that relationship. That incident happened near the end of our last session.’
‘Near the end? What else was said?’
‘He said that if he saw his father again he’d kill him. He had this military fantasy, as you’d know.’
‘Much as I dislike doing it I’ll have to ask your professional opinion. What effect would the complete demolition of that fantasy do to him?’
‘Oh, that would be catastrophic. He could become violent or…’
‘Suicidal?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Vengeful?’
‘Very likely. In fact…’
‘Yes?’
‘He said that his father had enemies and he wished he knew who they were. At first I thought it was a delusion. I still think I was right about the relationship with the father being the source of his trouble and I would have pursued it, but…’
‘Check your records and give me the date of that last session, then I’ll go.’
I followed him into the office. He unlocked a filing cabinet, riffled through the contents and pulled out a folder. I stepped forward and snatched it from him. It had Van Der Harr’s name imprinted on it and Justin’s in bold letters.
‘You can’t take that.’
‘Why not?’
‘My God, you’re nothing but a criminal.’
I gave him the Hardy stare and he wilted. ‘You won’t…’
‘A deals a deal,’ I said. ‘But I’d strongly advise you to keep your grubby hands to yourself.’
15
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.’
