by Peter Corris
Her laugh was an embarrassed snort. ‘I wouldn’t say that, but I would say it isn’t judgemental.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But you’re being led up the garden path, Mr Hardy. You see, I think Miles Standish had Richard Malouf murdered.’
‘That surprised you, didn’t it?’ Felicity Standish said.
I said, ‘Yes. Are you serious?’
‘I’m deadly serious. Although Miles was a serial adulterer, he couldn’t handle it when I made one misstep. He can’t bear to lose anything. That’s why he’s creating so much difficulty about our divorce.’
I looked around the room and out to the garden. ‘Well, it’s a lot to give up.’
She laughed. ‘No, no, this is all mine. I inherited it. I put that badly. What I mean is that he can’t bear not to win. He was good at a whole range of sports and his legal studies and at business. He married a rich woman and has a son and a daughter. A winner all the way until this happened. He was ruthless at everything, swept opposition aside. He beat up a man I was seeing before we got together. He had some cause, but it cost him money to avoid an assault charge. I think he was capable of killing Richard or having it done. He was certainly a police suspect, probably still is.’
The implication of what she was saying was clear. Maybe Standish had hired me to divert attention away from him, to muddy the waters. Felicity Standish drank the last of her coffee and sat, looking composed. I thought about the shelf of books and wondered whether she had overstimulated her imagination. I still had enough police contacts to establish whether Standish was a suspect in Malouf’s death, but I urgently needed to talk to Standish, otherwise I was stumbling around in the dark.
‘Where are the kids?’ I said.
‘At school. Why?’
‘Does your husband have access, visiting rights, picking up arrangements?’
‘Hah, I see where you’re going. He has those rights but he hasn’t exercised them for weeks. You need to contact him and I need to know where he is. How about I hire you to find him?’
I shook my head.
‘Why not? Not ethical? You’re de-licensed. You couldn’t have a contract with Miles and you don’t need one with me. What d’you say?’
‘No, too much conflict of interest. I need to find him for my own reasons.’
‘Fair enough, but the offer remains open. I’ll give you the clue I would’ve given you if you’d accepted. If you want to find Miles Standish, keep tabs on May Ling. That shouldn’t be too hard for a man like you. Should be a pleasure.’
The storm swept in and dumped water on the city and then departed as if satisfied. The sun shone through a thin cloud cover but a wind kept the temperature low. I did some scouting. A lane runs behind the buildings that front New South Head Road in Edgecliff. At the end of the lane was a small, undercover car park, electronically controlled. The only alternative all-day parking for anyone working in the area was the huge, multi-level operation on the opposite side of the road over the railway station. Somehow I didn’t think May Ling was the type to battle with the plebs in the concrete jungle. That’s where I put my car while I had a slow lunch in a restaurant nearby, read the morning paper from cover to cover and took a one-hour walk up to Darling Point and back.
At four forty-five I was sitting in my car in the lane where parking was illegal and keeping my eye out for inspectors. Eventually they’ll install cameras in these places, sack the inspectors and reap greater rewards, but just for now human beings were still useful. The afternoon had turned cold; parking inspectors are like everyone else—given the choice they’ll do their job in greater comfort and there were ample opportunities to work under cover along the main road.
At five fifteen May Ling came tripping down the lane. She had a minimalist silver-grey umbrella up against the drizzle and despite her high heels she avoided puddles like a dancer obeying a choreographer to perfection. She wore a grey suit with an unfastened silvery rain slicker over it and her face seemed to glow in the damp, shaded surroundings. She closed the umbrella as she entered the car park and one hand dipped into her grey suede shoulder bag. When it came to accessories, May Ling was right there.
After five minutes, a silver Peugeot slid out of the car park. French, it figured. The car headed towards the city and I fell in behind it, keeping two cars back. The evening was drawing in and headlights, brake lights and indicators were sharp in the gloom. May Ling was a precise, cautious driver. She signalled her intentions early and was easy to follow. She entered the tunnel, was patient as the lanes clogged up and didn’t try any fancy moves although other cars were jostling for position. This was a woman in control of herself and not letting anything disturb her composure.
The hazard of following anyone in these conditions is in the prospect of them stopping. If the quarry pulls in and stops and there’s no parking space close by, you’re gone. You have to move on and your chance of circling round and taking another couple of passes is almost nil. May Ling didn’t stop. She went on to North Sydney, took a left and worked her way back to McMahons Point and the water. I wasn’t familiar with the area, but it looked like the kind of place where May Ling and the silver Peugeot would fit right in.
She pulled up outside a block of flats as a light rain fell. I went further up the street, parked and watched. She turned on the interior light and used her mobile phone. A couple of minutes later a man came hurrying from the block. He wore a raincoat with the hood up, completely concealing his face. He looked to be about the same size as Standish and moved like a fit man, but I couldn’t be sure. May Ling had turned out the light after the phone call, so I couldn’t see anything inside her car once he got in. She started the engine and drove off in her steady, careful way.
Thursday night and busy. I followed the car back to North Sydney. May Ling cruised, looking for a parking spot, and found one. I had to park illegally to keep in touch. I’d get a ticket, but I was on expenses. Or was I? I didn’t have a raincoat and I got wet following the pair along the street with only occasional cover from the awnings. The man kept his hood up. They walked close together but didn’t touch. They entered a Chinese restaurant doing a roaring trade, but they must have made a booking because they were seated straight off.
‘Sir?’
The head waiter looked sceptically at my jeans, wind- cheater and damp leather jacket.
‘Can I wait at the bar for a free table?’
‘Are you alone, sir?’
When I hear that I always want to come out with the Jake Gittes line: ‘Aren’t we all?’ but I restrained myself. I said I had a friend coming.
‘There could be a table for two in about thirty minutes. By all means wait in the bar.’
‘Pencil me in,’ I said.
He smiled, unamused.
I sat at the bar and ordered a glass of the house red. It cost ten dollars and the woman behind the bar poured it precisely so that you couldn’t complain that it was too little, but certainly couldn’t feel that it was generous. I had a clear view now of May Ling and her companion, who was definitely Standish but not the man I’d been with two days ago. He appeared pale and as if he’d lost weight. He had what looked like a double whisky in front of him and he was working on it as if it was his last drink in this life. May Ling slipped her jacket off in the warm room. Her pale neck was swan-like; her breasts suggested picture-perfection under her silk blouse. She had her hand on Standish’s arm with the slender fingers moving gently but it wasn’t doing him any good. The man was clearly close to his emotional limit.
After a while, say two-thirds of my glass of wine, Standish and May Ling were joined by two Chinese men. Both were medium-size, well dressed and known to the head waiter, who almost bowed to the floor on greeting them. Two chairs were quickly pulled out to allow them to sit down with a minimum of effort. They accepted all this as their right. They would.
I knew both of the men and the face of one had been in the newspapers and on television. The older of the two, the one wi
th grey in his hair, was Freddy Wong. Freddy had avoided gaol for more than twenty years. He’d been acquitted several times—of drug importation, home invasion and conspiracy to commit murder, twice. The other man was his brother. No wonder Standish looked stressed.
I’d come up against Freddy Wong about ten years earlier when helping a Chinese family rescue a girl from a brothel he’d controlled. It was the classical thing—an offer of domestic employment, the arrangement of a visa and then the trap closed. But Wong or his agent had miscalculated. The girl had family in Sydney, including a police officer. They hired me and I worked with the cop to get the girl and several other women away and recover their passports. It had involved a violent confrontation between me and Wong’s lieutenant—his brother. Threats were issued but nothing came of it.
Standish’s involvement with the Wong brothers put a whole new spin on things. Added to that, Freddy Wong was one of the gamblers Malouf was said to have lost money to.
The Wongs had their backs to me but I still kept my head low and a hand up to my face. I searched my memory for Freddy’s brother’s name without a result. I remembered his snarling aggression and the fight we’d had in a lane behind the brothel in Petersham. It wasn’t a martial arts affair, nothing balletic, just a knock-down, drag-out fist fight. He was fast and strong but he didn’t have the timing and technique you need for that sort of stoush. We fought at close quarters, between two garbage skips, and there was no space for bullocking rushes, which would have been his preferred style. He swung a lot and missed a lot. A straight punch beats a swing most times, cumulatively. I wore him down and left him dazed and bleeding in the gutter.
Lester, that was it. It was all coming back to me. The Wong brothers weren’t refugees or asylum seekers. The family had been here since the gold rushes, and members had prospered as merchants and professionals—but they’d formed links with the criminal element in the more recent arrivals and had their fingers in all the pies. Freddy had been to Fort Street High School and Sydney University for a medical degree. He’d never worked as a doctor. Lester had never worked at anything except as Freddy’s muscle. The two men bore no physical resemblance: Freddy was squat and fat, verging on obese; Lester was medium tall and lean. He’d been a speed addict and his couple of brief gaol terms—for assault and wounding—were unlikely to have rehabilitated or detoxified him.
Things weren’t going well at the table. Freddy Wong was shaking his head emphatically while Lester tucked in to the food. Then a man who fitted the generic description ‘of Middle Eastern appearance’ joined them and the discussion got heated. May Ling looked anxious as she tried to soothe all the players. Standish had completely lost his appetite.
It wasn’t the time to intrude, especially in those surround- ings where the Wongs were likely to have useful supporters. I finished my drink and moved away from the bar.
‘Sir,’ the head waiter said, ‘a table is being cleared for you.’
‘I’ve been stood up.’
‘What a shame. Perhaps you’ll come again.’
I drove home thinking that the evening hadn’t been a complete waste of time; it had thrown up a lot of questions. What exactly was the relationship between Standish and May Ling? Why had he dropped out of sight, and what was he doing playing chopsticks with the Wong brothers? May Ling had to be the go-between, but what kind of deal was she brokering? And what of the Middle Eastern wild card?
I called in on Megan and Hank and ate their leftover shepherd’s pie. They were still feeling the glow of approaching parenthood and I didn’t want to dim it by talking about my concerns. Hank said his parents would be coming out for the birth. Megan’s mother, my ex-wife Cyn, was dead. The kid would be down one grandparent and it’d be up to me to do a good job in the solo role.
‘Have you ever actually held a baby in your arms, Cliff?’ Megan asked.
‘Sure, my sister’s kids.’
‘Boys or girls?’
‘Um . . .’
Hank laughed. ‘We’ve all gotta lot to learn. What’re you doing with yourself, Cliff?’
I hadn’t told them about my financial reverses. ‘Managing my financial affairs,’ I said, which was true in a way.
I left them still happy, and some of that rubbed off on me as it had before and as I hoped it would again. As I drove home I had to search my memory again for the name of the Chinese policeman I’d worked with on the matter of Freddy Wong’s sex slaves. It didn’t come to me until I was half asleep after five pages of a recent Miles Franklin Award-winning novel I’d bought as a remainder—Stephen Chang.
Frank Parker was a long-time friend who’d retired as a deputy police commissioner but remained on their books as a consultant. He had access to police databases closed to civilians. With the previous night’s damp clothes in the dryer, I rang him early, knowing that he’d soon be off cycling or playing squash or swimming laps. I’d put on some weight recently, and Frank’s trim figure was a constant reproach.
‘Frank, it’s Cliff.’
‘Gidday, Cliff, feel like a swim?’
‘Ask me round about December. No, I need some help locating a member of the New South Wales police service.’
‘Oh, Jesus, you’re not working, are you? You’ve got no standing, mate, no protection. One bad move and they’ll chop you off at the knees. You know that.’
‘Yeah, I know, but this is a personal matter.’
‘It’s always personal with you. I’m not going to help you talk your way into court and gaol . . . again.’
‘Hey, did I tell you I’m going to be a grandfather?’
‘No. What? When? Hey, Hilde, Megan’s pregnant.’
He was talking to his wife, Hilde Stoner, who’d been a tenant of mine when I was battling to meet the mortgage after Cyn had flown the coop. I’d introduced them. I could hear a squeal from Hilde (the Parkers had grandchildren, twins, they were devoted to). Then Frank came back on the line.
‘You’re working me, you bastard. OK, what is it?’
‘I need to get in touch with Stephen Chang, you remember, we—’
‘I remember. Shit, the Wong brothers. Don’t tell me you’re going down that road again.’
‘Obliquely,’ I said. ‘Can you get me a number?’
I could hear Hilde asking for more details about the prospective Hardy grandchild and Frank fending her off. His voice when he came back was full of resignation.
‘Hilde says congratulations. Me too. I’ll put you on to Steve Chang only because I know he’s sensible enough not to have anything to do with you. When’re we going to see you?’
‘Soon.’
‘Yeah. I’ll text you, Cliff.’
The text came through soon after I took the clothes out of the dryer. The jeans were tight around the waist. I had to get back to the gym more often, charity case or not. Sucking in the love handles, zipping up, I rang the number Frank had given me.
‘Chang.’
Like the Wongs, Stephen Chang’s forebears had been in Australia longer than some of mine. His accent was pure Sydney.
‘This is Cliff Hardy. I don’t know what to call you these days. I’m betting you’re not just a senior constable anymore.’
‘Detective Inspector. It’s been a long time. What can I do for you, Mr Hardy?’
It used to be Cliff, but he’d gone up and I’d gone down and he was being careful.
‘I’m dealing with something involving our old friends the Wong brothers. I thought you might be able to help me.’
‘How do you mean dealing? I understood you were retired.’
‘It’s a long story. Could we meet? What’s your role these days?’
‘I’m heading up a unit looking into Asian crime and certain links.’
There’d been a spate of home invasions recently. One had resulted in the death of an elderly couple and in another, a policeman called to the scene had been left in a coma by the attackers. He wasn’t expected to recover and the affair had caused a lot of law and order acti
vity among the politicians. It didn’t surprise me that a task force had been appointed.
‘Home invasion, you mean? Drugs? Freddy Wong was into home invasion ten years back,’ I said.
‘So he was—a sideline of his. It’s a bit broader than that. I suppose we could have a talk. Are you still in Glebe?’
I said I was and we arranged to meet in the coffee bar next to the old Valhalla theatre, now defunct and awaiting its fate. It was a few minutes walk away for me. I knew that the number I’d rung was the Surry Hills police centre. Chang gave himself an hour to get there. Friday traffic.
Anti-discrimination laws put an end to the police imposing a minimum height requirement for recruits. This allowed quite a few Asians to join who were previously excluded. Didn’t apply to Stephen Chang; he stood 190 centimetres and had played basketball at university. He’d made pretty good time and I was only hanging around briefly before he showed up. Smart suit, overcoat, no tie. A lot of grey in his hair, although he couldn’t have been more than thirty-five. We shook hands and took seats at an outside table. I turned the collar of my jacket up against the cold.
‘So,’ Chang said, ‘you don’t look so bad for someone who’s lost his licence and had a heart attack.’
‘I’m OK. You look . . . authoritative. Coffee?’
We ordered and I gave him an outline of how the man who’d hired me to investigate an alleged death had named as a witness someone who’d been murdered the very next day, gone into hiding and emerged to meet with Freddy and Lester Wong and hadn’t looked happy. His level of interest lifted sharply when I mentioned the man who had joined the group and provoked discord.
‘Lebanese?’
I shrugged. ‘Could be.’
‘This is interesting. You haven’t told me the name of your client and I’m not surprised because you’re not supposed to have any bloody clients. Who was murdered?’
I don’t know what it was: my lack of status, my health, my financial situation, my approaching grandfatherhood, but I was acutely aware that I needed help. ‘Stefan Nordlung,’ I said.
