Free Appeal Denied: A Cliff Hardy Novel by Peter Corris

‘She’s taking a risk talking to you, even if she does fancy you, and an even bigger one talking to me.’
    Townsend smiled. ‘You underestimating my charisma, Hardy?’
    ‘I reckon charisma’s overrated in general.’
    ‘What? Invented by some sawn-off?’
    ‘Your sensitivity’s showing.’
    He laughed. ‘You’re a prick, Hardy, but you’re right. I don’t know what her game is. There’s something wrong in that Northern Crimes Unit. It’s the line to follow though, you agree?’
    ‘Yeah. But it’s all a bit weird—Gregory, Williams, Kristos, Farrow. Who else? What’s the big picture? What’s the overall structure of the unit?’
    ‘I thought your friend Parker’d fill you in.’
    ‘Not really. Things’ve changed a bit since his day, as he admits. There’s units within units, outsourcing of functions even …’
    Townsend shook his head as I moved to rinse my mug at the sink. ‘Cleaner does it all,’ he said. ‘But you’re right again. It’s hard to get a handle on anything these days. The word responsibility has dropped out of everyone’s vocabulary since this federal government took over. It’s all spin, spin, spin, spin.’
    On the drive home, I thought over what Townsend had said. It was all true and words were changing their meaning almost daily, as with ‘rendition’, mutilated by the US military. ‘Media’ was a loose term anyway. It could mean almost anything to do with communications—satellite services, internet facilitators, software corporations, as well as the good oldies like radio, print, television and film. What this meant was that anyone or any group seriously involved and seriously threatened had a hell of a lot to lose.
    I bundled up Lily’s clothes and took them to the St Vincent de Paul shop as I’d intended. I threw out two pairs of tights and panties and put her few books on the shelves with mine. Getting rid of the clothes made me feel lousy; keeping the books made me feel just a little bit better. Over the couple of years we’d been semi-together, Lily had given me books as Christmas and birthday presents and written in them. I checked a few of the inscriptions and smiled—Lily’s irreverence always made me smile.
    Sick of being passive, I hunted out DS Williams’s card and called him on his mobile. Got lucky. Got him.
    ‘Williams.’
    ‘Cliff Hardy. I want to talk to you.’
    ‘What about?’
    ‘Come on, Sergeant, you know there’s something shitty going on in your unit. It’s leaking information for one thing, or it might be disinformation. Doesn’t matter. And there’s a trail to be followed with a couple of people following it.’
    ‘You?’
    ‘And others. Something’s going to blow open sooner or later. Where d’you want to be standing when it happens, and who with? Because I can tell you there’s going to be casualties.’
    He wasn’t dumb. ‘If you’re so confident, why do you need to talk to me?’
    ‘To speed things up.’
    A long pause and I could hear the click of the lighter, the inhale and exhalation. Sometimes a sign of tension, but not always. He must have been out and about somewhere. Where, I wondered? Doing what?
    ‘I suppose we could meet. Where are you?’
    Chess , I thought .
    ‘At home. Where’re you?’
    ‘Milsons Point. There’s a little park down near North Sydney swimming pool. D’you know it?’
    ‘No. Aren’t there coffee places along there? What about a pub?’
    ‘Don’t piss me off more than you have to, Hardy. I don’t want to be seen in a public place with a … with you.’
    I agreed to meet him there in an hour. That gave me time to retrieve the Colt .45 automatic from under the loose floorboards in the hall cupboard, clean and oil it and check on the quality of the ammunition. Frank was right. I had another gun, but only one. The Colt was heavy and I preferred a revolver, but this had come my way a couple of years back without any trace and had been too good an opportunity to pass up. I kept it