The encounter had been potentially useful but unpleasant, leaving a bad taste in my mouth, not through guilt but something like it. I drove home in an edgy mood. Just occasionally I had these sorts of feelings, asking myself if it was all worth it-these manipulations, this playing on people’s weaknesses. The doubts didn’t usually last. Hampshire wasn’t much as men go, but Sarah hadn’t had a fair shake and was worth helping. Above all, the boy was missing and I knew that when I focused on that, the misgivings would fall away.
I got home, poured a drink and sat down with Van Der Harr’s file on Justin. I had to laugh-the psychiatrist’s notes were in Dutch. As a kid I’d had a friend named Hendrik Kip, a Dutch immigrant. With some hesitation he’d told me that the word kip meant chicken. I’d picked up a few expressions and words from him as we rode bikes around Maroubra, swam and smoked furtive cigarettes, but kip means chicken was all that remained and I doubted it’d crop up in the therapist’s record. All I was able to understand was the date of the last session-two days before Justin disappeared.
I put the file aside and topped up my drink. Fatigue was getting to me and I decided to put off making notes on the day until tomorrow. I finished the drink and went up to bed, trying to figure out how to get the Dutch notes translated. With Hendrik, long lost touch with, on my mind I couldn’t think of a single person I knew of that nationality, let alone one who’d be happy to work on something obviously private and obviously acquired illegitimately.
When I’m on my own I can’t sleep without reading for a short time, even if I’m tired and with alcohol helping. I picked up the Hughes book and read for ten minutes before feeling the heavy hardback drooping in my hands. But the question had stayed in my head and the answer came just before I fell asleep: Hilde was Swiss-German, and surely someone who can read German can read Dutch?
Wilson Stafford wasn’t hard to find. He lived in Marrickville, in the nearest thing to a secure compound you can find in the inner west-a cluster of buildings inside a high wall with security gates. The site was a former timber yard and I guessed Stafford had to have pulled some strings to get the area rezoned residential. He lived there with a couple of his sons and their families, and the amount of money they spent in the locality won them influence and friends. But Stafford needed to meet people to conduct his various businesses and his favourite meeting place was a Portuguese restaurant on Addison Road.
I arrived at about twelve thirty, when Stafford would almost certainly be there, looking for his lunch. The restaurant wasn’t large, flash, or fashionable, but Stafford’s patronage helped to keep it running. He was there, at a table that would have seated six although only he, Sharkey Finn and another man occupied it. There were customers at two other tables. Stafford’s party had bread and olive oil on the table, plus a couple of bottles of wine. Looking relaxed, until I arrived.
Sharkey saw me first, pulled himself up out of his slumped position and nudged Stafford, who looked up and went through his usual fidgety routine-cuffs, tie knot, wristwatch adjustment. He’d have been a lousy poker player. I went to the bar and ordered a glass of wine.
‘Are you lunching, sir?’ the barman asked.
‘I’m not sure. I’m joining Mr Stafford.’
Enough said. He poured the wine and I took the glass to Stafford’s table and sat down.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ Stafford said.
‘I’m here as an intermediary. I’ll explain the word for Sharkey’s benefit-someone who stands between two parties to make an arrangement to suit them.’
Stafford nodded at the other man, who left the table. Sharkey fingered his wine glass-a possible weapon. Stafford leaned back and said nothing as his first course arrived-fried sardines. He tucked a napkin into his shirt front. ‘Sharkey’s on a diet,’ he said.
‘Good idea. Me too. Paul Hampshire wants a meeting. He’s got a proposition for you.’
Stafford speared one of the sardines, crunched it and sighed his satisfaction. He followed it with a gulp of wine. ‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Some kind of recompense. Familiar with that word, Sharkey?’
‘Keep it up, Hardy. Dig your fucking grave with your mouth.’
I was trying to provoke him. He couldn’t shoot me here and I was ready for him now if he came at me. As heavy as he was, well over his fighting weight, he’d be that much slower and I was set to hit him with anything to hand. But Sharkey had half a bottle of wine inside him and he knew the odds weren’t good. He ignored me and got on with his drinking.
Stafford was a greedy eater; he shovelled the sardines in and wiped his plate with a chunk of bread. The smell of the food made me hungry but Stafford’s table manners turned me right off. With his mouth full of bread he said, ‘Do you know how much that fucker owes me?’
‘No, and I don’t care. I’m delivering a message.’
Sharkey snorted at that and Stafford frowned at him. He swallowed and reached for more bread which he dipped in the olive oil. ‘Well, I’ll talk to the arsehole. Tell him to be here this time tomorrow.’
The guy who’d been sitting at the table previously was now in a corner keeping an eye on things; the barman had reacted immediately to Stafford’s name and would be on his side in any trouble. Throw in Sharkey. I shook my head. ‘No chance of that, Wilson. This is your turf, you could arrange to have the place cleared of everyone except the people you’ve got by the balls. Somewhere neutral.’
Sharkey shook his head and this time Stafford scowled at him. Trouble there, I thought. Could be useful.
The chunk of bread in Stafford’s hand dripped oil onto the tablecloth. He shrugged and the oil sprayed a bit.
‘Not sure I care that much,’ he said.
‘You care,’ I said. ‘Barry Templeton told me a bit about how Hampshire took you down. Barry enjoyed telling it. You might enjoy telling him how you recouped your losses.’
‘Templeton, that cunt. All right, where?’
‘You suggest somewhere.’
‘Marrickville RSL.’
I laughed. ‘Try again.’
‘Fuck you. You say.’
I drank some wine and thought. I knew Stafford wouldn’t venture too far from his own stamping ground.
‘I fancy somewhere with people around. Lots of them, where this punchy animal and you would have to behave. Wouldn’t want to take you too far out of your comfort zone though-what about the outside area of the coffee shop at the Smith Street entrance to the Marrickville Metro? I seem to remember that the coffee’s all right, and it’s BYO at lunchtime. You could have a nice focaccia. Nothing for Sharkey, of course.’
‘When?’
‘Oh, about now tomorrow-lunchtime eaters and shoppers around. You bring Sharkey and I’ll be there. Even Stevens or a bit our way, allowing for Sharkey’s brain damage. No weapons.’
Stafford drank some wine, did some more fidgeting and nodded. ‘All right.’
I finished my wine. ‘Good. Ah, here’s your lunch, looks like swordfish. Good choice. Bet Sharkey nicks a chip or two. See you tomorrow and thanks for the drink.’
I phoned Hilde to say I had something she could help me with and asked after Sarah.
‘She’s okay. We went to the cinema last night. Aliens. She and Frank enjoyed it, can’t say I did much-very scary. I’m glad we left Peter with a sitter. Sarah’s getting on well with him and I heard her telling him all about the film-sorry, movie. She doesn’t talk about her mother, but says having Peter around makes her miss her brother all over again.’
She paused as if she was going to say more and I prompted her.
‘Perhaps she’s a little too easy. I sometimes get the feeling she’s acting.’
I said I was coming over and drove to Paddington, negotiated the narrow streets with their speed humps, and pulled up in front of the Parkers’ house just as Sarah was coming out. She gave me a smile and lifted the shopping bag she was carrying.
‘Hello, Mr Hardy. I’m going shopping, would you believe? Hilde’s going to teach me to make lamb on a spoon.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Search me. She reckons it takes eight hours to cook. Bit of a change from the TV dinners I’ve lived off lately. Twenty minutes max.’
‘You like the Parkers?’
‘Sure. Frank’s a bit, you know, official. But Hilde’s great, and Peter’s a shit-hot pool player and a cool kid. He reminds me of Justin.’
‘Pool, right-how d’you stand, head to head?’
‘Dead level.’ She shifted the bag to her other hand and dug in it for her cigarettes. She lit up. ‘Did they find Ronny?’
‘Yes, but that’s all I know. If I hear more I’ll tell you.’
‘I’ll hold you to that.’ She walked off in her denim jacket, jeans and sneakers-an ordinary teenager, trailing smoke. A little further down the street a car door closed and a man stepped out and approached me.
‘Constable Simpson, Mr Hardy.’ He flashed his ID. ‘Happy to be out of uniform for a bit. No sign of any trouble so far.’
‘D’you know what to look for?’
‘Everything.’ He set off at a smart pace after Sarah as she rounded the corner.
I rang the bell and Hilde came to the door. A quick hug and I was in. The Parkers’ house was just the way a Victorian terrace should be-uncluttered, making the most of the available space, furniture and trappings more or less in keeping with the style of the house, but in an unstudied way. I followed Hilde through to the kitchen, which was renovated but not glossy. She had been my tenant for a few years, around the time my path crossed with Frank’s. I’d brought them together and the three of us were close. She knew my ways.
‘A sandwich and a glass of wine,’ she said. ‘All ready. What’s this help you need?’
I handed her the folder, sat down at the table and ate the sandwich. Curried egg-a favourite.
‘Cliff, where did you get this?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘The man must be mad to let you even see it, never mind…’
‘He didn’t have any choice, but don’t worry, he won’t squawk. Great sandwich.’
Hilde shook her head as she flipped over a few pages. I drank some cold white wine, picked up a few bits of egg with my fingers and wiped my hands with a napkin. ‘Can you read it? Do a rough translation?’
‘Yes, of course, but I’m not sure I should.’
‘Look, I don’t even know if it’s important. As Frank might say, I’m trying to eliminate it from my enquiry. I’m doing everything I can to find Sarah’s brother.’
She smiled. ‘You bastard. You’re applying pressure.’
‘If it’ll make you any happier, I promise I’ll send it back to the shrink after I know what it says.’
She nodded. ‘All right. It’ll take a while. Probably a few days for me to find the time. I’ll have to brush up on the differences in the languages a bit. Sort of get the feel of the Dutch. Some of this looks technical.’
‘That’s okay. Just give me the gist. I’ve got other things to do.’
‘Do you think you can find him?’
It’s never been my habit to ask a question like that midway through a search-it can be confidence sapping- but she forced me to it. I finished off the wine and stood.
‘I don’t know, love. I really don’t know.’ I gave her a kiss. ‘Thanks for everything. I like the sound of lamb on a spoon. Invite me over for it some time, eh?’