‘I won’t say I haven’t dreamt of a man in a window with a rifle.’ A pause. ‘Pat…you don’t think…’
‘What do you know about Pat’s reaction to Alice’s kidnapping? And his mother taking her to England?’
In my mind, I could see the shrug. ‘Only what Barry’s said. He thinks Pat’s got some kind of emotion-deficit disorder. Doesn’t seem to have any attachment to Barry or Katherine or Alice. Anyone, for that matter. Well, perhaps that whore you bought off. He took that badly.’
‘How did he find out?’
‘Wouldn’t have to be Einstein. Eternal love one minute, the next she’s gone. Plus…’ ‘Plus?’
‘He knows what the family money can do. We had to solve a pregnancy matter when he was sixteen. Quite expensive, it turned out to be. The girl’s father saw an opportunity to get a unit in Byron Bay.’
‘Pat’s been told about Anne?’
‘No.’
‘Where would he be at this time of day?’
‘Wherever he is, he’ll be asleep, building up his reserves for another assault on the casino. He’s got an apartment in South Melbourne, behind the Malthouse. Courtesy of Grandma. The block’s called, odd name, hold on a sec, it’s called…Anvil Square. In Anvil Square East, I think it is.’
Noyce paused. ‘He’s a weird kid, Frank, cold as stone, bit out of control, bit of a smartarse, too much stuff up the nose, but…’
‘But is probably right,’ I said. ‘Talk to you later.’
They rip his girlfriend off him, they keep his money from him. Dangerous people squeezing him to pay his debts. Coke habit. He could get others to help him, to make the kidnap seem to be about something other than money.
Orlovsky was looking at me, an inquiry in his left eyebrow. ‘Pat Junior?’
‘Barry’s boy. Twenty-one this year.’
‘Ah. Generation X. Wants to finance an Internet startup, perhaps? He’s looking for venture capital. Kidnap a relative. Cut off a big bit of finger, that’ll show them we’re totally full-on.’ He sniffed. ‘Feeling in full control of whatever it is we’re doing, Frank? Pardon, you’re doing. I’m just driving the car and kicking fellow human beings on demand.’
I sighed. ‘Rich kids have done worse things. Like killing their parents to speed up the inheritance. Go to the orphans’ picnic. Kidnapping a cousin is nothing. We need a bit of surveillance.’
‘We need something. I’m on the road on Thursday, bear that in mind.’
I rang Vella. ‘I liked that Mongolian octopus. You Vellas, you’re across so many cultures.’
‘We come across easy. Marco’s bookkeeper’s looking for you. Some rent matter.’
‘Trivial. Give him my love. Listen, let’s say you want your girlfriend watched, you’re insane with jealousy, you have to know. But if she spots the prick, she phones your wife to complain. Who’s your man?’
‘Woman, my woman. You sleep through the gender-sensitivity workshop?’
‘I was sick that day. My mother wrote a note. Name and number?’
ANGELA CAIRNCROSS was an in-between person: between clothing styles, between ages, possibly even between genders. She pushed over a set of photographs. ‘That’s me,’ she said.
I looked through them. She was good. A bag lady on a bench, a plump man walking two small dogs, a tired-looking nurse going home, a man in overalls next to vans with Telstra and Optus written on the sides.
‘Don’t get a chance to go out anymore, the business’s got so big,’ said Angela. ‘Once it was just Bert, my late husband, and Harry Chalmers and me. Now it’s ten full-timers, thirty temps on call, part-timers, they do a shift. Works well, you never see the same person, same vehicle, twice. Variety, that’s the key. Variety. The police have trouble getting that part right.’
I didn’t demur. The jacks didn’t get lots of things right. I’d tried very hard to point some of them out. In a manner that was held to be extreme. Murderous in fact.
‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘You can’t run a business like this on trade union lines. Flexibility, that’s what you need.’
We were in the cheerful offices of Cairncross & Associates above a printery off York Street in South Melbourne. There were prints and posters on the yellow walls, flowers on the desks. Down below, the presses were running: you could feel the vibrations in the soles of your feet, coming up your chair legs.
‘Pat’s a rich kid, may be out of his depth,’ I said. ‘Bad company, gambling, that kind of thing. We’re worried he might be doing something stupid.’
Angela scratched an eyebrow, just a pale line, with a middle finger. ‘Stupid? Illegal?’
‘Might be involved in a kidnapping.’
She turned down her lips and nodded. ‘That is stupid. Reported, is it?’
‘No. Not yet. We need twenty-four hours on him, more if anything shows. You’ll understand, there’s a fear the victim will be in danger if they get even a wrong feeling.’
‘It’s more than him?’
‘There would have to be. A courier’s on the way with a photograph of Pat and a rego number but that’s it.’
‘Anvil Square. I know it.’ Angela looked at the ceiling. ‘All new buildings that area, apartments. It’ll be hard. There’s no street life. Got a budget in mind?’
‘If you need an airship, hire one.’
‘So that will be stills and video.’ She wrote on the form, looked up.
‘We don’t do interceptions, bugs, without a warrant, you know that? We can get some sound. Outside, public places. Not guaranteed, of course.’
‘It has to start soonest.’
‘Starts as soon as the picture gets here. I’ve got two people free, can bring in others. Is Pat one of those Carsons?’
There wasn’t any point in telling lies. Her business was lies. ‘Yes. They’re not keen on publicity.’
‘Won’t get any out of this office. We’ve done all kinds of people, I can tell you. And that’s all I’ll tell you. Bert used to say we live or die by confidentiality. Any sensitivity about where the bill goes?’
‘No.’ I gave her Graham Noyce’s address and my mobile number. ‘How do you report?’
‘Office is staffed twenty-four hours. In a case like this, operatives call in every hour or whenever something happens.’ She wrote a number on a card and handed it over. ‘I’ve written the case number there. You can ring this office at any time for an update. Just give the case number. It’s like your PIN. Any important development, we’ll be in touch with you immediately.’
I got up. ‘This sounds businesslike, Angela.’
She smiled, pleased. ‘We’re in the business of service, Mr Calder. That’s what Bert used to say. The McDonald’s of the industry, I like to think. Many of our competitors are more like fish and chip shops.’
Orlovsky was leaning on the car, talking on the mobile. He finished as I approached, eyed me, half-smiling.
‘Could have the vehicle. A youngish bloke and an older one, driving an old stationwagon. Paid cash. Sounds like the two in Revesdale Street, beard on the younger one.’
‘Jesus. Show ID?’
‘No. The seller didn’t ask.’
I closed my eyes, sagged. ‘Station wagon rego?’
‘No.’
‘Then we have exactly fuck all.’
I WAS asleep in the Garden House, in a big bed in the middle of a large room, dreaming a dream of childhood, when the call came. My unconscious tried to work the mad-bird sound into its story but quickly gave up, let the noise wake me.
‘Mr Calder?’ A woman.
‘Yes.’ I was sitting upright, swung my legs out of the bed, put my feet on the floor, the warm floor, heated from inside.
‘It’s 12.14 a.m. The subject left the dwelling a few minutes ago, alone, in his vehicle.’
‘The casino.’
‘No. Travelling south-west on Sturt Street. The operative has him in view but the traffic isn’t heavy so there is some risk. Not great. We have two vehicles. Do you wish them to continue?’
‘Yes. Can I speak directly to your people?’
‘Certainly. I’ll instruct them to call you direct.’
I took the phone into the bathroom, wet my face, brushed my teeth, admired the stained-marble appearance of the whites of my eyes. Then I went back to the bedroom, opened a curtain and stood in the dark looking across the garden, misty rain around dozens of concealed ground lights. No lights showed in the main house, but, above the walls of what I thought was Pat Carson’s study courtyard, a faint glow coloured the wet air. A security light or perhaps Pat was sitting there, drinking the single malt and thinking the dark thoughts. Thoughts of Anne, of little Alice, who saved herself from slaughter but could not be healed; of Christine, who loved him like a father and heard voices, slashed her wrists, her throat, plunged sharp objects into her concave belly; of Jonty Chadwick, who must once have looked like an ornament to the family and ended up as Dr Happy, running a shooting gallery.
The dark thoughts. And those were only the ones I knew about.
There was a lot of darkness inside this family.
Mad-bird ring.
‘Calder.’
‘Mr Calder, time’s 12.36 a.m., subject’s driven into premises in Port Melbourne, a converted factory, the old Bonza Toys factory on Conrad Street.’ A male voice, hoarse, the voice of someone who sat in parked cars smoking cigarettes, breathing shallowly. ‘Opened roller doors from the vehicle. Either that or someone inside opened them. Door to the house in back righthand corner. There’s another vehicle in the garage.’
I was still looking at the main house, the glow where the old man might be sitting.
Please God, a people-mover, a Tarago.
‘Any idea what kind of vehicle?’
‘Guessing. New. Squarish back, I’d say Alfa Romeo, maybe Honda. Red, so maybe Alfa.’
‘The building, what can you see?’
‘The renovated part of the factory’s on the corner of Conrad and Castle, front door’s on Castle. There’s three lights in that, one’s a bathroom, toilet. The garage entrance is on Conrad. I’ve given the office the address, they’ll give you some ratepayers’ info pretty quick.’
‘Any way to get a look?’
‘There’s a building going up across the road, four floors, might be vision from there. We risk trespass.’
‘Risk it.’
‘I’ll have to have that authorised, I’m afraid. Be back to you.’
The waiting. You have to learn how to wait, how to let time drift by without nagging at it. I sat in the chair beside the window, steepled my fingers in front of my chin, closed my eyes. No Tarago in the garage. Why should it be there? How did the voice of hate on the phone fit in? Scripted?
The phone.
‘Mr Calder, the address in Port Melbourne, it’s in the name of a company, Tragopan Nominees. I have the directors’ names. Mr and Mrs E. J. Lamond of 27 Kandara Crescent, Rockhampton. Mrs Cairncross asks me to say that she has authorised the request from our operative on the understanding that the financial liability is yours. Are you agreeable to that?’
Call waiting pips.
‘Yes. Thank you.’
I ended the call and the mad bird warbled.
‘Calder.’
‘We have vision of two windows.’ Urgent voice. ‘Subject’s gone into curtained room with female. She appears to be handcuffed or hands tied behind back with something metallic.’
My heart filled my chest cavity, I felt the thumping pulse in my head, my arms. ‘Description?’
‘Blonde, shortish hair, youngish, he says.’
‘On my way. Where in Conrad Street?’
‘Park in Otway between Conrad and Jessup. I’m in a Yellow Cab just before Conrad.’
I got dressed, dark clothes, went across the hall to Orlovsky’s room, opened the door.
‘What?’ said Orlovsky, wide awake.
‘I think we’ve got her. Dark clothes, quick.’
THE AGENT was a large, balding man in his fifties called Andrew. His cab smelt faintly of fish and chips. Angela Cairncross would not be pleased. McDonald’s yes, fish and chips no.
‘Young fella’s up the building,’ he said. ‘Call me if he sees anything more.’
I was in the front, looking at the quiet street, not a light on. Volvos, Saabs, BMWs, hard to believe that dock workers once lived here. The light from a street lamp came dimly to us.
‘We need to go in,’ I said. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘Place’s like a jail,’ Andrew said. ‘They left all the factory bars on the windows, front door’s solid as a brick shithouse. That’s on Deacon Place.’
‘How many entrances?’
‘Just the front door and through the garage. They bricked in the big door on Castle Street.’
‘We could just wait,’ said Orlovsky from the back seat, speaking in his voice of reason. ‘Nail him when he opens the garage door.’
‘The thought occurred to me,’ I said. ‘Could open it in three or four days’ time. I’d prefer a speedier end to this shit.’
Andrew pointed to the gloomy two-storey brick building across the intersection. ‘That one, the other bit of the factory, that’s empty. Haven’t tarted that up yet. Knock it down, probably. Might be able to get from that into the back. Dunno what you do then.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘We might just drive by, have a look. Andrew, hang around, could want you keeping an eye on the place for a while.’
‘Can’t go beyond surveillance. Policy.’ He held my gaze, telling me something.
‘Of course.’
In his car, Orlovsky said, ‘Drive by?’
I nodded. ‘Take it slow.’
We drove around the corner. The old double-storeyed toy factory occupied the width of the block on our right, built on the boundary line. Once it was in two parts, probably a yard in between where a double garage now stood. Over its roof I could see the two upstairs lights.
‘Park in the garage,’ I said. ‘Reverse park.’
‘In the garage?’
‘This thing’s built like a tank.’
Orlovsky looked at me. ‘Jesus, you’re subtle. Hang on.’
We went up Conrad Street, beyond the garage doors, a good fifty metres beyond, slowed, stopped for a second, and then went backwards in a sweeping curve, not fast. At the last second, Orlovsky put his foot down.
We hit the electronic roll-up garage door full on, maximum bumper contact, knocked the door out of its tracks, went in under it so that it lay on us like a crumpled tin blanket. There was a small impact as we touched a parked car.
I was out, ran around the front of our car. Orlovsky was already trying the door into the house.
‘Locked,’ he said, stood back.
I kept running, hit the door with my left shoulder, painful impact against the torsion-box door, cheap but strong, splintered the lock out of the jamb, was in a short passage, kept going, two strides to open the door at the end.
Kitchen, light from the street shining off stainless steel countertops, huge copper rangehood.
Double doors, to the right, open.
Into a huge room, a sitting and dining room, stairs to the right, the original broad staircase, a landing halfway up, dim light coming from the floor above.
We ran up the stairs abreast, Orlovsky on my right, reached the landing, looked up.
Nothing.
Up the stairs. At the top a broad corridor, ahead a door open, light on tiles, mirrors, a bathroom. Door to the left, another one to the right, against the back wall, window in the centre of the wall.
Perhaps twenty seconds since we’d smashed open the garage door.
Orlovsky reached the door first, turned the handle.
Locked. Heavy four-panel door, break your shoulder first.
I looked around. A copper bowl was standing on a low table, thick crude top, stout turned legs, a stool not a table, a piece of poor farm furniture migrated to an ultra-smart house in the city.
I picked it up by a leg, bowl hitting the
polished wooden boards with a hollow gong-like sound, tossed it to Orlovsky.
He caught a leg in each hand.
‘Panel above the handle,’ I said without needing to, he was already swinging.
The panel was solid oak, raised, hard as iron, resisted the first blow, the second. Orlovsky changed hands, swung a corner of the stool at the bottom righthand corner of the panel, knocked the whole thing out, sent it flying into the bedroom, dimly-lit room.
I reached through the opening, found a double-bolt deadlock, opened it, turned the knob, butted the door open with my sore left shoulder.
The light in the large room was from two brass lamps with heavy shades standing on tables on either side of a massive four-poster bed, a modern version of a four-poster, designed to be curtained, made of heavy-gauge black steel with brass fittings.
Pat Carson junior was between us and the bed, walking backwards, naked except for a broad leather belt. He was tall, built like a swimmer, big pectorals and rounded shoulders, with an immature face, now frozen in fright. His erection was dying, his scrotum had contracted to nothing.
The girl was on the bed, her thin back to us, naked. Her head hung down, her upper body was in the air, suspended from the bed’s steel curtain rails by ropes attached to leather cuffs around her wrists. Under her belly were cushions, her rump was elevated and her legs were spread, drawn apart by ropes from leather ankle cuffs tied to the bed’s foot posts. Even in the weak light, I could see the welts across her back, her buttocks, the backs of her upper thighs.
‘Lie on the floor, face down,’ I said to Pat. ‘If you want to live through this.’
He didn’t hesitate, went down on the carpet.
‘Anne,’ I said.
The girl didn’t reply, didn’t raise her head, didn’t turn her head.
I went across to the bed, the right of the bed, took her face gently in my right hand and half-turned it towards me.
Not Anne.
Not a fifteen-year-old girl.
Stephanie Carson/Chadwick, aged a girlish thirty-eight, last seen clasping her grandfather’s hand in the study.
A mature woman, a mother, engaged in sado-masochistic practices with her cousin, a cousin young enough to be her son.
Shooting Star Page 9
