by Peter Temple
He frowned. ‘Really, Jack, are you sure you’re important enough for people to want…’ My expression stopped him. ‘When do you want it done?’
‘Now,’ I said.
‘Now?’
‘Now. The person can pick up a key from the ground-floor flat. Number one. Say Jack sends his fondest regards and the bloke will hand over the key.’
Wootton took out his mobile phone and got out of the car. ‘What’s the address?’ he asked. He punched in a number and spoke to someone in cryptic terms, giving the address and the introduction. ‘It’s urgent,’ he said.
The commissioner was waiting for us in the lounge, a pinkish chamber, full of angular chrome and plastic furniture. I didn’t know there were people who’d place your bets for a commission who didn’t look like Eddie Dollery or like market gardeners in town for the day.
Wootton did the introductions. He introduced me as Ray and Cam as Barry. The Commissioner was called Cynthia. She was in her late thirties or early forties, grey suit, tall and slim, an intelligent face of sharp planes relieved by a lower lip as plump as an oyster. Her shoulder-length dark hair slipped silkily around her head.
She was business-like. Harry would approve.
‘How big?’ she said.
‘As possible,’ Cam replied.
‘They’re gun-shy these days,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to spread it around.’
Cam nodded. ‘This is the drill,’ he said. ‘You wait for the second call. We expect the price to drift. Then we want as many fair-sized hits as we can get without collapsing the price. Then send in the troops, like they’ve heard the late mail. Take it all the way to the floor.’
She smiled a cautious smile, cocked her head. ‘Some organising here. Small army. There’s not that many reliables around.’
I thought I caught a hint of working-class Tasmania in her voice, perhaps one of those bone-hard timber towns, full of red-faced men with pale eyes and bad breath, the girls with one pretty summer before the babies and the cigs and the mid-morning start on the wine cask. Cynthia would have got out early, escaped to the mainland.
‘We’re told you can do it. But if you can’t…’ said Cam.
She crossed her legs. In my trained observer way, I registered that they were exceptionally long legs. Part of me couldn’t believe that I was sitting in this garish place looking at legs and listening to talk about backing horses when people had recently been trying to kill me.
‘I can do it,’ she said. ‘What happens interstate?’
‘You get first go,’ Cam said. ‘We’ll take what we can get elsewhere.’
‘The TAB?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said.
‘When do I know?’
Cam lit a Gitane and blew smoke out sideways. ‘Cyril will tell you where to be,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to be ready to push the button, go straight off.’
‘Not even the race number?’
Cam shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Makes it hard if it’s going to be the eighth.’
‘Life’s hard,’ Cam said. ‘Cyril says we don’t have to worry about collecting. Is that right? We hate worrying.’
Cynthia gestured with her hands, palms upward. ‘You don’t have to worry,’ she said. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got three teenagers to look after.’
‘I know that,’ said Cam. ‘Think about them. We’ll need a full accounting. Every bit of paper. Anything else I can tell you?’
She shook her head and stood up. ‘Nice to do business with you,’ she said.
‘We hope so,’ Cam said. ‘We hope so.’
We were waiting at the St George’s Road lights when the ambulance came through and did a screeching right turn.
‘Just live for speed,’ said Cam.
I saw the smoke before we turned into my street, a dark plume against the cigarette-smoke sky. When we turned, we saw the street was blocked by three police cars. People were everywhere. Further down, a fire engine was paralleled to the pavement. Its ladders were up and firemen on them were spraying water into a huge hole in the building’s roof.
It was my building.
The huge hole was in my roof.
My home was burning.
Cam pulled up and looked at me. ‘Your place, right?’ he said.
I could only nod.
‘Better wait,’ he said, opening his door.
I slumped against the door pillar. I could recognise at least a dozen people standing around. Neighbours. The man from the corner shop.
Can was back inside five minutes. He didn’t say anything, did a slow U-turn. We were heading down Brunswick Street when he spoke.
‘Cop reckons the bloke turned the key and the whole place went up. He might live. Door could have saved him.’
‘It was supposed to be me,’ I said. Cam didn’t need telling. I needed to say it. I wasn’t feeling scared. All I could think about was the flat. It contained everything I valued. My books. My music. The paintings and prints Isabel had bought, always as presents for me. The leather sofa and armchairs we’d bought together at the Old Colonists’ Club auction. It was my home, the only place that had ever meant anything to me since leaving my first home at the age of ten. It was my history, my link with Isabel. If Cam could have taken me directly to the person responsible for destroying it, I would have committed murder.
After a while, Cam said, ‘Where to?’
My first thought was my office. Then it sunk in. I couldn’t go near my office or Taub’s. People were trying to kill me. They’d been prepared to kill Cam this morning. They would kill Charlie if he got in their way. They probably intended to kill Linda.
Now I felt fear, a knot in my stomach.
‘I’ve got to make a call,’ I said. ‘Talk to someone.’
Cam turned into Gertrude Street and parked next to the Housing Commission flats. Three men in overcoats, all bearded, were sitting on a scuffed knoll, passing around the silver bladder of a wine cask.
I took the mobile and got out. In my wallet, I found the number Garth Bruce had given me. I’d transferred it to the back of a business card. About to press the first button, I hesitated. How could I trust Bruce? Linda didn’t. Drew didn’t. Then I remembered the awkward way we’d stood together, two men struggling to come to terms with their grief, and his words: I think you’ve had enough pain with this Milovich.
I punched the number. It was answered on the second ring. A woman. I said John English wanted to speak to the Minister.
‘Please hold on,’ she said.
I leaned against the car. The sun had come out, making the day seem colder. One of the bearded men on the knoll was trying to strangle the last drop of wine out of the bladder.
‘Yes.’ It was Bruce.
‘Someone’s trying to kill me,’ I said. ‘Twice today.’
He said nothing for a moment. I could hear him breathing.
‘God,’ he said. ‘You all right?’
I said yes.
Another pause. ‘Where are you?’
‘In the street.’
‘Jack,’ he said, ‘this is getting out of hand.’ His speech was measured. ‘I think I’ve underestimated Pixley’s old mates. We’ll have to put you somewhere safe till we can shake some sense into them. The Hillier woman too. Can you get in touch with her?’
‘Yes. She’s being followed.’
‘That so? Be the same people. Okay, listen, we’ve got to do this carefully. Yarra Bend. There’s a park up there, near the golf course. Know it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Get hold of Hillier and get up there, park as far away from those public toilets as possible. What are you driving? What’s the rego?’
I walked around the back of the car and read out the number. ‘Ford Granada,’ I said. ‘Blue.’
‘Right. Let’s make it in an hour’s time. The two blokes from last time will pick you up, get you somewhere safe.’ He paused. ‘Now this is important. Don’t talk to anyone except Hillier. And don’t
say a word about this arrangement to her on the phone. She’s probably tapped.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘An hour from now.’ The lead ball of fear in my stomach was dissolving.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘You’ll be fine. Just take it easy. We can fix this up in a day or so. I’ll see you tonight.’
I rang Linda’s number. She answered straight away.
‘I want you to make sure you’re alone and get a cab to the place where we ate. The first time, remember?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Something very serious. I’ll tell you when I see you. Get the cab to park as close to the place as possible. Wait in the cab until you see me.’
‘Jack, what’s going on?’ she said.
‘Half an hour from now. Okay?’
‘Yes. Okay.’
‘See you then. Love.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Love.’
29
I got back into the Granada. Cam was reading the paper, smoking a Gitane.
‘I’ll get off your back in an hour’s time,’ I said. ‘I won’t take up that offer of yours. Need to disappear for a day or so.
Cam gave me a long look. ‘I’ll miss the excitement,’ he said.
I was looking in my wallet to see how much money I had. There was a piece of cardboard in the note section. I took it out: I rembered somthing else about what you was asking about. See me at my house. B. Curran, 15 Morton Street, Clifton Hill.
Clifton Hill was as safe a place as any to pass the half-hour until it was time to pick up Linda.
‘Can we take a little drive around to Clifton Hill?’ I said.
The man was wearing the same outfit as before: dirty blue nylon anorak, black tracksuit pants. There was every chance that it hadn’t come off since our previous meeting.
‘Wondered when you’d come,’ he said.
‘You remembered something else about Ronnie Bishop,’ I said.
He looked at me, said nothing.
I took out my wallet and offered him a twenty.
He took it. ‘Had to walk round to your place,’ he said. ‘Bloody long way. Had to take a cab back. Me legs is bad.’
I found a ten and gave it to him.
‘Wait,’ he said. He shuffled down the dark passage and came back a minute later, folded newspaper in his hand. ‘’Member I said cops come around next door couple times?’
I nodded.
He coughed and spat past my right shoulder. ‘One’s a cunt called Scullin.’
‘You told me that.’
He sniffed. ‘Didn’t know who the other was. Do now.’
‘Yes? Who?’
He unfolded the paper. It was the Herald Sun. He looked at the front page. ‘This bastard,’ he said.
He turned the newspaper to face me. There was a large colour photograph of a man sitting in front of microphones. He was flanked by two high-ranking policemen in uniform.
‘Which cop?’ I said, studying the policemen.
‘Not the cops. The cunt in the middle. The fucking Minister. That’s him.’
I was about to put the phone down when the woman answered.
‘I need to get in touch with Vin McKillop,’ I said.
She started coughing, a loose, emphysemic sound. I waited. When she stopped, I said again, ‘Vin McKillop, I need—’
‘Vin’s dead,’ she said. ‘Overdose.’
I didn’t ask her any questions.
I went into the sitting room. Linda was standing in front of the huge fireplace in the centre of Cam’s absent girlfriend’s place off Crombie Lane in the heart of the city. Her apartment occupied the top floor of an old six-storey warehouse. She was an artist. Paintings were everywhere, mostly landscapes at different stages of completion.
‘Vin McKillop’s dead,’ I said. ‘Pixley’s dead, Vin’s dead. It’s like a battlefield.’
‘Oh, Jesus,’ Linda said. ‘Oh, Jesus.’
‘Garth Bruce visited Ronnie Bishop with Scullin more than once around the time of Anne Jeppeson’s death,’ I said. ‘If Scullin fixed up Danny for killing her, Garth Bruce must be part of the whole thing. He was setting us up.’
Cam was lying on a sofa, long legs over the arm, head propped up by cushions, drinking Cascade out of the bottle.
‘So Bruce’s got the motor’s number,’ he said. He’d had no trouble grasping my explanation of what was going on. It didn’t seem to surprise him either.
‘I suppose that was dumb,’ I said, ‘but you don’t expect the Minister for Police to try to kill you.
‘It’s just possible he’s not involved,’ Linda said. She was dressed for business in a suit, cream silk blouse, black stockings and high heels. Overexcited though I was, the sight aroused a frisson of lust.
‘I don’t think we should operate on that assumption, I said. ‘What can we do about the car?’ It was now in the girlfriend’s garage on the ground floor.
Cam swung his legs to the floor. ‘It can stay where it is. I’ll get my mate to report it stolen, give me another one.’ He stood up and walked off down the long room in the direction of the kitchen.
Linda’s eyes followed him. ‘What does he do for a living?’
‘He’s a gambler,’ I said. ‘He shot a midget firing a sub-machine gun off a motorbike this morning. That’s how I’m here.’
She nodded. ‘I can believe that,’ she said. ‘What do we do now?’
‘Think. Think about evidence. Evidence is the only thing that can help us now.’
‘Did you tell me once,’ Linda said, chin on her palms. ‘Did you tell me that Danny’s wife said there was evidence he didn’t do it?’
I thought back to the night, in the family room Danny built. Yes. She said a woman phoned Danny. The woman said her husband had died.’
But she didn’t give Danny the evidence?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t suppose it follows that if it’s evidence that proves Danny didn’t do it, it’s evidence of who did’, Linda said.
‘It might be.’ I was thinking. ‘What kind of person would have the evidence? It would have to be a cop, wouldn’t it?’
‘Could be someone connected with Charis Corp.’
I sighed. ‘That’s right. This is a dead-end.’
Linda got up and crossed to a huge steel-framed window. Her high heels went tock on the polished concrete floor. She had to stand on tiptoe to look out. Her calf muscles tensed deliciously. At any other time I would have been seized with an impulse to rush her from the rear.
‘Let’s say it’s a cop. Was a cop,’ she said. ‘What then?’
‘Died some time before Danny was shot. At least a month.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I’m assuming the woman got in touch with Danny soon after her husband’s death. That’s when she rang. About a month before Danny was killed.’
Linda turned around. ‘What date was that?’
I told her.
‘Where’s the phone?’ she said.
‘Coming up.’ Cam was coming back, carrying a cordless phone. ‘I’m taking a stroll to pick up some other wheels. I’ll come back, see if you need anything.’
Linda took the phone from him. ‘Phone book?’
‘In the kitchen. On the fridge.’ He gave me a wave.
When she came back, Linda took a notebook out of her bag, sat down and punched a number.
‘Hello, Police Association? Can I speak to the secretary? Right. Who could I speak to about membership records? Oh, you’ve got a membership secretary. Denise Walters. I’d like to, yes.’
Linda waited, looking at me. ‘Denise, hi,’ she said. ‘My name’s Colleen Farrell. Dr Colleen Farrell. From Monash University Medical School. Denise, I wonder if you can help me. We’re doing a study on police mortality in Australia. Do you know about that? No? It’s at the early stages, but we think it’ll help the police case for a stress loading on salaries.’
Pause. ‘Yes. Abnormally high levels, we think, Denise. We’ve
run into a little problem you might be able to help us with. We don’t have any data for Victoria for the last two months.’
Pause. ‘Yes, that’s right. We got the other data directly from the Commissioner’s office but the person there has gone on leave and I’d like to get up to date before I go on leave.’
Pause. ‘That would be terrific, Denise. I’ll wait on.’
We sat in silence looking at each other. Linda reached down, took the hem of her skirt and began to work it up, slowly, one thigh at a time, flexing her thigh muscles and moving her bottom from side to side. I could see the dark at the fork of her legs when she said, ‘Still here. Right. No serving members so far this year. Good. What about non-serving?’
Pause. ‘Two in January. None in Feb. One in March. One in April. Okay. Now, Denise, I’ll need the names to check against our register.’
Pause. ‘H. J. Mullins. T. R. Conroy. M. E. F. Davis. P. K. Vane. That’s V-A-N-E, is it? Terrific. I see we’ve got them all except Vane. You wouldn’t have any biographical data there, would you, Denise?’
Pause. ‘Just service dates. Um. ’63 to ’88. Special Branch 1978 to ’84. Look, Denise, you’ve been a great help. Thanks very much. Much appreciated.’
Linda put the phone down and pulled her skirt back to respectability. ‘I can’t bear to see a man salivate,’ she said. ‘The only possibility is P. K. Vane. He was in the Special Branch when Anne was killed, though.’
‘I’d say that lets him out. They spent all their time hanging around anarchist meetings. Six people and a collie dog and two Special Branch. Our bloke would probably be in Drugs, one of Scullin’s mates.’
There was a sound in the hallway. I felt my shoulders tense. Cam came in.
‘All fixed up,’ he said. ‘Listen, I’m shooting through. You want me, press auto and 8 on the phone. It’ll page me.’ He opened his jacket and showed the pager on his belt.
‘I’m in your debt, mate,’ I said.
Cam said, ‘Saturday, that’s the day we pay off debts. There’s plenty of food here.’ He eyed Linda appraisingly. ‘Try the cupboards in the big bedroom for clothes. You’re not far apart in size. Jack, there’s men’s clothes in the other bedroom. One of her exes. Biggish fella, I gather. Nice line in shirts. Help yourself.’
