked doubtful. ‘He asked me not to show it to anyone until I was ready to make the deal, but I suppose you’re an exception. I can’t let you take it away, though. You’ll have to read it here.’

She handed me a manila folder. It held four sheets of paper—the outline of Coming Clean: the inside story of corruption in Australia. I read quickly. No names, but indications that the people who would be named included well-known figures in politics, police, the law, media and business, as well as criminal identities. The fourth sheet was a list of chapter headings, with ‘Who killed Graeme Bartlett?’ as an example. Bartlett had been a police whistle-blower whose murder a few years ago hadn’t been solved.

‘This is it?’

‘I’ve seen more. He showed it to me on our second meeting but he wouldn’t let me keep it. He said it needed more work and he will only hand those chapters over to you. No you, no deal.’

Flattering, but very suspicious. There were harder men than me around in Sydney, plenty of them, but maybe hardness wasn’t his priority. If he was genuine about his problem, Black Andy would have known that anyone he hired to protect him was liable to get a better offer. Some of the possible candidates would switch sides at the right price. My dealings with him hadn’t been pleasant, but at least we’d understood each other. And perhaps my police contacts were something he thought he could make use of.

We came to terms. We’d only get to the serious contract point if I accepted the assignment. Short of that, for a bit of sniffing around and the initial meeting with Piper, I’d charge her a daily rate as a security consultant to her business.

I rang Piper that night and arranged to meet him at 11 am in two days. I wanted the time to do some research on him and his new-found faith. He wanted to hand over more material to keep Melanie happy and convince me. He gave an address in Marrickville and I scribbled it down. We were talking about Sunday. Okay by me, I wouldn’t be doing anything else just then. Piper’s voice hadn’t changed, a Bob-Hawkish growl, but I fancied his manner was softer. Maybe my imagination.

I talked to Frank Parker, an old friend and a former Deputy Police Commissioner, and to a couple of serving officers with whom I was on reasonable terms. I found out nothing startling, but got confirmation that Black Andy’s pension had been rescinded, that he was widowed and rumoured to be unwell. It’s easy enough to put a rumour about. His main henchman, a former cop named Loomis, was in jail on an assault conviction. It wasn’t quite what Melanie had said—Piper turning his back on his thug mates—but Loomis would have been his first line of defence in the old days, and his absence added some credibility to the story.

* * * *

I heard the hymn singing inside when I located the address Piper had given me—the sect’s meeting hall—and took my seat out of earshot on the other side of the road. Best vantage point, but it was hot and the bus shelter didn’t give much shade. I hoped the word of God would end on time.

They filed out, more than a hundred of them, men, women and children, all neatly dressed. A few walked off, most headed for their cars. Among the last out was Black Andy Piper. Dark suit, white shirt, dark tie, despite the heat of the day. He spotted me immediately and beckoned me over. Same old Andy—do as I tell you. I gave it a minute, pretending to wait for the traffic, just to be bolshie.

By the time I’d crossed the road, Piper was standing on his own outside the hall. Maybe Melanie Fanshawe wasn’t a good judge of weight, because he’d definitely trimmed down a bit. A hundred kilos, tops. He’d also grown a grey beard. He looked thinner and older. His black eyes bored into me as I approached, then they drifted away and he seemed almost to smile. Almost.

‘Hardy’

‘Piper.’

We didn’t shake hands.

‘Come in,’ he said. ‘I want you to meet Pastor Jacobsen.’

We went inside. A man sitting on a plastic chair in the front row of a crowded space turned around as we entered, stood and came towards us.

‘Pastor, this is Cliff Hardy. The man I told you about.’

Jacobsen was a bit below average height, and thin. He wore a clerical collar, beige suit and black shoes. Not a good look. His hair was scanty and arranged in an unconvincing comb-over. Big ears, pale face and eyes, long nose, weak chin. His mouth was pink and damp-looking.

‘Mr Hardy,’ he said in a strong southern US accent. ‘I’m honoured to meet you, sir. Well met in Christ.’ He held out his hand and I took it. He closed his other hand over our grip and I immediately wanted to break free.

‘Mr Jacobsen,’ I said.

He released my hand slowly. ‘I know Brother Piper puts his trust in you so I’ll leave you to your business. Call me any time, Brother Piper.’

‘Thank you, Pastor. I’ll be at the Bible class later this week. Mr Hardy will be my . . . shepherd, I trust.’

‘Excellent.’ Jacobsen picked up a Bible from the lectern and walked away.

‘C’mon, Andy,’ I said when Jacobsen was out of earshot. ‘This is bullshit.’

Piper sank down into a chair. ‘Hardy, have you ever heard the saying, “there are no atheists in a slit trench under fire”?’

I sat in the row behind him. ‘No, and that’d be bullshit too, because I’ve been there.’

He sighed and looked weary. ‘What place does God have in your miserable life?’

I leaned over him. ‘As Michael Caine says in Alfie, “A little bit of God goes a very long way with me”.’

I’ll swear he wanted to tell me to pray, but he held it back. He picked up a manila envelope from the chair next to him and handed it over. ‘I have to clear up a bit in here and lock up. I’ll see you later, Hardy.’

I drove to Paddington and went into the pub near Melanie Fanshawe’s place. Quiet at that time on a Sunday. I bought a beer and used my Swiss army knife to cut away the tape. Chapter One was called ‘The Bully’ followed by ‘The Rookie’ and ‘The Bag Boy’, just as in the chapter list I’d seen. I read quickly. Piper explained how he’d been a bully as far back as he could remember and how a cop at the Police Boys Club had told him he was perfect police material. He named the cop and told how he and several of his colleagues, also named, had recruited Piper and some other boys to form a gang of burglars and car thieves.

He went on to explain how endemic corruption had been in the service despite the enquiries and attempts to clean it up. With his silver medal, rugby and boxing credentials, young Piper came to the attention of two detectives who controlled the flow of money between brothel owners, the police and politicians. Piper became the chief bagman while still a constable. The chapter had detailed information on meetings, amounts of money, bank accounts and, again, names.

‘You opened it,’ Melanie said as I handed the envelope over.

‘Sure, wouldn’t you in my position? This isn’t a time for good manners. Just be glad I didn’t copy it.’

We were on her little balcony, drinking coffee and looking out towards Victoria Barracks. ‘You’re very serious all of a sudden, Cliff. Is it that hot?’

‘It is, if he can back it up. If he can’t, it’s defamation city.’

‘Not our problem right now. What did you think of him?’

‘What I’ve always thought—corrupt, devious.’

‘And the minister?’

‘I wanted to wipe my hand after we shook.’

She nodded. ‘Me too. But he makes a good character in the book. How about the cancer?’

I shook my head. ‘Don’t know enough about it. He’s lost some weight and the beard ages him. I’d like a couple of medical opinions, but we’re not going to get them.’

She leaned back in her chair and drew in a breath. She was barefooted, wearing a halter top and loose pants, and her shoulders were tanned and shapely. Her nipples showed through the fabric of her top, and her toenails were painted red. There had been some chemistry between us I’d thought on our first meeting and it was fizzing now.

‘Do you sleep with your clients?’ she said.

I reached over and twisted her cane chair towards me. I lifted her feet from the floor and let her legs stretch out in my direction. I gripped the arms of her chair and slid it closer.

‘No. But my clients more the publisher than you, right?’

* * * *

The floor was pushing up at my back through the thin futon. I rolled over onto my side, propped, and looked down at her. She was one of those women who look younger and prettier after making love. Her hair fanned out on the pillow and she smiled up at me with her eyes, her mouth and everything else. The manuscript lay on the floor beside her. Great security, although neither of us had given it a thought for a while.

‘Nice,’ she said. ‘I like older men.’

‘Thanks a lot. Why?’

‘They usually don’t look as pleased with themselves as younger blokes. More grateful.’

‘I am.’

She pulled me down and kissed me. ‘You’re welcome.’

We showered together in a stall that could barely hold us. We dressed and went for a walk. When we turned back into her street, she said, ‘What’re you thinking?’

‘Why can’t the publisher keep it all under wraps?’

‘Doesn’t work that way. People in-house have to see the manuscript: the lawyers, the possible editor. It has to get accepted by a board with a few members. Input from what they call the media liaison arm these days. Word will get out.’

We went into the house and she opened a bottle of wine. Something was niggling me about the whole business and I tried to sort it out as I drank the good dry white. Melanie did some work in her study and I wandered around looking at her books. Some were obviously by her clients, judging from the multiple copies, others were more familiar. I took down a bestselling sports autobiography and what I’d been searching for hit me. I fumbled and almost dropped the book.

Melanie looked up from her desk. ‘What?’

‘Who’s the ghost writer?’ I said.

She stared at me. ‘I assumed . . . Shit.’

‘Andy Piper couldn’t write stuff like that to save his life. It’s hard to tell from the outline and the chapter headings, but you have a look at the stuff he handed over today. I’m no judge of literature, but this reads like at least pretty fair journalism to me.’

She grabbed the envelope from her bag, slid the pages out and began reading. I put the sport bio back on the shelf and drank some wine.

‘You’re right, Cliff. It’s rough and it’ll need editing, but this is from an experienced writer.’

‘Piper hasn’t mentioned anyone?’

She shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t have to, necessarily. If he made a private arrangement with someone for a flat fee, it wouldn’t have to involve me or the publisher.’

‘Wouldn’t come cheap, a ghost writer?’

She put the manuscript back together neatly. From the way she handled it, it had taken on a new meaning for her. She drank some wine.

‘Depends on who it was and his or her circumstances. Writers don’t make much money, even the good ones. Especially the good ones. I’ve steered through a few as-told-to jobs. Ten thousand and a share of the royalties and Public Lending Right’ll do it mostly.’

‘Andy says he doesn’t have any money. Gave it to the sect.’

‘Right.’

‘So he’s either got someone doing it for free or he’s lying about being skint.’

‘You’re getting me worried, Cliff.’

I went over and stroked her frizzy hair. ‘Didn’t mean to. It’s more my problem than yours. Either way, what it means is that he’s got someone he trusts, apart from you and me.’

She took my hand and brought it down to close over her left breast. ‘And what do you think about that, you detective you?’

‘Interesting,’ I said.

* * * *

Over the next few days I dealt with routine matters. Melanie and I talked on the phone a few times and exchanged some emails. She’d keyed in Piper’s manuscript.

‘That’s a lot of typing,’ I said.

‘I’m a gun typist.’

On Friday she rang to tell me that the contract with Bradley Booth, the publisher, was being signed as we spoke, and the advance would be electronically deposited in her account.

‘Have you cleared the extra expenses with the publisher?’

‘Yes. Bradley’s excited about the book.’

‘That’s good because those costs cut in big time now. I’ll send you our contract by fax, Mel, and leave you to sort it out with the publisher. Probably won’t be able to see you till this is over. Better security for you.’

‘Put a rocket up the writer, whoever he or she is.’

I rang Piper. He gave me the address of a flat in Edgecliff. The block was middle-range expensive. The upkeep of the building was good—clean stairs and landings, smoke detectors, fire extinguishers. I rang the bell at Piper’s door and could feel him looking at me through the peephole. He opened the door. He was in his shirt sleeves and had a pistol tucked into the tight waistband of his pants.

‘Gidday, Hardy. Come in. What did you think of my book?’

‘What makes you think I read it?’

‘A snooper like you? No risk.’

I let that pass and allowed him to shepherd me down the short passage into the flat. The room we entered was big and light. At a guess there were three bedrooms, two bathrooms and a kitchen. Not bad for a man who’d given his all to Jesus. The big balcony, accessible through full-length sliding glass doors, worried me. I was about to say something about it when a man came in from one of the other rooms. He was a replica of Piper, thirty years younger—not as fat, dark hair, no beard.

‘This is my son, Mark,’ Piper said. ‘He’s helping me write the book. Mark, this is Cliff Hardy’

Mark Piper looked as if he could’ve done a fair enough job of protecting his father himself. He wore a loose T-shirt, jeans and sneakers. His forearms were tattooed and there was nothing effeminate about the ring in his left ear. His manner was wary and his look close to hostile as we shook.

‘Nice place,’ I said to Andy.

‘Mark’s. He’s by way of being a bit of a journalist.’

‘I don’t like the look of the balcony.’

Piper smiled. ‘Out of bounds for me.’

They had it pretty well set up. Mark Piper had an iMac computer in one of the rooms and was taping Andy’s recollections. The father slept in one room and the son in with his computer. The other bedroom was for me and for Reg Lewis, an ex-army guy I’d hired to spell me. Food was on tap from a local restaurant. No alcohol and no smoking. No women. Monkish.

Over the next few days we settled into the routines. Piper spent some time taping, not that much, and Mark tapped his keyboard. I stayed awake while they slept and slept when Rex Lewis was on duty. Andy insisted on going out to Bible study in Lewisham on Friday night and hymn singing in Marrickville on Sunday. I had to sit in on these sessions. I wasn’t converted. Andy and Mark weren’t good company. They watched a lot of cable and commercial TV.

The news broke in a gossip column in one of the tabloids on Tuesday: ‘A spokesperson for publishing giant Samson House confirmed that disgraced former New South Wales senior policeman Andrew “Black Andy” Piper is preparing his “tell-all” memoirs for publication. Piper is reported to be suffering from terminal cancer and to have found God. Sceptics remain sceptical; the guilty men and women aren’t sleeping well.’

* * * *

Sunday rolled around and I got behind the wheel of Piper’s Mercedes ready to drive him to wherever the Reverend Dr Eli Jacobsen was selling his snake oil. The car, not new, not old, was a pleasure to drive.

‘Where to?’ I asked.

‘I fancy a drink.’

I almost lost control of the car. ‘A what?’

‘You heard me.’

He’d been swallowing various coloured pills several times a day, every day. ‘Are you allowed to drink with all that medication?’

He didn’t answer for a few minutes, as if he was chewing the matter over. He wasn’t. ‘Nobody tells Black Andy what to do,’ he said.

‘So, where?’

He heaved a sigh. He looked heavier and seemed more tired than in recent days. ‘Clovelly Cove Hotel,’ he said. ‘I’d like to look at the water. Won a surf race there once.’

‘I know you rowed, didn’t know you swam.’

‘You don’t know a lot of things, Hardy.’

We parked close to the pub and walked to it with Piper in the lead, moving purposefully. I was hot in drill trousers, light shirt and cotton jacket to cover the pistol, and he must have been sweltering in his buttoned-up double-breasted suit. If he was, he didn’t show it. He plonked himself down where he had a good view through the plate glass out to sea. Pretty safe. From that angle only someone on a boat could take a pot-shot at him.

‘Get us a schooner of old, Hardy.’

Maybe it was a test to see if I’d get pissed on the job. Maybe he’d just had all the piety and healthy living he could take. Or maybe he’d ring the Reverend Eli to come and save him from sin at the last second. I bought the drinks—a middy of soda and bitters for me—and took them to the table.

He didn’t hesitate, took a long swig and pointed at my glass. ‘What’s that piss?’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘I wont.’ He drank deeply and leaned back in his chair. It creaked under his weight. I hadn’t noticed him eating more lately but then, he was a messy eater and it wasn’t something to watch voluntarily. He looked fatter though. Schooners of old would help that along nicely.

It happened very quickly at first, then seemed to slow down to half speed. The man walked into the bar, headed towards the taps, then swivelled quickly and took two long steps in our direction. He was only a few metres away when his hand came up with a gun and he fired three times. The shots were shatteringly loud. Piper grunted and toppled back. My gun was in my hand and I shot twice as I saw his gun swing towards me. I hit him both times, and his arms flew out and he went down and back as if he’d caught a knockout punch.

The bar erupted into shouts and swearing and breaking glass as some of the patrons stayed rooted to the spot and others headed quickly for the door. I put my pistol on the table in front of me and drew in a deep breath. My eyes were closed and a cordite smell invaded me and made me cough convulsively. When I recovered, I found Black Andy Piper standing beside me, finishing the last of his drink. His suit coat was open, his shirt was unbuttoned and the Kevlar vest under it was an obscene grey-green colour.

‘Knew I could rely on you, Hardy,’ he said. ‘Give the cops a call on your mobile, eh? It’d look better from you.’

* * * *

It was a total set-up, of course. Charles ‘Chalky’ Whitehead was a former friend and associate and later bitter enemy of Piper. He knew that a no-holds-barred account of Black Andy’s life would point the finger at him for a number of crimes, including murder. Piper, without his henchmen and gone soft on religion, was too tempting a target for Whitehead to resist. He wasn’t the brightest and when he’d tracked us to the hotel he didn’t ask any questions, just came in blasting. He’d have lined, up a rock solid alibi beforehand.

Black Andy needed to get rid of Whitehead, who was competing hard with him for control of some lucrative rackets. He had someone planted in Chalky’s camp and got the word to him where he’d be and when. I did the job for him, legitimately. Whitehead died before the ambulance arrived.

The police made noises about suspending my licence, but the facts were clear, with plenty of witnesses. The cops weren’t serious; no one was unhappy about Whitehead being out of circulation.

Piper had no intention of publishing a book. He paid the advance back to the publisher, including Melanie’s commission. He tried to pay me for my services but I told him where to put it. He reclaimed the partial manuscript from the publisher and from Melanie, threatening to sue them unless they complied. They did. What happened between him and the Community of Christ I never found out and didn’t want to know.

My affair with Melanie petered out and died when she asked me if I wanted to write my memoirs.