Peter Corris - Open File

‘Tania has put an interesting proposition to me, Hardy,’ Ireland said. ‘Very interesting.’

I sipped some of the very good wine and said nothing.

Tania flipped her cigarette into the fire and dug into her bag for the packet.

‘Yes, she proposes that I give you certain information about an individual in whom you have an interest. In return she guarantees that the way in which I came by this information will remain confidential, and she will write several newspaper articles to help correct the bias against me that’s currently being peddled.’

The pedantic phrasing and careful diction covered an underlying roughness, a legacy of a lower-class upbringing and schooling. Wayne Ireland had taken a long step vocally as well as in other ways.

‘How do you know you can trust her?’ I said. ‘You know she’d sell her mother into white slavery to get what she wants.’

Tania sat up and almost spilled her drink. ‘You bastard, you-’

‘Keep your shirt on, love,’ Ireland said, sounding more like the old unionist. ‘He’s just playing games with us, trying to assert himself.’

Tania delved for her lighter and lit up.

‘Now, I find that proposition fairly attractive,’ Ireland went on. ‘As you know, I have certain legal problems. Not insurmountable, but I certainly don’t need to add to them. I understand, Hardy, that you’re in a position to do just that.’

‘It could happen,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t have to.’

‘Exactly. I admire your dedication to your enquiry. Now, how should I put this? I was able to facilitate an individual…’

I could tell this wasn’t going to work the way Tania had planned it. Where was Damien and what was he up to? And Ireland Senior was way too sure of himself for my liking. Time for some more self-assertion. I drained the wine glass and set it on the floor.

‘Listen, Wayne, I don’t give a fuck what names you mention or how you pussyfoot around the details. I only want to know two things-did you provide Justin Hampshire with a passport and, if so, in what name? That’s it as far as I’m concerned. Tania can work out the subtleties with you however she likes.’

Ireland drew deeply on his cigar and tossed the long butt into the fire. ‘Justin Arnold Pettigrew,’ he said.

A bit stagily, Ireland opened a pigskin case, took out a cigar and lit it with a gas lighter. What he was drinking looked like whisky and he emptied his glass and let out a sigh. He looked tired, every day of his age and then some.

‘I also gave him three thousand dollars.’

‘That was… considerate,’ Tania said.

‘If it’s true,’ I said. ‘How do I know you didn’t solve your problem by killing him?’

‘There’s one very good reason why I wouldn’t do that. He could’ve been my son.’

I was on my way to the bar but I stopped. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Why don’t you get me some more scotch while you’re at it? Angela said he was. She might’ve been telling the truth. We were rooting like rabbits at the relevant time. Mind you, Angela and Hampshire were cohabiting at that time, not so much later. The girl’s certainly mine. She’s the image of my sister when she was that young.’

‘Ice or water?’

‘Ice, thanks.’

I topped up my glass and made his drink in a fresh one. I handed it to him and he nodded. The events of the last week-the alleged killing of Angela Pettigrew and the political, social and economic fallout from the charge-had taken a severe toll of him. Some yellowing of his eyes and a sagging quality to his flabbiness suggested he wasn’t eating and that his calories were coming mainly in liquid form.

‘How could you just ignore them?’ Tania said. She tossed her cigarette into the fire. ‘Your own children.’

Ireland showed some of the spirit that must have made him a tough union organiser and a ruthless party and parliamentary operator. ‘What would you know about it? What would you know about growing up in a housing department shithole with an alcoholic father and a mother on and off the game? I left school at fourteen barely able to read and write. It took me years to get enough confidence to write a fucking letter. I knocked my wife up at eighteen and it was hand-to-mouth for years.’

‘That doesn’t answer the question,’ Tania said.

‘Fuck you. I supported them. I propped up that stupid business of Angela’s for years while her drongo of a husband went around conning people.’

He took a solid slug of his whisky and when he spoke next his voice was slurred. Like a lot of heavy drinkers, the dividing line between sober and drunk was a matter of millilitres.

‘I’ll tell you something off the fucking record. Some of the money I scammed went straight to Angela and her bloody kids.’

‘That’s enough, Dad.’

Damien had come in quietly. No way to tell how much he’d heard. He moved quickly and took the glass from his father’s hand. Ireland sank back in his chair and stared into the fire as if he was seeing his past and future playing out in the flames.

Sometimes you have to kick a man when he’s down. ‘So you killed her,’ I said.

Ireland nodded.

‘No he didn’t,’ Damien said.

Ireland looked up, his blotchy face a mask of fear and confusion. ‘Shut up, son.’

Damien was suddenly masterful and in control. He reached around to his back and produced a pistol. He held it in a rock-steady hand pointed directly at Tania’s glossy head.

‘No, Dad. You’ve made a big mistake. This bitch and her minder aren’t here to do a deal. They’re here to bleed you dry.’

‘No!’ Tania’s normally modulated tone disintegrated.

I sat still. Damien had done exactly the right thing- focused the threat on the most vulnerable person. For all her raunchy facade, Tania had never faced a loaded firearm and it terrified her into an almost hypnotic state. Damien Ireland would be able to get her to do anything he wanted.

‘Tania,’ Damien said quietly, ‘I want you to get up very slowly and put your sexy leather bag in my father’s lap. Gently. I see it as two very slow movements.’

Tania did as she was told and almost collapsed back into her chair, still staring at the unwavering pistol.

‘Reach in, Dad,’ Damien said. ‘London to a brick you’ll find a tape-recorder running.’

Similarly mesmerised, Wayne Ireland did as his son instructed and produced the miniature tape-recorder. He held it to his ear and must have heard the faint tape hiss.

‘You bitch,’ he said. ‘You were always going to fuck me over.’

‘Chuck it in the fire, Dad.’

Ireland did. The recorder landed in the middle of the burning logs and erupted in a display of blue and yellow flames as the plastic caught and flared. Tania hid her face in her hands.

‘I killed Angela Pettigrew,’ Damien said.

‘Jesus, son, no,’ Ireland Senior said. ‘It’s just a manslaughter charge. The lawyers’ll get me off. It’s all circumstantial. Worst comes to worst I’ll get a short sentence served somewhere soft.’

‘I know that, Dad. We’ll stick to the plan, but with your health the way it is that won’t be a cakewalk and we can’t trust this pair.’

Damien’s control was frightening. Big and boofy as he was, and apparently under his father’s thumb, I had underestimated him. Now I needed to unsettle him somehow. I took a sip of my drink.

‘But you wouldn’t get off it easily, Damien, would you? You’d go for murder, no worries. How and why did you do it?’

‘She was blackmailing Dad and threatening to expose him as an adulterer and-’

‘A corrupt thief,’ I said.

‘Shut your face. I followed him to the house and I finished her off after he left.’