Peter Corris - Open File

Whoever the original Rudi was, he had constructed an excellent eatery. The restaurant was on two levels with outdoor areas on both as well as pavement dining on the ground floor, weather permitting. The tables weren’t too tightly packed and they ran from two-seaters to long set-ups capable of taking up to twenty. I’d specified outside at the back. I knew that was where Templeton usually placed himself, at a table never larger than for four. The chairs were comfortable and the settings unfussy. The piped music was unobjectionable and the waiters and waitresses were brisk and efficient.

I ordered whitebait for starters and the barramundi- always a seafood man when I know it’s good. A bottle of riesling, hold the bread. The place was full or close to it, and the ceiling fans were doing a reasonable job. I draped my jacket over the back of my chair and sipped some water.

‘Cliff, mate, good to see you.’

One of those moments-I knew him but didn’t know his name. I shook his hand and forced a smile.

‘Bryan Harvey, you remember me-from the Amplex business.’ He was still holding my hand and I shook it again enthusiastically as it all came back to me. Harvey was a Glebeite who’d fought long and hard against a developer’s plan to build units right down to the water on a site left toxic through years of occupation by factories. I was in the fight too, attending meetings and onsite demos. I remembered Harvey walking around with his hand cupped satirically behind his back as one of the councillors talked up the project.

Harvey was so disgusted he ran for council himself and won. In the end, Amplex had to modify their plan to leave a decent space between the units and the water and contribute to the rehabilitation of an adjacent wetland. He said he was off the council now but still fighting the good fight for the environment. I said I was still in the same game. We told each other how well we looked and he went off to join a party of five at another table. Good bloke.

The wine arrived just before the whitebait, as it should, and the barramundi came along exactly at the right time too. Rudi’s prided itself on efficient service of this kind, not easy to achieve in a busy restaurant. I was halfway through the fish when Barry Templeton dropped into the other chair. He’d brought another bottle of the same wine with him and a glass which he filled after topping up mine.

‘Nice to see you, Cliff. Bit sad to see you dining alone but then, I know you’re here on business.’

I raised my glass. ‘That’s right, Barry. I see business is booming. This arm of it anyway.’

‘All arms, my friend, all arms. Now, it’d be nice to chat and I’m glad to see you’re enjoying the fish, but I’ve got things to attend to, so what’s on your mind?’

Templeton was a smoother customer than Stafford. Equally well turned out but he wore his clothes with a more relaxed air, didn’t need to fiddle with his tie and cuffs. I told him I’d had a run-in with Stafford and about my connection with Paul Hampshire. The mention of the name brought a smile to Templeton’s face.

‘Ah, yes,’ he said, taking a sip of the wine. ‘Mr Under-the-radar himself

I dug into the remains of the fish. ‘Meaning?’

‘Tell me there’s some grief in this for Stafford.’

I packed my fork with the last chunk of fish. ‘There might be but I can’t promise. I can’t see the connection yet between what I’m looking into and the beef between Stafford and Hampshire. It’s possible. I can tell you there’s some grief for Sharkey Finn if I catch him without a gun in the right place at the right time.’

‘I’ve no time for Sharkey, but Wilson belongs deep down out beyond the Heads, so possible’s good enough for me. This is what I know.’

He told me that Paul Hampshire was a conman-a floater of get-rich-quick schemes that went wrong but not before Hampshire had skimmed the cream off the top. ‘The thing was,’ Templeton said, ‘although he cooked the scams up here and picked his targets, the location was always somewhere else-New Zealand, Fiji, the Cook Islands, places like that. He specialised in money laundering for people who had incomes they couldn’t account for. A serious problem. He’d launder it until it was pretty well washed away, but always in another jurisdiction. And the targets didn’t really have any comeback if they didn’t want the tax office up their arses.’

‘Sounds bloody dangerous to me,’ I said.

‘Not really. I’m not talking about heavy criminals here or about big sums of money. Nice little earners for Hampshire though, and he’d always make himself scarce afterwards. Went to America, I believe. I think he’s got dual citizenship.’

‘What about Stafford?’

Templeton laughed. ‘That’s where he made his big score. The way I heard it, Stafford came to him through some intermediary looking like the sort of guy Hampshire was used to. This time it was big money Stafford needed to squirrel away. I don’t know the details. Some kind of currency fiddle. The result was that Stafford lost the dough and Hampshire took off. Somehow it must have dawned on him that Stafford was a different kind of… client, so he stayed away. You say Hampshire’s back, eh?’

‘Did I say that?’

We’d both been working quietly on the wine and the bottle I’d ordered was gone. Templeton inspected the other bottle, which was still at a satisfactory level. He poured himself a little more and stood.

‘I didn’t expect you to tell me anything, Cliff, and it’s no skin off my arse. Happy to help make Stafford unhappy, and I know you have a knack of doing that to people.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

Templeton smiled. ‘I’d like to say the meal’s on me, but why the fuck should I? Say hello to Frank and try to improve that backhand. See you, Cliff.’

I cleaned up the last of the baby potatoes in sour cream and the asparagus, cool but still good. I ordered a long black and, since I’d come by taxi and was intending to go back the same way, I had another solid belt of the wine. Thinking back, I should have had suspicions about Hampshire early on. The bow tie, the display hanky, the toupee. The man was an actor and he’d played to his audience. But I needed the work and the problem he’d presented me with was intriguing. It still was, but it was running in all sorts of confusing directions.

The morning radio news had a report on the death in Spain of ‘Aussie’ Bob Trimboli, a Griffith drug kingpin who was wanted on various charges, including murder. He’d skipped to Spain and pulled the wool over some official eyes. That’s when he wasn’t greasing their palms. I’d run into him once when I was doing a bit of bodyguarding for a politician who’d had dealings with Trimboli that he’d come to regret. The politician had to confront Trimboli just once more and needed support to do it. The meeting was tense. I disliked them both about equally and I had to hurt one of Trimboli’s offsiders to see my man safe. There was no one happier than me when ‘Aussie’ Bob took off for the Costa Brava.

The bulletin carried a brief follow-up report on the death of a woman at Church Point. So brief as to be almost meaningless-no names, no details-and so bloodless it had all the hallmarks of a tight police clampdown. No invitation to the public to help. The newspaper coverage was much the same.

The Catholic hospice was in Woolloomooloo. It was a small place with only twenty-four patients, if that’s what they were called. The nun who took charge of me was one of the modern type, in ordinary clothes and with only a small cross on a gold chain to show her allegiance.

‘We try to make the surroundings as non-clinical as we can, Mr Hardy,’ she said. ‘Indoor plants, cheerful stuff on the walls and no obsession about tidiness.’