Dead Point (Jack Irish Thriller 3)

by Peter Temple

  A chilling sense of fate’s impudence came over me. How could there be no Meaker’s in Brunswick Street? How could it simply be taken away?

  Hooted at, I crossed the street and went into a place I didn’t know, barn-like, atmosphere of a school staffroom. It had once been a social club. Macedonian? Portuguese? I couldn’t remember. The coffee was awful, I was too bemused to care, left most of it, wandered back to the office.

  I saw him from a long way off, leaning against the wall next to my door. He saw me too but he looked away, smoked his cigarette, studied the sky, clear today, some high cloud. I was metres away before he turned his head to me.

  Enzio, clean-shaven, in a black suit, white shirt, dark-blue tie.

  ‘Jack,’ he said.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

  He took a last drag on his cigarette, ground it savagely underfoot. ‘The bastard Willis sold.’

  Neil Willis had owned Meaker’s for about fifteen years. He also owned two wedding reception caverns out in the suburbs and his stewardship of Meaker’s consisted of hiring a succession of untrained managers and scrutinising the takings at night. Enzio was the only constant, and so the cook had always ended up grumpily showing the managers how to run the place.

  I unlocked the door and we went in. I took my seat. Enzio stood.

  ‘Sit down,’ I said.

  He sat, shifted around in the chair, crossed legs, uncrossed.

  ‘What’s this suit business?’ I’d never seen him in a suit.

  He frowned. ‘I’m comin to see a lawyer. You dress proper.’

  I understood.

  ‘Smoke?’

  ‘Smoke.’

  I fetched the ashtray from the sink in the back room. He lit up, exploded smoke.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘Tell me.’ I closed my eyes.

  ‘Tuesday, Willis come in, business sold, new boss come in tomorrow. No worries about jobs, he says. Bloke wants all staff to stay.’

  He took a deep drag, spoke through smoke. ‘Yesterday, the cunt come in. I know straight away, I look at the cunt and I know. Before lunch, sacks Helen. Carmel he sack at the door, says she’s late. Martina, she’s going off, he tells her, customers complain, pick up your pay tomorrow. Closing time, he come in the kitchen, it’s me and the boy cleaning up, he says he’s looked at the books, there’s stealing going on in the kitchen.’

  Enzio looked away, looked at my degree certificate on the wall, took a moment to compose himself.

  ‘Fourteen years, Jack,’ he said, still studying the wall. ‘Steal?’ A catch in the voice. ‘Like I steal from my mother?’

  ‘I know.’ I wanted to give him a pat.

  We sat in silence, contemplating ourselves, our histories at Meaker’s, perfidy, the callousness of people. But I was coming out of shock, cruising past resentment. Revenge and compensation were now in mind. This was a natural progression and I had some training in it.

  ‘What’s the offer?’ I said.

  ‘He says, the prick, he’s got the money in his hand, he says four weeks’ pay I give you, lucky you get anything. Don’t like it, I get the cops, you can tell them who you sold all the stuff to.’

  ‘Take it?’

  Enzio put his head back, looked at me over his cheekbones, over lines of spiky hairs that survived his shave, a prickly frontier.

  ‘I spit on him,’ he said.

  Our eyes held for a moment.

  ‘Right. You in the union?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. Willis wouldn’t have the union.’

  This wasn’t going to be effortless for someone who’d spent most of his legal career in the criminal courts. I might actually have to find out something about employment law. Either that or I farmed this out. Tempting.

  But how could I farm out Enzio?

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘We’ve got no choice but to nail the poor bastard.’

  I got out a yellow pad. I’d bought four dozen yellow pads when the stationer in Smith Street went under. ‘Now tell me again what happened. Slowly.’

  When we’d finished, I went out with him. The day was turning foul, the wind was sharp against the cheek, coming down the street, chasing bits of litter, harrying them like a bully.

  ‘So,’ said Enzio. ‘You fix it?’

  ‘I’ll fix it.’

  We shook hands. I watched him go. At the corner, he felt my eyes, turned his head, smiled, raised a hand. I did the same.

  Oh, Lord, why hast thou anointed me the fixer of all things? And why hast thou ordained this in a cold season in which too many things need fixing?

  There were moments when I wished I could go somewhere quiet and ask sensible questions like these. My office wasn’t the place because the phone was ringing. It was Drew.

  ‘What is it with you?’ he said. ‘You no sooner take an interest in someone and bad things happen to them.’ He didn’t have to say the name. I knew.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Alan Bergh. Found dead in his car at the airport. Execution-style killing, says the paper. Three shots in the head from a .22.’ Someone was knocking at the door. I knew who it was. My day for being knowing.

  They sat in the client chairs, a soft-looking big man with a moustache, a younger man with a long horse face. Agents Mallia and Bartholomew, Federal Police.

  ‘Let me understand this clearly,’ said Mallia. ‘You asked this Vietnamese gentleman…’

  ‘I have no idea whether he’s a gentleman,’ I said. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Manner of speech.’

  ‘Offensive manner of speech, if I may say so.’

  Mallia coughed, looked at Bartholomew, who ran a hand over his head bristles.

  ‘If you say so,’ Mallia said. ‘You asked him a lot of questions about Bergh?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll say it again. Clearly. I was interested in using the services of Mr Bergh’s company. He wasn’t in, so I spoke to Mr Ngo. I asked him if he knew when Mr Bergh would be back or where he could be contacted.’

  ‘He says you didn’t know what Coresecure did, what its business was.’

  ‘That’s a misunderstanding. I asked him how much he knew about Coresecure. At that point, I thought he might have some involvement with the company.’

  Equine-faced Bartholomew thought he’d chip in. ‘You wanted to use Bergh’s services. What for?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Yes. What for?’ He developed a smile, as if he’d been clever.

  ‘Security.’

  ‘Security for?’

  ‘Nothing in particular. Security in general. I wanted a feeling of security. I’ve always wanted to feel secure. What about you?’

  The smile departed.

  Mallia stroked his moustache, then, carefully, scratched the arranged hairs on his head. ‘You’re probably not aware of the powers conferred upon us by—’

  I said, ‘I’m perfectly aware of them, agent. If you’re taking that route, my lawyer can be here in minutes. He’s a lawyer’s lawyer.’

  Mallia shook his head. ‘Appreciate your co-operation, that’s all, Mr Irish. The man’s dead, you were at his office the day before, you’ll understand—’

  ‘Why’s this a federal matter?’

  ‘I can’t disclose that sort of information.’ He looked at his large hands, bunches of hair on the first joints. ‘How did Coresecure come to your attention?’

  ‘I’d seen the name on the door.’

  ‘In the area a lot?’

  ‘My work takes me everywhere.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mallia raised himself from the chair. Bartholomew followed his lead.

  ‘You’re not unknown to us, Mr Irish,’ said Mallia, attempting to give me the narrowed eye.

  ‘Nor your agency to me, Agent Mallia,’ I said. ‘And I can tell you I’ve derived very little pleasure from the acquaintanceship.’

  I didn’t rise to see them out.

  At the door, Mallia turned. ‘Have a good day,’ he said. ‘Give my regards to His Honour.’

  Things
were quiet at The Green Hill, no-one braving the elements out front and only one customer in Down the Pub. Dieter the barman wasn’t on this morning, in his place a young woman in the establishment’s dark-green livery.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said. ‘What can I serve you?’

  ‘I’m after Xavier Doyle,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll see if Mr Doyle’s in,’ she said. ‘It’s Mr…?’

  ‘Irish. Jack Irish.’

  She went to a telephone on the back counter and spoke to someone, came back. ‘He’ll be along in a moment.’

  Doyle appeared from my right, through a door beyond the last booth. He was wearing Donegal tweeds and a yellow shirt.

  ‘Jack,’ he said, hand out. He looked like a mildly debauched cherub. ‘My oath, you legal fellas are up and about with the sparrers.’

  We shook hands. ‘Come and have a cup of coffee in the office,’ he said. ‘Coffee right for you?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Belinda, lass, lay on a pot of coffee, darlin. In me office.’

  Doyle took my arm and escorted me back the way he’d come. We went through the door into a flagstoned passage, past two doors to the end. He opened a wide four-panel oak door and waved me in.

  It was a big room, as much lounge as office, modern leather armchairs in front of a fireplace, a desk behind them, its top a curved slab of polished redgum holding a squat computer tower, a thin-screened monitor and a keyboard. One wall of the room was a floor-to-ceiling oak cupboard.

  We sat in the armchairs, a low table separating us.

  ‘Not a social call, Jack,’ Doyle said. ‘Am I right?’

  ‘Business,’ I said. ‘I wanted to ask you a few more things about Robbie. Do you mind?’

  ‘Not at all.’ He sat back, laced fingers over a tweed knee. ‘But I don’t think I know much more to tell.’

  ‘Did you know his real name?’

  He ducked his chin. ‘Real name? Meanin?’

  ‘His name’s Marco Lucia.’

  Doyle shook his head. ‘That’s news to me. What’s the reason for another name?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He was involved with some fairly hard people in Queensland, may have been on the run.’

  There was a knock at the door. Doyle got up, opened it, took a tray from someone. He put it down on the table, poured coffee dark and fragrant into china cups.

  ‘Sugar?’

  I accepted a spoonful.

  ‘Have a bikkie. Bake em ourselves. Almond short-bread.’ He chewed. ‘Delicious. Well, we certainly didn’t do any checkin on Robbie. No-one bothers for casuals. Why would ya?’

  The coffee was rich as rum, the biscuit dissolved on the tongue, all butter. I got out the photograph of Alan Bergh. ‘Ever seen this man?’

  Doyle took it from me, had a good look, frowned. ‘Don’t think so. Although there’s an awful lot of people come through, you’ll understand. I can’t say he’s never bin here, that I can’t. But I can’t recall the face offhand. No.’

  ‘Good coffee,’ I said.

  ‘Our own blend. Fella in Carlton makes it up. So who’s the man?’ He put the photograph on the table.

  I drank some more coffee, not in a hurry. Then I took out my notebook and found the page. ‘These numbers.’ I read them out, numbers from Alan Bergh’s mobile-phone bill. ‘They’re your phones.’

  Doyle wiped his lips with a napkin from the tray. His look was of mild amusement. ‘Now you’re findin out a great deal about us, Jack. Business numbers, those.’

  He wasn’t amused, not even mildly. The expression was an instinctive one, animal, speaking of wariness, uncertainty.

  ‘The numbers? They’re not in any book.’

  I pointed at the photograph. ‘This man rang those numbers. Thirteen times in a month. Sure you don’t know him?’

  Doyle was raising his cup to his lips. He didn’t complete the movement, replaced the cup on the saucer. ‘Now Jack,’ he said, ‘you won’t mind me sayin this is borderin on the impertinent. You’d have to be doin somethin illegal to know enough to ask such questions. Would that be right?’

  ‘You don’t know him?’

  ‘I’ve said that. Can’t say it any better.’ No Irish charm in the tone now.

  ‘And the thirteen calls?’

  He held up his hands. ‘I’ve told you, they’re business phones, lots of people use them, a dozen or more.’

  ‘So someone else in the business would know him?’

  ‘Possibly. Or they might be bloody nuisance calls, man might be sellin somethin, who knows? And you haven’t answered the question. Who is the fella?’

  ‘Don’t know. Friend of Robbie’s perhaps.’

  ‘The picture. Where’d you get that?’

  ‘Someone sent it to me,’ I said, standing up. ‘I won’t waste any more of your time. Wonderful coffee. And the biscuits.’

  Doyle didn’t rise. ‘And the calls,’ he said. ‘Where’d you get that from?’

  ‘They sent me his phone bill with the picture.’

  ‘So you do know his name?’

  ‘It was a photocopy. No name on the pages.’

  Doyle stood up. I had the sense that he was composing himself. He smiled the Irish boyo smile. ‘Well Jack,’ he said, ‘it’ll be hard for me to find out who he spoke to if I don’t know his name. Would y’like to leave the photo? I can show it around?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m pretty much done with this matter.’ I took a chance. ‘Robbie did more than work in Down the Pub, didn’t he?’

  A moment’s uncertainty, the hint of a smile. ‘More?’ Pause. ‘He had a few shifts in the Snug, if that’s what you mean?’

  I couldn’t show my ignorance, nodded. ‘Yes. Who would he serve? In the Snug?’

  ‘It’s admittance by invitation. Our special guests, people…’ He realised I was fishing. ‘Well, if that’s all,’ he said. ‘Always happy to try to help.’

  Doyle escorted me to the door into Down the Pub and said goodbye without shaking hands, no more invitations to share in the life of the pub, drink the pinot, cook from the cookbook, no more pats or jovial remarks.

  Driving back, I thought about my handling of the interview. Not good. But I was sure of one thing now: Xavier Doyle could tell me lots more about Robbie/Marco. Perhaps he could even tell me how the Federal Police knew about my dealings with Mr Justice Loder. At the first lights, I got out my list of things to do, found the address and set course.

  Alan Bergh had also made five calls to a mobile registered to a Kirstin Deane, whose work address was a women’s clothing shop called Anouk in Greville Street, Prahran.

  The narrow street was busy, a fashionable crowd on this side of the river, blonded women everywhere, tanned and tucked, fat sucked away and burnt off, eyeing themselves in shop windows, looking at younger specimens with hatred. I lucked on a park in Anouk’s block, slid the old Stud in between an Audi and a Mercedes four-wheel drive.

  Anouk’s was not overstocked with merchandise. The window display was one dress, a mere twirl of fabric, barely enough to clothe six foot of lamp pole. Inside, two more garments were on display, a cloak-like creation of black velvet, and something that resembled a silk apron. Surely this could only be worn over clothing or in the privacy of the home? Against the left-hand wall, box shelves each held one item, shirts perhaps or cashmere sweaters.

  A young woman was on the telephone, seated behind a minimalist counter, no more than three pieces of thick plexiglass on which stood several electronic devices. She was mostly leg, skeletal, high cheekbones, much forehead under much hair, and her eyes and eyebrows and mouth were works of art.

  I waited. Her eyes were fixed on a mirror across the room and never moved in my direction. She was talking without pause in a flat, grating monotone, words seemingly joined and undecipherable. After a while, I got between her and the mirror, blocked her view of herself.

  Then she looked at me. She said a few words to the phone and put it down.

  ‘Help you,’ she said
, not a question.

  ‘I’m looking for Kirstin Deane.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She knew I wasn’t in the market for a silk apron or anything else she was selling. This was not going to be easy.

  ‘It’s about someone you know. Alan Bergh.’

  Silence. She looked at the street.

  ‘Alan Bergh. You know him.’

  Her head jerked back. ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ I said. ‘Shot dead. In a carpark. Know that?’

  Kirstin frowned, pulled her eyebrow creations together, a little untidiness of skin appearing between them, an imperfection on a face as tight as a kite in a high wind.

  ‘I’ve had it with you lot,’ she said.

  ‘He phoned you often,’ I said. ‘Your dead friend Alan.’

  She took a deep breath, she still had lung capacity, her emaciated upper body expanded, she opened her mouth and breathed out like a steam train.

  ‘Not my fucking friend,’ she said, some life in the voice now. ‘I said I don’t know who the fuck Alan is. I’m the messenger girl. And I don’t wanna know any more of this cop shit, right? Right? I’m finished with Mick, wish I’d never seen the prick in my life and I’ll kill him if he ever—’

  I held up my right hand. ‘Settle down.’

  Kirstin’s eyes vanished, became slits. ‘Don’t you fucking tell me to settle down, I’ll—’

  ‘Taking messages can get you into deep trouble,’ I said, now a kite myself, out on the winds. ‘When someone says he doesn’t know about the messages, never got a message from you, you’re in trouble. Who’d you give the messages to, Kirstin?’

  She closed her eyes, punched the plastic counter top repeatedly with both long-fingered fists, symbolically beating someone. ‘Tell Olsen I’ll kill him. He’s not landing me with his shit. You people, you call yourselves ethics squad or fucking whatever, you’re trying to cover something up for the cunt, aren’t you. Well, forget that, detective whatever the fuck you are. Whofuckingever. Piss off.’

  I did, left without a murmur, like a poor person given too much money by a bank machine.

  A name. Mick Olsen. A cop called Mick Olsen.

  Alan Bergh left messages for Mick Olsen with the engaging Kirstin Deane, super-salesperson. Who thought I was from ethical standards or whatever name it now had, the old police internal affairs section, the dog investigating its own balls someone once said of it, unkindly.