by Unknown
‘A sandwich and a glass of wine,’ she said. ‘All ready. What’s this help you need?’
I handed her the folder, sat down at the table and ate the sandwich. Curried egg—a favourite.
‘Cliff, where did you get this?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘The man must be mad to let you even see it, never mind . . .’
‘He didn’t have any choice, but don’t worry, he won’t squawk. Great sandwich.’
Hilde shook her head as she flipped over a few pages. I drank some cold white wine, picked up a few bits of egg with my fingers and wiped my hands with a napkin. ‘Can you read it? Do a rough translation?’
‘Yes, of course, but I’m not sure I should.’
‘Look, I don’t even know if it’s important. As Frank might say, I’m trying to eliminate it from my enquiry. I’m doing everything I can to find Sarah’s brother.’
She smiled. ‘You bastard. You’re applying pressure.’
‘If it’ll make you any happier, I promise I’ll send it back to the shrink after I know what it says.’
She nodded. ‘All right. It’ll take a while. Probably a few days for me to find the time. I’ll have to brush up on the differences in the languages a bit. Sort of get the feel of the Dutch. Some of this looks technical.’
‘That’s okay. Just give me the gist. I’ve got other things to do.’
‘Do you think you can find him?’
It’s never been my habit to ask a question like that midway through a search—it can be confidence sapping—but she forced me to it. I finished off the wine and stood.
‘I don’t know, love. I really don’t know.’ I gave her a kiss. ‘Thanks for everything. I like the sound of lamb on a spoon. Invite me over for it some time, eh?’
16
I phoned Hampshire and told him the arrangements. I offered to pick him up, but he said he’d get there under his own steam. A little odd, but what wasn’t in this case?
‘I’ll arrive a bit early then,’ I said, ‘to check things out. It’d be best for you to be just a shade late.’
He agreed and rang off. He sounded reasonably steady given his many problems. He didn’t mention Sarah.
I called Frank in the evening and asked him how the investigation into Wayne Ireland was going. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. My knowledge of Ireland was sketchy, amounting to nothing more than being aware that he was part of the right-wing machine, with all that implied about connections to unions and the tougher elements in politics and business. He was the minister for transport—middle ranked but influential.
‘Can’t tell you, Cliff, you know that.’
‘A hint.’
‘It’s ongoing, as they say. Sarah asked me about Ronny and I told her that he wasn’t being held. I also advised her to have no more to do with him.’
‘How did she take that?’
‘Pretty well. She’s not a bad kid. Gets on very well with Hilde and Peter. It’s sort of nice to have her around. She pitches in.’
‘I met Simpson outside today when I came over. Simpson without his donkey.’
‘Jesus, Cliff, you’d joke on your deathbed.’
‘Never happen. Anyway, I saw Sarah and she seemed fine. I’m grateful for your help, Frank.’
‘You should be. As usual, you’re on a long leash with me, but I hope you haven’t been talking out of turn—to your client, for instance.’
‘Not a word. If the Ireland case gets to court Sarah’s in for a rough time, wouldn’t you say? Be a help if I can locate her brother.’
‘Stay with it, and for Christ’s sake try to make it somewhere near the legal line.’
He hung up. Did his last remark mean that Hilde had told him about the Van Der Harr file on Justin, or was it simply a comment on my usual methods? Hard to say. He seemed to think I’d paid my visit just to see Sarah. I didn’t like keeping things from him, but then, he was certainly keeping things from me.
I got to the appointed meeting place ten minutes early and hung around looking for signs of dirty tricks—people the old-time detectives would have called wrong ’uns, male or female, or weapons stashed in rubbish bins or in the shrubbery. It all looked clean. Stafford and Sharkey arrived on time and sat at one of the tables nearest the coffee shop door. There was a sports store opposite and a short covered walkway into the mall. One of the other three outdoor tables was occupied by a woman with a child in a pram. People were going in and out of the shopping centre. Not a lot, but enough. The area was paved and clean—a few drifting leaves, the odd bit of paper.
‘There’s no table service, boys,’ I said as I marched up to the pair. ‘Allow me. What’ll you have? Water for you, Sharkey?’
‘Don’t fuck around, Hardy. Where is he?’
I checked my watch. ‘He’s being fashionably late. We can’t sit here without buying something.’
‘Long blacks,’ Stafford growled, ‘and he’s got five minutes, tops.’
I went into the coffee shop, ordered four long blacks and watched out through the window as they were prepared. I carried them out on a tray just as Hampshire arrived. He was dressed smartly—grey three-piece suit, tie, high-shine shoes—and he was leading on a leash the nastiest-looking dog I’d ever seen—a pink-eyed, pigsnouted pit bull.
‘What the fuck is this?’ Stafford roared.
‘Just a little insurance, Wilson,’ Hampshire said. He sat and tied the leash to his chair.
I was so surprised to see the dog, so appalled by its ugliness, that I took my eye off Sharkey. He’d retained some of his ring quickness—I’d been wrong about that. In no more than a couple of seconds he was back with a baseball bat he must have grabbed in the sports store. He took one swing, timed it perfectly as the dog leapt at him and crushed its skull. Blood, brain matter and bone sprayed in all directions as the dog gave a strangled groan and collapsed. Women and children screamed, men yelled. Sharkey had almost overbalanced with the violence of his swing, but he recovered quickly and Hampshire was clearly his next target.
I launched myself, carrying the table and its contents with me, and cannoned into Sharkey when he was halfway through his swing. He staggered, lost balance again, and I was up before him. I hit him with a right hook as low as I could reach. Not quite low enough: it hurt but didn’t disable him. He sucked in air, ignored my next punch and grabbed me by the jacket, pulling me close. He was roaring, spitting, and the saliva hit my face, but he was still a boxer and his instinct was to punch. I brought my knee up hard and caught him solidly in the balls. He yelled and lost his grip as the strength drained out of him. He was still dangerous though, reaching for the baseball bat. I picked it up and slammed it into his right kneecap.
I was breathing hard. That kind of violence affects people in different ways—some become half demented, others stay icy calm. I was somewhere in between. When I looked around I saw that the area had almost cleared, with a couple of people pressed back against the walls and some coffee shop patrons with their noses stuck to the glass. There was no sign of Stafford or Hampshire. I grabbed a napkin from the ground, wiped down where I’d gripped the bat and dropped it. The place was a mess with the dead dog and a writhing Sharkey, broken crockery, upset furniture and spilt coffee mixing with the blood. I walked away.
A man and a woman came down the path from the street and stopped when they saw me.
‘Call an ambulance,’ I said. ‘Bit late for the vet.’
I drove to the office and, as I’d half expected, Hampshire was waiting for me in the street.
‘Got anything to drink up there, Hardy?’ he said. ‘I need something after that.’
‘Wine,’ I said.
‘That’ll do.’
We went up and I poured us each a decent slug of the rough red. Hampshire socked it straight down and held out the paper cup.
‘Take it easy,’ I said as I topped him up.
He drank only two-thirds this time. ‘Did you ever see anything like that in your life?’
&nbs
p; ‘Not exactly, but I’ve seen worse—substitute a woman for the dog.’
‘My God.’
‘You’re playing with rough people, Paul. What was the idea?’
‘I felt I needed protection.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you were so . . . capable.’
‘Where did you get the dog?’
‘The same place I got the car, from a friend. One of the few I’ve got left. I guess I won’t have him anymore.’
I drank some wine and felt it soothe me. ‘You didn’t really intend to negotiate a deal with Stafford, did you?’
‘No. I just wanted to size him up, see how serious he was. I didn’t get the chance.’
‘He’ll come after you, mate. He’ll turn the town upside down.’
‘I know. I’ll have to leave. I’m not safe here.’
‘You’re not safe anywhere. Does anyone else know where you’re staying? I don’t even know.’
‘Just the police.’
I groaned. ‘Stafford’s got a few of them in his pocket. There’s a place in Glebe I’ve put people in, a motel. They know the score. It’s the best I can come up with for the moment. Where’s your car?’
‘Down in St Peters Lane—illegally parked.’
‘No time to lose. I’ll get you to the motel and then we’ll think it through.’
‘I have to piss.’
I showed him where and told him to be quick about it. He wasn’t. When he came back he gulped down the rest of his drink. ‘Sorry, I guess I know why they say shit-scared.’
I took the ancient sawn-off out of the cupboard and we went down the stairs, me leading. I could almost feel the way his feet faltered on the steps. A very frightened man and I wasn’t sympathetic.
St Peters Lane is a narrow one-way street with a sharp bend halfway along, and it’s bordered on one side by a high stone wall surrounding a church property. There’s no parking, no footpath, and it doesn’t take you anywhere you can’t get to more comfortably by another route. That day there were a few cars jammed up against the wall. Not unusual. Joy-riders stole cars in the suburbs to get into the Cross and then dumped them; bombs out of registration, stripped of their plates, found a temporary home there.
Hampshire was struggling to regain his composure and confidence.
‘Where are you?’ he said.
‘Forbes Street.’
‘I’ll follow you.’ He jiggled his keys, pointed to an iridescent blue Holden ute fifty metres away, and headed towards it.
Just then a big 4WD came screaming around the bend, going the wrong way, accelerating. Hampshire didn’t have a chance. The bulky vehicle hit him full square, lifted him up and threw him against the high church wall like a bull tossing a toreador.
The shottie was useless and, when I reviewed the scene in my mind later, I got no solid impressions of the vehicle or the driver. A dun-coloured Land Cruiser, maybe. Baseball cap, sunglasses, maybe. I went across to where Hampshire lay in a spreading pool of blood. There was no pulse. His body was broken almost everywhere it could have been broken and his head was pulped, with the face nearly obliterated. The church wall was smeared with blood and the pink-grey of brain tissue.
I went back to my office, stowed the shotgun and called the police.
part three
17
I had to tell the police practically everything about my dealings with Hampshire and Wilson Stafford. I described the meeting as an attempt at reconciliation between the two that had gone badly wrong on both sides.
A few witnesses identified me as the person who hit Billy Finn, but each of them said it was in self-defence after Finn’s attack on the dog and threat against Hampshire. The talk of charging me with assault fell away. Finn didn’t want to press charges, and he was busy battling public nuisance, affray and similar accusations himself, as well as undergoing surgery and rehabilitation for his knee.
I heard later that a police board suggested my licence be suspended, but when it was revealed that Sharkey had been carrying a loaded, unregistered pistol, the suggestion wasn’t acted on. The police had no time for Sharkey.
At the pub I ran into one of the Glebe detectives who’d got the story on the grapevine. I prepared myself for a serve but he insisted on buying me a drink. He was drunk.
‘Fuckin’ good work, Cliffo,’ he said, ‘wish you’d busted his other fuckin’ knee while you were at it.’
‘The trouble is, he’ll mend,’ I said.
‘Yeah. Tell you what, though—I wouldn’t like to be you at the fuckin’ inquest.’
After what I told the police about their dealings, Wilson Stafford was under suspicion of organising Hampshire’s killing, but he denied it and there was no evidence to go on. My identification of the vehicle and driver amounted to almost nothing, and no sign of either had so far been found.
Meanwhile, through all this, when I was in and out of police stations and on the phone every other day to Viv Garner, Wayne Ireland was charged with the manslaughter of Angela Pettigrew. Michael O’Connor, Ireland’s driver, admitted driving him to the Church Point house at the time in question and to falsifying his log in return for a consideration. Ireland accused O’Connor of lying and of blackmailing him. Ireland presented medical evidence of his alcoholism and depression and was released on bail with his passport confiscated.
‘Never get him for murder,’ Frank Parker told me. ‘Too many big guns on his side and too much medical flak. At best he’ll do three or four years somewhere soft—get off the grog and work on his golf. Do himself a world of good.’
‘It’s the end of his political career and his marriage, though,’ I said. ‘And Sarah’ll have to give evidence. Do you think she’s still in danger?’
‘I doubt it. Ireland knows he’ll slip through the cracks. How about you, Cliff? You haven’t got a client anymore.’
That was true and uncomfortable. I couldn’t afford to work pro bono for very long, and Paul Hampshire’s death had received considerable newspaper and television coverage. If Justin was still around there was a better than even chance he’d have got wind of it and made contact. It wasn’t looking good for the kid who’d had his past and future taken away from him. But it left the question of what had happened to him—a serious loose end with emotional attachments.
I visited Sarah in Paddington and found her calm.
‘I’m sorry he died like that, but he wasn’t ever like a father,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t around much and he didn’t seem to care about me. I don’t think I’m his daughter.’
Hampshire had thought the same but it wasn’t the moment to tell her that.
‘You know who I think my father is, don’t you?’
‘I can guess.’
She showed me a newspaper photo of Ireland as a young man.
‘Him,’ she said. ‘The guy who killed my mother. Well, he didn’t want to know me either, so I don’t care about him.’
‘This is all very hard for you,’ I said.
She shrugged. ‘Not really. It sort of clears the air. I’m on my own now and I can make a fresh start without all the lying and bullshit they went on with. I’ll be all right.’
‘Any idea what you’ll do?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe I’ll be a private detective.’
‘I wouldn’t advise it—too much to do for too little money.’
‘Do you think you’ll find Justin? I hope you can. At least I know he’s my half-brother. If we could get together maybe we could work something out.’
‘I’ll keep looking,’ I said.
Pierre Fontaine died in the hospice. I went to the service and the cremation on the off-chance that Justin might show. He didn’t. I was running out of options. I thought of Ronny O’Connor. Was there anything more to be squeezed out of him? I doubted it. It looked like a dead end and I hated it. I felt I’d failed Paul Hampshire, even though he’d never been straight with me.
Then Hilde phoned me and
the whole thing took on a new shape. ‘Oh, Cliff,’ she said, her voice breaking, ‘I’ve been such a fool. I left that psychiatrist’s file on my desk, just for a few minutes, and Sarah must have seen it. She took it. She’s gone, Cliff. She’s gone!’
I calmed her down, told her it was my fault for making it possible for Sarah to see the file and asked her to describe what Sarah had been wearing and what she’d taken with her. She said Sarah had been in her jeans and denim jacket, exactly as I’d last seen her, and that she’d taken the overnight bag she arrived with.
‘Has she got any money?’
‘She’s got a keycard. She seemed to have enough to get by day to day. She never asked us for money. Cliff, what am I going to say to Frank? I didn’t tell him about the file.’
‘I’ll ring him and explain. I’ll take the blame.’
I rang Frank and told him what had happened. ‘Jesus, Cliff, you bloody fool.’
‘I know. Sorry.’
‘And Hilde’s a fool for helping you. Why she has you up on a pedestal I’ll never know.’
‘Me either. The important thing now is to find Sarah.’
‘You’re the expert. You’d better do it. If she comes to any harm this could turn very nasty for all of us. Gail Henderson in media liaison says there’s already a journalist sniffing around.’
‘Who?’
‘Her name’s Tania Kramer, a freelance nuisance.’
I rang Hilde, told her I’d spoken to Frank and asked her if Sarah had taken any phone calls recently.
‘She did, this morning. A woman asked for her. She said she was a friend.’
‘What name?’
‘Tania. Sarah spoke to her for a few minutes, or rather she listened. What’s going on?’
‘I’m not sure, but that’s a lead to follow.’