Follow the Money

by Peter Corris

  The phone rang again; he listened and then he surprised me. He cleared his throat and answered in a very good imitation of my voice.

  ‘Hardy.’

  A pause, then he said, ‘It’s Karim Ali, William. You’re not going to do any deals with Chang, you’re going to do a deal with me.’

  It wasn’t hard to guess at Habib’s surprise but I had no way to tell what he said except to infer it from Ali’s responses. He told Habib to cool down and think and it was a sure bet Habib was doing plenty of thinking. Ali explained that he’d been forced to act because Chang had become suspicious of him.

  ‘He has to be removed.’

  Habib must not have liked that because Ali had to go into some detail about how it could all still work with him running things—would work better, in fact.

  He told Habib he could arrange to make it appear that I had killed Chang. Habib apparently liked that even less.

  ‘Very well,’ Ali said, ‘we’ll have to discuss all this face to face. I agree there’s a lot to consider.’

  At a guess Habib said something about his intention to ditch the whole thing in return for immunity because Ali became conciliatory.

  ‘Look, you were under a lot of pressure. It got bigger than we thought too quickly and you were all caught up with that woman. That’s water under the bridge. The Wongs are out and that’s a plus. We can get some other Chinese in who’re more compliant and I can handle Houli. It’ll be all right. You can . . . recover her.’

  All of a sudden Ali noticed how closely I was following the conversation. He swore, switched to rapid Lebanese, and that was the end of my understanding. The only word I caught in what followed sounded like ‘fairchild’.

  He hung up and looked me over. Moving quickly he upended the chair I was on, leaving me with my feet in the air. He stripped off his tie and trussed my feet together. Then he righted the chair and went into the kitchen. He returned with a tea towel, cut a long, wide strip from it with his knife and gagged me.

  ‘That’ll keep you quiet for a while.’ He took a small bottle from his pocket, shook out a pill and swallowed it down dry. He worked his shoulders to loosen them and stretched like a cat. He cleared his throat again and punched a number into the phone. He smiled as the call was answered.

  ‘Inspector, this is Hardy. I’m at my place and I need to talk to you. Can you come over here?’

  I’m a fair mimic on a good day, but he was better; and again, I was in the frustrating position of listening to only one end of a conversation. Tied up as I was, it was more stressful this time.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it on the phone. I still think Habib could be picking up signals . . . I don’t think it’s paranoia . . . I’m worried about Houli . . . Talat? No, I don’t know anything more about him . . . OK, as quick as you can, and . . . be careful.’

  He cut the call and took a deep breath. The impersonation had been very good, not perfect, but good enough allowing for telephonic distortion. Ali looked pleased with himself as he put the phone down. He went back to the kitchen and got a bottle of wine and a glass.

  ‘We’re not supposed to drink alcohol, but then, there’s lots of things we’re not supposed to do.’

  He poured himself a glass of my cut price merlot and sipped it. ‘I don’t drink enough to tell whether it’s good or bad. I suspect it’s cheap, like you, like everything people like you do.’

  He was nervous, talking at me, but to himself. Nervous, he was even more dangerous than relaxed. I wondered what the pill he’d taken was, and what effect the wine might have with it. He left the room and I heard the toilet flush. The phone rang, he raced back, swearing, and answered using my voice, perhaps less convincingly.

  ‘What? . . . When? . . . Where did she go? . . . I can’t right now . . . Yes, yes, soon as I can.’

  Gagging is an art that not many people study. Ali hadn’t. I worked my jaw against the strip of cloth and loosened it so that I could push against it with my mouth and tongue. It flopped down.

  ‘It’s unravelling, Karim,’ I said. ‘It’s not going to work.’

  ‘Fuck you!’ He spilled wine from the glass he’d picked up and threw the rest into my face. His arm jerked back, hit the wall and the glass broke. Blood spurted from his hand.

  I licked at the drops around my mouth. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Cut your losses, mate. Get together what you’ve managed to rip off so far and head for the hills. You’ll have left DNA all over the place and you’ll never convince the SOC people of the scenario you’ve got planned.’

  ‘Shut up!’

  Red wine stained his white shirt and without his tie he suddenly looked nothing like the in-control executioner he’d seen himself as. He paced up and down, getting more and more agitated. He sucked at the cut on his hand. I hoped someone else would ring to up the stress level but no one did and I had to try to do it myself.

  ‘Turn on the news,’ I said, ‘maybe they’ve found Habib on his boat.’

  ‘How did you learn about the boat?’

  ‘Oh, that’s right. I left certain things out in that off-the-record chat we had after you shot Lester. Let me think . . . Sun Ling, Gretchen, told me.’

  ‘That crazy junkie bitch.’

  ‘Didn’t look crazy to me.’

  ‘She is. She’s been in and out of institutions since puberty. Nearly killed a man once. I know what I’d do to her if I . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. Where is that bloody Chang?’

  ‘That was May Ling calling, wasn’t it? So Gretchen’s on the loose? You should warn Habib, but you can’t unless you impersonate me again and, frankly, your last effort wasn’t that good.’

  He was so close to the edge that he didn’t even bother to reply. He took out his phone and looked at it.

  ‘You’ve got no one to call,’ I said, ‘no one you can trust. I’m almost sorry for you.’

  The doorbell rang. I opened my mouth to shout but, again, Ali was too quick for me. He pulled the gag back into place and hit me with another of his paralysing blows. He picked up the .22 and headed down the passage.

  Tasting and breathing dirty tea towel, I closed my eyes. I heard a scuffle and a series of thuds after the door opened but no gunshot. When I opened my eyes Stephen Chang was handcuffing Ali to the stair banister. Ali was fighting for breath; Chang wasn’t even puffing. He went down the passage and returned with the small pistol.

  ‘You could get in big trouble for this, Hardy.’

  I’d recovered movement enough to nod. Chang untied the gag. He spotted Ali’s knife and used it to cut the tie around my feet. Ali stood helplessly and Chang felt in his jacket pocket for the handcuff key. He unlocked the cuffs.

  ‘Stand up slowly,’ he said, ‘let the blood return to where it belongs.’

  I did what he said. ‘Traditional Chinese advice.’

  ‘That’s right, and this prick copped a traditional Chinese heart punch.’

  ‘How did you know?’ I said.

  Chang sat and crossed his legs. ‘Well, we had our suspicions, didn’t we? And when I fished around a bit I found out things I should’ve noticed before. Just small stuff in his reports; some unexplained gaps in his diary. But what saved your arse was May Ling. I was set to come over here although your voice sounded a bit off. But given your health problems . . . Anyway, May Ling called me and said she was sure someone was impersonating you. She’s got a trained ear. A singer, apparently. So I was ready.’

  I told Chang about the conversation Ali had had with Habib and the signs of tension between them.

  ‘Any indication of where he is?’ Chang asked.

  ‘Not really. When Ali noticed my ears were flapping, he switched to Lebanese.’

  ‘Not really isn’t no.’

  ‘I caught a word. It sounded like “fairchild”. Mean anything to you?’

  Chang shook his head. ‘Not a thing. Are we talking about a person or a place?’

  Ali’s laugh was a hysterical screech. �
�You won’t find him. He’s much too clever for you and the whole fucking—’

  He was cut off by my phone ringing again. I answered it.

  ‘Cliff Hardy.’

  ‘Cliff, really you?’ May Ling said.

  ‘Really me. I have to thank you—’

  ‘No time. I’ve just heard from Gretchen. She says she’s going to kill Malouf.’

  ‘How? Where?’

  ‘She says he’s at a wharf in Fairmild Cove.’

  ‘Where the fuck’s that?’

  ‘Mortlake somewhere. I’m going there now.’

  ‘May Ling, don’t. Wait. I’ve got Inspector Chang here. We’ll get police there—’

  ‘No, no, you don’t understand what she’s like. I have to get there first. I’m going. I just wanted you to know.’

  She cut the call.

  I told Chang what May Ling had said. As I did, I grabbed my car keys from a hook in the kitchen.

  ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I’m going there. That woman saved my life and yours. And if that’s where Habib is that’s where I have to be.’

  Chang pulled out his phone. ‘I can get a unit there quicker than you . . .’

  ‘She says her sister’s unstable. Ali here told me she almost killed someone once. A howling siren could set her off. Deal with what you’ve got here, Inspector, and come along when you’re ready.’

  ‘Fuck you, Hardy.’

  I left with Chang still swearing and Ali laughing.

  The Falcon looked as though half of it had been sitting out in a hailstorm. The passenger side and part of the roof were pitted where the pellets had struck and the windows were chipped. It started perfectly though and I got going. I was tired but adrenalin charged. I had a rough idea of how to get to Mortlake, and I decided I’d search for Fairmild Cove once I got there.

  I headed west through light traffic towards Strathfield and picked up the road that went close to the Concord golf course where I’d once had dealings with a client, and on to the outskirts of Mortlake where my sense of direction cut out. I stopped and consulted the Gregory’s. Fairmild Cove was adjacent to the Mortlake ferry and the way there was well signposted.

  I got moving again and things came back to me. Just before I joined the army I decided to get myself super fit so as to be a star recruit. I’d been told that rowing was the best aerobic exercise of the lot, so I joined a rowing club. There were a lot of chaps from private schools but one or two roughies like me. I was put through my paces in a gym first, and I just qualified to be allowed in a boat. I rowed in fours and eights on the Parramatta River for a couple of months. I’d never done anything as strenuous before and never since, including basic training. A hard row takes everything out of you, breaks you down to your fundamental physical capacities. I remembered the area around Mortlake—a complex of jetties and wharves to do with some industrial concern—coal, or was it gas? It then looked, if not derelict, neglected. I wondered how it looked now.

  The suburbs were quiet; the residents of Concord and Mortlake went to bed early or were glued to their flat-screen TVs. Hilly Street took me to the ferry. A sign said it ceased operation at six fifteen pm. Two cars were parked in front of the locked, three-metre high gate. One was May Ling’s silver Peugeot; the other was the red Mercedes I’d seen in the garage at the Nordlung house. The ferry was drawn up to the dock and there was no sign of movement.

  I had my answer to the changes since I was last here. Where the industrial operations had sprawled, there were blocks of townhouses. One set flanked the river and on the opposite side of the street, with a less expensive view, another was in a late stage of construction. Fairmild Cove was a small sandy beach beside the ferry wharf. A boardwalk ran away to the left, between the townhouses and the river. The moon was high and bright and I could glimpse a jetty poking out into the river a hundred metres away. A sign at the beginning of the boardwalk announced that it was on private property. The public had access, but the sign listed all the things that were banned along its length—almost everything. You could walk a dog on a leash. Forget the dog and it was Habib’s milieu all right—waterfront residence with boat facilities.

  The boardwalk was well lit but I grabbed a torch from the glove box before setting off—a big torch with heavy batteries. A useful weapon if needed. There were lights on in some of the townhouses and in the warmer months there would probably have been people out on the balconies sipping drinks and taking in the moonlit view. Not tonight, with a cold wind. The water slapped against the rocks at the base of the boardwalk and spray hit the chain that served as a handrail. It had a cold, clammy feel.

  I rounded a bend and saw a series of jetties arranged in a rough H pattern. A few boats were tied up, not many. It looked like a perfect place for a marina but as if the idea hadn’t yet occurred to anyone. Or maybe the money wasn’t in the right pockets yet. I moved forward straining to see or hear anything that might tell me what was happening. The dull pulsing in my damaged ear that I’d grown used to was sharper, affected by the wind.

  You’re too old for this. Who’d said that? I couldn’t remember.

  ‘Hardy!’

  May Ling rose up from a crouch near a point where the jetties branched and there was some kind of sculpture providing cover. She grabbed my arm and pulled me down as she pointed.

  ‘They’re on that boat,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know what to do. Help me, help her.’

  It was possibly the first time in her life that May Ling hadn’t known what to do.

  ‘I saw her,’ she said. ‘Just a few minutes ago. She looked so wild, so mad. She had a gun.’

  ‘What d’you mean, a pistol, a handgun?’

  ‘No, something bigger, longer . . .’

  ‘Like a rifle or a shotgun?’

  ‘I don’t know! I don’t know! She’s capable of anything. I’m so scared. She hates me, she hates herself, she . . .’

  ‘Stay here.’ I gave her my mobile. ‘Stephen Chang’s number’s listed. Call him. Tell him what’s going on.’

  ‘I’ve got his number. I don’t need your phone. What are you going to do?’

  I didn’t answer because I didn’t know. I moved forward, keeping low and out of the pools of light until I reached the short dock where the boat was the only one moored. Under the moonlight I could read the name—High Five. It was big, not as big as some, but big enough, with a long mast waving in the wind and several satellite dishes mounted around the superstructure. Lights showed in the body of the boat. I crept closer until I could sort out where the lower deck began and how to reach it. There was an opening near the front where the rail had been folded back and pinioned. The boat was rocking gently; it was securely fastened, but a tide was building, running towards the harbour.

  I stepped onto the boat and worked my way back to the deck where there was light. I could hear the faint hum of a generator. I moved clear of the raised section and peered around the corner to the awning-covered space. I couldn’t see anything but I heard the unmistakable sound of people fucking—the creaking, the panting. A short set of steps led down to what had to be cabins and a living area.

  The action heated up and then stopped abruptly. Sun Ling’s voice, breathless, alarmed, disappointed, was an almost hysterical screech.

  ‘Richard, no! Don’t stop! Fuck you. I—’

  I heard a heavy slap. ‘Shut up, you stupid bitch.’

  I was crouched at the top of the steps with the pistol in my hand staring down into the dimly lit space. Suddenly it was flooded with light. A man stepped out holding what looked like a machine pistol. He was naked and still half erect.

  He looked like the Richard Malouf I’d met but not quite like him. His hair was lighter and the shape of his nose was slightly different.

  ‘William Habib,’ I said.

  ‘Hardy, put down the gun.’

  ‘You won’t shoot me. You don’t have to. Ali’s under arrest. You’ve still got a shot at a deal with Inspector Chang.’
>
  ‘The gun.’

  There are killers like Lester Wong and Yusef Talat but Habib wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t cruel enough or frightened enough. I tossed the pistol over my shoulder and heard it hit the deck.

  ‘We should talk,’ I said.

  Habib was only in his middle thirties and he’d been an athlete in more ways than one. I’d thought him vain on our meetings and he’d looked as though he’d taken care of his face and figure. Now, naked, with his penis slackening and holding half-heartedly onto a weapon he didn’t want to use, he looked older and diminished.

  ‘You trust Chang?’ he said.

  ‘As much as I trust anyone. He just now stopped Ali from killing me.’

  ‘God, I never thought it’d come to this. You can set something up with Chang?’

  ‘I can’t guarantee everything you might want, but I’ll tell you this—you’ll have a better chance with him than on the run with Houli and Talat after you. Is Sun Ling all right?’

  The grimace was almost a smile. ‘When I called her that she almost bit my head off.’

  ‘She’s a troubled woman. Her sister—’

  ‘OK, OK. Gretchen’s probably pissed off with me. I seem to have that knack with women.’

  He hesitated for a second and then put the machine pistol down. ‘I’ll put some clothes on and we’ll talk.’

  He stepped back into the cabin. It seemed too easy and I stayed alert, wishing I had the pistol within reach. I had the torch now feeling like not much of a weapon.

  When Habib re-emerged he was a different man. He wore a dark silk shirt, white trousers and white deck shoes. His hair had been swept back and tidied. He bent, picked up the machine pistol, and made a beckoning gesture at the cabin. Sun Ling came out wearing a blue silk dress and what Germaine Greer called ‘fuck me’ shoes. She tottered, holding a hand up to her face. Habib steered her towards the steps.