Open File (14 page)

‘The poor kid, after all that build-up from his father. So are you getting anywhere, Cliff?’

‘Hard to say. I’ve got someone to see who might be useful.’

‘Is the Easter offer still open?’

‘You bet.’

‘What if you’re still working on this?’

You can never tell but I had a feeling things were coming together pretty quickly. I said I’d be in the clear by Easter.

‘I’ll believe that when it happens. What’ve we got, a few weeks? I hope you find the kid and earn your fee and your time’s your own. Know what? I’ve never seen the Blue Mountains.’

‘I’ll show them to you. You won’t be disappointed. They’re sort of blue, on a good day, when they’re not grey or green.’

You can’t get to see a psychiatrist without a referral from another doctor and then you’re likely to have to wait days, if not weeks, for an appointment. I didn’t have the time. A lot of people in that profession have consulting space in their houses—cuts down the overheads, especially if the wife doubles as a secretary/receptionist, and makes for a comforting atmosphere. Dr Hans Van Der Harr was in the phone book with an address in Mona Vale. It had been a long day, but I fuelled up on coffee, a couple of caffeine pills and two sausage rolls and headed north yet again.

The house was an ordinary-looking bungalow with an obviously built-on structure to one side. A pleasant garden, a car under a carport and another parked behind it. The house overlooked a golf course, which was a pleasant enough aspect, I supposed. Long way to the water though. The light was dimming when I arrived and I stayed in the car for a while, considering my strategy. A door to the added-on section opened and a man came out, hurrying, looking perhaps a little furtive. A patient most likely. He went to a newish Celica parked in the street and sat in it for a minute or more before starting up and driving off.

I got out, went to the door he’d come from and rang the bell, hoping the doctor hadn’t retreated inside the house. The door opened and a tall, blonde, heavily built man stood there with a look of surprise on his face. National and professional stereotyping can lead you astray, but this man looked like a Dutchman and had a beard like Sigmund Freud’s.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘my consulting hours—’

There was no other strategy. I pushed my way in and thrust my card at him. ‘I’m not here for a consultation, doctor. I’m acting for Paul Hampshire, whose wife has been
murdered, whose son is missing and whose daughter is now under police protection. We need to talk.’

For a second it looked as though he would resist, but he was older than me and softer, and he decided against it. I went down a short passage past an office to a room that looked likely to be where he plied his trade—soft lighting, a recliner, two easy chairs, books, soothing prints on the walls, a vase of flowers. I sat in one of the chairs and took out my notebook. Van Der Harr hesitated, then did a good job of controlling himself. He sat in the chair furthest from me.

‘I heard about Mrs Hampshire, of course, but—’

‘Pettigrew. Ms Pettigrew.’

‘Why are you so aggressive?’

‘It’s my nature. Tell me everything you can about your sessions with Justin Hampshire.’

‘I’ll do nothing of the sort. That’s totally privileged.’

‘Under the circumstances, your privilege has lapsed. How would you feel about a charge of sexually molesting an underage female?’

His calm demeanour deserted him. He blinked furiously and tugged at his beard. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I’m sure you do, Doctor. You didn’t go to the police when he went missing because you don’t want to have anything to do with them, do you? Well, you don’t have to if you talk to me about Justin. I warn you that I’ve found out a lot about him and I’ll know if you lie to me.’

He made one last effort. ‘This is blackmail.’

‘Right, in a good cause.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Free-associate for me.’

By now he was a frightened man. He cleared his throat. ‘I saw the young man three times.’

‘I’ll need the dates, but go on for now.’

He told me that Justin had come under protest, at his mother’s insistence. That he was taciturn, resentful, uncooperative.

‘He poured scorn on psychiatry, called me a charlatan. When he finally began to talk he was aggressive, threatening.’

‘Physically?’

‘Yes. He was big and very fit, as you are no doubt aware. He used to clench a rubber ball in his hands, presumably to strengthen them. One time when he became angry he threw it at me. It hit me on the head and it hurt.’

‘What did you say to make him angry?’

‘I suggested that he contact his father and try to talk to him. I believed that his problems all stemmed from 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 deal’s a deal,’ I said. ‘But I’d strongly advise you to keep your grubby hands to yourself.’

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.’

‘Marrickville RSL.’

I laughed. ‘Try again.’

‘Fuck you. You say.’

I drank some wine and thought. I knew Stafford wouldn’t venture too far from his own stamping ground.

‘I fancy somewhere with people around. Lots of them, where this punchy animal and you would have to behave. Wouldn’t want to take you too far out of your comfort zone though—what about the outside area of the coffee shop at the Smith Street entrance to the Marrickville Metro? I seem to remember that the coffee’s all right, and it’s BYO at lunchtime. You could have a nice focaccia. Nothing for Sharkey, of course.’

‘When?’

‘Oh, about now tomorrow—lunchtime eaters and shoppers around. You bring Sharkey and I’ll be there. Even stevens or a bit our way, allowing for Sharkey’s brain damage. No weapons.’

Stafford drank some wine, did some more fidgeting and nodded. ‘All right.’

I finished my wine. ‘Good. Ah, here’s your lunch, looks like swordfish. Good choice. Bet Sharkey nicks a chip or two. See you tomorrow and thanks for the drink.’