the shelf of books and wondered whether she had overstimulated her imagination. I still had enough police contacts to establish whether Standish was a suspect in Malouf's death, but I urgently needed to talk to Standish, otherwise I was stumbling around in the dark.
'Where are the kids?' I said.
'At school. Why?'
'Does your husband have access, visiting rights, picking up arrangements?'
'Hah, I see where you're going. He has those rights but he hasn't exercised them for weeks. You need to contact him and I need to know where he is. How about I hire you to find him?'
I shook my head.
'Why not? Not ethical? You're de-licensed. You couldn't have a contract with Miles and you don't need one with me. What d'you say?'
'No, too much conflict of interest. I need to find him for my own reasons.'
'Fair enough, but the offer remains open. I'll give you the clue I would've given you if you'd accepted. If you want to find Miles Standish, keep tabs on May Ling. That shouldn't be too hard for a man like you. Should be a pleasure.'
The storm swept in and dumped water on the city and then departed as if satisfied. The sun shone through a thin cloud cover but a wind kept the temperature low. I did some scouting. A lane runs behind the buildings that front New South Head Road in Edgecliff. At the end of the lane was a small, undercover car park, electronically controlled. The only alternative all-day parking for anyone working in the area was the huge, multi-level operation on the opposite side of the road over the railway station. Somehow I didn't think May Ling was the type to battle with the plebs in the concrete jungle. That's where I put my car while I had a slow lunch in a restaurant nearby, read the morning paper from cover to cover and took a one-hour walk up to Darling Point and back.
At four forty-five I was sitting in my car in the lane where parking was illegal and keeping my eye out for inspectors. Eventually they'll install cameras in these places, sack the inspectors and reap greater rewards, but just for now human beings were still useful. The afternoon had turned cold; parking inspectors are like everyone else- given the choice they'll do their job in greater comfort and there were ample opportunities to work under cover along the main road.
At five fifteen May Ling came tripping down the lane. She had a minimalist silver-grey umbrella up against the drizzle and despite her high heels she avoided puddles like a dancer obeying a choreographer to perfection. She wore a grey suit with an unfastened silvery rain slicker over it and her face seemed to glow in the damp, shaded surroundings. She closed the umbrella as she entered the car park and one hand dipped into her grey suede shoulder bag. When it came to accessories, May Ling was right there.
After five minutes, a silver Peugeot slid out of the car park. French, it figured. The car headed towards the city and I fell in behind it, keeping two cars back. The evening was drawing in and headlights, brake lights and indicators were sharp in the gloom. May Ling was a precise, cautious driver. She signalled her intentions early and was easy to follow. She entered the tunnel, was patient as the lanes clogged up and didn't try any fancy moves although other cars were jostling for position. This was a woman in control of herself and not letting anything disturb her composure.
The hazard of following anyone in these conditions is in the prospect of them stopping. If the quarry pulls in and stops and there's no parking space close by, you're gone. You have to move on and your chance of circling round and taking another couple of passes is almost nil. May Ling didn't stop. She went on to North Sydney, took a left and worked her way back to McMahons Point and the water. I wasn't familiar with the area, but it looked like the kind of place where May Ling and the silver Peugeot would fit right in.
She pulled up outside a block of flats as a light rain fell. I went further up the street, parked and watched. She turned on the interior light and used her mobile phone. A couple of minutes later a man came hurrying from the block. He wore a raincoat with the hood up, completely concealing his face. He looked to be about the same size as Standish and moved like a fit man, but I couldn't be sure. May Ling had turned out the light after the phone call, so I couldn't see anything inside her car once he got in. She started the engine and drove off in her steady, careful way.
Thursday night and busy. I followed the car back to North Sydney. May Ling cruised, looking for a parking spot, and found one. I had to park illegally to keep in touch. I'd get a ticket, but I was on expenses. Or was I? I didn't have a raincoat and I got wet following the pair along the street with only occasional cover from the awnings. The man kept his hood up. They walked close together but didn't touch. They entered a Chinese restaurant doing a roaring trade, but they must have made a booking because they were seated straight off.
'Sir?'
The head waiter looked sceptically at my jeans, windcheater and damp leather jacket.
'Can I wait at the bar for a free table?'
'Are you alone, sir?'
When I hear that I always want to come out with the Jake Gittes line: 'Aren't we all?' but I restrained myself. I said I had a friend coming.
'There could be a table for two in about thirty minutes. By all means wait in the bar.'
'Pencil me in,' I said.
He smiled, unamused.
I sat at the bar and ordered a glass of the house red. It cost ten dollars and the woman behind the bar poured it precisely so that you couldn't complain that it was too little, but certainly couldn't feel that it was generous. I had a clear view now of May Ling and her companion, who was definitely Standish but not the man I'd been with two days ago. He appeared pale and as if he'd lost weight. He had what looked like a double whisky in front of him and he was working on it as if it was his last drink in this life. May Ling slipped her jacket off in the warm room. Her pale neck was swanlike; her breasts suggested picture-perfection under her silk blouse. She had her hand on Standish's arm with the slender fingers moving gently but it wasn't doing him any good. The man was clearly close to his emotional limit.
After a while, say two-thirds of my glass of wine, Standish and May Ling were joined by two Chinese men. Both were medium-size, well dressed and known to the head waiter, who almost bowed to the floor on greeting them. Two chairs were quickly pulled out to allow them to sit down with a minimum of effort. They accepted all this as their right. They would.
I knew both of the men and the face of one had been in the newspapers and on television. The older of the two, the one with grey in his hair, was Freddy Wong. Freddy had avoided gaol for more than twenty years. He'd been acquitted several times-of drug importation, home invasion and conspiracy to commit murder, twice. The other man was his brother. No wonder Standish looked stressed.
I'd come up against Freddy Wong about ten years earlier when helping a Chinese family rescue a girl from a brothel he'd controlled. It was the classical thing-an offer of domestic employment, the arrangement of a visa and then the trap closed. But Wong or his agent had miscalculated. The girl had family in Sydney, including a police officer. They hired me and I worked with the cop to get the girl and several other women away and recover their passports. It had involved a violent confrontation between me and Wong's lieutenant-his brother. Threats were issued but nothing came of it.
Standish's involvement with the Wong brothers put a whole new spin on things. Added to that, Freddy Wong was one of the gamblers Malouf was said to have lost money to.
7
The Wongs had their backs to me but I still kept my head low and a hand up to my face. I searched my memory for Freddy's brother's name without a result. I remembered his snarling aggression and the fight we'd had in a lane behind the brothel in Petersham. It wasn't a martial arts affair, nothing balletic, just a knock-down, drag-out fist fight. He was fast and strong but he didn't have the timing and technique you need for that sort of stoush. We fought at close quarters, between two garbage skips, and there was no space for bullocking rushes, which would have been his preferred style. He swung a lot and missed a lot. A straight punch beats a swing most times, cumulatively. I wore him down and left him dazed and bleeding in the gutter.
