Free Follow the Money by Peter Corris Page A

below-ground flat in Erskineville. He didn’t want to let me have the gun without payment up front, but I persuaded him with a bottle of Bundy and a packet of Drum.
    ‘I’m only renting it, Ben,’ I said. ‘You’ll get it back with five hundred—’
    ‘Six hundred.’
    ‘OK, six. In a couple of days—unfired, I hope.’
    ‘You’re a wanker, Hardy. What happened to your fuckin’ ear?’
    I still had a dressing on the ear that Yusef had battered and torn. ‘A dog bit it.’
    Corbett snuffed out his rollie and took a big slurp of his rum and Coke. ‘You’re a wanker, Hardy.’
    He never had much of a way with words.
    The Meridian Apartments were reached via a bridge across the lower reaches of the city streets to Darling Harbour. With money coming in, I got as close as I could by taxi because parking was impossible. I walked across the bridge in the cool blustery wind wearing an old bomber jacket with the .22 deep in the torn lining of one of the interior pockets. I still had aches and pains, but who hasn’t in their mature years? Rain threatened and the water was a dingy grey. I had no real reason to feel encouraged, but I was keen to meet Standish. I had a lot of questions, and forcing my way to answers was what I did best.
    Standish opened the door to my knock and I was shocked at his appearance. Gone were the boyish bounce and the confident manner. His tan had a yellow tinge and his shoulders drooped, reducing his height. He was in shirtsleeves and the shirt wasn’t fresh. His pants were wrinkled and his shoes were scuffed. No tie. Some don’t look right with a tie and some look wrong without one—Standish was one of these. I’d been prepared to bully him but there was no need.
    In size and décor, the apartment was more suited to a writer than an actor or rock star, and Standish had made it look more middle range than it really was by his sloppiness. Clothes, newspapers and magazines were scattered around the living room and there were glasses, coffee cups and takeaway food containers he hadn’t bothered to bin or put away in the kitchenette.
    I didn’t have to ask whether May Ling was there—she wouldn’t have been able to tolerate a pigsty like this for a minute. Standish slumped into a chair and waved me to another. I walked to the window and looked out over the water.
    With my back to him I said, ‘Who do you think wants to kill you?’
    ‘Freddy Wong and Selim Houli.’
    ‘Unless?’
    ‘Why d’you say that?’
    ‘Either of them could do it with no trouble at all, so there must be an unless or an if not about it.’
    ‘You’re right. Unless I can find Richard Malouf for them.’
    Square one , I thought. ‘Why do they want him?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘You must have some idea.’
    ‘I don’t. I thought that they might be other victims of his swindle but they said not. May Ling is Freddy Wong’s cousin. When she heard that I’d hired you to find Malouf she told Freddy. She tells him everything—he’s got some kind of hold over her. I just wanted you to follow up on Stefan’s story about seeing Malouf but then the shit hit the fan. Stefan got killed. May Ling said we were both in danger. I had to meet with Freddy Wong or she’d . . . something horrible’d happen to her. Then Houli turned up and the threats came thick and fast. It was only May who stopped them from . . . What happened to you?’
    It was as if he’d just remembered I’d told him I’d been injured. I gave him some of the details and he looked more frightened than ever.
    His voice, previously a powerful instrument of charm and persuasion, shook. ‘I had to pretend I had other ways to find Malouf but I don’t. I don’t!’
    ‘Take it easy,’ I said. ‘Got anything to drink here?’
    ‘Scotch, in the kitchen.’
    I found a couple of clean glasses and a bottle of Dewar’s. Ice cubes in the fridge. I prepared two solid drinks and brought them back to where Standish was sitting with his head bowed