Open File by Peter Corris Page A

bloke with a ready wit but a short fuse said, ‘Because I don’t want to make it easy for bastards like you.’
    I felt pretty much that way about the Australia Card.
    That memory made me smile, the first bit of amusement since I’d been with Kathy Petersen. The phone rang. I wasn’t in the mood for more work or free to do it, so I let the machine take the call. It was her.
    ‘Hello, Cliff, just checking to see if you—’
    I picked up. ‘Kathy.’
    ‘I was going to say, to see if you spent any time in your office or were always on the prowl.’
    ‘As little as possible. Good to hear you. No teaching, no surf?’
    ‘No teaching and that bloody south-westerly’s still blowing. Do you surf?’
    ‘Used to. Not for a while. The boards have changed, not sure how good I’d be.’
    ‘Were you good?’
    ‘Fair.’
    ‘How’s your investigation going?’
    I realised that it had been a long time since I’d had anyone to talk to about what I did, even in general terms. No partner for a few years, the last tenant in my house had moved out long ago and my best friend, Frank Parker, being a senior cop and recently appointed Deputy Commissioner, didn’t want to engage in what was virtually shoptalk. We talked sport mainly, and I talked writs withViv Garner and sprains and contusions with my doctor mate, Ian Sangster.
    ‘It’s getting complicated. Did you hear about the woman killed at Church Point?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘She was the mother of my missing kid.’
    ‘Jesus, that’s nasty. Is it connected with what you’re doing?’
    ‘I don’t see how but it means I’m going to have cops checking me over for a bit. Not that that’s anything new. I told them where I was yesterday, had to. Didn’t mention you, but you might confirm that I ate dinner in the pub.’
    She laughed. ‘Sorry, it’s no laughing matter. I’ll confirm that you stayed the night if they ask. I’ve got nothing to hide and . . . I enjoyed it.’
    ‘So did I.’
    A slight pause, then she said, ‘Well, I’ve got things to do. I wanted to tell you I’m going to Bega to talk to Grandma tomorrow. I’ll let you know if I learn anything useful.’
    ‘Call me anyway. This’ll sort out one way or another, so try and keep Easter free. Can I have your number?’
    She rattled it off. ‘Don’t feel obligated,’ she said. ‘Sounds as if you’ve got enough on your plate. See you, Cliff.’
     
    The mail brought bills and with Hampshire’s retainer in the account I wrote out a few cheques and, thinking about lunch, went down to post them in the box at the quiet section of Forbes Street. I dropped the envelopes in the box and felt a hard punch to the right kidney that drove thewind out of me. I spun around, fighting for breath, and took a solid thump down where you don’t want it. The toast and coffee threatened to come up, my eyes flooded and closed against the pain and I sagged against the postbox, still gasping, and with no strength to retaliate.
    ‘Keep your mouth shut, Hardy. If you chuck over me I’ll really hurt you.’
    I knew the voice and as my vision cleared I recognised the face. Billy ‘Sharkey’ Finn had been briefly middleweight champion of Australia five years ago before the booze and drugs got to him. He lost the title and a few more bouts, some certainly thrown for a payoff from the gamblers, and became a standover man for various heavy Sydney crims. Sharkey was fat now, a heavyweight for sure, but he was still strong. In my struggling condition he had no trouble half dragging, half carrying me to a car that drew up nearby. He held me up with one hand, opened the door and shoved me into the back seat.
    The man sitting there was impeccably dressed in a lightweight suit and he was barbered and manicured to within an inch of his life—Wilson Stafford, a ‘colourful racing identity’ to the tabloids. We’d crossed paths once years back. Stafford used to do some of his own muscle work then. I’d helped a pub owner keep