by Peter Temple
‘Well, he’s a busy man, things come up, that’s the law.’
‘Lawyers don’t work on Saturdays.’
‘The lawyers you know. Lawyers in name only. Accountants in drag. Tax avoidance, mergers and acquisitions. Drew is a criminal lawyer. They never stop, never sleep. Never eat, some of them.’
She knew. She could not know, but she knew. Some psychic vibration had reached her, bounced off a star, found her.
‘I don’t know what this is about,’ I said. ‘What time are we on? What time is it on your side of the river?’
Silence.
‘Well, I rang you, so whose prerogative is it to end the conversation? Tricky point of etiquette, not so?’
‘Sometimes I hate you,’ she said and put the phone down.
On the other hand, she could know if Drew had told her.
I sat back in my captain’s chair and my shoulders sagged.
Why had I been so stupid as to speak my mind to Drew? What did it matter if he became entangled with Rosa? What was one more clear-felled forest, one more toxic waste dump, one more nuclear test site in my immediate vicinity?
I sat in this mood of despond for a while and then, for want of something to do, I dialled Telstra inquiries. Since the privatised utility wanted to encourage people to use this free service, it took six minutes to get the number of Baine’s Newsagency in Walkley.
‘Baine’s,’ said Terry Baine.
‘Terry, Jack Irish, I talked to you-’
‘Mate, telepathy, mate, on the verge of ringin ya,’ he said. ‘Got the name of that girl, Sim come in this mornin.’
‘How’d the barra go?’
‘Yeah, well, big as great whites ya believe the bastard. Sandra Tollman, that’s the name.’ He spelled it. ‘Sim says she married a Forestry bloke. Says he heard that. Christ knows where he’d hear that.’
I said my thanks.
‘Got your number, mate. You’re on the record. Comin down for the vroom-vroom next year, look you up.’
Adult life was all desire and expectation. Until it was too late. I went home to change for Mrs Purbrick’s library-warming.
Peter Temple
Dead Point (Jack Irish Thriller 3)
David, Mrs Purbrick’s personal assistant, opened the huge black front door. His smile seemed genuine.
‘Jack,’ he said, extending his beringed right hand, the hand with the green stones, ‘we’re delighted you could come.’ He dropped his voice. ‘I must say I found the muscle you brought with you last time rather intimidating.’
‘Just her manner of speech,’ I said. ‘She works with film people most of the time. I gather they only respond to a rough touch.’
He nodded, serious. ‘I’ve heard that too. They like the firm smack of something or other.’
‘The smack and the other, probably.’
David laughed. ‘This way. Everyone’s in the library telling madame how clever she is.’
We went through the gallery-like hall, through the open double doors into the wide passage, eight-paned skylights high above, parquetry and Persian rugs beneath our feet.
Music was coming from somewhere. Gershwin. We were close to the library door before the voices within became audible.
‘Please,’ said David, waving me in.
There were at least two dozen people in the room, more women than men, standing close together, laughter and teeth flashing. For a moment, I looked, wished Charlie were there to see his elegant bookcases filled with books, glowing in the lamplight, the people in the room made handsomer, better somehow, by being in the presence of his craftsmanship.
‘Jack, Jack. Darling, so distinguished.’
Mrs Purbrick, on heels so high her toes had to bend at near-right angles to touch the ground, in business gear again, a dark suit, jacket worn over an open-necked white shirt unbuttoned for a considerable distance, great mounds beneath, ceremonial mounds. And, in keeping with the after-work nature of the occasion, severe horn-rimmed glasses. She took me by the lapels and brushed me on both cheeks with her inflated lips, the kiss of balloons, turned to face the room.
‘Everyone, everyone, meet Jack Irish, who helped Mr Taub build this magnificent library.’
I cringed. There was a polite round of applause. Then I was taken around the room and introduced to people, youngish people, summer-in-Portsea, winter-in-Noosa, week-in-Aspen people. Over someone’s shoulder, I recognised the face of Xavier Doyle, the boyish charmer from The Green Hill. He smiled, threaded his way over, patted me on both arms, a form of embrace.
‘And here you’ve bin tellin me you’re a legal fella, Jack,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t ya just come right out and say you’re an honest workin man?’
‘Shyness,’ I said.
‘You know each other,’ said Mrs Purbrick, touching Doyle’s cheek. ‘How lovely. Two of my favourite men.’
Doyle shook his head at her. ‘Now, I won’t share you with him, Carla,’ he said. ‘That’s a warnin.’
To me, he said, ‘This lovely lady is one of my investors, my angels, a person of faith in The Green Hill and its future.’
‘A commodity required in abundant measure.’ A tall man in his early sixties, solid, with a full head of wavy grey hair, was at Doyle’s side, a head taller. He put out a hand to me. ‘Mike Cundall. Congratulations, beautiful piece of work.’
‘Thank you, on behalf of Charlie Taub,’ I said. ‘I’m the helper. Just here as the front man. Charlie’s in WA. Also he hasn’t worn a suit since his wedding.’
Cundall nodded. He had grey eyes, clever eyes, appraising, in a lined, stoic face. He’d been drinking for a while. ‘Carla tells me you’re also a lawyer,’ he said.
‘In a small way.’
‘My father was a lawyer who liked woodwork. He made garden things. Benches that fell over. He’d come home from Collins Street, out of his suit and into overalls, straight to the workshop and stay there until dinner.’ He looked around, moistened his lips. ‘Which he’d devote to shitting on me.’
A bow-tied waiter with a tray of champagne flutes appeared. We armed ourselves.
‘Well,’ said Cundall, ‘this is probably a good moment.’ He coughed and raised his glass above his head. People stopped talking.
‘Carla’s invited us around,’ he said, ‘to admire her new library. I must say I’m quite stunned by its elegance, stunned and jealous. And we have with us one of the builders of this thing of beauty, Jack Irish. I’d like to propose a toast: to Carla and her library, may it give her much pleasure.’
He raised his glass and everyone followed. A happy murmur.
‘Thank you, Mike darling, thank you,’ said Mrs Purbrick, waving her glass at the room, ‘and thank you all for coming, you busy people, my dear friends.’
Xavier Doyle moved off, winding his way towards two blonde women, tanned, golf and tennis tans. They broke off their conversation, turned to him, faces opening.
‘A mind like Paul Getty behind all that Irish boyo crap,’ said Mike Cundall. There was no admiration in his tone.
‘Nice place, The Green Hill,’ I said. ‘On the basis of one visit.’
Cundall was lighting a cigarette with a throwaway lighter. ‘Do you smoke?’ he asked. ‘Forget your manners, nobody smokes any more.’
I shook my head.
‘Yes. The Green Hill.’ He blew smoke out of his nostrils. ‘Money shredder, the Amazon dot com of pubs. Thousands of customers, own vineyard, Christ knows what else, sinks ever deeper into the red.’
‘You’re an investor?’
‘Don’t insult my intelligence. My wife’s thrown money at The Green Hill. Her own money too. Was her money, I should say. It belongs to the ages now.’
The waiter was back. He had a crystal ashtray on his salver.
‘I’ll put this here, sir,’ he said, drawing a thin-legged table closer to us and placing the ashtray. Then he offered more champagne.
‘Nice drop,’ I said.
‘Roederer, sir. The Kristal.’
/> We lightened his tray. Another bow-tied man arrived with a silver tray of hamburgers, on sticks, exquisite miniatures, each the size of a small stack of twenty-cent coins, to be eaten at a bite.
Cundall twisted his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Smoked salmon’s not good enough any more,’ he said, ‘too common.’ He put one hamburger in his mouth, took a second. When he’d finished both, his mouth turned down. ‘Instant indigestion these days.’
‘How’s Cannon Ridge going?’ I said.
‘That’s my son,’ said Cundall. ‘My son and assorted rich boys. Sydney rich boys. The fucking dot com brigade. New economy.’ He put down most of the champagne in a swig, held up his glass like an Olympic torch. ‘Still, Cannon Ridge’s old economy. Real asset, real business, combines leisure and gambling. Boys got a fantastic bargain.’
The waiter arrived. Cundall finished his glass, took another. ‘Get me a whisky, will you?’ he said to the youth. ‘Something drinkable. With Evian. Just a bit.’ He looked at me. ‘Whisky, Jack?’
‘That would be nice.’
‘Decent shots,’ said Cundall, blinking.
‘Sir.’
‘Good lad.’
‘I see there’s some unhappiness about the handling of the tenders,’ I said.
‘Politics of business,’ said Cundall, slurring slightly. ‘WRG wants to build a whole fucking town on the Gippsland Lakes. Get the new government in some shit over Cannon, good chance they won’t get knocked back on that.’
He eyed me. ‘Good practice, anyhow,’ he said. ‘Always takes a while to sort out a new lot, find out who to pay, who to play.’
‘Jack, darling, you haven’t met Ros Cundall.’ Mrs Purbrick was holding the arm of a tall, dark-haired woman, once beautiful, now merely good-looking.
We shook hands.
‘I’m very taken with this room,’ said Ros Cundall. ‘I’ve always wanted a library. Do you think your Mr Taub would build one for me?’
‘At least you can be sure it’ll hold its value,’ said Mike Cundall. ‘Unlike that cocaine palace.’
Ros Cundall didn’t look at her husband, made a wry face. ‘Mike built a Las Vegas wing onto our house,’ she said. ‘All it lacks is the bedrooms for the harlots.’
‘I thought you could go on using the house for that,’ said Mike Cundall.
Mrs Purbrick laughed, an unconvincing trill. ‘Oh, you two,’ she said, ‘so wicked.’ She was watching David talking to one of the waiters.
Our whiskies arrived. We made small talk. Then, all at once, everyone was leaving, much brushing of lips on cheeks. Ros Cundall asked me for a card. So did two other people. Charlie might be building libraries full-time in future.
Near the front door, Xavier Doyle came up behind me.
‘Jack,’ he said. ‘Mind I see you down the pub now.’
‘Count on it.’
‘That Robbie, you find out anythin more about the lad?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘He’s a mystery.’
17
Sandra Tollman had become Sandra Edmonds but was now Sandra Tollman again. She looked up from a tray of seedlings as I came down the greenhouse aisle. I’d found her easily, through her father, who still worked for the forestry department in New South Wales.
‘Sandra?’
‘Yes.’ She was tall, with dark, curly hair cut short, wearing green work clothes.
‘I’m Jack Irish.’
She took off a rubber glove and we shook hands. A long, slim hand, strong. I’d spoken to her on the phone at home the night before. She lived outside Colac and worked for a commercial tree nursery.
‘I’ll take my break,’ she said. ‘We can talk in the kitchen. The bosses are in town.’
I followed her out of the greenhouse and down a gravel path to a weatherboard building. We went in the back door, into a kitchen with a wooden table.
‘Sit down. Tea or coffee?’
‘Tea, please.’ I sat where I could look out of the window, at a green hill with mist hanging on it.
She switched on the kettle, put teabags in mugs, got a carton of milk out of the fridge, stood waiting for the kettle to boil.
‘Nice place to work,’ I said.
‘It is. I’m lucky. Nice bosses too, easygoing, no problems about starting times, that sort of thing. My little girl spends the afternoons here with me.’
‘Rare thing, a nice boss.’
She nodded. ‘I’ve had a few shits.’
The kettle boiled. She poured water into the mugs and sat at the end of the table.
‘Robbie hasn’t crossed my mind for years,’ she said. ‘What’s this about?’
I hadn’t told her on the phone. ‘I’m afraid he’s dead,’ I said. ‘Died of a drug overdose.’
She put a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. ‘Jesus.’
‘I’m trying to piece together his history,’ I said. ‘No-one seems to know much about him.’
‘Well.’ She scratched her head, bemused look. ‘Well, I haven’t seen him since, it must have been 1994. I had a terrific crush on him at school, I thought he was just the most divine thing, it ruined my school work…anyway, yes, 1994.’
‘Where was that?’
Two birds were on the windowsill, looking around calmly, lorikeets, their colours startling in the grey day.
‘In Sydney, in Paddington, bumped into him. He was with a woman at least ten years older, more maybe, you can’t tell with some women.’
‘A friend?’
She had dark eyes, clean whites, no guile in her eyes. ‘I was walking behind them and the woman put her hand in the back pocket of Robbie’s jeans.’
‘Not looking for something, you’d say?’
‘No.’
‘And then you talked?’
‘Just for a minute. In the street. The woman walked away, looked in windows.’
‘What did Robbie say?’
‘Small talk. Said he’d dropped out of uni. But I knew that, someone else told me, a girl in our class.’
I put a teaspoonful of sugar in my tea, stirred. ‘Janice Eller.’
Surprise. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Terry Baine told me about her.’
‘Terry Baine. The fat shit.’
‘Sim’s still carrying a torch for you,’ I said.
She smiled, dropped her head, covered her eyes with a hand. ‘God, you know everything,’ she said. ‘I cringe at the memory. Me walking around behind Robbie like a puppy, Sim sending his mates to give me messages. Really dumb messages.’
‘I’m sure it was an extremely serious matter at the time,’ I said. ‘No other contact with Robbie?’
‘No.’
I took out the still photograph I’d had printed from the video, the best shot of Robbie Colburne, almost full face, held it between thumb and forefinger. ‘This is the person we’re talking about?’
Sandra Tollman looked at the picture, looked at me, shocked.
I’d known. In the unfathomable way of knowing, I’d known since I watched the video clips, since D.J. Olivier told me that there was no record of Robbie returning to Australia.
‘No,’ she said. ‘This is Marco.’
‘Marco?’
‘Robbie’s friend.’
‘Marco who?’
‘Marco Lucia. Does this mean Robbie isn’t dead?’
‘You’re sure this is Marco?’
She took the photograph. ‘It’s Marco. He doesn’t even look much older. When was this taken?’
‘Recently.’
‘Why did you think it was Robbie?’
‘He was calling himself Robert Colburne. He had a driver’s licence in the name.’
‘So Marco’s dead and Robbie’s not?’
‘Marco’s dead. I don’t know about Robbie. Possibly alive.’ I didn’t think that. ‘Tell me about Marco.’
‘I loved the name. Marco Lucia. He came up from Sydney in the holidays after year eleven to stay with Robbie, second most divine boy I’d ever met. Everyone in Walkley was just so
Anglo-Irish. Blaines and Smailes and O’Reillys and McGregors. Marco could’ve been Robbie’s brother, both pale, this black, black hair. Janice thought it was the second coming.’
We looked at each other for a while. She was back there, in Walkley, age seventeen.
‘And after the holidays, did you see Marco again?’
‘No. It was just those weeks, two weeks, I was in love, teenage love. Janice and I were the class smarties, readers, suddenly Robbie arrives, then his friend, this half-Italian boy, so exotic, they were both so clever and you could talk to them about books and poetry. Very un-Aussie, two boys who weren’t petrolheads.’
‘Half-Italian?’
‘He said his mother wasn’t Italian.’ She looked out of the window. ‘I think his mother left his father, went off to be a hippy, in Nimbin, somewhere like that. His father brought him up. That’s all I know about him.’
‘Did you know where he came from in Sydney?’
‘No. Janice would have known. You know about Janice?’
‘Yes. You heard nothing more about Marco?’
‘No. I ended up at ag college in Orange. Pressure from my father. Not much talk about books and poetry there, I can tell you.’
‘Robbie went overseas in 1996. Did you know that?’
She shook her head. ‘That day in the street, that was it.’
I finished my tea. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’ve been a great help, saved me from wasting more time.’
She walked to the Studebaker with me. ‘This is weird, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘Was Marco an addict?’ she asked.
‘The dead man had needle marks.’
‘I’d like to know how it turns out,’ she said.
‘Me too. I’ll let you know.’
18
‘This come out of the blue,’ said Harry Strang. ‘People I done some transactin with, ’87, ’88, thereabouts. She’s got the full licence, smart lady. He’s a bit of a dill. Often that way, mind. Anyway, we had a bit of luck. Here’s the turn now, memory serves.’
We were in open country, sere, rocky outcrops, going down a deeply rutted track.
Cam was driving the big BMW. ‘Nice around here,’ he said. ‘No sheep.’
He’d rung me on the mobile on my way back from Colac. I found the pair waiting for me outside the boot factory. I hadn’t asked any questions, just fallen asleep before we reached the tollway.
