Open File

by Unknown

  Tosca’s was the usual sort of place, trying to make up its mind whether it was Australian, European or American and getting everything wrong. The bottles in the wicker baskets clashed with the chrome tables that didn’t harmonise with the sports prints on the walls. But there were free nuts and olives on the bar, which was a welcome sign anywhere. Watson, still in his black jacket but without the tie, sat at a corner table with an inch of red wine in his glass and a cigarette in his hand. He gave me the briefest of nods. I scoffed some nuts, bought two glasses of red and joined him.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘We’re off to a good start.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that necessarily.’ He stubbed out the cigarette, finished the wine in his glass and moved the other one closer. He looked tired, long hours and no result showing on his face. He glanced around, an automatic action, checking for anything he didn’t like, or anyone he didn’t want to see. He had all that sitting right in front of him and his attention switched back to me.

  ‘So. What’s this about Wilson Stafford?’

  I drank some of the wine. Not bad, not great. A bit overpriced but I could always go back for some nuts and olives. ‘Sorry, Sarge. It’s a two-way street. How are you going with the investigation? Did you talk to Hampshire?’

  ‘He’s your client. Hasn’t he been in touch?’

  I had another pull on the drink. Didn’t answer.

  ‘Okay, you want something. We’re not making progress—no witnesses, no sightings. Forensics are a zero. Hampshire showed us a copy of the record of telephone calls he made from where he was staying over the relevant time. He had two pizza deliveries and sent out for booze and an escort. He couldn’t have made it to Church Point. Somehow I don’t think he was in the country long enough to have had the time to organise a hit.’

  ‘Any sign of Ronny?’

  ‘Your turn, Hardy.’

  ‘Right. Was there any sign that Angela Pettigrew had a lover?’

  ‘No, not from interviews with neighbours and friends. Come on, what’ve you got?’

  I told him that when the confrontation with Sarah and Ronny had happened, Sarah had called her mother a hypocritical bitch and Ronny had asked if I was the new bloke—implication obvious. I had a little more up my sleeve—Hampshire’s hint that Sarah wasn’t his daughter—but in these situations you don’t show your hand until you have to. I kept that in reserve.

  Watson nodded. ‘That’s something. Okay, no, we haven’t found Ronny. What about Stafford?’

  ‘What’ve you got from Sarah?’

  ‘Bugger-all. The policewoman who’s met her says she’s a tough little nut under the posh school manners. Turns them on and off as it suits her. She’s got a tame shrink. Won’t say who he is but she reckons he says she’s too traumatised to be interviewed. We have to look at her, of course. I assume she inherits and the house must be worth a bit. It’s been known to happen.’

  I remembered Ronny’s comment that Sarah was an actress. I’d have to keep in mind that she was likely to put on a performance.

  ‘Right,’ I said, ‘I need to talk to her about her brother and maybe I can get her to open up on what she meant about Angela’s hypocrisy. Nearest and dearest kill each other, don’t they? You have to be interested in that. You should be able to set it up for me to at least try to talk to her.’

  ‘Jesus. All right, I’ll think about it. Now what’s the fucking connection with Stafford?’

  I didn’t give him the full rundown Templeton had given me, Hampshire was still my client after all, but I told him enough to indicate that Hampshire had played fast and loose with a dangerous man and possibly with others. Money was missing and people went looking and sometimes other people got in the way.

  He lit a cigarette and considered what I’d said as he smoked and drank his wine. He didn’t look very impressed but then, that wouldn’t be his game. He stubbed out the cigarette.

  ‘You’re saying Hampshire’s dirty?’

  ‘I’m told he’s never had so much as a parking ticket, and that’s his style. My informant said he operated well under the radar.’

  ‘Your informant being?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Bears looking into. I’d still like to get on to this Ronny. You reckon you could get the daughter to talk about him? Or anything else useful?’

  ‘There’s a chance. She spoke to me once. But I won’t kid you, I’m mainly interested in learning a bit more about her brother.’

  He finished his wine. ‘You realise that if what you say about Hampshire having enemies who might’ve killed the missus isn’t just hot air, it could have implications for the disappearance of the kid.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that.’

  ‘I imagine you have, and I’ve thought about the missing kid as well. Two years isn’t all that long. What if he turned up? What if he and his mum had words? How about that?’

  ‘I’ve thought of that, too. That’s why you’re willing to help me talk to Sarah, and the condition will be that I ask certain questions and wear a wire. I never thought it was out of the goodness of your heart.’

  Watson gave me his hard stare. ‘You’re a mate of Frank Parker, who just got a deputy commissioner slot, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘It figures. He’s a bleeding heart, smart bastard, just like you. I’ll be in touch. Thanks again for the drink.’

  ‘You didn’t buy a round, Ian.’

  He gave me the finger and left.

  I went back to the bar, got another red and a handful of nuts and olives—that’d do for dinner. I felt that I was making progress of a kind but I wasn’t sure in which direction. Who killed Angela? Where was Ronny? How many enemies did Paul Hampshire actually have? And what of Justin? Did all roads lead to Rome?

  It wasn’t early and it wasn’t late. It was one of those in-between times a single person has trouble filling in. I wished I could ring Kathy, have a talk about things like surfing and sex—they went together when I was young, and maybe they would again now—but I didn’t have her number. I could have rung the pub but it might have looked like pursuit, intrusion. Best to leave things the way they were.

  When in doubt, work. I drove to Darlinghurst and went to the office. That meant walking through some shadowy spots at a volatile time of night when the crazies were out. I put the .38 in my pocket. A couple of trannies were walking down Forbes Street on the way to their patch on William Street at the bottom of the stairs. They gave me the invitation and I gave them a polite refusal. They seemed happy and I guess, compared to how things had been for them not so very long ago, they had reason to be. Some things had changed for the better.

  The other people on my floor—the astrologer, the numismatist, the antiquarian bookseller—had gone home. In a funny way we all got along fine—marginalised semi-professionals trying to make a living in the face of scepticism, indifference and hostility. At various times we’d been close to getting together for a drink. Could have been fun, but it’d never happened.

  The lights were off and as I turned on the stairwell ones they barely cut the gloom. Atmospheric. I let myself into the office. No light blinking on the answering machine but a fax had slid out and dropped to the floor. The tray had broken away some time back and that’s where the sheets finished up when I wasn’t around.

  I picked it up and read it. Handwritten capitals: MR HARDY I’M VERY AFRAID OF THE POLICE AND EVERYTHING. PLEASE HELP ME. SARAH HAMPSHIRE.

  part two

  12

  Watson rang me the next morning to say he’d okay’d it for me to talk to Sarah. I didn’t tell him that I’d faxed her the night before to say that arrangements were being made. The fax number was the same as the one for the Church Point house. The appointment was for midday—Sarah was absenting herself from school on compassionate grounds. From what I knew of her, that wouldn’t cause her too much concern.

  I met Watson and a detective named Constable Kate Cafarella at the Mona Vale polic
e station. Constable Cafarella had been spending some time with Sarah. Apparently a kindly neighbour, a Mrs Hartley, had been providing support—meals, laundry and such.

  Cafarella was tall, beak-nosed, not unattractive. Formidable, as Pierre Fontaine might have said, but I couldn’t see her as someone frightening to Sarah, who seemed pretty tough in her own way.

  Watson supplied the recording device and Cafarella watched as I stripped off my shirt and taped it into place. Watson seemed a little embarrassed.

  ‘Nothing else to do, Kate?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought I should bring Mr Hardy up to date on how things stand with Sarah.’

  She wasn’t hopping up and down with excitement at my manly figure, but she showed an acceptable level of appreciation.

  ‘Thank you, Constable,’ I said. I flipped on the switch of the device as I buttoned up my shirt.

  ‘She came out of the sedation she’d been given at first, clear as bell,’ Cafarella said, ‘and we got nothing out of her. Nothing at all. Refused to answer the mildest of questions. Didn’t kick up a fuss—no tears, no orders to piss off. Just . . . blankness. No, I’d call it a brick wall.’

  Watson seemed as impressed by her account as I was, but he wanted more.

  ‘Defensive?’

  Cafarella shook her head. ‘As I said—no interpretation possible.’

  ‘Speculate,’ I said.

  She shrugged. ‘I’d say either numb and dumb or a pretty tough cookie. Don’t know her well enough to make the call.’

  ‘That’s where we’re hoping Hardy can help us.’ Watson checked his watch. ‘Time to go.’

  ‘Hang on,’ I said. I opened my shirt enough to see the button, stopped the recording on the microcassette, rewound it and played the last few exchanges.

  I gave them a bright smile. ‘It’s working!’

  ‘It’s been checked and rechecked, Hardy,’ Watson said. ‘Of course it’s working. You’re a clown.’

  I was looking at Cafarella. ‘I thought possibly my alpha rhythms or conductors might have upset the mechanism.’

  ‘Rewind,’ Watson snapped.

  I did, then rebuttoned my shirt and put on my old leather jacket. I wore jeans and the shirt was faded, ex-army.

  Watson and Cafarella escorted me out of the room they’d been allotted at the station. The day was cool, the reason for the jacket. They walked me to my car and Cafarella opened the door.

  ‘How do you feel about taping a teenage girl whose mother has just been murdered, Mr Hardy? Without her knowledge?’

  ‘Lousy,’ I said.

  The deal was that Cafarella would be in the house but not in earshot when I interviewed Sarah. That was okay with me; the last thing I needed was for a nymphette to play games, and I hoped it was all right with Sarah. Cafarella followed me in her car and we went up the crumbling steps with her in front. She went up easily—a runner, netball or gymnast, perhaps. Not quite Sarah’s type.

  ‘You could break your neck here,’ I said. ‘Or an ankle.’

  Cafarella stepped neatly around two collapsed bricks. ‘The path needs work all right, the garden as well. What did Sarah’s mother actually do?’

  ‘I never found out. Don’t you lot know?’

  ‘Ian Watson might, but on this case I’m just a female adjunct, a soother of other females. If Watson knows, he hasn’t told me.’

  ‘Did you okay this with the shrink?’

  ‘Didn’t have to. We found out the man’s a charlatan, not even a doctor.’

  We reached the porch and rang the bell several times before Sarah came to the door. She addressed her greeting directly to me, ignoring Cafarella.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Hardy. I was playing the music a bit loud.’

  ‘The Clash,’ Cafarella said. ‘I heard it.’

  Sarah ignored that too. ‘Come in,’ she said.

  We went down the hallway. Sarah stopped in the kitchen. She wore jeans and a sweater, boots with a bit of heel. No makeup, but she’d washed her hair and tied it back neatly. ‘Would you like some coffee or something, Mr Hardy?’

  Cafarella stepped forward and, without actually touching her, made Sarah back up. ‘You are a very rude girl,’ she said, ‘and I’m only here because I have to be.’

  Sarah’s stance was defiant. I said nothing.

  Cafarella stepped away. ‘You and Mr Hardy will sit out in the back room where I can see you from the garden. I won’t be able to hear you and you can talk about whatever you bloody well like.’

  She stalked away, through the sunroom and down the steps.

  Sarah shrugged. ‘Touchy.’

  I knew it was an act on Cafarella’s part, but I played along. ‘They’re frustrated at getting nowhere on your mother’s murder. By the way, they don’t know about your fax or my reply.’

  Cafarella rattled the door at the top of the steps. ‘You’ve got one hour, Mr Hardy.’

  It was the signal for me to turn on the recording device. I nodded. ‘Look, Sarah, I wouldn’t mind some coffee—instant’ll do.’

  She shot Cafarella a baleful glance as she went back down the steps. ‘I hate that bitch. Okay, instant. That’s all I bother with anyway.’

  She turned towards the shelves and I reached inside my shirt and flicked the switch.

  Sarah spilled some of the powder when she spooned it into the mugs, and water sprayed out when she turned the tap on too hard to fill the jug. She got the water under control and did a fair job of making the coffee but she was clearly very troubled and I didn’t think it was only about losing her mother. We went through to the sunroom and sat. The yard sloped steeply back and Cafarella must have got herself a spot towards the far end of the property where there was a rockery and garden.

  ‘I was surprised that you wanted to see me,’ I said. ‘We didn’t actually hit it off too well the last time.’ I had to hope she wouldn’t mention faxes and she didn’t, quite.

  ‘I’m frightened of the police, like I said. They think I killed Mum . . . Angela, with Ronny’s help.’

  ‘Why d’you say that?’

  ‘I can tell. The red-headed cop asked me questions when I came out of the dope and I could see where he was going. I pretended to still be feeling it and I didn’t say anything much.’

  ‘It’s the way they think, Sarah. With most people who get killed, the killer turns out to be someone close to them. You must know that from cop shows on TV.’

  ‘I don’t watch cop shows, they’re dumb. I watch music and sitcoms.’

  And they’re not? I thought, but I said, ‘As for Ronny, it’s the same sort of thing. He’s got a drug record.’

  She took a slurp of her coffee. ‘A bit of grass. Who doesn’t do grass? Young people, I mean.’

  ‘Look, I take your point. I don’t see Ronny as a murderer, but it doesn’t help that he’s gone into hiding. If the police could speak to him and were convinced that he wasn’t involved in your mother’s death, that’d ease some of this pressure you feel, wouldn’t it? Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe, but the police’d do him for something else, for sure—speed, carnal knowledge . . . you know. He’s too scared to ring me in case the phone’s bugged. I don’t know why I trust you but I think I do. You’re sort of different. Would you talk to him? Tell him I’m all right and that?’

  Nasty moment. Just what Watson wanted to hear. Deadset betrayal, but there was no way out. I said I’d talk to him, give him her message and try to convince him to come out of hiding. For a fifteen-year-old, she had a fair bit of sangfroid. She gave what I said some thought before she nodded.

  ‘I’ll write the address down before you go—his mum’s place. But that’s not the main reason I’m worried.’

  All this would be lapped up by Watson and Co and I was feeling worse by the minute about violating the kid’s confidence. I tried to tell myself there was a murder to be solved and a boy to be found and it had to be done by hook or by crook. I had time for these thoughts because she suddenly said she needed a c
igarette and got up to fetch them. She returned with one lit and the packet and lighter in her other hand. She sat, drank some coffee and took a deep drag. She seemed less of a novice than she had a few days back.

  ‘You don’t smoke, do you?’ she said.

  ‘Not anymore.’

  The cigarette seemed to reassure her. Maybe it made her feel older, more able to cope.

  ‘Want me to tell you why I’m worried about the police? Really worried?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Angela’s got a boyfriend—a lover, I suppose you’d call him. She’s had him for years. Even before Dad left. I’m shit-scared talking about this.’

  She meant what she said and I wanted to tell her not to say any more. I wasn’t the right person and this wasn’t the right situation, but the words tumbled out.

  ‘He’s a politician and he was the minister for police. He’s something else now, just as big. I think he probably killed Angela but I was too frightened to talk to the police about it. What if they told him and he said to shut me up or something? You can’t trust the police. You must know that.’

  ‘Some of them are all right,’ I said. ‘Some are actually good.’

  ‘But they stick together.’

  She was right there. I wondered whether this was some kind of fantasy, although it didn’t look like it. And she had called her mother a hypocrite before any of this blew up. I wasn’t sure I wanted her to put the name on tape but she did it anyway.

  ‘It’s Wayne Ireland. You wouldn’t believe what they did to cover it up and I’m fucked if I know what he sees in her. He’s married, with kids and his fucking career. But I know, I saw them by accident one time when I jigged school and went into the city. This was years ago and then I met Ronny.’

  ‘What’s Ronny got to do with it?’