Open File (16 page)

I went back to my office, stowed the shotgun and called the police.

I had to tell the police practically everything about my dealings with Hampshire and Wilson Stafford. I described the meeting as an attempt at reconciliation between the two that had gone badly wrong on both sides.

A few witnesses identified me as the person who hit Billy Finn, but each of them said it was in self-defence after Finn’s attack on the dog and threat against Hampshire. The talk of charging me with assault fell away. Finn didn’t want to press charges, and he was busy battling public nuisance, affray and similar accusations himself, as well as undergoing surgery and rehabilitation for his knee.

I heard later that a police board suggested my licence be suspended, but when it was revealed that Sharkey had been carrying a loaded, unregistered pistol, the suggestion wasn’t acted on. The police had no time for Sharkey.

At the pub I ran into one of the Glebe detectives who’d got the story on the grapevine. I prepared myself for a serve but he insisted on buying me a drink. He was drunk.

‘Fuckin’ good work, Cliffo,’ he said, ‘wish you’d busted his other fuckin’ knee while you were at it.’

‘The trouble is, he’ll mend,’ I said.

‘Yeah. Tell you what, though—I wouldn’t like to be you at the fuckin’ inquest.’

After what I told the police about their dealings, Wilson Stafford was under suspicion of organising Hampshire’s killing, but he denied it and there was no evidence to go on. My identification of the vehicle and driver amounted to almost nothing, and no sign of either had so far been found.

Meanwhile, through all this, when I was in and out of police stations and on the phone every other day to Viv Garner, Wayne Ireland was charged with the manslaughter of Angela Pettigrew. Michael O’Connor, Ireland’s driver, admitted driving him to the Church Point house at the time in question and to falsifying his log in return for a consideration. Ireland accused O’Connor of lying and of blackmailing him. Ireland presented medical evidence of his alcoholism and depression and was released on bail with his passport confiscated.

‘Never get him for murder,’ Frank Parker told me. ‘Too many big guns on his side and too much medical flak. At best he’ll do three or four years somewhere soft—get off the grog and work on his golf. Do himself a world of good.’

‘It’s the end of his political career and his marriage, though,’ I said. ‘And Sarah’ll have to give evidence. Do you think she’s still in danger?’

‘I doubt it. Ireland knows he’ll slip through the cracks. How about you, Cliff? You haven’t got a client anymore.’

That was true and uncomfortable. I couldn’t afford to work pro bono for very long, and Paul Hampshire’s death had received considerable newspaper and television coverage. If Justin was still around there was a better than
even chance he’d have got wind of it and made contact. It wasn’t looking good for the kid who’d had his past and future taken away from him. But it left the question of what had happened to him—a serious loose end with emotional attachments.

I visited Sarah in Paddington and found her calm.

‘I’m sorry he died like that, but he wasn’t ever like a father,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t around much and he didn’t seem to care about me. I don’t think I’m his daughter.’

Hampshire had thought the same but it wasn’t the moment to tell her that.

‘You know who I think my father is, don’t you?’

‘I can guess.’

She showed me a newspaper photo of Ireland as a young man.

‘Him,’ she said. ‘The guy who killed my mother. Well, he didn’t want to know me either, so I don’t care about him.’

‘This is all very hard for you,’ I said.

She shrugged. ‘Not really. It sort of clears the air. I’m on my own now and I can make a fresh start without all the lying and bullshit they went on with. I’ll be all right.’

‘Any idea what you’ll do?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe I’ll be a private detective.’

‘I wouldn’t advise it—too much to do for too little money.’

‘Do you think you’ll find Justin? I hope you can. At least I know he’s my half-brother. If we could get together maybe we could work something out.’

‘I’ll keep looking,’ I said.

Pierre Fontaine died in the hospice. I went to the service and the cremation on the off-chance that Justin might show. He didn’t. I was running out of options. I thought of Ronny O’Connor. Was there anything more to be squeezed out of him? I doubted it. It looked like a dead end and I hated it. I felt I’d failed Paul Hampshire, even though he’d never been straight with me.

Then Hilde phoned me and the whole thing took on a new shape. ‘Oh, Cliff,’ she said, her voice breaking, ‘I’ve been such a fool. I left that psychiatrist’s file on my desk, just for a few minutes, and Sarah must have seen it. She took it. She’s gone, Cliff. She’s gone!’

I calmed her down, told her it was my fault for making it possible for Sarah to see the file and asked her to describe what Sarah had been wearing and what she’d taken with her. She said Sarah had been in her jeans and denim jacket, exactly as I’d last seen her, and that she’d taken the overnight bag she arrived with.

‘Has she got any money?’

‘She’s got a keycard. She seemed to have enough to get by day to day. She never asked us for money. Cliff, what am I going to say to Frank? I didn’t tell him about the file.’

‘I’ll ring him and explain. I’ll take the blame.’

I rang Frank and told him what had happened. ‘Jesus, Cliff, you bloody fool.’

‘I know. Sorry.’

‘And Hilde’s a fool for helping you. Why she has you up on a pedestal I’ll never know.’

‘Me either. The important thing now is to find Sarah.’

‘You’re the expert. You’d better do it. If she comes to any harm this could turn very nasty for all of us. Gail
Henderson in media liaison says there’s already a journalist sniffing around.’

‘Who?’

‘Her name’s Tania Kramer, a freelance nuisance.’

I rang Hilde, told her I’d spoken to Frank and asked her if Sarah had taken any phone calls recently.

‘She did, this morning. A woman asked for her. She said she was a friend.’

‘What name?’

‘Tania. Sarah spoke to her for a few minutes, or rather she listened. What’s going on?’

‘I’m not sure, but that’s a lead to follow.’

‘What did Frank say?’

‘He called us both fools, but more me than you.’

She was close to tears. ‘Peter wants to know where she is. Jesus, Cliff, this is affecting a lot of people.’

‘It’s always like that,’ I said.

I knew Tania Kramer. A couple of years back she’d written a series of articles about a case I’d been involved in. She pestered me for information and, when I wouldn’t come through, she made all sorts of wild assumptions about my role in the matter. Viv Garner advised me to sue her and the paper she’d published in and walk away with big damages.

‘You’ve heard of the Murdoch boat and the Fairfax beach house,’ Viv had said. ‘She’s libelled you. You could clean up.’

‘And get the whole thing a new run in the papers,’ I said. ‘Let it go. It’ll all be forgotten by next month, next week.’

Tania was an attractive woman and she’d tried to use that. She’d invited me to her place for a drink and I’d gone,
had the drink and that was all. She lived in Newtown in a big house overlooking Hollis Park. She’d come away with the house from a marriage to a stockbroker. She had a mortgage, she’d told me, and took in tenants, but she was doing well as a freelancer and sitting comfortably in a very desirable place to live. I found her card in the box I keep for such things, rang the number and got her answering machine. I didn’t leave a message.

Hollis Park was like a London square, with big houses flanking the grass and gardens on two sides. The houses were smaller and more modest on the other sides. The terraces hadn’t been changed too much aside from the odd built-in balcony. The park itself was a bit scruffy and could have done with a thorough renovation.

After my visit to Tania Kramer, I’d looked Hollis Park up in a directory because I was impressed by the place. Apparently it was designed and built by a magistrate in the 1880s. I wondered how he’d made the money. It was a fair bet that he’d occupied the best of the biggest houses himself.

Tania’s place wasn’t the biggest but it had been well maintained and didn’t let the elegant layout down. I parked in a side street and walked through the park. I opened the gate and climbed the impressive sandstone steps to the tiled front porch. The garden was lush and showed signs of being well-planned and cared for. I rang the bell and heard it sound inside the house. I’m a knocker man myself; easier to ignore than a bell.

Tania opened the door. It had been a few years but she was ageing well. A touch of grey in the sleek, dark hair, a few lines, but she still had a lean, upright figure and knew how to dress—white blouse, dark pants, heels.

‘Cliff,’ she said, ‘how nice to see you. Come in.’

I followed her down the broad passage with its carpet runner and wood-panelled walls.

‘Not a bit surprised, are you, Tania?’

‘Not at all. I was expecting you, although you’re here a little sooner than I thought. That was you ringing and not leaving a message, right?’

‘Right. Is Sarah here?’

‘She certainly is, and doesn’t she have a story to tell. You’ve gone out on a limb here, my friend, you and a few others.’

There was no arguing with that. We reached the end of the passage and went up the stairs.

‘A few changes since you were here last,’ she said. ‘I have the top floor all to myself.’

‘I’m the same,’ I said. ‘With the bottom floor as well.’

‘In a grotty little dump in Glebe.’

‘Water view.’

‘Glimpse—through apartment blocks. How’s your wind?’

We reached the third level and there was ample evidence of renovation and money spent. Polished floors, skylights, a living area that had been opened out by the removal of a wall or two.

‘You’ve won a lottery,’ I said.

‘Paid off the mortgage, darling. It’s downhill all the way. Take a seat. I’ll get Sarah.’

The room featured well-stocked bookshelves, a cane lounge suite with padded cushions, big screen TV with VCR and an elaborate hi-fi set-up. No bar, that’d be vulgar; no drinks tray, that’d be pretentious. Tania had taste to equal her ambition and ruthlessness.

‘Hello, Mr Hardy.’

Sarah appeared as if from nowhere. The angry schoolgirl and the tough teenager had vanished. She still wore her denims but at a guess she’d been at Tania’s makeup kit. She looked older, more composed. At least superficially, she’d achieved a new level of sophistication. It didn’t surprise me that a few hours in the company of Tania could produce that. Sarah sat opposite me on the couch and lit a cigarette.

‘I trusted you,’ she said. ‘I don’t anymore.’

‘I’m sorry. Why not?’

Tania came in with a coffee pot, cups, cream and sugar on a tray. ‘You know why, Cliff.’

‘Van Der Harr’s file on Justin. I can explain that.’

‘I’m sure you can.’ Tania gave Sarah an encouraging smile as she poured the coffee. ‘But it’s more than that. I got a leak of your statement to the police. You knew Paul Hampshire doubted that Sarah was his daughter, but you didn’t say anything about it to her when you spirited her away to live with your mate and your ex-girlfriend.’

That was typical of Tania. She loved the obvious, doubted the nuances, made assumptions and treated them as facts. It wasn’t worth your breath to correct her, she didn’t hear anyway. Anyway, she was right that I’d withheld information from Sarah but I didn’t feel bad about that.

‘I didn’t want to add to Sarah’s anxieties,’ I said. ‘She was very vulnerable.’

‘Does she look vulnerable to you now?’

‘What’s going on, Tania? What’s your interest in this?’

Tania took a cigarette from Sarah’s packet and lit it. They exchanged conspiratorial smiles. ‘The story, of course,’ she said. ‘Sarah’s story. There’s a book in this. A best-seller. A lot of money to be made.’

‘You’re a cold-blooded bitch, Tania. Sarah won’t need it. She’ll inherit her mother’s house. It’s worth a lot of money.’

Tania tapped off her ash. ‘Temper, temper. That’s where you’re wrong. Tell him, Sarah.’

‘Angela and I fought a lot. You knew that.’

I nodded.

‘One day we had a real beauty, over school and all the shit she made me put up with. We really slammed into each other. She showed me a copy of her will. She’s left everything to be equally divided between me and Justin.’

‘Who’s been missing for two years and a bit,’ Tania said. ‘But it takes a fair while longer than that to have the authorities declare someone dead, unless there’s some very solid evidence. Means everything would be tied up for quite a while.’

We hadn’t touched the coffee. I drank some now to ease a dry throat. ‘True,’ I said.

Tania smiled. ‘That’s where you come in, Clifford.’

It was bizarre. Tania and Sarah wanted me to continue to look for Justin, either to find him or provide good reason to have him declared dead.

‘The story needs an ending,’ Tania said.