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  ‘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 know 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?’

  ‘None. Where’s the ex-husband?’

  I gave him the address in Rose Bay, hoping that Hampshire had moved as I’d advised. I didn’t think it likely that he’d killed Angela. All the indications were that he’d spent the time drinking and smoking while trying to get his financial affairs in order, as he’d said. Still, you never know. In any case, it’d be better for him if he contacted the police rather than have them hunt him down. I figured it was my turn for a question.

  ‘Where’s the daughter, Sarah?’

  ‘She’s there. Distressed. She found the body. A policewoman’s with her and a neighbour.’ He consulted his notes, ‘You haven’t really said anything about the missing son. D’you reckon he’ll turn up?’

  I shrugged. I’d been about as cooperative as he could have expected, but he still didn’t like me and he decided to let it show.

  ‘Oh, maybe I haven’t asked the right question. Do you think you can find him? Or have you found him?’

  ‘All that’s between me and my client.’

  ‘I suppose this is the fiftieth fucking time you’ve been told you have no privilege.’

  ‘Being a shitkicking private nuisance? Yeah, about that often.’

  He closed the notebook. ‘I think that’s all for now, but if we need to talk again, and we probably will, you’ll make yourself available, won’t you?’

  ‘Under the right conditions, yes.’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you to stay away from the people involved in this, do I?’

  ‘Including my client?’

  He didn’t answer. He put his card down in front of me, got up and went across to the senior detectives’ glassed-in room. The cop who’d been watching us from time to time as he went about his paperwork waved me out.

  At the phone booth outside the post office I called the number I had for Hampshire and was told he’d checked out the day before. I went home but there was no message on the answering machine. I drove to Darlinghurst and heard on the radio news about the death of a woman at Church Point which the police were investigating. The light was blinking on the office machine and Hampshire’s message told me he was at another set of serviced apartments, this time in Crows Nest. I rang and got him.

  ‘Hardy, what’s up?’

  ‘I’ve got some bad news for you.’

  ‘Justin, is he . . . ?’

  ‘No, it’s Angela. I’m sorry to have to tell you. She’s dead. She’s been murdered. The police came to me because I left my card in the house.’

  ‘My God.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s very bad. Are you in control now, not fucked up like yesterday?’

  ‘You don’t think I . . . ?’

  ‘You have to contact the police and cooperate with them. They’ll find you eventually and it’d be much better for you to do as I say.’

  ‘Angela, she . . .’

  ‘Don’t lose your grip. There’s your daughter to think of, and maybe, if Justin’s around somewhere and he hears, he might surface.’

  ‘D’you really think so?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest fucking idea. Here’s the number of the cop who’s on the investigation team. Ring him and tell him where you are. He’ll have an answering service or a beeper or something. It’s going to be tough. You might have to identify her. You’d better be up to it. Have you got a lawyer?’

  I heard him suck in a breath as if he was gearing himself up for the ordeal. ‘I’ve got more lawyers hanging off me than I need.’

  ‘Alert one you can rely on.’

  ‘How do I say I heard about Angela?’

  It was a funny thing about the Hampshires—him, Angela, Sarah, and Justin as well for all I knew—they were bright enough to see the angles when they were under pressure. Maybe too bright for their own good. And that went with a capacity to put things in compartments, hold things back. We’re all like that, I suppose, but these people seemed to make an art form of it.

  ‘Tell them the truth, for Christ’s sake. I gave them your previous number. You moved and told me the new one. I told you about Angela and now you’re doing everything you can to help. Lie, and they’ll make things even harder for you.’

  ‘Thanks, Hardy.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For believing in me.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  I rang off and left him to it. I didn’t make the point that Sarah would be his responsibility from now on. He had enough to worry about. I had to hope that the police didn’t find any evidence against him sufficient to hold him for more than the regulation time. Eventually I’d need more money if I was going to keep looking for Justin and the case had me completely hooked by now. I couldn’t see a connection between Angela’s death and my search, but I had to consider it.

  9

  I had nothing to do but wait. I was due to see Pierre Fontaine at the hospice the next morning. More flak would be coming from the police, especially if they didn’t latch on to Ronny. I rang Viv Garner again and told him the cops hadn’t locked me up yet because I hadn’t done anything I shouldn’t.

  ‘I’ll take that with a sack of salt, Cliff,’ he said. ‘But call if you need me.’

  There was nothing in the office that required urgent attention but I filled in the time doing non-urgent things like putting a new ribbon in the ty
pewriter. I listened to the news and got a repeat of the item about the woman killed at Church Point. No name, no developments. The next item was about the government’s idea for an identity card to be called the Australia Card. It’d have all the information on it you needed to get things you needed and all the information they needed to get you. I was against it, although I knew almost everything was on file about almost everyone somewhere.

  I remembered a friend named Jim telling me about the difficulty he had registering the name and details of his second illegitimate child. The Canberra official said illegitimate children couldn’t have siblings, not officially.

  ‘She’s got the same mother and father,’ Jim said.

  ‘Why don’t you just marry the woman and everything would be straightforward.’

  Jim, a big bloke with a ready wit but a short fuse said, ‘Because I don’t want to make it easy for bastards like you.’

  I felt pretty much that way about the Australia Card.

  That memory made me smile, the first bit of amusement since I’d been with Kathy Petersen. The phone rang. I wasn’t in the mood for more work or free to do it, so I let the machine take the call. It was her.

  ‘Hello, Cliff, just checking to see if you—’

  I picked up. ‘Kathy.’

  ‘I was going to say, to see if you spent any time in your office or were always on the prowl.’

  ‘As little as possible. Good to hear you. No teaching, no surf?’

  ‘No teaching and that bloody south-westerly’s still blowing. Do you surf?’

  ‘Used to. Not for a while. The boards have changed, not sure how good I’d be.’

  ‘Were you good?’

  ‘Fair.’

  ‘How’s your investigation going?’

  I realised that it had been a long time since I’d had anyone to talk to about what I did, even in general terms. No partner for a few years, the last tenant in my house had moved out long ago and my best friend, Frank Parker, being a senior cop and recently appointed Deputy Commissioner, didn’t want to engage in what was virtually shoptalk. We talked sport mainly, and I talked writs with Viv Garner and sprains and contusions with my doctor mate, Ian Sangster.

  ‘It’s getting complicated. Did you hear about the woman killed at Church Point?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She was the mother of my missing kid.’

  ‘Jesus, that’s nasty. Is it connected with what you’re doing?’

  ‘I don’t see how but it means I’m going to have cops checking me over for a bit. Not that that’s anything new. I told them where I was yesterday, had to. Didn’t mention you, but you might confirm that I ate dinner in the pub.’

  She laughed. ‘Sorry, it’s no laughing matter. I’ll confirm that you stayed the night if they ask. I’ve got nothing to hide and . . . I enjoyed it.’

  ‘So did I.’

  A slight pause, then she said, ‘Well, I’ve got things to do. I wanted to tell you I’m going to Bega to talk to Grandma tomorrow. I’ll let you know if I learn anything useful.’

  ‘Call me anyway. This’ll sort out one way or another, so try and keep Easter free. Can I have your number?’

  She rattled it off. ‘Don’t feel obligated,’ she said. ‘Sounds as if you’ve got enough on your plate. See you, Cliff.’

  The mail brought bills and with Hampshire’s retainer in the account I wrote out a few cheques and, thinking about lunch, went down to post them in the box at the quiet section of Forbes Street. I dropped the envelopes in the box and felt a hard punch to the right kidney that drove the wind out of me. I spun around, fighting for breath, and took a solid thump down where you don’t want it. The toast and coffee threatened to come up, my eyes flooded and closed against the pain and I sagged against the postbox, still gasping, and with no strength to retaliate.

  ‘Keep your mouth shut, Hardy. If you chuck over me I’ll really hurt you.’

  I knew the voice and as my vision cleared I recognised the face. Billy ‘Sharkey’ Finn had been briefly middleweight champion of Australia five years ago before the booze and drugs got to him. He lost the title and a few more bouts, some certainly thrown for a payoff from the gamblers, and became a standover man for various heavy Sydney crims. Sharkey was fat now, a heavyweight for sure, but he was still strong. In my struggling condition he had no trouble half dragging, half carrying me to a car that drew up nearby. He held me up with one hand, opened the door and shoved me into the back seat.

  The man sitting there was impeccably dressed in a lightweight suit and he was barbered and manicured to within an inch of his life—Wilson Stafford, a ‘colourful racing identity’ to the tabloids. We’d crossed paths once years back. Stafford used to do some of his own muscle work then. I’d helped a pub owner keep Stafford’s rigged pokies out of his Summer Hill hotel. The car was a Daimler with leather seats and a bar and telephone. Stafford smiled at me with his perfectly capped teeth.

  ‘We meet again.’

  I was still sucking in air as Sharkey flopped into the front passenger seat.

  ‘If that fat tank artist wants to come at me from the front,’ I said, ‘I’ll make him uglier than he already is.’

  ‘You hear that, Sharkey?’ Stafford said.

  ‘I heard. Any time, Hardy. Any time.’

  Stafford took a cigarette from a gold case and lit it with a gold lighter. He adjusted the cuffs on his shirt, showing me the solid gold monogrammed links. ‘I’d like to see it. But not now. I took the opportunity to pay you back for the trouble you caused me, Hardy. But we’ve got other business today.’

  ‘What would that be?’

  ‘That cunt Paul Hampshire’s back. Bald bastard’s wearing a fuckin’ wig. And you’ve seen him. One of my people spotted you and that heap of shit you drive in Rose Bay where Hampshire was staying.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So the dumb prick was slow getting the information to me and the cunt’s not there now and I want to know where he is.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why d’you fuckin’ think? He owes me money.’

  ‘I get the impression he owes money to quite a few people.’

  ‘Not like he does with me. He ripped me off big time and then shot through to America.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’

  ‘Don’t be smart with me unless you want more of what you just had.’

  ‘I’d be ready for him now and I’d make it a bit harder. Your driver doesn’t look like much and you’re well past it, Wilson.’

  Finn half turned and showed the business end of a pistol, silencer fitted.

  ‘That’s different,’ I said. ‘But I can’t help you. Hampshire’s wife was murdered yesterday and right now he’s talking to the police—dunno who, dunno where.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Stafford said. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Because he rang me this morning and I told him to get in touch with them. I didn’t know he had a problem with you. I wish he’d told me and I’d have been ready for the canvas back kid there.’

  ‘Hardy, you—’

  Stafford cut him off. ‘Shut up, Sharkey. I have to think about this. I thought he’d hired you as protection.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why, then?’

  ‘That’s between me and him, but it’s got nothing to do with you.’

  Stafford smoked his cigarette down to the filter and stubbed it out. It was the lunch hour and there were a few people in the street now. Finn put the gun away. I opened the door.

  ‘If that’s all, I’ll be going.’

  Stafford lit another cigarette. ‘You can give Hampshire a message. I—’

  I gripped his wrist, shook it and he dropped his lighter. ‘Fuck you. You say you held a grudge against me and got even. Well, I’ve got a grudge against you and Sharkey now and I’ll leave you a little something to think about.’

  I got out of the car, took my Swiss army knife from a pocket, opened the short blade and slid it quickly into both whitewalled back tyres. Then I j
oined the people walking towards the steps leading down to William Street. Petty maybe, but satisfying.

  I bought a salad roll in William Street and went back to the office. I had a drop of red to wash it down and as an aid to thought. I had an old sawn-off shotgun I’d taken from a disgruntled client. There were no shells then or now, but I put it on the desk anyway. Not that I really expected trouble, but with someone barely under control like Sharkey Finn, it pays to be cautious.

  I tried to remember exactly what Stafford’s reaction had been when I told him about Angela Pettigrew. Had he looked surprised? I couldn’t remember, there was too much going on. But now there was plenty to think about. If Hampshire had enemies like Wilson Stafford, he’d pulled a lot of wool over my eyes. He was in serious danger. Did the police know anything about his activities? Watson had played his cards very close to his chest and I felt dumb about being so much in the dark. There were candidates now for Angela’s killer and maybe whatever it was Hampshire had done had implications for what had happened to Justin. It wasn’t looking good from any angle.

  Barry Templeton was a sworn enemy of Wilson Stafford. He was more intelligent than Stafford, marginally less ruthless, and a lot better company. We met occasionally when I played tennis at White City with Frank Parker. Templeton was a good player and it amused him to belong to the same club as a senior police officer. They got along okay in a wary kind of way and the three of us had the odd drink, with Frank being careful not to let Templeton pay for anything. I wasn’t so circumspect, but I could see Frank’s point, with police corruption always in the news and the media always on the lookout.

  Templeton owned a restaurant in Paddington and he was invariably there at night, enjoying the food, keeping an eye on the quality of the service and no doubt doing deals that wouldn’t bear a lot of scrutiny. He’d crossed swords with Stafford over shares in a couple of racehorses and they’d never been reconciled.

  Rudi’s, as Templeton’s restaurant was called, was in Oxford Street and was well patronised by people like himself: certain cops and lawyers, journalists, media stars and wannabes. I’d been there a few times, running interference for some hard types who felt in need of a little backup—unnecessarily as it turned out. The food was good, the atmosphere smoky and the wine expensive. The meal was going to put a hole in the money Hampshire had paid me but I wasn’t feeling well disposed towards him at that point. I booked a table for one for nine pm; Templeton dined late.