Open File ch-33

by Peter Corris

  ‘I’m not consoling you. I’m trying to give myself something to look forward to.’

  ‘I suspect you’re bad news for women, Cliff. Not that you mean to be, just the way things work out with you.’

  She was more right than wrong but I didn’t want that to be the whole story, not after the pleasure we’d shared. ‘We barely know a thing about each other, Kathy. Why don’t you ring me after you talk to your grandmother, whether you find out anything or not. We can talk. As you said, see what happens.’

  She’d been wearing her bra and panties with her blouse unbuttoned. She came around the table and kissed me and she had that lovemaking smell that would have got me going again except that she was buttoning up and reaching for her pants.

  ‘It’s a deal,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll drive you.’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s no distance. I’ll walk and try not to feel too encouraged. Talk to you soon, Cliff.’

  She slid into her trousers, pulled on her shoes, scooped up her bag and pantyhose and left.

  I went up the coast road to Bateman’s Bay and over the mountain to Canberra. The Falcon ticked a bit on the climb but it does that to show it needs mechanical attention from time to time. I was in a good mood after the time with Kathy and the prospect of more of the same, and the feeling that I was making some kind of progress with the case.

  Like a lot of people, I felt ambivalent about Canberra. It was a good idea to put it where it is as a counterweight to Sydney and Melbourne. Because of the concentration of intelligent, well-educated people, it behaves progressively at the ballot box, unlike the rest of the country most of the time. But the neatness of the layout, the manicured gardens, the sense of being so planned made me wonder if it’d ever feel like a city. Good place to study, make a career, but to live? I wasn’t so sure of that.

  As monuments to human folly go, the Canberra war memorial wasn’t so bad, tasteful even. The triumphalism is kept more or less in check, and it feels like a place for reflection rather than celebration, at least in spots. Passing the shell of the miniature Japanese submarine scooped out of Sydney Harbour, I spared a thought for those small young men who’d taken on what was virtually a suicide mission. I tossed some coins into the water in recognition of all the other poor bastards who’d gone through the meat grinder. The honour roll does the job it’s supposed to do without too much fuss.

  As I traced the names, I imagined Justin Hampshire here more than two years ago. His Honda in the car park, the money from the sale of his sporting gear running low and his dreams in tatters. The Bangara memorial arch record was confirmed. There were no fallen Hampshires at Gallipoli or the Somme or anywhere else in the war to end all wars. And none in World War II or Korea. As Kathy had said, there were two Petersens, with the distinctive spelling of the name she had made a point of, killed in the Western Desert, no doubt fighting against Rommel, the Desert Fox, and one in Korea. The John Prine lyric about losing Davey in the Korean War and the father still not knowing what for, came to mind. Justin’s family had a military tradition all right, but with the name change it wasn’t one he’d had any way of knowing about.

  You’re supposed to feel sad in such places. I did-for all the waste, and for Justin. No reason to hang around. I didn’t think I was likely to bump into Hawkie or Keating to advise them about what to do for the good of the country. The drive from Canberra to Sydney was forgettable. About the only thing of interest was the low level of water in Lake George. Cattle were grazing in places where once they would have had to swim.

  Back in Sydney I used an ATM and found that Hampshire’s cheque had cleared. Encouraging. I drove to Rose Bay and parked, semi-legally, within walking distance of the apartments where Hampshire was staying. I asked for him at the desk and was told he was in. The receptionist buzzed him but got no answer. I took the lift to the third floor and knocked. No response.

  I raised my voice. ‘Mr Hampshire, it’s Cliff Hardy. They tell me downstairs you’re in so please open the door. You’re a hard man to catch up with.’

  The door opened and Hampshire stood there, leaning against the jamb for support. He was unshaven, in a singlet and trousers, barefoot. His eyes were bloodshot and he smelled of liquor and vomit. There were stains on his singlet and pants.

  ‘Hello, Hardy.’ His voice was slurred and he wasn’t looking at me.

  ‘Hello yourself.’ I pushed past him and went into the flat. The serviced apartment needed servicing. It was a mess, with clothes, newspapers, bottles and fast food containers spread around. A sheet of paper by the, telephone was covered with numbers and scribble. Hampshire stumbled after me.

  ‘Sorry about the mess.’

  ‘You’re a bigger mess. What the fuck’s happened to you?’

  He slumped into a chair. ‘Have you got a cigarette?’ He pronounced it the American way with the accent on the first syllable. ‘I’m out.’

  ‘No. What’s got you into this state?’

  He rubbed his stubble. No natty bow tie now, no spiffy handkerchief. I saw what it was about the hair now; he wore a toupee, a bit bedraggled.

  ‘You know I said I had investments, interests in things? Well, I’ve been screwed by an accountant and a lawyer. I’m going to have to figure out a way to take legal action against them. I guess I panicked a bit.’ He waved at the mess. ‘But I’ll get it together. Now, have you made any progress?’

  ‘Why don’t you get cleaned up and tidy this joint a little. Then I’ll feel more confident about talking to you.’

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’

  ‘I know who I am. I’m not sure who you are or what you’re worth.’

  He seemed about to bluster but stopped himself and looked down at the stains on his singlet. ‘You’re right. I have to get a grip. Give me a few minutes.’

  He went away and I heard the shower running. I did some of the tidying myself-dumping the food containers in the kitchen bin, emptying the ashtrays, collecting the bottles and making a stack of the newspapers. Several of the papers were open at the business pages, showing the stock market with some stocks underlined. None I’d ever heard of. From the look of the notepad he’d made dozens of phone calls. A lot of the numbers were covered with scribble, some had crosses beside them; a couple had ticks countermanded by crosses.

  I was deliberately holding the notepad when he came back. It was a test. He was shaved and his hair was slicked back. He had on a clean shirt and trousers and wore shoes. He didn’t protest about my snooping.

  ‘Tell me about Justin.’

  I brought him up to date on what I’d discovered and each piece of information seemed to hit him like a brick.

  ‘My grandmother told me my grandfather was killed in France.’

  ‘You didn’t think to check?’

  ‘No. I accepted it. I was… proud of it. God help me. I only wished it had been at Gallipoli so that-’

  ‘You could worship all the harder?’

  He nodded.

  ‘What about your lather?’

  ‘My mother said he was killed in New Guinea.’

  ‘Kokoda?’

  ‘She wasn’t specific, but that was… the impression she gave me.’

  ‘And you passed it on to Justin.’

  He nodded. ‘You say he found out it wasn’t true in either case?’

  ‘Yes. Bright kid. And your wife spilled the beans on your less than glorious Vietnam record after you shot through.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘I suppose you amped that up a bit.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘One way and another, you helped to produce a very angry, disappointed and disillusioned young man. It’s no wonder he took off.’

  He moaned, but whether for himself or Justin it was hard to tell. ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea. But where did he go? What did he do?’

  I opened my hands. ‘That’s why you hired me, but it’s getting complicated and in more ways than you know’

  ‘What do you mean?’<
br />
  I told him about Justin’s apparent association with a man now serving prison time for drug offences. He shook his head as if unable to take the information in.

  ‘Why would he have anything to do with a drug pusher?’

  ‘I’m trying to get to see the guy. I might find out or I might not, but you have to get yourself ready for bad news.’

  ‘Not knowing is just constant bad news. I’ve got some stocks I can sell. That won’t get me out of all of the holes I’m in but I’ll raise enough to be able to keep paying you. I want you to see this through right to the end, whatever it is.’

  I nodded. ‘Sorry, but I’ve got one more kick in the guts for you. Angela’s dobbed you in to the welfare people for not paying child support. They’ll refer it to the cops who’ll be on the lookout for you. I’ve gone out on a bit of a limb there, told the cop I’m in contact with that I didn’t know where you were.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  I shrugged. ‘You’re paying me, for one thing.’

  ‘From what I’ve heard of you there must be more to it than that.’

  He’d touched on something that Cyn had never understood-the sheer interest a case like this set up, the way it got under my skin, into my head and needed to be resolved. But it wasn’t something I wanted to talk about. I took out my notebook and consulted it, just to have something to do, to let that thought drift away. ‘I haven’t heard your side of the story,’ I said. ‘In my experience there usually is one. Did you pay child support?’

  ‘Not always… when I could. But I paid Sarah’s and Justin’s school fees all the way and I signed the house over to Angela. There’s very little mortgage on it and Angela has some money of her own. Is she… all right?’

  ‘Yes and no. Sarah’s a problem and the place looks a bit rundown. But I’d say she’s pretty tough. Losing you and Justin rocked her, but I suppose she thinks she’s fighting back. She is, in a way. She was helpful to me and now she’s trying to get back at you. I know you went to the States on business. Why did you stay?’

  He grimaced. ‘I fell in love, or thought I did. I wish I hadn’t. Some client you’ve got, Hardy.’

  ‘I’ve had worse,’ I said. ‘One came at me with an axe. Got anything left to drink?’

  8

  I had a couple of weak scotch and waters with Hampshire, partly because I was ready for a drink and partly to see how he was handling his liquor after an apparent binge. Seemed all right. I advised him to move in case the authorities got onto any of the people he’d contacted to trace him. He said he would and that he’d get in touch with me as soon as he had. I told him his retainer would hold me on the job for a while and he repeated his promise to keep me in funds to the end.

  I walked around Rose Bay for a while, for the exercise and to allow the blood alcohol level to drop. A lot of the big old houses had been converted into flats but not all. There was a lot of money here in bricks and mortar and, as up at Pittwater, in boats. I speculated about what the land occupied by the Royal Sydney Golf Course was worth-too much to calculate. Cyn’s father had been a member and he’d told me the yearly dues which, at the time, amounted to something like half of my annual income. It was probably much the same now.

  I went home and dealt with the mail and the phone messages-nothing that couldn’t wait. It was getting on towards that time when I had to decide whether to scramble eggs or go out to eat or just buy some takeaway. A constant question. Sometimes I thought that the solution in the sci-fi books or for the astronauts-a pill containing all the necessary nutrients-would be the solution. But they never seemed to wash it down with a good red or white.

  Gunnarson rang while I was mulling it over. He told me he’d arranged for me to see Pierre Fontaine the day after next.

  ‘He can see anyone he wants to.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘He’s in a hospice in Woolloomooloo. He’s dying of AIDS, they reckon.’

  I went up Glebe Point Road to my favourite Italian and had lasagne and a salad and a couple of belts of the house chianti and a long black. It was raining when I left and I got soaked on the way back. I didn’t care-it seemed like a fitting sealer to a strange day that had started out well with Kathy and taken some strange twists and turns after that. Not that unusual. I dumped almost everything I’d been wearing for the past two days in the washing machine and set it running. I went to bed to read about the convicts and their masters, who’d probably built some of the houses at Rose Bay.

  I was showered but not shaved, wearing a threadbare terry towelling dressing gown I was fond of, buttering my toast, coffee in the mug, when a hammering came on the door and the bell rang. Toast in hand, I went to answer it. About the only people I know of who wear ties with business shirts and black leather jackets are cops.

  ‘Mr Hardy?’

  I nodded. He showed his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Ian Watson, Northern Command. I have to ask you some questions.’

  ‘I hope I have the answers. Come on in.’ I said this quickly and turned away so that he had a choice-follow me in or call me back. His response would give me an idea of the seriousness of whatever was going on. I assumed it was to do with my shielding of Paul Hampshire. Serious, but not too serious.

  ‘Please come back, Mr Hardy. I don’t want to enter your home.’

  Uh-oh, serious then. I came back-but Hardy’s rule is never give an inch.

  ‘House, Sergeant,’ I said. ‘Around here we have houses. Homes are on the North Shore and in the eastern suburbs.’

  He was about my size and age and holding together pretty well except that, like me, he showed signs of facial damage and some professional hard yards. He put his card away and gave me a look that told me my jibe hadn’t touched him.

  ‘I was told you were difficult. Right. I’ll see you in the detectives’ room at the Glebe station in half an hour. If you’re not there I’ll show you how difficult I can be.’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  But he’d turned away and was already at the gate. He hadn’t stumbled over the lifting tiles on the porch or the sagging cement blocks on the path. He left the gate open. I judged he’d won the first round on points.

  I ate the toast, drank some coffee, shaved and turned on Radio National to get the weather. It was going to be warm and stay that way until a late cool change. I put on drill trousers, battered Italian loafers and a denim shirt worn to a comfortable thinness. Clothes maketh the man-relaxed, innocent. But I phoned Viv Gainer, my solicitor, who lived in Lilyfield and spent very little time in his office, and asked him to stand by in case I needed him.

  ‘What now?’ Viv said.

  ‘I don’t know, I honestly don’t know.’

  I’ve been in the Glebe police station more times than I can count and much more often than I wanted to. I can only remember one time when it did me any good-when my car was stolen and the police got it back. Otherwise, it was an exercise in mutual distrust and antagonism. I walked there, presented myself more or less on time, and was taken upstairs to the detectives’ room. It smelled of cigarette smoke, hamburgers and take-out coffee. The Glebe boys had cleared a desk for Watson in a corner, giving him something like semi-privacy.

  I sat down while he flicked through a notepad. Then he shook a card out of a paper evidence bag and let it fall right-side-up on the desk between us.

  ‘This is yours,’ he said.

  I had to turn my head a little. ‘Yes.’

  He used a pen to slide it across the surface and back into the bag. ‘When did you last see Angela Pettigrew?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, Sergeant, I’m not going to come at that. You tell me why I’m here, why you have my card in an evidence bag, or I walk out and phone my solicitor.’

  ‘Worth a try,’ he said, and nodded to one of the Glebe detectives who’d been watching with some amusement. ‘Angela Pettigrew was murdered some time yesterday.’

  No matter how or when or how often it happens, learning that someone you k
now has died makes an impact. I leaned back in the chair and took in a deep breath of the smelly air.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll go into that. You left your card for her. We need to know when you saw her and why.’

  ‘I actually left the card for her daughter. But I saw her the day before yesterday. I was hired to locate her son, who’s been missing for over two years.’

  ‘Hired by her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t piss me off, Hardy. Hired by who?’

  ‘Whom.’

  He let that go by. ‘What was her state of mind when you saw her?’

  ‘She had a failed marriage, a missing son and a difficult daughter. She wasn’t a happy woman. And if you want to see my notes on the interview you can forget it.’

  For all his tough exterior and aggressive style, Watson wasn’t going to make life harder for himself than it needed to be.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You don’t like me and I don’t like you. Neither of us likes being here or talking about a woman being killed. Can we cut the shit and try to do something useful?’

  So I told him about the Hampshire-Pettigrew problem and about my confrontation with Ronny and the later conversation and my meeting with Sarah. In line with him not revealing anything about how Angela was killed, I was selective. Watson scribbled notes in shorthand. Useful talent.

  ‘Ronny who?’

  ‘I don’t know. Wasn’t told.’

  ‘He hit Ms Pettigrew?’

  I peered at his notes. ‘I hope you’ve got the squiggle right. I said he pushed her. I did the hitting.’

  ‘Of a juvenile.’

  ‘As big as me or you, and faster if he got a chance, I’d reckon. Now, let’s have a bit from you. How was Ms Pettigrew killed?’

  He paused, but I’d said enough to convince him I wasn’t at Church Point the day before. He wanted more from me though, so he decided to play along: ‘She was beaten to death with a ceramic ornament.’

  ‘No chance of an accident-a blow and a fall?’