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.’
