by Unknown
I was enjoying the beer, taking it more slowly. ‘That’ll do.’
Todd finished his drink, got a notebook from the drawer and thumbed through it. He found the number and I wrote it down.
‘You say he’s a prick. Anything specific?’
‘He asked me to inflate the price of the work on his boss’s car. Said he could get it passed and we’d split the difference. I told him to fuck off. A few of them come it, but he was a bit persistent. Tried it on with the petrol, too. Greedy bastard. I only do the government’s cars. Another mob does the Opposition’s. I bet it happens with those cunts. Me, I’m public spirited.’
‘And like you say, we pay for it. Labor’s in trouble, though. What’ll you do if the Liberals take over?’
‘No worries. They’ll take the work off me for sure. I’ll switch over with a bit of luck.’
I thanked him, we talked politics briefly and I left. It’s not easy these days to find a telephone booth with an intact phone book but I got lucky a few blocks from Todd’s garage. Intact enough, anyway, for me to check on the M O’Connors. There was a column and a half of them, but the phone number did the trick. Michael, the admitted conniver or the alleged blackmailer, father of Ronald, lived in The Rocks. Very nice, and handy to Parliament House.
I drove to The Rocks, found a parking place and fed the meter. I drew five hundred dollars from an ATM, just about the last of Hampshire’s retainer.
O’Connor’s sandstone cottage was in the shadow of the bridge in what looked like a heritage-protected, rent-controlled area of the precinct. Maybe a perk of his job. Right time to catch him because if that was true he’d be leaving soon. I hadn’t rehearsed my approach—sometimes spontaneity was the way to go. The cottage sat straight on the street. I used the knocker and when the door opened I was looking at Ronny.
I had a foot and a shoulder inside as he stepped back. ‘Gidday, Ronny old son,’ I said. ‘Your dad in?’
‘The fuck do you want?’
I kept moving so that I was completely inside. ‘What kind of a way is that to talk to the bloke who gave you a lift and a packet of fags?’
I pushed on down the passage and he retreated. ‘And belted me and dobbed me in to the cops.’
‘It was just a tap, and when Sarah’s mother was killed I didn’t have any choice about talking to the cops. For what it’s worth, I told them I was sure you hadn’t done it.’
Ronny wasn’t at his best: he was unshaven, probably under-slept and he smelled of beer and dope, but he wasn’t without some spirit. ‘Why not? I hated the bitch.’
‘You’re not the type, and don’t try to be the type, you won’t make it. I want to talk to your father.’
‘He’s crook.’
‘I imagine so. He’s facing goal. Does he need money?’
Ronny wasn’t so out of it not to respond to that. ‘Yeah, I suppose.’
I’d kept him moving and we were in a living area now, with a door off it and a kitchen further down. Michael wasn’t the neatest keeper of a heritage home. The place was a junkyard of decaying furniture—a couch with a tangled blanket, empty bottles, collapsed wine casks and dirty clothes.
‘Just out of interest, how come you went to Bryce Grammar and were up around there?’
He shrugged. ‘My mum paid and I lived with her on and off. Another stuck-up bitch. Got any smokes? I’m out.’
‘Where’s your father?’
He pointed to the door. I handed him a five-dollar note. ‘I won’t hurt him. Give me half an hour.’
‘Do what the fuck you like.’ He took the money and he was gone.
I pushed the door open and went into a bedroom that looked bad and smelled worse. A man was lying on the single bed; he was snoring and he twitched when a shaft of light from the open door hit him. Twitched, but didn’t wake up. The room shrieked neglect—clothes on a chair and the floor, beer cans on the dresser, wardrobe doors open with shoes, newspapers and bed linen spilling out. A chamber pot, half full, stuck out from under the bed. An ashtray on the bedside table overflowed with butts.
Michael O’Connor was a flabbier version of Ronny. The same sharp features were being swamped by beer fat. His second chin wobbled with every snore. His singlet was ash-stained; a four-tooth dental plate sat next to the ashtray. Drivers for politicians had to present smartly; this one had come down very far, very quickly. I pushed clothes from the chair and pulled it up near the bed before pinching O’Connor’s nose shut between my thumb and forefinger. He gave a snort and a wave of foul-smelling breath came from his mouth as he gulped for air.
‘Wake up, Mick,’ I said. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’
His bleary eyes opened and focused briefly before closing again. I reached over to the dresser and found a can that still held some beer. I poured it over his face. He spluttered and woke up fully.
‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing? Who are you?’
I showed him my card. He blinked several times before he was able to read it.
‘Fuck off.’
‘Close your eyes again and I’ll empty the pot of piss over you.’
He struggled to sit up, wrestling a grubby pillow into place. ‘What do you want?’
I took out the money, fanning the notes. ‘I’m paying for information.’
That got his attention. He fumbled for his denture and shoved it in, grey flecks and all. He looked for cigarettes.
‘Ronny’s gone for some,’ I said. ‘I gave him five bucks. Maybe he’ll share.’
‘He better. The little prick’s smoked all mine. What’s this about?’
‘Angela Pettigrew and Paul and Justin Hampshire.’
‘Jesus, I told the police all I know about that.’
‘And your boss says you’re a liar. I couldn’t care less one way or the other. I want to know how Justin Hampshire knew that Wayne Ireland was his father’s enemy and what he did about it. Tell me, convince me, and the money’s yours. Looks like you could use it.’
His eyes went shrewd but I spoke again before he could say anything. ‘You must’ve made good money in your job. Should’ve been able to live a bit better than this. Where did the money go?’
‘Horses.’
‘Don’t you know the old song—horses don’t bet on people and that’s why they never go broke? Let’s get down to it and don’t bullshit me.’
‘Have you got a tape-recorder on you?’
‘No, this is between you and me and five hundred bucks.’
‘Ronny told the kid’s sister Ireland was fucking the mother.’
‘I knew that.’
‘The kid phoned Ireland and threatened to give the story to the media unless Ireland helped him.’
‘How d’you know that?’
‘Ireland got pissed and told me.’
‘All right, I believe you so far. What did Justin want?’
‘He wanted Wayne to arrange a false passport for him.’
‘Wayne, eh? You were mates then?’
‘We were, sort of, when it suited him. Not now.’
‘How could Ireland do that? He’s just a state government guy.’
‘Fuck, you obviously don’t know how it works. Those pricks’ve all got something on each other. Ireland could pull some Canberra strings when he had to. He’s fuckin’ pulling strings now, you’ll see.’
‘And?’
‘He’ll get seven years for manslaughter and serve five at the most. He’s salted a fair bit away over and above his super, and they’ll do a deal on that. He’ll be okay.’
‘Where does that leave you, Mike?’
‘Fucked. They’ll drop the perjury charge, I reckon, but I’ll be out of a job and out of this billet. I’ve got diabetes and hepatitis, plus a gambling addiction. If you give me the five hundred I’ll take it to Randwick and try to turn it into real money to get the fuck out of here. If I don’t, I’m no worse off.’
It was a desperate scenario and he knew it. I had some sympathy for him, but not much. Not enough to let up.
> ‘Did Ireland do what Justin wanted him to do?’
‘I dunno. A lot of shit was hitting the fan in the political game just then and it never came up again when we were on the piss.’
‘Why d’you think Ireland killed Angela Pettigrew?’
He shrugged. ‘He’s got an evil temper, especially when he’s pissed. She was always threatening to expose him. She must’ve pushed a bit too hard.’
I thought about it, still holding the money. If Ireland killed Angela because she threatened to expose him as an adulterer, what might he do to Justin, who had the same information and had tried to involve him in the sort of corruption that brought many a politician down?
I dropped the notes on the blankets one by one. O’Connor’s eyes followed their fall. My hand hovered over them.
‘Ireland’s probably gone to ground somewhere. D’you know where?’
‘No.’
‘He might have killed Justin Hampshire, too. What d’you reckon?’
O’Connor grabbed the notes with nicotine-stained fingers. ‘I fuckin’ hope so,’ he said, ‘and I hope you find out, you cunt.’
20
I was happy to get out of there and the information was certainly worth the five hundred. No sign of Ronny in the street. O’Connor would have to do without his cigarettes. These relationships I was running into—fathers and sons, mothers and daughters—made me glad I was childless. I stopped for a beer in a pub that was trying to look like a colonial inn and was doing a reasonable job of it. The beer was probably better, certainly colder.
I drove home with things on my mind, particularly the question of how to get to Wayne Ireland, so I was preoccupied when I pulled up outside my house, switched off the engine and took out the key. I only snapped out of it when I realised that a man was standing by my window with a gun in his hand. He made a winding motion and I lowered the window.
‘Hands on the wheel, Hardy, and get out slowly. We’re going on a little trip.’
The street was empty. Everybody was home and minding their own business. My neighbour on one side was away and the house on the other side was unoccupied, awaiting renovation. High hedges opposite.
I put my hands on the wheel but shook my head. ‘I’m not in the mood.’
He leaned heavily on the wound-down window and pointed the pistol at my right knee. ‘Sharkey wants to see you,’ he said, ‘and if your knee was buggered he wouldn’t mind one little bit.’
What he didn’t know was that the driver’s side door on the Falcon didn’t lock properly. I gripped the wheel and threw my weight against the door. It flew open and knocked him off-balance. I jumped out and chopped down hard on the arm carrying the pistol. It hurt me but it hurt him more. He dropped the pistol and I scooped it up as he came at me with a lowered head and fists flailing. I stepped aside, clipped him on the ear with the gun and let him cannon into the doorpost on the car. He went down and blood sprayed over the car, the road, his clothes and mine.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ I said.
He was groaning and grabbing at his ear with one hand and his forehead with the other. The skin had split from the impact with the car, which added to the blood flow. Still holding the pistol, I kicked the door shut and he yelped as it closed a few inches from his head. He was game; he tried to get up but a fairly gentle push put him back down.
‘You weren’t quite up to it,’ I said. ‘Did Sharkey tell you it’d be easy?’
‘Fuck you.’
A car that must have been parked further down the street with the engine running came slowly towards us. I let the driver see the gun.
‘This’ll be your mate,’ I said. ‘Not much use, was he?’
The car drew abreast of us and I gestured for the driver to get out and help his fallen comrade. He did it with very bad grace, getting blood on his trousers, swearing, fumbling. The injured guy abused him. I gave each of them a searching look while I held the gun in position. Standard hard types—bitter eyes and mouths, emotionally under-nourished, mixtures of fear and hate.
‘I’ll know you both,’ I said, ‘don’t come back.’
The car roared away with a squeal of tyres and whiff of burning rubber. I didn’t know how long I’d been holding my breath, but I let it out now, slow and easy. I knew I’d been lucky, and luck was something you just couldn’t rely on. I went to the end of the street, walked the block to the water and threw the pistol in. The last thing I needed was to have in my possession a gun that could’ve been used in shootings. I also didn’t need the enmity of a heavy character like Sharkey Finn, but there was nothing I could do about that.
I went inside, filled a bucket with water and splashed it over the car to clean off the blood. I poured a solid scotch and sipped at it as I changed my pants and put the bloodied ones in the wash. I kicked off my shoes, which would need cleaning as well, and sat down with a second drink to think things over.
You didn’t front up to a government minister, even one suspended and on bail, the way you did to his chauffeur. I didn’t have any useful contacts in the political machine and Ireland was probably licking his wounds and conferring with his lawyers somewhere away from his usual haunts. O’Connor had said he didn’t know where that might be. He’d wanted the money too much to risk a lie that I might trap him in. Ireland had a lot of problems and the only card I had to play was the information that he’d been involved in corruption by helping to provide a false passport—if he had. It wasn’t an ace and I couldn’t think of a way to play it. Hated to admit it, but I needed help. I rang Tania.
‘Cliff, darling. I hope you’ve been busy.’
‘I have. How’s Sarah?’
‘She’s fine. Some news, I hope?’
There was no help for it, I had to tell her about Justin having seen Ireland and my need to talk to Ireland about it. It was risky—with Tania you never knew what use she might make of information. But this time she had her eye firmly on the game.
‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘Might give us a strong lead to Justin’s whereabouts even after all this time.’
‘Yes.’
I could almost see her chewing it over and, as I’d have predicted, she came up with the kind of strategy that was so dear to her heart: ‘You could threaten to expose him as corrupt. He has to talk to you.’
‘To use your expression, that’s where you come in. You say you got to talk to him in the past even though it didn’t go too well. I never heard that he was keen on the media. How did you manage it?’
You could always appeal to Tania’s vanity. She allowed a dramatic pause before she spoke. ‘I met Damien, his son, at a party and we had an affair. He’s some kind of apparatchik in his father’s office—sucking on the government tit. Damien set it up for me to get an interview with his father and that’s why Wayne thought he could make me a father and son double. They’d done it before. Didn’t quite get there, as I told you. They’ve got a weird relationship in that family. Damien idolises his dad and his mother. Is that a complex? Is there a name for it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I think it’s because they’re Catholics with only one child. Sort of fixated on each other.’
‘Still in touch with the son?’
‘After the blow-out I had with his old man we’re not exactly close, however he still had the hots for me last time I saw him. But I know something not too many people know.’
‘Which is?’
‘Where Wayne Ireland and son Damien go to do their rooting. I went there with Damien a time or two, and I’ll bet that’s where Wayne is right now.’
‘Tell me.’
‘No way. I’ll show you.’
‘Come on, Tania. It could get rough—the man’s a drunk and probably desperate and he’s killed one person already. And maybe another.’
‘Who?’
‘Perhaps the kid I’m hunting for. Anyway, you’re supposed to be looking after Sarah.’
‘We’ll bring her along.’
‘You’re cr
azy. This isn’t a film script you’re writing.’
‘Isn’t it? Why not?’
I argued with her, threatened to turn the whole deal over to the police and to contact social services to say that she was an unfit person to be the carer of a vulnerable minor. She laughed at me.
‘You’ve got it wrong, baby. She’s turned sixteen. You know and I know the police’d never question Ireland on this matter the way he needs to be questioned. I mean pressured. You want the Justin enquiry to dead-end here? Sarah would thank you for that, I’m sure.’
She held the cards and she won the pot. The best chance for Sarah, financially and emotionally, was to resolve Justin’s disappearance one way or the other. I went along with Tania’s proposed arrangements with a few provisos of my own.
‘No film crew along,’ I said. ‘Any sign of something like that and it’s all off.’
‘Okay. If we get to a movie we can always reconstruct. But I’m taping. No way I won’t.’
That was reasonable and necessary. We haggled about a few details and eventually came to an agreement that made me unhappy. Still, it was the best I could do. I only scored one win—Sarah was to stay put. Tania fought it but, as everyone except Rocky Marciano found out, you can’t win them all.
21
Tania insisted on driving her own car—a sporty 4WD Mitsubishi.
‘That rust-bucket of yours’d never make it,’ she said.
‘So we’re going up-country?’
‘Wait and see.’
She’d left Sarah in the charge of a friend of hers who was also a lawyer. They’d talk over legal matters—plenty to sort out there.
‘Fiona’s very smart,’ Tania said. ‘She’ll be a big help to Sarah and she can give her pointers on quite a few things.’
I didn’t even want to know what that might mean. Tania wore her almost uniform of black pants and white blouse with a paisley scarf. The day had dawned cloudy with rain threatening, so she had a hooded parka. She also wore flat-heeled shoes, not her usual style, so I gathered there was some roughish ground to cover. Her leather bag carried various items, including a reporter’s tape-recorder.
