Dead Point (Jack Irish Thriller 3)

by Peter Temple

  He shook his head. ‘No, it didn’t. I couldn’t stop that, Jack. We’re all victims some of the time.’

  ‘The dead person? The person with your wallet in your car? He’d be a real victim.’

  ‘He was dead already,’ said Marco. ‘A druggie. They found him dead. Overdosed in an alley.’

  ‘They? This is Mick Olsen we’re talking about?’

  Marco blinked. ‘Yeah, someone in the cops found him for Mick. One of his mates.’

  I thought about the homemade notice in the Lebanese shop, the face of a missing young man. It wasn’t hard to find a body in the city. I drank some whisky, remembered I hadn’t eaten since the croissant with nothing. When was that? What day?

  ‘Why did Olsen do this?’ I said.

  ‘Didn’t want anyone looking for Robbie. Robbie does Susan and the judge, then the book’s closed on Robbie.’ He laughed, cut it short, pained face.

  ‘Someone tried to kill me this morning,’ I said.

  ‘Oh shit.’ Marco looked down, ran both hands through his hair. ‘Fucking Doyle, he’s totally paranoid. Mad.’

  I stood up. I didn’t ask who had murdered Alan Bergh, what the fate of the real Robbie Colburne had been, I didn’t want to know. Already I knew more than I wanted to know, much, much more.

  ‘What made you come here?’ said Susan. ‘How did you find out about us?’

  ‘I didn’t. I found the camera in Ros Cundall’s apartment. I knew Marco had some connection with the building and you’d told me about a digital camera. So I associated it with the blackmail attempt. When I saw the picture of the beach and the Land Cruiser, I assumed Marco had taken it. But whose vehicle? I had a look under the name of your company and found an ’82 Cruiser.’

  ‘And this place? No-one knows I own it.’

  ‘Someone told me you had a plane. I found your flight plans for Sale. With passenger. Then there was the date the picture was taken. It was after Anaxan won the tender. And you’d flown to Sale the day before with a passenger. That’s when I began to think that Marco might not be dead. Hearing that Mick Olsen ID’d Robbie’s body put the seal on it.’

  She was frowning. ‘I still don’t see how you found this place.’

  ‘The shire council was kind enough to look you up in the rates register.’

  ‘Sounds simple,’ said Susan, tight smile.

  ‘Effortless,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the drink. I’ve got a long drive.’

  Marco didn’t look up, didn’t get up. ‘What now?’ he said. ‘What happens?’

  ‘I’m going to ask Doyle for the album. And to behave properly. Apart from that, I’ve lost interest.’

  Susan rose, strain on her face, her age showing. ‘Jack,’ she said, ‘I know, I know I can’t ask you…’

  ‘I don’t care who runs ski resorts and casinos,’ I said. ‘I don’t care who you told what. The matter’s closed.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. She took my left hand in both of hers for a moment. ‘Thank you.’

  They followed me out, into a clear night, cold, a fast-rising full moon. At the car, I said, ‘I wouldn’t like Doyle to know I’m coming around for the album.’

  Marco had his arm around Susan. He shook his head. ‘Never heard of any Doyle. Count on that.’

  I didn’t say goodbye, swung the Stud in a wide reverse turn, gunned it. I could be home by midnight.

  I could be home by midnight.

  I was over the crest of the hill, where the road forked, when I heard the helicopter, saw its lights over to my right, heard the menacing chop and whine.

  I drove back without lights, the chalky road clear in the early moonlight. At the trees, I turned the car around, faced the way I’d come.

  I sat for a moment, put my forehead on the steering wheel. My body had moved a step beyond tiredness and hurt, gone to a stage where I wasn’t feeling anything except a strange sort of buzzing in my limbs, an electrical discharge of some kind.

  This was not my business. My business was finished. Almost. Soon. Just as soon as I’d put a proposition to Xavier Doyle that would drain the bonhomie from his cherubic, murderous being. Then my life would resume.

  Charlie would be back soon.

  Libraries. Ros Cundall had phoned. She wanted a library.

  We wouldn’t be doing a Cundall library.

  Good.

  A library every now and then was fine but not a diet of libraries. We would be doing other things, sitting in the workshop fragrant with the smell of wood and discussing philosophical matters. His extended stay in Perth would come under examination. The merits of warm weather. Swimming, perhaps.

  I lifted my head, rubbed my eyes, got out. Listened.

  Far, far away a dog barking, a long strangled sound. The full moon, it stirred dogs in their blood, all their fluids, people too.

  It was cold, a wind coming off the lake, off Bass Strait beyond the lake, a cold passage was the strait.

  I shut my mind and set off down the track into the trees, into the dark, walking quickly. The wind was animating the gums, rubbing limbs together until they squealed, pushing under loose bark.

  Where the road met the clearing, I stopped. Things were as I’d left them minutes before. No sound save the wind in the trees, at work lifting the corrugated iron.

  No. A voice.

  Someone talking. A low monologue, no individual word distinguishable.

  I crossed the space, went down the passage between the buildings, towards the water, the voice getting louder, words becoming distinct.

  I knew the voice.

  ‘Horse prick, secret of life, hey? Fuck people, they smile? That’s the attitude?’

  In the deep shadows, I stopped, leaned forward.

  It seemed so close, the dark helicopter, sitting on the water at the end of the rusty cradle tracks, moving in and out on its floats. I thought I could see a pilot.

  Two men on the jetty, near the tethered boat, in sub-tropical clothing, long shorts, boat shoes.

  Milan Filipovic and Steve, his short-legged employee.

  I couldn’t see who Milan was talking to.

  ‘Don’t fuck around in there,’ Milan said. He had his small sub-machine pistol in his right hand. ‘Don’t fuck with me, cockboy.’

  Susan Ayliss was on her knees in front of him, something around her neck. He was holding her close with his left hand, like a dog on a choke-chain.

  To my left, a voice said, ‘Got the Pole’s gun.’

  It was a tall man, heavily built, all in black. He’d come out of the house through a sliding door, stood in the light holding a pistol upright.

  ‘Goodonya, Mick,’ said Milan.

  Mick Olsen, late of the drug squad, identifier of Robbie’s body.

  Marco came out of the boat’s cabin, carrying something. A bag, a sports bag. He put it on the cabin roof.

  ‘It’s all here,’ he said.

  ‘Come,’ said Milan. He moved his head and his hair was like a silver cap in the moonlight. ‘Come here you piece of shit.’

  Marco climbed onto the jetty, head down.

  ‘Treat you like a son,’ said Milan. ‘You steal from me, you whore.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Marco.

  I could barely hear his voice.

  ‘Get on your knees, cockboy. Put the bag down, get on your fucken knees and say you sorry.’

  Marco knelt, head down.

  Milan gestured to Olsen with the machine pistol. Olsen came over, took the weapon, gave the pistol to Milan. ‘I’m sorry, Milan,’ said Marco. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  Milan went right up to him, dragged Susan with him.

  ‘Okay,’ said Milan, ‘I forgive you. Look at me.’

  Marco looked up slowly. Milan shot him in the face. One shot. He went over backwards, not quickly.

  Susan made a noise, a terrible noise.

  Milan pulled her head back, stuck the pistol in her mouth and pulled the trigger.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, handing the pistol to Steve. ‘Wipe it,
stick it in her hand. Lovers’ fucken quarrel, hey.’ He laughed. ‘Let’s go. I’m thirsty.’

  I walked backwards, slowly, very scared, turned, went quickly down the alley. Hide. I should find somewhere to hide until the helicopter left. Somewhere dark, somewhere to hide my head in shame.

  I could have done something. Anything. Shouted, distracted Milan.

  Where to hide?

  I came out between the buildings, saw the big door of the workshop slightly ajar.

  Dark. It would be dark in there, in the huge space, high as a church.

  I was inside in a second. It was dark, but not dark enough for me, moonlight coming in through the front entrance. I could see the old cradle piled with drums, 44-gallon drums.

  The helicopter started.

  Drawn forward, I moved up until I could see the helicopter below, at the water’s edge.

  Milan was standing on a pontoon, getting into the cabin. Steve and Mick Olsen were on land, waiting for him to get in. Steve had the sports bag. From ski jackets to sports bag, I thought. Sporty stuff, the South African cocaine.

  I could have done something. Anything.

  These men were going to fly away, fly to warm climes, refuel somewhere, Sydney perhaps. They’d be in Milan’s sitting room long before midnight, lounging in the white leather chairs and sofas, drinks on the glass-topped tables, having a good laugh. I thought of the huge picture above the fireplace, a picture of a red rose lying on stone steps, its decaying petals holding drops of dew.

  I could have done something.

  I went to the back of the shed, went behind the cradle, put both hands on the base of the frame, tested.

  Too heavy, probably rusted into the tracks.

  I pushed again, put some effort into it.

  The cradle moved. Moved a few centimetres.

  I changed my grip, put my shoulder against a drum, felt the cold metal on my cheek. Put everything I had into my push.

  Moving, the cradle was moving. I found more strength, this was pointless, they would come up here and kill me, put the pistol in my hand.

  I could have done something.

  Push.

  The cradle was running, running freely, rumbling along, picking up speed, getting away from me. I stumbled, went to a knee, got up, gave it a final shove…

  Steve was the only one outside the helicopter. He was standing on the pontoon, looking up, he’d heard the rumbling sound.

  ‘Go!’ he screamed. ‘Jesus Christ, go!’

  A drum dislodged from the top of the pile, fell forward, hit the concrete, bounced high.

  I could see the pilot’s face through the open door. He’d seen the cradle.

  One pontoon lifted, the helicopter moved.

  The drum bounced again, hit Steve, smashed him into the cabin. I heard his scream over the whup of the rotor blades.

  The whole cradle slammed into the helicopter, tonnes of metal travelling at speed, a screeching, crushing sound, a string of sparks as the rotors hit metal, drums hitting the top of the cabin, flying into the air.

  Sound like a car backfire, another, a flash of orange in the chaos below.

  The blast pushed me backwards, took my sight away, took away my hearing. Instinctively, I turned my head away, turned my body, almost fell over. I didn’t look again, willed myself to leave the shed, go across to the jetty, to the bodies.

  Susan was dead, no pulse in her neck.

  I went to Marco, put my hand to his throat, thought I felt something.

  No, my own hammering pulse.

  I leant down closer, trying to detect breathing.

  From his mouth a sweet, clean smell. His toothpaste. French toothpaste.

  The second time I’d smelled it today.

  I pushed down the neck of the sweater, saw where the swing chain had bruised him.

  Then I ran, down the path between the buildings, across the moon-pale clearing into the trees, down the dark road, not stopping until I reached the car, got in, couldn’t get my breath, fumbled the key.

  The engine started.

  On the hill crest, I looked back. There was a yellow glow at the end of the peninsula. Dead Point was burning. Mick Olsen’s enemies in the drug squad would be pleased. All they’d had to do was slip me some surveillance clips and I did all their dirty work.

  Surrounded by the silent faithful, some with tears in their eyes, we were watching a slaughter at the Docklands stadium when the starter at the Valley sent them off: eighteen hundred metres, class six for four-year-olds and upwards, apprentices claiming, going heavy.

  I’d said I’d take the Youth Club to the football. I’d done it.

  Four men with small radios held to their heads.

  Number eight, the Kiwi horse, was called The Return. We’d stopped at the TAB on the way to invest our money.

  ‘This thing doesn’t come with a guarantee,’ I said. ‘Could run stone motherless last. Be warned.’

  Norm O’Neill laughed. The others laughed.

  ‘I don’t think I’m getting through to you,’ I said. ‘I don’t want your families coming around to see me.’

  They all laughed.

  Now, we all heard the caller say: They’ve strung out at the thousand, Pelecanos leads by two lengths from Armageddon, Caveat’s poking up on the inside, unruly mob following, bit of push and shove, going’s terrible…

  He named seven or eight other horses before he got to The Return.

  We all looked ahead, mouths downturned, eyes on the game. An Essendon player, bandaged like a burn victim, was about to kick another goal. Some people don’t know when to stop.

  I closed my eyes, opened them quickly. If I closed my eyes for long, I would have to be slapped awake by a paramedic, encouraged to breathe.

  On the bend, Caveat’s gone up to Pelecanos, Armageddon’s struggling, Portobelle’s edging into it now and coming very wide is The Return.

  Four sets of eyes flicked at one another. Too soon to hope.

  Hird kicked the goal. A dog could have kicked it. His teammates came up and patted him. Just another career statistic, what did it matter that it broke hearts?

  At the four hundred, Caveat and Portobelle, and coming at them in the centre of the track is The Return, the Kiwi, could be a surprise packet here at big odds, very ordinary recent form…

  Heads down, no interest in the scene before us.

  The Return’s coming at them, Portobelle stopping under the big weight, Caveat’s a fighter, won’t give in, it’s The Return and Caveat, it’s going to be The Return, she’s clear, the Kiwi raider’s going away…

  Four men stood up, hands in the air, making animal sounds of satisfaction in the midst of the grieving St Kilda faithful, who looked at us, murder in their eyes.

  We sat down.

  ‘No surprise, Jack, me boy,’ said Norm O’Neill. ‘Had the pencil on the animal this mornin. Put me in mind of a certain Kiwi horse…’

  ‘Say the bloody name Dunedin Star and I’ll kill you,’ said Eric Tanner.

  We made the collect on the way back to the Prince. It frightened me to see how much money was handed over to the Youth Club, fifties dispensed, repeatedly.

  In the car, after crossing the city and listening to a great deal of hilarity, I said, primly, ‘I’d never have mentioned it if I’d thought you were going to put that kind of money on.’

  Silence. Rain on the windscreen. The Stud had had a long day. The Stud and the Stud’s owner, who couldn’t remember when the day had begun, remembered, and tried to shut it out.

  ‘Jack,’ said Wilbur, low voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s our bloody money.’

  The wipers needed replacing. So did the door seals. The clutch had that certain feeling too.

  ‘Point taken,’ I said.

  ‘You bastard,’ said Eric. ‘Had the oil.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘the study of class, sectionals, draw, going, trainer, jock, track, barrier, weight, these things help inform a decision.’

&nbs
p; ‘The oil,’ said Eric.

  I pulled up outside the Prince, a space waiting for us.

  ‘And then there’s the oil,’ I said.

  The men in the back seat attacked me, beat me around the head with rolled-up copies of the AFL Record.

  We went in, had a few beers, no e-people in, didn’t talk about the Saints’ failings, too numerous to count, concentrated on the positives. All two of them. From Stan’s office, I rang Linda’s home number. Answering machine.

  ‘Jack,’ I said. ‘I’ll be home by six. Do with that information what you will.’

  I said goodbye. The lads were in the process of shouting the bar, not an expensive exercise this Sunday evening. In the street, thoughts of sausages and mash and bed uppermost, my mobile rang.

  ‘Listen, I could use a hand.’ Cam.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yeah. Can’t wait.’

  I wanted to groan. ‘What?’

  He told me where he was. I did groan.

  ‘Bring a torch,’ he said.

  In the unlovable depths of Coolaroo, Cam was waiting for me at the gate of a car wrecker’s yard. In the dark, in spotting rain, we walked down an avenue of car bodies. Hundreds of them, piled two and three high.

  ‘Artie lives down the back,’ said Cam. He was in biker gear: leather jacket, jeans, boots.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Handcuffed to a Lada Niva. Hasn’t been helpful.’

  We went around a large shed that served as an office and set off down another passage between wrecked vehicles.

  ‘Don’t they have dogs guarding these places?’ I said.

  ‘Should be halfway to Albury by now, the dog.’

  I didn’t ask what he meant.

  ‘How’d you find Artie?’

  ‘Lizard. Big help, Lizard. Given up the wood business. Just today. Gone home to New Zealand. Wouldn’t know this shack was here.’ He went through a gap in the wall of old twisted metal. In a clearing stood an ancient weatherboard cottage, sagging everywhere as if dropped from the air onto the site. On its verandah stood two bench seats from cars. Pieces of motorcycle covered the rest of the space.

  ‘In the Lizards together, Artie and Almeida and Lizard,’ said Cam. ‘Lizard reckons Artie’s topped three people. Gets carried away.’