Open File by Peter Corris Page B

Stafford’s rigged pokies out of his Summer Hill hotel. The car was a Daimler with leather seats and a bar and telephone. Stafford smiled at me with his perfectly capped teeth.
    ‘We meet again.’
    I was still sucking in air as Sharkey flopped into the front passenger seat.
    ‘If that fat tank artist wants to come at me from the front,’ I said, ‘I’ll make him uglier than he already is.’
    ‘You hear that, Sharkey?’ Stafford said.
    ‘I heard. Any time, Hardy. Any time.’
    Stafford took a cigarette from a gold case and lit it with a gold lighter. He adjusted the cuffs on his shirt, showing me the solid gold monogrammed links. ‘I’d like to see it. But not now. I took the opportunity to pay you back for the trouble you caused me, Hardy. But we’ve got other business today.’
    ‘What would that be?’
    ‘That cunt Paul Hampshire’s back. Bald bastard’s wearing a fuckin’ wig. And you’ve seen him. One of my people spotted you and that heap of shit you drive in Rose Bay where Hampshire was staying.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘So the dumb prick was slow getting the information to me and the cunt’s not there now and I want to know where he is.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Why d’you fuckin’ think? He owes me money.’
    ‘I get the impression he owes money to quite a few people.’
    ‘Not like he does with me. He ripped me off big time and then shot through to America.’
    ‘That’s interesting.’
    ‘Don’t be smart with me unless you want more of what you just had.’
    ‘I’d be ready for him now and I’d make it a bit harder. Your driver doesn’t look like much and you’re well past it, Wilson.’
    Finn half turned and showed the business end of a pistol, silencer fitted.
    ‘That’s different,’ I said. ‘But I can’t help you. Hampshire’s wife was murdered yesterday and right now he’s talking to the police—dunno who, dunno where.’
    ‘Fuck,’ Stafford said. ‘How do you know that?’
    ‘Because he rang me this morning and I told him to get in touch with them. I didn’t know he had a problem with you. I wish he’d told me and I’d have been ready for the canvas back kid there.’
    ‘Hardy, you—’
    Stafford cut him off. ‘Shut up, Sharkey. I have to think about this. I thought he’d hired you as protection.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Why, then?’
    ‘That’s between me and him, but it’s got nothing to do with you.’
    Stafford smoked his cigarette down to the filter and stubbed it out. It was the lunch hour and there were a few people in the street now. Finn put the gun away. I opened the door.
    ‘If that’s all, I’ll be going.’
    Stafford lit another cigarette. ‘You can give Hampshire a message. I—’
    I gripped his wrist, shook it and he dropped his lighter. ‘Fuck you. You say you held a grudge against me and got even. Well, I’ve got a grudge against you and Sharkey now and I’ll leave you a little something to think about.’
    I got out of the car, took my Swiss army knife from a pocket, opened the short blade and slid it quickly into both whitewalled back tyres. Then I joined the people walking towards the steps leading down to William Street. Petty maybe, but satisfying.

    I bought a salad roll in William Street and went back to the office. I had a drop of red to wash it down and as an aid to thought. I had an old sawn-off shotgun I’d taken from a disgruntled client. There were no shells then or now, but I put it on the desk anyway. Not that I really expected trouble, but with someone barely under control like Sharkey Finn, it pays to be cautious.
    I tried to remember exactly what Stafford’s reaction had been when I told him about Angela Pettigrew. Had he looked surprised? I couldn’t remember, there was too much going on. But now there was plenty to think about. If Hampshire had enemies like Wilson Stafford, he’d pulled a lot of wool over my eyes. He was in serious danger. Did the police know anything about his activities? Watson had played his cards very close