Peter Corris - Open File

I’d kept him moving and we were in a living area now, with a door off it and a kitchen further down. Michael wasn’t the neatest keeper of a heritage home. The place was a junkyard of decaying furniture-a couch with a tangled blanket, empty bottles, collapsed wine casks and dirty clothes.

‘Just out of interest, how come you went to Bryce Grammar and were up around there?’

He shrugged. ‘My mum paid and I lived with her on and off. Another stuck-up bitch. Got any smokes? I’m out.’

‘Where’s your father?’

He pointed to the door. I handed him a five-dollar note. ‘I won’t hurt him. Give me half an hour.’

‘Do what the fuck you like.’ He took the money and he was gone.

I pushed the door open and went into a bedroom that looked bad and smelled worse. A man was lying on the single bed; he was snoring and he twitched when a shaft of light from the open door hit him. Twitched, but didn’t wake up. The room shrieked neglect-clothes on a chair and the floor, beer cans on the dresser, wardrobe doors open with shoes, newspapers and bed linen spilling out. A chamber pot, half full, stuck out from under the bed. An ashtray on the bedside table overflowed with butts.

Michael O’Connor was a flabbier version of Ronny. The same sharp features were being swamped by beer fat. His second chin wobbled with every snore. His singlet was ash-stained; a four-tooth dental plate sat next to the ashtray. Drivers for politicians had to present smartly; this one had come down very far, very quickly. I pushed clothes from the chair and pulled it up near the bed before pinching O’Connors nose shut between my thumb and forefinger. He gave a snort and a wave of foul-smelling breath came from his mouth as he gulped for air.

‘Wake up, Mick,’ I said. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’

His bleary eyes opened and focused briefly before closing again. I reached over to the dresser and found a can that still held some beer. I poured it over his face. He spluttered and woke up fully.

‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing? Who are you?’

I showed him my card. He blinked several times before he was able to read it.

‘Fuck off.’

‘Close your eyes again and I’ll empty the pot of piss over you.’

He struggled to sit up, wrestling a grubby pillow into place. ‘What do you want?’

I took out the money, fanning the notes. ‘I’m paying for information.’

That got his attention. He fumbled for his denture and shoved it in, grey flecks and all. He looked for cigarettes.

‘Ronny’s gone for some,’ I said. ‘I gave him five bucks. Maybe he’ll share.’

‘He better. The little prick’s smoked all mine. What’s this about?’

‘Angela Pettigrew and Paul and Justin Hampshire.’

‘Jesus, I told the police all I know about that.’

‘And your boss says you’re a liar. I couldn’t care less one way or the other. I want to know how Justin Hampshire knew that Wayne Ireland was his father’s enemy and what he did about it. Tell me, convince me, and the money’s yours. Looks like you could use it.’

His eyes went shrewd but I spoke again before he could say anything. ‘You must’ve made good money in your job. Should’ve been able to live a bit better than this. Where did the money go?’

‘Horses.’

‘Don’t you know the old song-horses don’t bet on people and that’s why they never go broke? Let’s get down to it and don’t bullshit me.’

‘Have you got a tape-recorder on you?’

‘No, this is between you and me and five hundred bucks.’

‘Ronny told the kid’s sister Ireland was fucking the mother.’

‘I knew that.’

‘The kid phoned Ireland and threatened to give the story to the media unless Ireland helped him.’

‘How d’you know that?’

‘Ireland got pissed and told me.’

‘All right, I believe you so far. What did Justin want?’

‘He wanted Wayne to arrange a false passport for him.’

‘Wayne, eh? You were mates then?’

‘We were, sort of, when it suited him. Not now.’

‘How could Ireland do that? He’s just a state government guy.’

‘Fuck, you obviously don’t know how it works. Those pricks’ve all got something on each other. Ireland could pull some Canberra strings when he had to. He’s fuckin’ pulling strings now, you’ll see.’

‘And?’

‘He’ll get seven years for manslaughter and serve five at the most. He’s salted a fair bit away over and above his super, and they’ll do a deal on that. He’ll be okay.’

‘Where does that leave you, Mike?’

‘Fucked. They’ll drop the perjury charge, I reckon, but I’ll be out of a job and out of this billet. I’ve got diabetes and hepatitis, plus a gambling addiction. If you give me the five hundred I’ll take it to Randwick and try to turn it into real money to get the fuck out of here. If I don’t, I’m no worse off.’

It was a desperate scenario and he knew it. I had some sympathy for him, but not much. Not enough to let up.

‘Did Ireland do what Justin wanted him to do?’

‘I dunno. A lot of shit was hitting the fan in the political game just then and it never came up again when we were en the piss.’

‘Why d’you think Ireland killed Angela Pettigrew?’

He shrugged. ‘He’s got an evil temper, especially when he’s pissed. She was always threatening to expose him. She must’ve pushed a bit too hard.’

I thought about it, still holding the money. If Ireland killed Angela because she threatened to expose him as an adulterer, what might he do to Justin, who had the same information and had tried to involve him in the sort of corruption that brought many a politician down?

I dropped the notes on the blankets one by one. O’Connor’s eyes followed their fall. My hand hovered over them.

‘Ireland’s probably gone to ground somewhere. D’you know where?’

‘No.’

‘He might have killed Justin Hampshire, too. What d’you reckon?’

O’Connor grabbed the notes with nicotine-stained fingers. ‘I fuckin’ hope so,’ he said, ‘and I hope you find out, you cunt.’

I was happy to get out of there and the information was certainly worth the five hundred. No sign of Ronny in the street. O’Connor would have to do without his cigarettes. These relationships I was running into-fathers and sons, mothers and daughters-made me glad I was childless. I stopped for a beer in a pub that was trying to look like a colonial inn and was doing a reasonable job of it. The beer was probably better, certainly colder.

I drove home with things on my mind, particularly the question of how to get to Wayne Ireland, so I was preoccupied when I pulled up outside my house, switched off the engine and took out the key. I only snapped out of it when I realised that a man was standing by my window with a gun in his hand. He made a winding motion and I lowered the window.

‘Hands on the wheel, Hardy, and get out slowly. Were going on a little trip.’

The street was empty. Everybody was home and minding their own business. My neighbour on one side was away and the house on the other side was unoccupied, awaiting renovation. High hedges opposite.

I put my hands on the wheel but shook my head. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

He leaned heavily on the wound-down window and pointed the pistol at my right knee. ‘Sharkey wants to see you,’ he said, ‘and if your knee was buggered he wouldn’t mind one little bit.’

What he didn’t know was that the driver’s side door on the Falcon didn’t lock properly. I gripped the wheel and threw my weight against the door. It flew open and knocked him off-balance. I jumped out and chopped down hard on the arm carrying the pistol. It hurt me but it hurt him more. He dropped the pistol and I scooped it up as he came at me with a lowered head and fists flailing. I stepped aside, clipped him on the ear with the gun and let him cannon into the doorpost on the car. He went down and blood sprayed over the car, the road, his clothes and mine.