I went back to Woolloomooloo and found Reiss on his own in the rehearsal space, drinking beer and tapping on a snare drum.
‘You know,’ he said.
I sat down out of range of his sticks. ‘I think so. Townsley infected your son and you somehow doctored his medication. Then you helped him to get pneumonia.’
‘Are you wired?’
I shook my head, stood and pulled my shirt out of my pants and rotated.
‘Drop your strides.’
I did. He tapped a few times, then laid the sticks down. ‘He knew he was positive and he didn’t give a shit. He was one of those who reckoned they’d take as many with them as they could. Well, he took my Danny and I took him.’
‘How’d you do it?’
‘Easy. Substituted placebos for some of his pills. The bastard was on thirty pills a day. Some of the stuff that went into his cocktail rotted inside him. A while without his Bactrim and he was wide open. I know about that stuff.’
‘You insisted they play in the rain.’
He nodded. ‘I fucked the air-conditioner in the van as well. What’re you going to do?’
‘Talk to Jordan Elliott.’
‘Talk all you like. Tell him his lover kept score on the back of his guitar. He must’ve rooted fifty blokes on that tour. As for me, you’ll never prove a thing. I’m in favour of cremation, aren’t you?’
I thought about it but in the end decided to tell Elliott the truth. He listened and he seemed to age in front of my eyes. He wept unashamedly. ‘I wish you hadn’t told me. You’ve destroyed a dream.’
‘I’m sorry. That happens,’ I said.
BLACK ANDY
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…’