thanked him, asked if there was anything he wanted that I could help with, but he was exhausted and didn’t reply. We shook hands again.
Before leaving I put most of whatever I had in my wallet in the donation box.
11
So Justin wasn’t gay, wasn’t into drugs and had tried to learn French in order to join the Foreign Legion. That sounded like a fantasy, and the police had established with a reasonable degree of certainty that he hadn’t left the country. He’d found out that neither his great-grandfather, grandfather or father were war heroes. Was that enough to turn him away from school, Duntroon and his family? Had he found out that his father was a crook?
All these interlocking questions occupied my mind along with plenty of other related ones—like, who killed Angela Pettigrew and why? And what were Paul Hampshire’s chances out and about in Sydney with Wilson Stafford after him, ably and viciously assisted by Sharkey Finn? And where did I stand if my client, obviously ‘a person of interest’ to the police, became of more interest?
I’d walked to the hospice after driving to Darlinghurst where I had an arrangement with the owner of a house in Forbes Street. His terrace house had a side recess that I could just fit the Falcon into and he let me park there for a modest fee. After the confrontation with Stafford and his henchman, I’d taken to keeping my licensed .38 Smith &Wesson to hand. I took it from the car and went up to the office. These old buildings have many pitfalls—poor lighting, dodgy stairs, places to hide. I observed all the precautions, feeling, when I reached the office safely, a mixture of relief and guilt at being paranoid.
For all the civility and humanity of the nun and the courage of Pierre Fontaine, the hospice experience had shaken me and I poured a solid slug of cask wine before I sat down to look at the mail and the faxes. There was nothing that couldn’t wait or simply be ignored. I dug Watson’s card out of my wallet and rang him. I identified myself and the indifference in his voice was packed into one word.
‘Yes?’
‘I wondered whether you were making any progress on the Pettigrew case?’
‘What makes you think I’d talk to you about that?’
‘Did you get to talk to Hampshire? I’d be interested to hear what he had to say.’
‘I’m hanging up, Hardy.’
‘Before you do, does the name Wilson Stafford mean anything to you?’
He didn’t hang up and I enjoyed the moment and the change in his tone.
‘Why should it?’
‘Well, I had a meeting with him yesterday. Not a pleasant one, but one way or another things came up that might interest you.’
‘Okay, Hardy, you’re living up to your reputation as a pain in the arse. What do you want?’
‘Just a quiet talk. I tell you some things and you do the same. Remember, I’m still looking for the missing son of amurdered woman and a man you’d no doubt describe as a person of interest.’
‘I don’t want you interfering.’
‘I don’t want to. I’m looking for mutual cooperation. Where’re you based, Sergeant?’
‘Chatswood.’
‘That’s not so far. Why don’t we have a get-together over a drink later today?’
‘You’re pushing it.’
‘I listened to the news and read the paper. You’ve put a tight wrap on the thing, but as I look at it you haven’t got a fucking clue who killed the woman or why.’
He let go an exasperated sigh. ‘Six thirty, Tosca’s wine bar. See if you’re a good enough detective to find it.’
He hung up.
Temper, temper
, I thought. I wrote up some notes on the meeting with Fontaine and did some more of my diagrams with the boxes and the connecting arrows and the dotted lines that meant
maybe
this related to that.
Chatswood was changing fast, with high rises springing up; the holes in the ground and cranes in the air indicated that more were on the way. I located the wine bar on the ground level of an apartment block. Not far to go for a drink, a
Before leaving I put most of whatever I had in my wallet in the donation box.
11
So Justin wasn’t gay, wasn’t into drugs and had tried to learn French in order to join the Foreign Legion. That sounded like a fantasy, and the police had established with a reasonable degree of certainty that he hadn’t left the country. He’d found out that neither his great-grandfather, grandfather or father were war heroes. Was that enough to turn him away from school, Duntroon and his family? Had he found out that his father was a crook?
All these interlocking questions occupied my mind along with plenty of other related ones—like, who killed Angela Pettigrew and why? And what were Paul Hampshire’s chances out and about in Sydney with Wilson Stafford after him, ably and viciously assisted by Sharkey Finn? And where did I stand if my client, obviously ‘a person of interest’ to the police, became of more interest?
I’d walked to the hospice after driving to Darlinghurst where I had an arrangement with the owner of a house in Forbes Street. His terrace house had a side recess that I could just fit the Falcon into and he let me park there for a modest fee. After the confrontation with Stafford and his henchman, I’d taken to keeping my licensed .38 Smith &Wesson to hand. I took it from the car and went up to the office. These old buildings have many pitfalls—poor lighting, dodgy stairs, places to hide. I observed all the precautions, feeling, when I reached the office safely, a mixture of relief and guilt at being paranoid.
For all the civility and humanity of the nun and the courage of Pierre Fontaine, the hospice experience had shaken me and I poured a solid slug of cask wine before I sat down to look at the mail and the faxes. There was nothing that couldn’t wait or simply be ignored. I dug Watson’s card out of my wallet and rang him. I identified myself and the indifference in his voice was packed into one word.
‘Yes?’
‘I wondered whether you were making any progress on the Pettigrew case?’
‘What makes you think I’d talk to you about that?’
‘Did you get to talk to Hampshire? I’d be interested to hear what he had to say.’
‘I’m hanging up, Hardy.’
‘Before you do, does the name Wilson Stafford mean anything to you?’
He didn’t hang up and I enjoyed the moment and the change in his tone.
‘Why should it?’
‘Well, I had a meeting with him yesterday. Not a pleasant one, but one way or another things came up that might interest you.’
‘Okay, Hardy, you’re living up to your reputation as a pain in the arse. What do you want?’
‘Just a quiet talk. I tell you some things and you do the same. Remember, I’m still looking for the missing son of amurdered woman and a man you’d no doubt describe as a person of interest.’
‘I don’t want you interfering.’
‘I don’t want to. I’m looking for mutual cooperation. Where’re you based, Sergeant?’
‘Chatswood.’
‘That’s not so far. Why don’t we have a get-together over a drink later today?’
‘You’re pushing it.’
‘I listened to the news and read the paper. You’ve put a tight wrap on the thing, but as I look at it you haven’t got a fucking clue who killed the woman or why.’
He let go an exasperated sigh. ‘Six thirty, Tosca’s wine bar. See if you’re a good enough detective to find it.’
He hung up.
Temper, temper
, I thought. I wrote up some notes on the meeting with Fontaine and did some more of my diagrams with the boxes and the connecting arrows and the dotted lines that meant
maybe
this related to that.
Chatswood was changing fast, with high rises springing up; the holes in the ground and cranes in the air indicated that more were on the way. I located the wine bar on the ground level of an apartment block. Not far to go for a drink, a
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