When I got back to the office I found that Tania had faxed through a brief translation of the relevant passage in Van Der Harr’s notes: Subject says intends to contact father’s enemy named Ireland to cause father harm. Agitated, disturbed, delusional? That was pretty much in line with what the psychiatrist had told me. It could prove useful or be a dead end, but one question persisted: how did Justin come up with the idea that Ireland was Hampshire’s enemy?
I sat down with my notebook and went through my usual routine of referring to the notes of interviews and scribbled comments, writing down names, boxing them in, joining them with arrows or dotted lines according to the strength or weakness of the connections. It usually ended up like a dog’s breakfast and wasn’t helpful, but this time it was. The connection between Justin and Ireland ran through Ronny O’Connor and his father, Michael. Not strong, but there.
Tackling Wayne Ireland was going to be difficult and it was important to test Van Der Harr’s suggestion that Justin was delusional. Was he just mixing up his mother’s adultery with his father’s many failings? Or had he come across something solid? Michael O’Connor was scheduled to be a witness against Ireland when he came to trial. That could be a long time off. If Ireland was acquitted, O’Connor was a sitting duck, up for a perjury charge. He must have lost his job. Couldn’t be happy, maybe willing to talk, but there was no chance the police would tell me where he was.
Contacts are everything in this line of work and, while I didn’t know anyone in charge of the government car pool, I did know the boss at the place in Paddington where they were serviced. He was a fan of old Falcons and I’d been referred to him when it looked as though the state of mine might be terminal. It wasn’t: Todd Hawker brought it back to life at a cost almost equal to its value overall.
I bought a six-pack of Reschs Pilsener and drove to Paddington, parking in one of the bays reserved for cars being worked on.
‘Hey!’ a mechanic working close by shouted.
‘I’m here to see Todd,’ I said. ‘Won’t be long.’
He ducked his head back under the bonnet and fiddled with something. The workshop was busy, with three cars up on hoists and machinery running. To get to Todd’s office you have to step over tyres, gear boxes and other car parts and try to keep yourself clear of grease and oil slicks. Todd wasn’t a desk wallah; he wore overalls and got them and himself dirty. He was sitting at his desk totally absorbed in a batch of invoices. I entered quietly and put the beer down in front of him.
He looked up. ‘Oh, Christ, Cliff Hardy with baksheesh. What is it, a master cylinder again?’
‘Nothing mechanical, mate,’ I said. ‘A tiny scrap of information.’
He broke the plastic wrapping, pulled out two beers and pushed one towards me. We took the tops off and touched bottles.
‘Information?’
‘You know Michael O’Connor-drives for Wayne Ireland, or did.’
Todd drank a third of the beer in a gulp. ‘I know him. A real prick. What’s he done?’
‘This and that. I need to talk to him. Got an address?’
Another gulp lowered the level. ‘Why would I have an address? I don’t send him any fuckin’ invoices. The government pays for the work on the cars-you and me, that is. I’ve got a home phone number, but.’
I was enjoying the beer, taking it more slowly. ‘That’ll do.’
Todd finished his drink, got a notebook from the drawer and thumbed through it. He found the number and I wrote it down.
‘You say he’s a prick. Anything specific?’
‘He asked me to inflate the price of the work on his boss’s car. Said he could get it passed and we’d split the difference. I told him to fuck off. A few of them come it, but he was a bit persistent. Tried it on with the petrol, too. Greedy bastard. I only do the government’s cars. Another mob does the Opposition’s. I bet it happens with those cunts. Me, I’m public spirited.’
‘And like you say, we pay for it. Labor’s in trouble, though. What’ll you do if the Liberals take over?’
‘No worries. They’ll take the work off me for sure. I’ll switch over with a bit of luck.’
I thanked him, we talked politics briefly and I left. It’s not easy these days to find a telephone booth with an intact phone book but I got lucky a few blocks from Todd’s garage. Intact enough, anyway, for me to check on the M O’Connors. There was a column and a half of them, but the phone number did the trick. Michael, the admitted conniver or the alleged blackmailer, father of Ronald, lived in The Rocks. Very nice, and handy to Parliament House.
I drove to The Rocks, found a parking place and fed the meter. I drew five hundred dollars from an ATM, just about the last of Hampshire’s retainer.
O’Connor’s sandstone cottage was in the shadow of the bridge in what looked like a heritage-protected, rent-controlled area of the precinct. Maybe a perk of his job. Right time to catch him because if that was true he’d be leaving soon. I hadn’t rehearsed my approach-sometimes spontaneity was the way to go. The cottage sat straight on the street. I used the knocker and when the door opened I was looking at Ronny.
I had a foot and a shoulder inside as he stepped back. ‘Gidday, Ronny old son,’ I said. ‘Your dad in?’
‘The fuck do you want?’
I kept moving so that I was completely inside. ‘What kind of a way is that to talk to the bloke who gave you a lift and a packet of fags?’
I pushed on down the passage and he retreated. ‘And belted me and dobbed me in to the cops.’
‘It was just a tap, and when Sarah’s mother was killed I didn’t have any choice about talking to the cops. For what it’s worth, I told them I was sure you hadn’t done it.’
Ronny wasn’t at his best: he was unshaven, probably under-slept and he smelled of beer and dope, but he wasn’t without some spirit. ‘Why not? I hated the bitch.’
‘You’re not the type, and don’t try to be the type, you won’t make it. I want to talk to your father.’
‘He’s crook.’
‘I imagine so. He’s facing goal. Does he need money?’
Ronny wasn’t so out of it not to respond to that. ‘Yeah, I suppose.’
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.’