Follow the Money by Peter Corris

where Standish was and, more or less, how to get in touch with him. There were only half a dozen flats in the McMahons Point block and I felt pretty sure I could bluff my way to the right one. Eventually I’d have to confront Standish and convince him he needed my help, but for the moment I was still intrigued by the initial question about Malouf. His wife had ID’d him: if he was still alive she’d lied.
    The address I had for Rosemary Malouf was in Bondi Junction. I phoned and learned that it was a travel agency. The man I spoke to said she was on her morning tea break. I made an appointment to see Mrs Malouf straight after her lunch break at two pm. I still had the card Malouf had given me at one of our brief meetings and I thought I could use it to get her attention at least long enough for me to make an assessment of her. I fitted in a gym session before driving there and even had time to have a look at the beach. I skipped lunch.
    The travel agency was a hole-in-the-wall kind of place with the usual array of glossy posters and advertisements for airlines and package tours. Tourism is down, they say, and this place certainly seemed to bear that out. I was the only person to go in and the smile on the face of the young man seated behind the desk faded when I told him why I was there.
    ‘Rose’ll be back any minute. Then I can get away for a job interview, thank God.’
    ‘Things are slow?’
    ‘Non-existent. Here she is.’
    A woman stepped into the office, taking off her coat. She was thirtyish, small, and pretty in a fair, fragile sort of way. ‘Off you go, Troy. Good luck. Good afternoon, Mr Hardy.’
    Troy grabbed a coat and hurried out as I sat on the other side of Rosemary Malouf’s desk. ‘Now what can I do for you? Troy said you were a bit mysterious on the phone. Are you planning a trip?’
    I shook my head and put Malouf’s card down on the desk. Her neat little jaw tightened as she looked at it.
    ‘What d’you want?’ she said. ‘I haven’t got any money.’
    ‘He has.’
    ‘He gambled it all away and then he was killed. Please leave.’
    ‘You identified him.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Someone claims to have seen him alive.’
    ‘Go away.’ She reached into her bag for her mobile phone. ‘I’m calling the police.’
    ‘I’m working with the police.’
    A look of sheer terror came into her face. She dropped the phone and buried her face in her hands. ‘Go away. Go away, please.’
    There was nothing else to do. She kept her face covered and her hands were shaking. I picked up Malouf’s card and replaced it with one of my own. It was long out of date in describing me as a PEA, but at least it had my contact details minus the office number.
    ‘I’m sorry to distress you,’ I said. ‘You can contact me if you need any help.’
    She shook her head, keeping it low, and began punching numbers on her mobile. I left the shop and went to a coffee place on the other side of the street. I sat inside by the window and had a clear view of the travel agency as I worked on a watery flat white. Troy came back looking depressed. It was a miserable moment for everyone.
    After about thirty minutes a car pulled up outside the travel agency. It parked illegally, but neither the driver nor the man who got out of the back seat seemed to care. He went into the shop. I paid for my coffee and took up a position where I could get a good view of whoever left the shop but couldn’t be easily seen myself. I had a state of the art mobile phone Megan had bought me. I hadn’t mastered all its functions but I knew enough to enable me to zoom and get a good set of pictures.
    I had the camera to the ready when the man came out of the shop and I caught him as he moved towards the car. He stopped and lit a cigarette before he got in. He was stocky and dark, wearing a well-cut suit and an unbuttoned, double-breasted overcoat. I recognised him: he was the man who’d joined the Wong brothers, May Ling and Miles Standish in the