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

Sorry, it’s all gone.’
    I was getting to him, bit by bit. He was one of those forceful, middle-sized men of no more than average intelligence, used to having people dance to his tune. You meet them in the police and the army and in politics. Gregory’s shirt was done up to the neck and his tie knot was tight. He’d kept his suit jacket buttoned. I was in shirt sleeves and slacks, and with half a bottle of wine in me. Relaxed. He didn’t like it.
    He shoved the notebook roughly into his pocket, threatening the lining. ‘Hardy, I happen to know someone that plays golf at Moore Park. He tells me he saw you deep in conversation with Tim Arthur—who used to make a nuisance of himself with Ms Truscott—looking over a page of notes. And at the wake for Ms Truscott you spent a good deal of time with the poor man’s John Pilger, Lee Townsend.’
    ‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘You know your subversives and have spies on your books. The Stasi would be proud of you. It’s not too late. Get over to the US—spying on their citizens is all the go just now.’
    Gregory sucked in a breath to calm himself. As a detective, he’d come up against take-the-piss crims and lawyers often enough not to blow his cool completely. He looked around the room, noting the cobwebs, the missing newel posts on the stair rail, the worn carpet.
    ‘This place is in bad repair, Hardy, and you’re out of work. Permanently. Suddenly you’re in the money, but you’re a chancer, always were. You seem to be conducting an investigation which you’re not entitled to do, but it could just be a blind for a crime you committed, or commissioned. What do you think?’
    He was a hard man to read—apparently very confident, a quick recoverer from being goaded. If he was involved in Lily’s death or covering it up, he was playing an edgy game. He looked rather pleased with his analysis so just maybe he was genuine about it. Confusing.
    ‘I don’t think anything about what you just said, Inspector. I didn’t let it get anywhere near my brain.’
    He got up and collected his neatly folded coat. ‘You’re by way of being what we call a person of interest. Your alibi has a big time hole in it. I wouldn’t be surprised if I found it necessary to pull you in for further questioning.’
    I stood as well. You don’t let anyone threatening you take the high ground. ‘What about this mess? Whoever did it stole my computer. What do you make of that?’
    Gregory shrugged into his coat and a wave of the musty smell came towards me. I was tempted to react but didn’t. Either he couldn’t smell it himself or he wore it as a badge of honour. He was full of energy, full of bounce. ‘Like you, I don’t think anything, except maybe that you did it yourself. I wouldn’t put anything past you, Hardy. What does puzzle me is you and Parker. He was a good cop as far as I know, although you two flew a bit close to the wind recently.’
    ‘You’re very well informed. I wonder why you can’t find who killed Lily.’
    ‘Give me time, Hardy, give me time. I’ll see myself out.’
    ‘No, I’ll see you off the premises if you don’t mind.’
    ‘Keep your mobile to hand and fix your phone.’
    He went out the door and down the path, leaving the gate open. Light rain was falling and he moved smartly to his sky blue Falcon, a model about ten steps in advance of mine, parked across the street. He was a vain man, and thin dark hair doesn’t look good wet. I let him have the last word. It didn’t cost me anything and if it made him feel he was one up on me that was all right. It was very early in our relationship and I knew I’d see him again.
    The smell from Gregory was so strong, a house-proud person would have fumigated. I spent the next hour or so tidying up the spare room and living room and mulling over how things stood. It was confusing to say the least, with Townsend and Frank Parker both pointing the finger at Gregory, while Tim Arthur appeared to have no