Peter Corris - Open File

Sarah thought that was funny and laughed. Tania didn’t and scowled at her. Divide and rule. Tania’s politics and class prejudices were showing. Always useful to know. Time to go, nearly, with one important thing to clear up.

‘What’s Sarah going to do?’

Tania smiled sweetly. ‘I’ve already spoken to Sarah’s aunt on her mother’s side. Sort of half-sister, half-aunt. She doesn’t want to be involved but she says she’ll endorse my submission to social services for Sarah to stay here.’

‘What about school?’

‘There’re plenty of schools around here.’

‘I want to stay with Tania,’ Sarah said.

I got up. ‘I’ll make your excuses to Hilde.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah said. ‘I…’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I’ll see myself out, Tania, and be in touch. Tell you what-better get in a pool table.’

It was a cheap shot but they’d irritated me. Tania’s agenda was plain to see and she didn’t give a shit about finding Justin except as a chapter in her book. Sarah was a different proposition and difficult to read. Growing up with an indifferent father and a mother leading a double life had to have an effect on a young person’s outlook and behaviour. She appeared to be coping well with the pressures, but that only raised the question of when she might crack.

I stood outside the house looking over the park as two kids threw a frisbee around with considerable skill. I hadn’t seen a frisbee in a while. Another fading fad..

When I got back to the office I found that Tania had faxed through a brief translation of the relevant passage in Van Der Harr’s notes: Subject says intends to contact father’s enemy named Ireland to cause father harm. Agitated, disturbed, delusional? That was pretty much in line with what the psychiatrist had told me. It could prove useful or be a dead end, but one question persisted: how did Justin come up with the idea that Ireland was Hampshire’s enemy?

I sat down with my notebook and went through my usual routine of referring to the notes of interviews and scribbled comments, writing down names, boxing them in, joining them with arrows or dotted lines according to the strength or weakness of the connections. It usually ended up like a dog’s breakfast and wasn’t helpful, but this time it was. The connection between Justin and Ireland ran through Ronny O’Connor and his father, Michael. Not strong, but there.

Tackling Wayne Ireland was going to be difficult and it was important to test Van Der Harr’s suggestion that Justin was delusional. Was he just mixing up his mother’s adultery with his father’s many failings? Or had he come across something solid? Michael O’Connor was scheduled to be a witness against Ireland when he came to trial. That could be a long time off. If Ireland was acquitted, O’Connor was a sitting duck, up for a perjury charge. He must have lost his job. Couldn’t be happy, maybe willing to talk, but there was no chance the police would tell me where he was.

Contacts are everything in this line of work and, while I didn’t know anyone in charge of the government car pool, I did know the boss at the place in Paddington where they were serviced. He was a fan of old Falcons and I’d been referred to him when it looked as though the state of mine might be terminal. It wasn’t: Todd Hawker brought it back to life at a cost almost equal to its value overall.

I bought a six-pack of Reschs Pilsener and drove to Paddington, parking in one of the bays reserved for cars being worked on.

‘Hey!’ a mechanic working close by shouted.

‘I’m here to see Todd,’ I said. ‘Won’t be long.’

He ducked his head back under the bonnet and fiddled with something. The workshop was busy, with three cars up on hoists and machinery running. To get to Todd’s office you have to step over tyres, gear boxes and other car parts and try to keep yourself clear of grease and oil slicks. Todd wasn’t a desk wallah; he wore overalls and got them and himself dirty. He was sitting at his desk totally absorbed in a batch of invoices. I entered quietly and put the beer down in front of him.

He looked up. ‘Oh, Christ, Cliff Hardy with baksheesh. What is it, a master cylinder again?’

‘Nothing mechanical, mate,’ I said. ‘A tiny scrap of information.’

He broke the plastic wrapping, pulled out two beers and pushed one towards me. We took the tops off and touched bottles.

‘Information?’

‘You know Michael O’Connor-drives for Wayne Ireland, or did.’

Todd drank a third of the beer in a gulp. ‘I know him. A real prick. What’s he done?’

‘This and that. I need to talk to him. Got an address?’

Another gulp lowered the level. ‘Why would I have an address? I don’t send him any fuckin’ invoices. The government pays for the work on the cars-you and me, that is. I’ve got a home phone number, but.’

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.’