Follow the Money by Peter Corris Read Free Book Online

being cleared for you.’
    ‘I’ve been stood up.’
    ‘What a shame. Perhaps you’ll come again.’
    I drove home thinking that the evening hadn’t been a complete waste of time; it had thrown up a lot of questions. What exactly was the relationship between Standish and May Ling? Why had he dropped out of sight, and what was he doing playing chopsticks with the Wong brothers? May Ling had to be the go-between, but what kind of deal was she brokering? And what of the Middle Eastern wild card?
    I called in on Megan and Hank and ate their leftover shepherd’s pie. They were still feeling the glow of approaching parenthood and I didn’t want to dim it by talking about my concerns. Hank said his parents would be coming out for the birth. Megan’s mother, my ex-wife Cyn, was dead. The kid would be down one grandparent and it’d be up to me to do a good job in the solo role.
    ‘Have you ever actually held a baby in your arms, Cliff?’ Megan asked.
    ‘Sure, my sister’s kids.’
    ‘Boys or girls?’
    ‘Um . . .’
    Hank laughed. ‘We’ve all gotta lot to learn. What’re you doing with yourself, Cliff?’
    I hadn’t told them about my financial reverses. ‘Managing my financial affairs,’ I said, which was true in a way.
    I left them still happy, and some of that rubbed off on me as it had before and as I hoped it would again. As I drove home I had to search my memory again for the name of the Chinese policeman I’d worked with on the matter of Freddy Wong’s sex slaves. It didn’t come to me until I was half asleep after five pages of a recent Miles Franklin Award-winning novel I’d bought as a remainder—Stephen Chang.
    Frank Parker was a long-time friend who’d retired as a deputy police commissioner but remained on their books as a consultant. He had access to police databases closed to civilians. With the previous night’s damp clothes in the dryer, I rang him early, knowing that he’d soon be off cycling or playing squash or swimming laps. I’d put on some weight recently, and Frank’s trim figure was a constant reproach.
    ‘Frank, it’s Cliff.’
    ‘Gidday, Cliff, feel like a swim?’
    ‘Ask me round about December. No, I need some help locating a member of the New South Wales police service.’
    ‘Oh, Jesus, you’re not working, are you? You’ve got no standing, mate, no protection. One bad move and they’ll chop you off at the knees. You know that.’
    ‘Yeah, I know, but this is a personal matter.’
    ‘It’s always personal with you. I’m not going to help you talk your way into court and gaol . . . again.’
    ‘Hey, did I tell you I’m going to be a grandfather?’
    ‘No. What? When? Hey, Hilde, Megan’s pregnant.’
    He was talking to his wife, Hilde Stoner, who’d been a tenant of mine when I was battling to meet the mortgage after Cyn had flown the coop. I’d introduced them. I could hear a squeal from Hilde (the Parkers had grandchildren, twins, they were devoted to). Then Frank came back on the line.
    ‘You’re working me, you bastard. OK, what is it?’
    ‘I need to get in touch with Stephen Chang, you remember, we—’
    ‘I remember. Shit, the Wong brothers. Don’t tell me you’re going down that road again.’
    ‘Obliquely,’ I said. ‘Can you get me a number?’
    I could hear Hilde asking for more details about the prospective Hardy grandchild and Frank fending her off. His voice when he came back was full of resignation.
    ‘Hilde says congratulations. Me too. I’ll put you on to Steve Chang only because I know he’s sensible enough not to have anything to do with you. When’re we going to see you?’
    ‘Soon.’
    ‘Yeah. I’ll text you, Cliff.’
    The text came through soon after I took the clothes out of the dryer. The jeans were tight around the waist. I had to get back to the gym more often, charity case or not. Sucking in the love handles, zipping up, I rang the number Frank had given me.
    ‘Chang.’
    Like the Wongs, Stephen Chang’s