Bad Debts

by Peter Temple

  ‘By that drunk? Was he capable of forming an intention?’

  ‘What I mean is, did anyone think he might have been used to kill Anne Jeppeson?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ve never heard anyone suggest that.’ She paused and looked at me intently. ‘Hang on a minute. It’s just come back to me. Didn’t you appear for the driver?’

  I nodded. ‘Not with any distinction. He came out of jail a few years ago. New person, good job, wife and kid. Then a cop shot him dead in Brunswick last Friday.’

  ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘I read that the bloke’d done time for hit-and-run. I didn’t make the connection.’

  The phone on her desk rang. She talked to someone in monosyllables for a while, then put the phone down. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’m under the gun here for a while. I’ve got to file a story for Hong Kong in about eight minutes.’

  I took a chance. ‘Can we talk outside hours?’

  She gave me a questioning look. ‘You mean tonight?’

  I hadn’t had a date in two years. ‘If you’re free,’ I said.

  There was a pause. We looked at each other in a new way.

  She said, ‘Ring me here at seven. We can fix something.’

  It was raining outside. I didn’t mind much.

  10

  Linda Hillier said she’d be finished by eight. We agreed to meet at Donelli’s in Smith Street, Collingwood. It was owned by Patrick Donelly, an Irishman who wanted to be an Italian and who owed me money.

  Linda was wearing a tailored navy jacket. I watched her hanging up her raincoat. She was taller than I remembered. Then I remembered I’d never seen her standing up. She felt my eyes on her and turned her head to look straight at me across the crowded room. For some reason, I felt embarrassed, as if I’d been caught looking down her dress. She came across and I stood up and pulled out a chair.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘This is a nice way to end a real pain of a day.’

  I poured her some of the house white, the menus came and we inspected them for a while. When we’d ordered the same things, she said, ‘Gavin Legge rang up and told me about your wife. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘what else can I tell you about Anne Jeppeson? I’ve been thinking about her since you left. I talked to her the morning before she was killed. She was like a happy attack dog. “I’m going to get the bastards,” she kept saying.’

  ‘You weren’t one of her admirers?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘There were things about her I admired. But, no, I wasn’t one of her admirers. She had this deep contempt for the media and this equally deep need to be the subject of its attention.’

  ‘You had dealings with her before the Hoagland business?’

  ‘Long before. She cultivated me when she was trying to market herself as a barefoot paralegal in Footscray. It wasn’t enough for justice to be done. Anne Jeppeson had to be seen to be doing it.’ Linda drank half her glass. ‘Hoagland was her chance for real fame.’

  I said, ‘My memory’s pretty vague about that period. I read the clippings today. It’s not clear how she got into the limelight.’

  ‘She was a natural for the part from the moment it leaked out that the government was going to knock down the Hoagland Housing Commission flats. Do you know Yarrabank?’

  ‘Vaguely. I had a client from there once. Stabbed someone in a park. His best friend, I think it was.’

  ‘That’s what Yarrabank friends are for,’ said Linda. ‘It’s shitsville. Maybe it’s going to be Venice when the Premier’s mates are finished with it, but it was darkest shitsville then.’

  I suddenly connected. Yarra Cove—the new development I’d seen the sly-faced Planning Minister, Lance Pitman, and the spotty ABC reporter going on about on TV—was on the site of the old Hoagland housing estate. There was a freeway on one side and once there’d been collapsing warehouses on the riverbank, filthy docks all around. There was a munitions factory there in the forties, a battery factory burnt down there in the early sixties. Christ knows what the soil pollution level was.

  ‘How did a Housing Commission block ever get there?’ I asked.

  ‘One of the great mysteries of our time. They’ve shredded the files and composted the bits. People say the land was bought from a mate of the then Housing Minister for about ten times its value and the buildings were put up by another mate for about five times the going rate. The story goes the three of them bought half of Merimbula with the proceeds.’

  ‘How did they get anybody to live there?’

  ‘No choice for some people,’ she said. ‘That or under a bridge. And the Commission shunted in their problem cases from all over. Move to Hoagland and we’ll forget about the three years’ rent owing and the fire and the explosion and the missing hot water system. That sort of thing. It was a hellhole. The cops called it the Leper Colony, LC for short.’

  ‘Small, though?’

  ‘Couple of hundred inmates. Small by Housing Commission standards, fifty flats, three three-storey walk-ups. When it leaked out that the government planned to close it, the Ministry said the place was so wrecked it was cheaper to build new flats than to fix it. But Yarrabank was not the place to build them. The place to build them was on land the Commission had bought on the outskirts of Sunshine.’

  ‘Not from the same mate?’ I said.

  ‘One day we’ll know.’

  ‘What did the residents think?’

  ‘Well, you’d have thought that even Sunshine would look like Surfers Paradise from Hoagland. But we don’t actually know what the residents thought because Anne Jeppeson came on the scene like Batwoman and after that all we knew was what the Fight for Hoagland action committee thought. Well, what Anne Jeppeson said the committee thought. All the media attention was on her. It was the Anne Jeppeson Show.’

  ‘What was her background?’

  ‘Strictly middle class. Deep suburbia. Volvo in every drive. Private school. Did politics at Monash. Worked for the Footscray Legal Service for a while. Tried to organise pieceworkers in the rag trade, then she got together a bunch of leftier-than-thou people and founded Right to a Roof. She organised a lot of squats in empty mansions in Toorak, that sort of thing. Great TV pictures.’

  Linda finished her drink. I poured some more. ‘Anyway, when Hoagland turned up, she stitched together a big coalition of left groups. Christ knows how. They were people who hated one another. She got about five thousand people out for a demonstration, got the Building Workers’ Alliance to black-ban the Sunshine site, talked the public service unions into running stop-works. She was all over the papers, TV. The camera liked her. Joan of Arc come back in tight jeans and boots.’

  ‘And then she got killed.’

  Linda nodded. ‘Without her, the whole Hoagland protest fell apart. Fight for Hoagland didn’t actually exist without her. No-one really gave a shit about Hoagland, least of all the tenants. They came out and said: “Please God, can we move somewhere else?” Suddenly the Housing Commission discovered it had empty flats all over the place. Hoagland got flattened inside a month.’

  I said, ‘So it wouldn’t be likely that she was killed to stop her obstructing Hoagland’s closure?’

  Her eyes flicked around the room and came back to me. A little smile. ‘Bit of an extreme step for the Housing Com-mission to take, don’t you think?’

  I told her how the witness against Danny had abandoned his old Renault and taken off in a sports car for a new life in Perth after the trial.

  She listened with her chin on her hand. ‘What does that suggest to you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m told Danny was unconscious near a pub miles from his car about half an hour before the car hit Anne Jeppeson. I’m groping around.’

  ‘Why would anyone pay Ronnie Bishop to tell the lies that sent McKillop to jail?’

  ‘Well, maybe it was the only way they could get the verdict,’ I said.

  ‘Are we talking about the cops?’


  I poured some more wine. You don’t get much waiter-pouring at Donelli’s. ‘It’s possible. A drug squad cop called Scullin knew both Danny McKillop and Ronnie Bishop.’

  Linda said, ‘Let me get this straight. Someone wants a conviction for Anne Jeppeson’s death. They use Bishop to frame McKillop. Is that right?’

  ‘That’s my extremely vague line of thought.’

  ‘Let’s move over to the “How”. As I recall, Ronnie gave the cops the car rego that night and they ran the number and went to McKillop’s place and found him asleep in the car. Blood all over the front.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And then Ronnie identified McKillop in a line-up.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So if McKillop is innocent, someone else drove the car? And planted him in it later?’

  Our first course arrived: honey-cured salmon with a mild peppercorn sauce. This was very fast for the establishment. People had eaten their shoe-leather while waiting for their first courses at Donelli’s. Donelly was obviously feeling some remorse about his outstanding debt and had given our order priority.

  We talked about other things as we ate. Television, newspapers, the law. Linda had a sharp eye for a target and a spare, funny delivery, but she didn’t give away much about herself.

  There was no pause between dishes. Donelly himself, head like a sculpture in Virginia ham draped with seaweed, white jacket tight as a bandage on his fat torso, came out of the kitchen with the main course.

  ‘If I may say so, Irish, it’s impeccable taste you’re showing dining with this lady, and she with you,’ he said, eyes never leaving Linda. ‘Not to mention your choice of establishment.’

  ‘It chooses itself, Patrick,’ I said. ‘For many reasons.’

  ‘All of them sound,’ he replied. ‘And you’ll do me the honour of accepting a little libation I’ll be sending over with the young fella.’

  It was an old-fashioned Italian dish, chicken and veal risotto, the kind of thing you might cook yourself on a Sunday if you had someone to eat it with. Donelly’s libation arrived, a bottle of Barolo by Giuseppe Contratio, ten years old.

  Linda tasted it. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘They know you here.’

  ‘Carnal knowledge,’ I said. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  We got back to Ronnie Bishop over coffee. Linda came back from the women’s room, slid into her seat and said, ‘Listen, Jack, let’s say that the driver, let’s say that McKillop was the target. Someone wanted him in jail and they framed him. So Anne was just unlucky.’

  ‘Chosen at random, you mean?’ I said.

  ‘Yes. They had to knock someone down at a certain time of night, in a certain area. And she was there. Could’ve been anybody.’

  ‘It’s hard to see why anyone would go to that trouble to put Danny inside. Easier to knock him off.’

  She nodded. Tips of hair slipped around and touched the corner of her mouth. She was faintly flushed from the wine. I found her very attractive and she knew it. ‘Maybe the Hoagland tenants saw their chances of escaping from the ghastly place slipping away and put out a contract on Anne Jeppeson,’ she said. ‘And whoever did the job decided to give Danny the credit.’

  We laughed. I poured the last of the wine. ‘Can we do this again?’ I said. ‘Are you free to do this kind of thing?’

  She looked at me with a half-smile still on her face. ‘You mean eat and drink?’

  ‘That or whatever else takes your fancy.’

  ‘You’re asking me if I’m involved with someone else?’

  ‘In my awkward and out-of-practice way.’

  ‘I’m free to do this kind of thing but I don’t think I’ve been much use to you,’ she said. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Why are you going over all this ancient stuff?’

  It was the question I’d been putting off thinking about. ‘I’m not sure,’ I said after a pause. ‘Part of it’s guilt. I’m not sure that I gave Danny a fair shake when I represented him. I was either drunk or monumentally hungover for all that time. It was just after my wife’s death. That’s not an excuse. That’s just the way it was. I didn’t ask any questions about the evidence against Danny. The cops got the bloke to trial in an amazingly short time, jumped all the queues. His wife tells me he told her they fed him pills from his arrest onwards. I didn’t know that. But I wouldn’t have noticed at the time.’

  I stopped talking. I could have gone on for a bit but I was just thinking aloud.

  Linda smiled at me. ‘Sounds like a good enough reason,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve got a running engagement at 6 a.m. Call me next week. I’ll think about Anne Jeppeson.’

  11

  ‘Noise? I’m in Hoddle Street. In the mother of all fucken jams, that’s the noise. What’s the name of that fucken street you’re in?’

  I told Senior Sergeant Tregear.

  ‘Be there in, I don’t fucken know. I’ll hoot for you. Gimme a word outside.’

  Ten minutes later, he hooted. I went outside. He was in a blue Falcon fifty metres down the street, half on the kerb. When I got close I saw his eyes in the rear-view mirror. He raised his left arm and pointed to the passenger side. I got in. The car was warm and smelt of cigarette smoke and Chinese food.

  ‘Jack,’ Barry Tregear said. He was wearing a blue suit, a green shirt and a violet tie, all tired looking. ‘What’s with the fucken overalls? Joined the working class now?’

  ‘Helping out,’ I said. I didn’t feel like explaining.

  Barry took a packet of Newport off the dash and extracted a cigarette with his teeth. He lit it with a throw-away lighter.

  ‘I got two minutes,’ he said. ‘Jack, listen, this McKillop business. Can I give you a word of advice?’

  ‘Everyone else does.’

  He took a deep draw, puckered his lips and blew a thin jet of smoke up past his nose. ‘I’d give it a miss if I were you.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s something you want to get mixed up in now. Sensitive business these days, cops shooting people. Wait for the inquest.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer the question,’ I said.

  ‘Trust me, mate. I’ve got your interests at heart.’

  ‘I’ll think about it. Did you get hold of Scullin?’

  Barry nodded. ‘Not easy. He’s a busy man.’

  ‘I thought you said he’d gone fishing.’

  ‘Just a manner of speaking. He’s a smart fella. Runs some kind of security business now. Makes big bucks.’

  ‘What did he say about McKillop?’

  ‘He says he never talks about police business.’ Barry wound down his window and flicked the cigarette stub out. It landed on the bonnet of a car on the other side of the street.

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  ‘You drove around here to tell me that?’

  ‘No. I wanted to tell you something else.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘don’t ask me any more questions about McKillop. Okay?’

  Ronnie Bishop’s mother lived deep in working-class Brunswick. But even here the first seeker after capital gains had appeared. Right next door. The humble weatherboard dwelling had been given a picket fence, brick paving, two silver birches, a paint job and a brass ship’s bell. Mrs Bishop’s cottage appeared to be trying to lean on the newly straightened frame of its facelifted neighbour.

  Mrs Bishop looked at me long and hard from behind a security gate after I introduced myself. Behind her the house was dark. She was probably in her seventies, small, sharp-featured, well-preserved and dressed like someone going out.

  ‘I rang about Ronnie,’ I said.

  She held up a hand. ‘Sorry to stare. You look like my sister’s late boyfriend. Now there was a devil. Come in.’

  We went down a dark passage, two doors on each side. She opened a door at the end and light flooded in. Beyond was a large new section, the
width of the house, with full-length windows looking on to a paved terrace crammed with greenery.

  ‘This is nice,’ I said, looking at the glossy sealed floorboards, the newish upholstered chairs and sofa. Next door wasn’t the only place on the street that had been smartened up.

  ‘Ronnie paid for it,’ she said. ‘Sent me to Noosa for two weeks, rained all the time, never mind that. Came back, I nearly fell over, I can tell you. Opened the door and there it was, new furniture, everything. Like a dream, really. Sit down. I’ve just made some tea.’

  There were biscuits too, bought biscuits but nice, on an EPNS server in the shape of a giant leaf.

  ‘Nice and warm, isn’t it,’ Mrs Bishop said. We were both sitting on the sofa. ‘Ronnie put in the central heating. Before that I used to sit on a hot water bottle with my feet on another one some days. Cold as a mother-in-law’s kiss, my late husband used to say.’

  ‘You said on the phone that Ronnie was depressed…’

  Mrs Bishop looked away and when she answered all the cheerfulness had gone out of her voice. ‘Ronnie has AIDS, Mr Irish.’ Tears began to run down her powdery cheek, turning pink in the clear light from outside. I felt deeply helpless. I cleared my throat.

  ‘Do you think that had something to do with his disappearance?’

  She turned back to me, shaking her head. ‘I don’t know. When I went to the police, they didn’t seem interested after I told them Ronnie was…was sick.’

  ‘How long was he going to stay in Melbourne, Mrs Bishop?’

  ‘Only a few days. Then he said he had to see someone and he’d be back soon. And he didn’t come back. And I’ve heard nothing. He wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Why did he come to Melbourne?’

  ‘To see someone. And to see his mum, of course. He’s a lovely boy, Mr Irish. There’s no harm in him.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. Did he see the person?’

  Mrs Bishop tidied her hair. ‘I don’t know, Mr Irish. But he said something to me a few days before he disappeared.’

  I nodded helpfully.

  ‘He said, “Mum, if anything happens to me I’m insured for two hundred thousand dollars and most of it goes to you.” And then he said something else.’