Gary knew little about Pringle's personal life, except that he was married with two kids and owned a big cabin cruiser moored on the Georges River. He knew about the boat because Pringle often took colleagues out on it. They cruised around Botany Bay sinking beers, scoffing prawns and terrorising fish. Gary was never invited on a cruise. But his colleagues talked about them for weeks afterwards.
Gary wanted to know the exact location of the boat. So he phoned the main police switchboard and asked for an old Narcotics Strikeforce colleague called Moses Hapeta. The operator re-directed his call and Hapeta answered.
"Moses, this is Gary Maddox."
"Hello, Gary - you're still alive."
"What do you mean?"
"I heard someone tried to blow you to bits."
"Yes, but you know me - hard to kill."
"Yeah, and only the good die young. Any idea who's responsible?"
"No. But half the world hates me, so take your pick. Anyway, when you're free, let's have a beer. It's time we caught up with each other."
"Why catch up now?"
"Because, since the bombing, I've been reaching out to friends."
"Hah. OK, we'd better meet soon, before the bomber tries again. What about this evening, 7.30, at the Royal Stag?"
"Sure."
"Good. And make sure the bomber doesn't join us."
"I'll be careful."
The Royal Stag was just around the corner from Police Headquarters. Gary arrived first and sat in a booth near the back. Ten minutes later, Moses arrived. The Maori was built like a two-door fridge, with massive shoulders and tree-trunk legs. He almost touched both sides of the doorway. Dark sunglasses sat on a big, flat face.
Moses was the toughest guy Gary had ever met, and the best cop. Most undercover agents refuse to infiltrate bikie gangs, because bikies are ultra-violent and paranoid. But Moses once spent a whole year riding around with the Death Cheaters, who even made him a gang member. During that time, he took Gary to the gang's clubhouse to meet a dealer. Gary's guts were churning, but Moses acted like he owned the joint. When he talked, the bikies listened, and when he moved, they stepped aside.
"Hello Bro," Moses said as he sat down. His soft, almost girlish voice contrasted strangely with his enormous frame. He put his sunglasses on the table, but remained inscrutable.
"You want a beer?"
"I'm not here for my health."
Gary bought them a couple of beers and returned to the booth. As he sat down, he held his jacket closed to hide the pistol under his armpit.
Moses saw what he was doing. "You're packing, huh?"
"Of course. What about you?"
Moses patted under his arm. "I never leave home without it." He sipped his beer. "So tell me about the bomb."
Gary described the explosion and Robyn Parsons' death, but didn't mention his trip to the North Coast or his discovery that Pringle was the bomber.
Moses said: "Poor girl. Who's running the Homicide investigation?"
"Guy called Marks. His offsider's a woman called Phillips."
"I've heard of Marks - supposed to be a good operator - but haven't heard of her. They got anywhere?"
"Nope."
"And what about you: you got any idea who planted it?"
"No."
A raised eyebrow. "Really?"
"Yes, really."
"But you're trying to find the guy?"
"Of course."
"What'll you do if you find him?"
"I'll put the bastard in a box."
"Sounds like a good idea."
Gary sipped his beer. "Anyway, let's not talk about that. Tell me: what's happening on the Strikeforce?"
Moses spent half-an-hour cataloguing the poor leadership, incompetence and corruption that bedevilled the organisation. In other words, little had changed.
Gary asked what had happened to several former colleagues who were still cops. Moses described the inordinate number of divorces, breakdowns, detox programs and disciplinary proceedings they had gone through.
Eventually, Gary felt it safe to broach what he really wanted to discuss. "And what about Brian Pringle - what's happened to him?"
Moses rolled his eyes. "That bastard. Unfortunately, he's still there. But the good news is that the Police Integrity Unit recently called him in for a chat."
"Why?"
"Don't know. I just hope they nail him."
"Well, don't get your hopes up - he's slippery as an eel. They'll probably recommend him for promotion."
Moses sighed. "Probably."
"But I'll say this about the bastard: I loved cruising on his boat. Remember those trips?"
Moses looked surprised. "You went on some of those? I thought you hated him."
"Not at first. We fell out later. What was the name of his boat?"
"Water Rage."
"That's right. Jesus, my memory's getting bad. I've even forgotten where he moored it."
"In a marina, near Oatley, on the Georges River."
"That's right. He still got it?"
"Yep, goes out most weekends. The guy loves fishing. Still has a big pile of fishing mags on his desk."
Gary remembered how Pringle often thumbed through them during work hours.
Now that he had all the information he wanted about Pringle, he started reminiscing with Moses about their time together on the Narcotics Strikeforce. Two hours and eight rounds later, they staggered out of the pub, slapped each other on the back and promised to keep in touch.