Part 19 (2/2)

That left me with the problem of Phil Fitzwilliam and n.o.body to consult with on the matter. Well, that wasn't unusual. I went for a walk to Australia Park, sat under a tree and thought, but nothing inspirational came. Trees and gra.s.s and fresh air are overrated. No other course but the standard Hardy one-the direct approach. I phoned him.

'About f.u.c.kin' time,' he said.

'Don't be like that, Phil. I'm trying to do you a favour.'

'Trying to save your a.r.s.e, more like.'

'That, too. Sorry, but there've been developments.'

I told him about Roberts and d.i.c.kersen and the way things stood.

'Jesus, Hardy, you're a lying, sneaky c.u.n.t.'

'Takes one to know one. You can still get something out of this. All you have to do is be there, behave like a policeman, and share in the glory.'

'With Ian f.u.c.kin' d.i.c.kersen and everyone's pet boong?'

'He's going up. Play your part and you might get him onside for your upcoming trouble.'

'I'll tell you this. If it doesn't work out in my f.u.c.kin' favour you and everyone connected with you is going to wish they'd never been born. That's a promise.'

So now I had threats from the police in two directions-not a record, but up there with some of my better efforts. I told him where to go and when.

I got back to the office just as Megan and Fox-James arrived. He was a slim, fair individual, something like the old movie actor Leslie Howard in appearance. When Megan had suggested him she'd told me in private why the affair hadn't lasted long.

'Too tortured,' she said.

Whatever that meant. I reflected that it was good news for Hank. No way could anyone brand Hank Bachelor as tortured.

'Gidday, Cliff,' Fox-James said. 'I hear you had heart trouble.'

'Thing of the past, Paddy. Ready to go into your act? I see you've dressed for the part.'

He was wearing brown polyester slacks, black shoes and a fawn polo s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.toned up to the neck. He looked like a grown-up little boy dressed by his mother.

'Great threads, eh? What does the good book say? ”Let not thy raiment speak too loud”.'

'Don't overdo it,' I said.

'You made that up,' Megan hissed. 'This is serious.'

'You were always telling me I was too serious.'

'There's a time and a place, Patrick. We have to talk to Hank.'

Our meeting was anything but easy. Hank was jealous of Fox-James, Fox-James resented Hank, Megan hated being the meat in the sandwich, and I was still worrying about Phil Fitzwilliam. But then, they say Clay was almost hysterical with anxiety before the first Liston fight and look what happened there.

I got to my place at four thirty and found Roberts and her colleague parked in the street more or less as I expected, and Fitz parked a few cars back. All three police officers, Roberts's colleague as dark as herself, followed me into the house. Roberts was fuming.

'What's he doing here?' she said, barely acknowledging Fitz.

'We have a history,' I said. 'As I explained to DS Fitz-william, this is a complicated matter. He has a piece of it, as the sports managers say.'

Fitz grinned at that; Roberts didn't. 'Don't come the smarta.r.s.e sporting chat with me, Hardy. This farce is over.'

I had nothing to lose. I got right in her face, elbowing the other cop aside. 'No, it isn't. Let me tell you what's going to happen here, with a bit of luck. A couple of heavies from Lachlan Enterprises-courtesy of Ross Crimond, who's a deluded, ambitious hypocrite along the lines of the late, unlamented Joh Bjelke-Petersen-are going to show up with a company executive. A person claiming to be a witness to the abduction of Henry McKinley will be present. He'll represent himself as someone willing to overlook what he saw in return for a reward that will further the work of the Lord. The executive will haggle with the price. The witness will turn bols.h.i.+e and the heavies will threaten and attempt to a.s.sault him. All this will be captured on videotape.'

Roberts rolled her eyes. 'Then what?'

'Then you and your mate and DS Fitzwilliam step in and arrest the heavies and the executive, take them away and work on them until someone cracks and drops the other, or others, in the s.h.i.+t.'

'I like it,' Fitz said.

'You would,' Roberts snarled. 'It's just your bulls.h.i.+t style.'

'f.u.c.k you,' Fitz said.

'You wish.'

'Stop it,' I said. 'We haven't got much time. I admit it's as speculative and shaky as things get. But is there any other way to get at Henry McKinley's killers? Fitz needs the brownie points and you and your boss d.i.c.kersen want to climb the greasy pole. It's just a sting. You people have done them before.'

The other cop spoke for the first time. 'Detective Constable John Mahoud, Mr Hardy,' he said. 'What if it all goes wrong?'

Good question, I thought. 'I'll take the blame,' I said.

The police went upstairs while I set up the camcorder. Megan arrived with Hank and Fox-James and I installed them in the living room. The doorbell rang.

'Crimond,' Hank said. 'If he's on his own we're f.u.c.ked.'

I let him in. He wasn't on his own. He had two men with him, both wearing suits and serious expressions. The older one was fleshy with a high colour; the other man was lean and hard looking. His glance swept the room and the people in it like a searchlight.

Ex-military, I thought. Dangerous.

Crimond was all smarm. 'This is Deacon Jones and Pastor Sorenson from my church,' he said. 'Deacon Jones is also ...'

'An executive at Lachlan Enterprises,' I said.

Crimond didn't miss a beat. 'Why, yes.' He held out two hands to Fox-James. 'Ross Crimond.'

Fox-James was up to it. He gripped both hands and beamed. 'Piers Beaumont.'

Megan patted Fox-James on the head and moved away. I used a foot switch under the rug to activate the silent camcorder. Jones settled himself in a chair; Sorenson leaned against the cupboard under the stairs.

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