I showed him my driver’s and PIA licences.
‘I’ll have to ask you to accompany us to the station.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m sure they’ll tell you when you get there. Are you going to cooperate?’
‘Can I follow you?’
‘We’d prefer that you didn’t.’
They do that. Sometimes it’s because they want to look the car over, sometimes because, in this day and age, a man without a car is just that much more vulnerable. Hard to tell which in this case. He stepped back as I opened the door and rewound the window. You lock this model Falcon with the key. I was about to do that when he stopped me.
‘I’ll take the keys. Someone’ll collect the vehicle.’
They were interested in the car.
~ * ~
Newcastle police station was on Watt Street, not far from the harbour in one direction and the ocean in the other. There were other institutional buildings nearby, like the Anglican cathedral and a hospital. The building had the unimaginative, solid lines common to most police stations. The detectives’ room, to which one of the uniforms took me after doing some business at the front desk, was tidy, unlike some, and dominated by clicking computer keys, like most.
The uniform conducted me to a corner of the room where a man sat at a desk with his hands folded, watching our approach.
‘Detective Inspector, this is Cliff Hardy.’
‘Right. Any trouble?’
‘No, strikes me he’s done this before.’
‘I bet. Okay, thanks, Bill. Have a seat... Mr Hardy. I’m Kerry Watson.’
I nodded and sat. He was fortyish, red-haired and freckled, a little overweight in a dark blue shirt that was a bit too tight. He looked tired; his desk was covered with files and sheets of printout and there were post-it notes stuck here and there on the shelves. If I’d had to deal with all that I’d be tired too.
‘When did you arrive in Newcastle?’
‘Why am I here?’
‘Let’s get a few things sorted and I’ll tell you. You’re licensed for a firearm. Where is it?’
‘In my car.’
‘I’m not sure that’s legal.’
‘It’s unloaded and secure. Your boys’ll find it if they’re any good.’
‘They’re good.’
‘That’s one thing then, what else?’
‘What’s your business here?’
‘You know better than that. My business is my business.’
He shook his head and a few dandruff flakes dropped onto his shoulders. ‘Not really. It’s customary for people in your ... line of work to check in with us when you arrive. You didn’t.’
‘Customary doesn’t mean you always have to do it. I wasn’t planning to stay long.’
‘How long?’
I shrugged. ‘Depends.’
He took a notebook from the pocket of his jacket hanging over the back of the chair, turned a few pages. ‘You paid a call to Peter Wilson McKnight.’
‘That’s right. Can we stop this? What’s going on?’
‘McKnight was found dead in his office this morning. He’d been shot through the head.’
~ * ~
9
Watson watched closely for my reaction and I didn’t have to pretend to be shocked. He sighed and flicked through his notebook.
‘Your car was spotted in the parking bay of McKnight’s building at 6pm.’
‘Right, and I left about thirty minutes later.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘I went straight to a restaurant in Market Street and would’ve been there before seven. I’ve got the bill.’
He nodded. ‘For your expenses.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Must be nice.’
‘When was Pete killed?’
‘Pete? You were good friends?’
‘Not really. He was always Pete, the way Pete Sampras is Pete.’
‘Who? Oh yeah, the tennis player. Before Federer. He was killed around 10pm. Where were you then?’
‘With a friend.’
‘Name?’
‘Not unless I have to. You don’t really think I killed him, do you?’
‘No, but it might be helpful for you to tell us what you wanted to see him about.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘He’s no loss, anyway. Did you know McKnight was a bagman for the Tanners?’
‘No.’
‘You’re surprised?’
‘I haven’t seen him for quite a few years. People change.’
‘For the worse in his case. When his wife left he got on the piss, started gambling, got in deep with the loan sharks. One thing led to another.’