for a character?’
‘Just a character thing, I suppose.’
‘They’re only going to ask you what I was like as a person. All you have to do is
say, “I’ve known him for a long time. He’s great with the kids, he done this, he
done that.”’
‘All right,’ says King. ‘I better get home.’
He jingles his car keys, he must be edging towards the door, but Farquharson bores
on.
‘Look, you can say what you want. That’s your business. But if you think negative,
you’re going to come across negative.’ He runs King through it one more time: the
sports, the karate, the bike rides, kicking the footy, what a good bloke he is. ‘The
cops know all that. You’ll be right. Just settle. That’s all they want.’
‘Righto,’ says King. ‘I’ll catch you. See you, Rob.’
A car door slams. A motor turns over.
‘Just leaving now,’ murmurs King. He is already addressing the detectives, waiting
for him back at the dark boat ramp.
…
‘My God,’ I whispered to Louise. ‘Is this like something out of Shakespeare? Double
falseness?’
‘Not Shakespeare,’ she hissed. ‘ The Sopranos .’
…
King’s recording did not satisfy the Homicide detectives. A month later, on the evening
of 13 October 2005, they persuaded him to make a second visit to Farquharson, once
again wearing a wire, and press him harder on the details of the fish-and-chip-shop
conversation. King, dark-faced with strain, sat next to Detective Sergeant Clanchy
behind the bar table while the second tape rolled.
The crunch of boots on gravel announces King’s arrival at Kerri Huntington’s Mount
Moriac house, in which Farquharson, after the funeral, had taken refuge from the
ravening attention of the media. But when King presents himself at the front door,
a little dog explodes into such wild territorial yapping and growling that, in court,
Farquharson and his entire family had to smother their fits of laughter. Kerri Huntington
heard herself on the tape: ‘Get out, Fox. Get out now !’ She went bright pink and
bowed forward in a convulsion. The rest of the court, reminded of the likeable ordinariness
of this family, could not help joining in.
‘He’s a fiery little thing!’ says King.
‘Doesn’t bite,’ says Farquharson. ‘Just bloody barks. Let’s sit in here.’
Family and dog withdraw. Farquharson tells King about his disturbed nights. His sleep
is so broken that he gives up and just sits watching TV. King sees his opening.
‘I’ve been the same, mate. I’m struggling real bad. That conversation, mate. It’s
killing me.’
This time Farquharson is on the front foot. ‘No,’ he says, ‘but it was never like
that. That’s what I keep telling ya.’
‘Not just “pay her back big-time,”’ says King. ‘You said to me about taking away
what was the most important thing to her. And you nodded your head towards that window
in the fish-and-chip shop, mate. I want to get my head clear, because it’s fuckin’
wreckin’ me. I said, “You don’t even dream of doing things like that,” and Rob, you
said to me, “Funny you should say about dreams—I have an accident and survive it,
and they don’t.” That’s what you said to me. I want all this stuff off my chest!
It’s eating me inside like a cancer!’
‘I never, never said that,’ says Farquharson.
‘You’re getting it all wrong, all twisted. I meant one day she’s going to wake up
that I’m not as weak as piss as what she thought—I’m going to accomplish something.’
And once more he launches his harangue. His voice is affectless, but still intimate
and persuasive, rising at the end of every phrase and sentence, as if listing a series
of points in an argument that is laid out coherently in his head. Several times King
tries to speak, but Farquharson rolls over him. On and on he goes, tireless, pouring
out his explanations, introducing new themes, while King keeps drawing in great,
painful sighs that are more like groans; and constantly,
‘Just a character thing, I suppose.’
‘They’re only going to ask you what I was like as a person. All you have to do is
say, “I’ve known him for a long time. He’s great with the kids, he done this, he
done that.”’
‘All right,’ says King. ‘I better get home.’
He jingles his car keys, he must be edging towards the door, but Farquharson bores
on.
‘Look, you can say what you want. That’s your business. But if you think negative,
you’re going to come across negative.’ He runs King through it one more time: the
sports, the karate, the bike rides, kicking the footy, what a good bloke he is. ‘The
cops know all that. You’ll be right. Just settle. That’s all they want.’
‘Righto,’ says King. ‘I’ll catch you. See you, Rob.’
A car door slams. A motor turns over.
‘Just leaving now,’ murmurs King. He is already addressing the detectives, waiting
for him back at the dark boat ramp.
…
‘My God,’ I whispered to Louise. ‘Is this like something out of Shakespeare? Double
falseness?’
‘Not Shakespeare,’ she hissed. ‘ The Sopranos .’
…
King’s recording did not satisfy the Homicide detectives. A month later, on the evening
of 13 October 2005, they persuaded him to make a second visit to Farquharson, once
again wearing a wire, and press him harder on the details of the fish-and-chip-shop
conversation. King, dark-faced with strain, sat next to Detective Sergeant Clanchy
behind the bar table while the second tape rolled.
The crunch of boots on gravel announces King’s arrival at Kerri Huntington’s Mount
Moriac house, in which Farquharson, after the funeral, had taken refuge from the
ravening attention of the media. But when King presents himself at the front door,
a little dog explodes into such wild territorial yapping and growling that, in court,
Farquharson and his entire family had to smother their fits of laughter. Kerri Huntington
heard herself on the tape: ‘Get out, Fox. Get out now !’ She went bright pink and
bowed forward in a convulsion. The rest of the court, reminded of the likeable ordinariness
of this family, could not help joining in.
‘He’s a fiery little thing!’ says King.
‘Doesn’t bite,’ says Farquharson. ‘Just bloody barks. Let’s sit in here.’
Family and dog withdraw. Farquharson tells King about his disturbed nights. His sleep
is so broken that he gives up and just sits watching TV. King sees his opening.
‘I’ve been the same, mate. I’m struggling real bad. That conversation, mate. It’s
killing me.’
This time Farquharson is on the front foot. ‘No,’ he says, ‘but it was never like
that. That’s what I keep telling ya.’
‘Not just “pay her back big-time,”’ says King. ‘You said to me about taking away
what was the most important thing to her. And you nodded your head towards that window
in the fish-and-chip shop, mate. I want to get my head clear, because it’s fuckin’
wreckin’ me. I said, “You don’t even dream of doing things like that,” and Rob, you
said to me, “Funny you should say about dreams—I have an accident and survive it,
and they don’t.” That’s what you said to me. I want all this stuff off my chest!
It’s eating me inside like a cancer!’
‘I never, never said that,’ says Farquharson.
‘You’re getting it all wrong, all twisted. I meant one day she’s going to wake up
that I’m not as weak as piss as what she thought—I’m going to accomplish something.’
And once more he launches his harangue. His voice is affectless, but still intimate
and persuasive, rising at the end of every phrase and sentence, as if listing a series
of points in an argument that is laid out coherently in his head. Several times King
tries to speak, but Farquharson rolls over him. On and on he goes, tireless, pouring
out his explanations, introducing new themes, while King keeps drawing in great,
painful sighs that are more like groans; and constantly,
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