That done, that leaden step taken, Orlovsky and I walked back to the Garden House in silence. Inside, hands in pockets, he stood looking out at the garden, patches of sunlight falling on it, drifting like memories, not warming anything.
‘I know the money’s nice,’ he said, ‘but are you out of your fucking skull?’
I was sitting in an armchair, an armchair stuffed with horsehair, firm. ‘I didn’t walk when I should have,’ I said. ‘I wanted the money. They call the cops now, it’s on the radio this afternoon, TV tonight. She’s dead. Dead today. I had to tell them that.’
Silence. He didn’t look at me. The phone beside me rang.
‘Calder.’
‘What’s this crap about talking to Christine? Whose idea is this?’
Tom Carson, gruff voice.
I waited a few seconds. ‘You don’t want me to? That’s fine with me. I’m happy to take leave of the Carsons now. This second.’
Tom’s turn to pause. Then he said, no change in tone, ‘What I’m saying is, isn’t there anything more useful you could be doing?’
Orlovsky was looking at me, a little cock of the stubbled head.
‘In these matters,’ I said, ‘what’s useful is pretty much a matter of judgment, usually retrospective judgment. I’d be pleased to leave the judgment to you. And to give you a partial refund.’
Another pause, just a second, then Tom said, ‘You sound like a lawyer. Except for the refund. Tell Noyce to arrange the chopper.’
THE HELICOPTER landed on an expanse of mown grass a hundred metres from the complex of modern buildings. Its rotors blew away grass cuttings in all directions, a violent cuttings storm that caused the two people waiting to turn their backs and put their hands to their faces.
I waited until the noise stopped and the blades stopped before I got out, walked out from under the drooping swords and shook hands with the tall middle-aged woman and the younger and shorter man. She was wearing a white polo-neck shirt and black pants. He was in a dark suit, white shirt, striped tie.
‘We haven’t seen anyone from the family for quite a while,’ the woman said. She was English, could talk while exposing horse teeth and pink gums.
The man looked at her, their eyes met. ‘No criticism intended, of course,’ she said. ‘We understand how busy people are these days.’
I didn’t say anything, nodded at them.
The man smiled at me like a doorman at a five-star hotel. ‘We absolutely do,’ he said. ‘Do understand. Now Mrs Carson’s not in a terribly receptive mood, Mr Calder. Her doctor will give you a full briefing.’
‘Is she violent?’
The man was taken aback, tilted his head, raised his eyebrows, little downturning of the mouth. ‘Well, she can be that way inclined. It’s the price one pays. A trade-off. The alternative…’ He let the alternative hang, float off.
‘Forget about the briefing,’ I said.
‘It would be advisable, Mr Calder.’ A serious tone.
‘No. I don’t have the time.’ There wasn’t any pleasure in working for the Carsons unless you could behave like one.
They looked at each other, assigning responsibility.
‘You’ll have someone with you,’ the man said. ‘That is our policy.’
We walked across to the building, down a wide verandah with groups of plastic outdoor furniture, through a glass door into a reception area done in pastel colours with chrome and grey commercial chairs. It was empty, no one behind the counter.
‘Quiet around here,’ I said.
‘Generally, visits are by appointment,’ the woman said. I wasn’t looking at her but, at the edge of my vision, I saw the wet teeth and gums. She went to the counter and picked up a handset, said a few words.
We went down corridors lit by slit windows, passed doors with numbers, went through a gravelled courtyard with a square of grass and a drought-stricken birdbath, and came to a door at a dead end.
A woman in her twenties was waiting for us in front of the door, facing us, another short woman wearing the same white polo-neck and black jacket and pants uniform. Jaggedly cut hair, a home job, dyed blonde, dark roots, no neck to speak of. Martial arts said the balanced stance, the level shoulders, the loose arms. The cockiness.
‘This is Jude,’ the man said. ‘She’ll be with you while you talk to Mrs Carson.’
Jude moved her lips, some attempt at communication.
The man opened the door with a key. Jude went in first. Then her handler. I followed him in. It was a small square room, lit from a skylight. There was a door in the far wall and beside it a low window, one pane of thick security glass. In the wall beneath the window was a stainless-steel drawer front. A chrome and grey chair stood in front of it.
‘With other patients, we would ask you to visit from this room,’ the man said. ‘However, Mrs Carson won’t come near the window.’ He flicked a switch beside the window and a monitor above the door lit up.
It showed a grey view of a room, rectangular items of furniture, a figure slumped on one of them.
‘Your visitor’s here, Mrs Carson,’ the man said.
The woman didn’t respond. He unlocked the door and opened it. Jude went in first. The man ushered me in after her, closed the door behind us.
‘A visitor, Christine,’ said Jude.
Christine Carson was lolling on her spine in a chair carved from a cube of dense grey foam rubber, no cover on it. There were three more foam chairs in the room. That was it. No other furnishings, no pictures. A television set was behind security glass in the wall to my right, controlled by big soft rubber buttons below it. To my left was another room reached through an archway. I could see the end of a low grey foam rectangle, presumably a bed. Light came through slit windows, panes of security glass set in the masonry, behind Christine.
‘Don’t call me Christine,’ said Christine. ‘You’ve never been asked to, never will be.’ She looked at me. ‘I don’t know you. Have you been sent to kill me?’
She was about forty, thin, big eyes in a long face made longer by close-cropped hair. She was wearing a shift of some stretch fabric, high neck, long sleeves, only her bare feet showing. I couldn’t see Anne in her.
‘No, not to kill you, Mrs Carson,’ I said. ‘I gather that’s a job you’d rather do yourself.’
She looked at me for a while, cold grey eyes, a few shades lighter than the furniture, straightened up in her chair. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you don’t pussyfoot around, do you? Get this bitch out of here and we can fuck. Or she can stay and watch.’
‘Christine, don’t—’ said Jude sternly.
‘Shut up, I won’t have servants speak to me in that tone. What’s your name?’ Christine was looking at me.
‘Frank Calder.’
Christine stood up. She was tall. ‘Well, Frank Calder,’ she said. ‘You look like a man who’s seen a bit of the world.’ In one movement, she put her hands to her garment and pulled it over her head, threw it at Jude, stood there naked, pelvis thrust forward, smiling.
I didn’t look away. There were scars on her wrists, her stomach, on one of her breasts, on her neck. She’d inflicted a lot of pain on herself.
‘Mrs Carson,’ I said, ‘this is entertaining but I’m here to ask you a serious question. Do you know of anyone who would kidnap your daughter Anne?’
The smile went, her eyes widened, she held out a hand for her dress, pulled it on as efficiently as she’d taken it off. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Please God, no.’
‘Let’s sit down,’ I said.
We sat down. She was shaking her head, looking down, breathing quickly and shallowly. ‘Poor baby,’ she said. ‘Poor, poor baby.’ Then she looked up slowly, eyes narrowed, smiled. ‘Just a trick, isn’t it? They sent you to play this trick on me. They want me to go completely out of my mind.’
‘Who would want that?’
‘Tom and Barry. Who fucking else? They used to put a tape recorder next to my bed when I was asleep. Telling me what a bad mother I was,
telling me I should kill myself, how that was what was best for the children. Of course, Carol was behind it all. She hated me from the start. Detested me. She told Mark I’d trapped him, that I should’ve been on the Pill.’
She was moving her head from side to side now, her right hand at her throat inside the shift collar, feeling the scar tissue.
‘They sent you, didn’t they? Didn’t they?’
I took a chance. ‘Pat sent me,’ I said. ‘He sends you his love.’
She was startled. Her head stopped moving. ‘Pat? Did he? Why doesn’t he come and see me?’ Her voice had taken on a sad, whining tone. ‘I love Pat. Like a father. Pat doesn’t know what the others are doing. He’d never let them do anything to me…’
‘Anne hasn’t been kidnapped,’ I said, tasting the lie on my tongue. ‘I’m the new person in charge of the children’s safety. I’m trying to identify any possible threats to them. So that we can act in advance, keep them safe.’
She nodded, thoughts now somewhere else. ‘My father doesn’t want anything to do with me,’ she said. ‘He married his secretary six months after Mum’s death. They killed her. Murdered her.’
This was not the person to be asking questions about possible kidnappers of her daughter. I should have accepted the briefing, accepted it and flown back to town afterwards. I could have had the briefing on the telephone, never flown here at all.
‘They destroyed Jonty too, you know. And Mark, their own flesh and blood,’ Christine said. ‘Although he’s the sick one, he’s the one who’s sick.’
‘Jonty. Who’s Jonty?’
‘Stephanie’s husband.’
I remembered Pat’s words on the first night, in his study sipping malt whisky:
…and Stephanie and her fuckin husband, don’t like to say the bastard’s name, Jonathan fuckin Chadwick.
‘How did they destroy Jonty?’
Christine sighed, scratched her scalp, put her hands into her sleeves, scratched, took them out. ‘Isn’t it time?’ she said to Jude, standing behind me. ‘Jude, isn’t it time? Darling?’
‘In a while,’ said Jude, power in her voice. ‘When your visitor is finished.’
I repeated the question.
Christine got up, began to walk back and forth in front of me. ‘Jonty? Oh, they have their ways. They got his licence taken away. Tom and Barry. They’ve got the power. Just pick up the phone.’
‘What licence was that?’
‘Licence to be a doctor, I don’t know what they call it.’
‘On what grounds was his licence to practise suspended?’
‘They’re so fucking self-righteous. Stephanie found her father screwing her school friend in the tennis pavilion at Portsea, did you know that?’ Her shoulder twitched, moved again.
‘Tell me about Jonty.’
‘Jude, it must be time, why can’t I have a fucking watch, what fucking harm can that possibly do? How do I fucking kill myself with a watch? Please, Jude…’
‘Your visitor’s not finished,’ said Jude curtly. ‘Pay attention.’
Christine looked at me, jerked her head from side to side. ‘Jesus. What?’
‘Tell me about Jonty.’
‘Shit, he’s no saint. The guy was dealing in his office, right, he was shooting up junkies in his office. The far gones. Including me. He used to shoot me up, shoot up too, then I’d leave and he’d go back to seeing patients. Old ladies.’
‘And after he was suspended?’
‘Kicked him out. Expelled him from the family. Like me. Started dealing in clubs, in the street. He owed huge fucking sums to the suppliers, they were going to kill him…Can you go now, please, please.’
‘Just one last thing. How did they destroy Mark?’
‘Wouldn’t have him in the business. Barry wouldn’t have him. Barry hates him. I don’t know why. Won’t be in a room with him. He got Mark’s law firm to fire him. Then his own father wouldn’t give him a cent.’
She was rubbing her hands together, scratched her face. ‘Can you go now. Please?’
I stood up. ‘Thank you, Mrs Carson,’ I said. ‘I appreciate your talking to me.’
‘Yes. Goodbye.’ She wasn’t looking at me, she was looking at Jude. ‘Jude, darling, he’s going…’
The man was waiting for me in the anteroom, presumably had watched us on the monitor.
‘As you’ve seen,’ he said as we walked down the corridor, ‘Mrs Carson is not the easiest of patients.’
‘She’s not a patient,’ I said, ‘she’s an inmate.’
We flew home over the lush hills, beneath us the fields, the settlements, the roads, the cars, they looked like the perfect countrysides model railway enthusiasts build: one of each thing and everything in its place. I thought that there had probably been a time when the Carsons imagined they had built a perfect landscape, shaped the world with their money. Then strangers came and took Alice away from them and suddenly their money was as shells and flints and sharks’ teeth and Reichsmarks, a basketful would not preserve a hair on the girl’s head.
The pilot was looking at me. ‘Ex-military?’ he said. In his dark glasses I could see my reflection, bulbous.
‘Why?’
‘Dunno. Something. I had ten years.’
‘Ex all kinds of things,’ I said. ‘Ex-everything, basically.’
He looked away, flash of glasses.
We were over the Dandenongs and ahead, choking on its own foul breath, lay the imperfect city. Many of each thing and nothing in its place.
FROM ORLOVSKY’S car, coming in on the hideous tollway, I rang a cop called Vince Hartnett in Drugs and didn’t say my name.
‘Give me a number, call you in a minute.’
He’d be going outside to talk on a stolen mobile newly liberated from a dealer.
‘Got two private sales of Taragos to check,’ said Orlovsky. ‘And that’s it. The market in old Taragos is sluggish.’
‘The auctions,’ I said. ‘Could’ve been bought at auction.’
‘Could’ve been bought in 1988.’
I nodded, thinking about Dr Jonty Chadwick shooting up Christine in his consulting room, shooting up himself. Putting the blood pressure cuff on shaking junkies, pumping it up tight and giving them the needle. Not an old-fashioned family doctor but a doctor for the new family, the family of addicts. Still, even junkie doctors would have much experience of performing small procedures: extracting splinters, lancing boils, carving out plantar warts.
Cutting off two joints of a little finger. His niece’s little finger.
That would be a minor procedure. Hygienically done.
Was that likely? The son-in-law kicked out, expelled from the Carson family, struck off the medical roll. It was possible.
My phone rang. Vince Hartnett.
‘A doctor called Jonathan Chadwick. Mean anything?’
‘Jonty baby. Dr Happy. Added a new depth to general practice.
Yes, I know Jonty.’ He had a quick, streetwise way of talking.
‘What happened to him?’
‘Inside. Got five years in, let me see, ’96, ’97. Trying for the big time. Hopeless case. Sadly missed by the street life.’
I thanked Vince, went back to thinking about the Carsons. I knew something about one of them: Pat Carson junior, Alice’s brother. A few weeks after I’d ended the little hostage drama in the underwear store, Graham Noyce invited me for a drink at a small and horrendously smart hotel called The Hotel Off Collins. The Carson family owned it, he told me. They wanted to show their gratitude for the handling of the lingerie incident. He put an envelope on the table. I said thanks but life had taught me that whatever joy the contents of envelopes brought, accepting them was a step on the way to sadness.
He didn’t press it, put the envelope away, gave me his card. Then, when I was out of the force and desperate, I sent him my card. This claimed that I was a Mediator and Negotiator. About a month later, he gave me a job to do for Barry Carson. Barry’s nineteen-year-old boy, Pat Ju
nior, was getting some life experience from a thirty-four-year-old table dancer called Sam Stark, formerly Janelle Hopper. Sam was professing undying love for the young Carson, and he was lavishing gifts on her and talking about marriage when he turned twenty-one and got his trust money from his maternal grandfather. I had a word with Sam and found her to be sincere in her love for Pat. At least until we got to fifty thousand dollars and a one-way ticket to Brisbane, business class.
At that point, before my eyes, her love for the youth withered. Noyce rang the next day to say thanks, Sam Stark had broken off with Pat Junior, booked a flight to Brisbane.
Had Sam told Pat that she’d been bought off ? How would he take that? He was a wild young man by Noyce’s account. Dropped out of university. In with bad company. Casino lizards, Noyce said. Pat had already sold the car his mother gave him when he left school to pay off gambling debts. Would he be part of the kidnapping of his cousin’s child? Angry, in debt, in the company of fast people. Someone might have suggested it, made a joke of it.
I rang Graham Noyce’s mobile. ‘It’s Frank,’ I said. ‘Anything happening?’
‘Nothing. How’d you go with Christine?’
‘An unwell person.’
‘Yes, a variety of problems, including, would you believe it, narcissism.’
‘Anything with a narc in it I’d believe.’
‘So not a useful trip?’
‘No. What’s Pat Junior doing these days?’
There was a short silence. I could see his worried face, more hairs jumping scalp. ‘That’s not a, a casual question, is it?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘He’s a worry for Barry. And for Katherine. They got his grandmother, she’s in her eighties, to change the terms of the trust. I told you about the trust, did I?’
‘You did.’
‘Pat won’t be getting his three-quarter million till he turns thirty now. His mother told him on the phone from England. I understand he went berserk, grabbed some antique glass thing, smashed a mirror dating from Napoleon’s day. Security had to be called in.’
‘Who says money can’t buy happiness?’ I said. ‘Like the Kennedys.’
Shooting Star Page 8
