Peter Corris - Open File

I raised my voice. ‘Mr Hampshire, it’s Cliff Hardy. They tell me downstairs you’re in so please open the door. You’re a hard man to catch up with.’

The door opened and Hampshire stood there, leaning against the jamb for support. He was unshaven, in a singlet and trousers, barefoot. His eyes were bloodshot and he smelled of liquor and vomit. There were stains on his singlet and pants.

‘Hello, Hardy.’ His voice was slurred and he wasn’t looking at me.

‘Hello yourself.’ I pushed past him and went into the flat. The serviced apartment needed servicing. It was a mess, with clothes, newspapers, bottles and fast food containers spread around. A sheet of paper by the, telephone was covered with numbers and scribble. Hampshire stumbled after me.

‘Sorry about the mess.’

‘You’re a bigger mess. What the fuck’s happened to you?’

He slumped into a chair. ‘Have you got a cigarette?’ He pronounced it the American way with the accent on the first syllable. ‘I’m out.’

‘No. What’s got you into this state?’

He rubbed his stubble. No natty bow tie now, no spiffy handkerchief. I saw what it was about the hair now; he wore a toupee, a bit bedraggled.

‘You know I said I had investments, interests in things? Well, I’ve been screwed by an accountant and a lawyer. I’m going to have to figure out a way to take legal action against them. I guess I panicked a bit.’ He waved at the mess. ‘But I’ll get it together. Now, have you made any progress?’

‘Why don’t you get cleaned up and tidy this joint a little. Then I’ll feel more confident about talking to you.’

‘Who the hell do you think you are?’

‘I know who I am. I’m not sure who you are or what you’re worth.’

He seemed about to bluster but stopped himself and looked down at the stains on his singlet. ‘You’re right. I have to get a grip. Give me a few minutes.’

He went away and I heard the shower running. I did some of the tidying myself-dumping the food containers in the kitchen bin, emptying the ashtrays, collecting the bottles and making a stack of the newspapers. Several of the papers were open at the business pages, showing the stock market with some stocks underlined. None I’d ever heard of. From the look of the notepad he’d made dozens of phone calls. A lot of the numbers were covered with scribble, some had crosses beside them; a couple had ticks countermanded by crosses.

I was deliberately holding the notepad when he came back. It was a test. He was shaved and his hair was slicked back. He had on a clean shirt and trousers and wore shoes. He didn’t protest about my snooping.

‘Tell me about Justin.’

I brought him up to date on what I’d discovered and each piece of information seemed to hit him like a brick.

‘My grandmother told me my grandfather was killed in France.’

‘You didn’t think to check?’

‘No. I accepted it. I was… proud of it. God help me. I only wished it had been at Gallipoli so that-’

‘You could worship all the harder?’

He nodded.

‘What about your lather?’

‘My mother said he was killed in New Guinea.’

‘Kokoda?’

‘She wasn’t specific, but that was… the impression she gave me.’

‘And you passed it on to Justin.’

He nodded. ‘You say he found out it wasn’t true in either case?’

‘Yes. Bright kid. And your wife spilled the beans on your less than glorious Vietnam record after you shot through.’

‘Jesus.’

‘I suppose you amped that up a bit.’

‘Yes.’

‘One way and another, you helped to produce a very angry, disappointed and disillusioned young man. It’s no wonder he took off.’

He moaned, but whether for himself or Justin it was hard to tell. ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea. But where did he go? What did he do?’

I opened my hands. ‘That’s why you hired me, but it’s getting complicated and in more ways than you know’

‘What do you mean?’

I told him about Justin’s apparent association with a man now serving prison time for drug offences. He shook his head as if unable to take the information in.

‘Why would he have anything to do with a drug pusher?’

‘I’m trying to get to see the guy. I might find out or I might not, but you have to get yourself ready for bad news.’

‘Not knowing is just constant bad news. I’ve got some stocks I can sell. That won’t get me out of all of the holes I’m in but I’ll raise enough to be able to keep paying you. I want you to see this through right to the end, whatever it is.’

I nodded. ‘Sorry, but I’ve got one more kick in the guts for you. Angela’s dobbed you in to the welfare people for not paying child support. They’ll refer it to the cops who’ll be on the lookout for you. I’ve gone out on a bit of a limb there, told the cop I’m in contact with that I didn’t know where you were.’

‘Why did you do that?’

I shrugged. ‘You’re paying me, for one thing.’

‘From what I’ve heard of you there must be more to it than that.’

He’d touched on something that Cyn had never understood-the sheer interest a case like this set up, the way it got under my skin, into my head and needed to be resolved. But it wasn’t something I wanted to talk about. I took out my notebook and consulted it, just to have something to do, to let that thought drift away. ‘I haven’t heard your side of the story,’ I said. ‘In my experience there usually is one. Did you pay child support?’

‘Not always… when I could. But I paid Sarah’s and Justin’s school fees all the way and I signed the house over to Angela. There’s very little mortgage on it and Angela has some money of her own. Is she… all right?’

‘Yes and no. Sarah’s a problem and the place looks a bit rundown. But I’d say she’s pretty tough. Losing you and Justin rocked her, but I suppose she thinks she’s fighting back. She is, in a way. She was helpful to me and now she’s trying to get back at you. I know you went to the States on business. Why did you stay?’

He grimaced. ‘I fell in love, or thought I did. I wish I hadn’t. Some client you’ve got, Hardy.’

‘I’ve had worse,’ I said. ‘One came at me with an axe. Got anything left to drink?’

I had a couple of weak scotch and waters with Hampshire, partly because I was ready for a drink and partly to see how he was handling his liquor after an apparent binge. Seemed all right. I advised him to move in case the authorities got onto any of the people he’d contacted to trace him. He said he would and that he’d get in touch with me as soon as he had. I told him his retainer would hold me on the job for a while and he repeated his promise to keep me in funds to the end.

I walked around Rose Bay for a while, for the exercise and to allow the blood alcohol level to drop. A lot of the big old houses had been converted into flats but not all. There was a lot of money here in bricks and mortar and, as up at Pittwater, in boats. I speculated about what the land occupied by the Royal Sydney Golf Course was worth-too much to calculate. Cyn’s father had been a member and he’d told me the yearly dues which, at the time, amounted to something like half of my annual income. It was probably much the same now.

I went home and dealt with the mail and the phone messages-nothing that couldn’t wait. It was getting on towards that time when I had to decide whether to scramble eggs or go out to eat or just buy some takeaway. A constant question. Sometimes I thought that the solution in the sci-fi books or for the astronauts-a pill containing all the necessary nutrients-would be the solution. But they never seemed to wash it down with a good red or white.