Free Appeal Denied: A Cliff Hardy Novel by Peter Corris Page B

and the bare details. I was instructed to remain where I was. A car with two uniforms arrived and I took them to the Camry, standing back to let them take their own look. One of them checked his notepad.
    ‘You say this is Detective Sergeant Williams of the Northern Crimes Unit?’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘And your name is Hardy and you were supposed to meet him here?’
    ‘Hardy, yes. Here, no. In the park where you picked me up.’
    ‘So you found him here and walked back there. Where’d you phone from?’
    ‘Back there.’
    The other officer’s mobile rang and he had a brief conversation, mostly consisting of grunts at his end. He shut off the phone and took a step towards me.
    ‘You’re the private detective who got the flick, right?’
    ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘No offence, but I’ll wait for the Ds before I say anything else. Didn’t touch the car, did you, mate?’
    I didn’t hear exactly what he said, but I thought I caught the word ‘arsehole’.
    A few minutes later an ambulance pulled up with another police car and then an unmarked. The man who got out of it spoke to the paramedics and briefly to one of the uniformed men. He took a quick look at the body, and then stood twenty metres off issuing directions for the crime scene procedures. A photographer arrived and someone I took to be the pathologist. I was standing well back with a policeman—the one I’d probably offended—beside me and shooting me glances that suggested he’d be delighted if I cut and run.
    The detective in the smart suit made several calls on his mobile. He smoked a cigarette and dropped the butt through a stormwater grid. As the photographer and the medical examiner got busy, with the crime scene tape going up and the uniforms keeping away the spectators who’d emerged from nearby houses and buildings, the detective walked towards me. He had dark hair and an olive complexion. He stood about 190 centimetres and would’ve weighed in at around 100 kilos. He waved the uniform away.
    ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Mikos Kristos, Hardy. Northern Crimes. I can’t say I’m glad to meet you.’
    A glib reply was on the tip of my tongue but I fought it. Had to be careful.
    ‘I’m sorry about your colleague,’ I said.
    ‘Yeah. Good bloke, Col.’
    ‘I thought so, too.’
    ‘Close, were you?’
    ‘I don’t think I’ll say any more until we’re in a controlled situation and I have a lawyer present.’
    He pointed to the plaster on my forehead. ‘What happened there?’
    Was he baiting me? Hard to tell. I didn’t answer and watched the paramedics stretcher the body, enclosed in a green bag, to the ambulance. At a guess, the police were telling some of the owners of the cars parked nearby that they’d be free to move them soon. I wondered whether any of the spectators would need counselling. Didn’t look like it. Everything was sanitised, clinical.
    A TV crew arrived and began filming. Kristos grabbed my arm and hustled me towards a car. I resisted just a little and he almost applied a headlock. I grinned at him and went willingly.

11
    T he Northern Crimes Unit HQ was in Longueville and it had been a good move to dump the pistol because you couldn’t get into the building without undergoing a metal detector check. Kristos escorted me to a room with all the character and personality of an empty stubbie. I said I wouldn’t make a statement without having my lawyer present.
    Kristos unbuttoned his suit coat and sat in a plastic chair that creaked under his weight. I remained standing.
    ‘Why?’ he said. ‘You’re not a suspect. Even a dickhead like you has the sense not to execute a policeman.’
    ‘Execute. That’s an interesting choice of words.’
    ‘What would you call it?’
    I shrugged and sat. There are times to stick and times to give a bit. ‘I’ll meet you halfway,’ I said. ‘No lawyer and I won’t volunteer anything, but I’ll answer your questions until I decide not to.’
    ‘Jesus, for a disgraced