Peter Corris - Open File (Cliff Hardy series)

I rummaged in the box holding the bits and pieces Id collected in the office, pulled out a roll of masking tape and sealed the file. I sat down and couldnt help thinking about Justin Hampshire, someone I never met but who had occupied a corner of my mind for years. I hated to think of him dead under a thorn bush in Africa or rotting away in some South American jungle, but that was the likely outcome.

I dropped the folder into the box with the others and took a last look around the room. I hadnt been there very long but it had grown on me. Hard to say how long Hank would be able to stay. This stretch of King Street was being tarted up quickly, and someone was bound to take over the shop below, spend money up here and raise the rent or need the space.

The wife, whod prevailed upon Hank to give up PEA work in favour of installing security devices and providing computer upgrade services, had left him for greener pastures, and getting back to the kind of work he liked and did well was a good idea. Id managed to transfer to Hank a couple of cases Id been keeping warm while my licence cancellation was still under review. That would give him a start. Best I could do. I left the fax machinehardly ever used these daysand theclunky old Mac laptop for his use. I suspected the Mac would find its way into the council clean-up service.

I locked the door and carried the boxes and a bag of garbage down to the car. Call me sentimental, but Id arranged to have the Falcon put up on blocks in a friends unused garage. He promised to start it up from time to time. I knew Id be back, but I didnt know when, or what Id be doing.

No time to think about that now. Frank and Hilde were waiting at Glebe to drive me to the airport. I had a plane to catch.

For help in preparation of this book I am grateful to Ruth Corris and Jean Bedford. Beverley Kingstons A History of New South Wales (2006) helped to provide period facts and texture.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual people and circumstances is coincidental.

First published in 2008

Copyright Peter Corris 2008

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street
Crows Nest NSW 2065
Australia

National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

Corris, Peter, 1942 .

Open file / author, Peter Corris.

Crows Nest, N.S.W. : Allen & Unwin, 2008.

ISBN: 978 1 74175 417 9 (pbk.).

A823.3

Set in 12/14 pt Adobe Garamond by Midland Typesetters, Australia Printed in Australia by McPhersons Printing Group

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Ruth, Michelle and Heath.

PETER CORRIS is known as the godfather of Australian crime fiction through his Cliff Hardy detective stories. He has written in many other areas, including a co-authored autobiography of the late Professor Fred Hollows, a history of boxing in Australia, spy novels, historical novels and a collection of short stories about golf (see www.petercorris.net ). He is married to writer Jean Bedford and lives in Sydney. They have three daughters.

open file

My Private Enquiry Agent licence was cancelled, my appeal having been rejected with a clear indication that the ban was for life. Id reached a crossroad. That sounded better than a dead end. With money inherited from my murdered part-time partner Lily Truscott I was ready to take off overseas for a while. See her brother fight in an elimination bout for a shot at the WBA welterweight title, travel around the States and Europe, drink with friends. Bringing down the people whod killed Lily had helped with the grief and guilt, but I still had some things to come to terms with.

Id found a handyman friend to sit my Glebe house while I was away and continue making some much-needed repairs.

Hank Bachelor, whod helped me out more than once, was due to take over the Newtown office now that hed got back his enthusiasm for the PEA business. A few hours before I was due to fly out business class, I went to the office to clean it up a bit. At least leave Hank some space in the filing cabinets.

A lot of the stuff could be hurled, some Id take back home and stack away in a cupboard. I was sorting through it when I came across a thick folder that I hadnt touched in over twentyyears. It was in a box of case files Id moved from Darlinghurst to Newtown when St Peters Lane was targeted for renovation and rent rise.

The file with the words Hampshire Open and the date 1988 scrawled across it was an inchcall it three centimetresthick, unusual for me. My case files mostly didnt run much beyond a copy of the contract, my expense sheets, bank deposits and pages of scribbled notes, mostly illegible, from interviews. Photographs sometimes, photocopies, and microfilm and microfiche printouts in the old days. No internet downloads back then. Sometimes I included a few pages of the notes, diagrams and squiggles that I used to try to make sense of what was happening as things went along.

Reluctantly, I took the folder out of the box, slapped it on the desk and looked at it. It was dusty and musty and the blue folder was yellowed and crisp. Why was I punishing myself? I had money in the bank, was about to take a long overdue break. Id been good at what I did until being good wasnt enough, and in this time of spin and protect your arse at all costs, Id slipped up.

Back then I hadnt slipped up but I hadnt succeeded either. I opened the folder...

1987 I was sitting in my St Peters Lane office, reading about the $100 000 compensation being paid to the members of the Ananda Marga sect for wrongful imprisonment over the Hilton hotel bombing. Theyd served seven years and a quick calculation told me that amounted to a bit over fourteen thousand a year. Not princely. Theyd been fed and housed, but I doubted they were grateful. The pardon didnt surprise me: the little Id had to do with security service types suggested that most of them would have had trouble passing a true or false test where the odds were even.

I put the paper aside when I heard the knock on the door and took my feet off the desk. I was expecting him, but he was late. I didnt like Paul Hampshire from the jump, and I never warmed to him. He came in trying to hide the fact that the two flights of stairs had put him out of breath. He wore a blue suit with a handkerchief in the jacket pocket and a bow tie. Ive never trusted men who sport bow ties and handkerchiefs. I suppose they think it looks natty.

Anyway, nattiness was out of place in my office, which could be described as drab although I preferred to think of it as functional. There were places to sit, places to put things. What else do you need? I could make coffee and I had a cask of red in a drawer and paper cups. A sixth-hand bar fridge kept the water, the white wine and the beer cold. The dirty windows made it a bit dim on a dull day, but thats kind of appropriate. The sunshine could struggle through at other times.