by Peter Temple
Without looking at it again, Loder slid the photograph over to me. ‘He was an attractive person. Intelligent, full of life. And a lot of sadness in him.’
‘Most people have to settle for one of those things,’ I said. ‘Generally, the last one.’
Loder smiled, cheered up a little. ‘That’s what’s pertinent,’ he said. ‘I suppose.’
Zanouff’s was filling up, people wearing dark glasses, two couples with trophy children, dressed to be cute, caps worn backwards, expensive running shoes. One of the fathers had a tic in his right eye, a stress tic. He kept touching it but it wouldn’t stop.
‘You resumed the relationship?’
‘Yes.’
‘I won’t put icing on this,’ I said. ‘Are you scared of something?’
The judge smiled, made a gesture of openness with his arms, spread his fingers. The smile didn’t have any staying power. Nor did the gesture. He gave up, closed his arms, put one hand over the other.
‘Something’s missing,’ he said.
‘Robbie?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of what value?’
A sad smile. ‘How do you value a career?’
‘Not talking about the degree certificates?’
‘No.’
A train was leaving Kensington station, an empty rattle of train, windows flashing sky.
‘Anything happened since you noticed the loss?’
He closed his eyes again. ‘Nothing. I’m petrified. My dad’s still alive.’
‘And then there’s the dignity of the law,’ I said, cruelly.
He revived, face turning stern. ‘I suspect that the dignity of the law transcends and outlasts that of its humble servants, Mr Irish.’
A dignified response from the Bench.
‘Silly remark, allow me to withdraw it,’ I said. ‘Let me tell you what I know about Marco Lucia.’
When I’d finished, Loder said, ‘Can you be sure it’s the same person?’
‘Pretty much. Only one person matches.’
We watched another train, saw the faintest tremor in the plate-glass cafe window.
‘Your advice,’ said the judge.
‘Option one is that you save yourself a lot of money by popping around to your local jacks and telling them what you’re missing.’
‘And read the first rumour in the paper tomorrow? Option two, please.’
‘I can keep looking. There’s always the possibility of turning up something.’
‘Keep looking,’ he said.
‘The missing item?’
‘Photograph album. Red leather.’ He gave me his sad smile again. ‘You’re asking yourself how I could be so stupid.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve stopped asking that question. I know the answer.’
He got up. ‘Thanks, Jack.’ A pause. ‘It’s silly but I find the fact that you’re a colleague strangely comforting.’
A judge calling me a colleague. As he went out, it occurred to me that this was probably the high-water mark of my legal career.
20
I caught the 6.05 a.m. flight to Brisbane, two hours in the air, hired a car and drove for ninety minutes, never once lost, to reach the imposing gateway to Haven Waters. It was halfway across a 500-metre land bridge just wide enough for two lanes.
A man in a police-style uniform, light-blue and dark-blue, armed, left the gatehouse, came out into the white-porcelain light.
‘G’day,’ he said. ‘Have to ask for your name, address and purpose of visit, sir.’ He was a wiry man, ginger and freckled, big freckles. Cold and grey climes would have suited him better.
I gave my particulars. He wrote them down on a clipboard. Then he asked for two means of identification. Fighting my instincts, I handed over my driver’s licence and my Law Institute card. Forever on another record. One day D.J. Olivier might find me there and a young woman with a private-school voice would tell someone.
‘Only take a minute, sir,’ he said and went back. I saw him pick up a phone, talk, nod, put it down. There was someone else in the gatehouse, a movement. Expensive, a two-person guard, six shifts, that would cost management two hundred grand a year, plus benefits. Just to check tickets. Perhaps the second person also did patrols, that would ease the strain.
Gates opened. The man was waiting for me inside, gave me a map printed on card, laminated.
‘Down this road, sir. At the T-junction, turn left. Then first right, go past the golf clubhouse and the village.’
He was English, I caught that now.
‘First residence after the village. The entrance is on your right, first gate. Adriatica, that’s the name. It’s marked on the map. And the name’s on the gate.’
He pressed a small plastic disc, the size of a fat ten-cent coin, onto the windscreen above the registration sticker. ‘So that we can find you if you get lost, sir,’ he said. ‘We’ll take it off when you leave. Enjoy your visit, sir.’
Bugged, I drove across the bridge, down a curving road, through a landscape sculpted by bulldozers, blanketed with imported soil, planted with thousands of mature sub-tropical trees, grassed, lavishly watered. Water was always visible, on both sides deep inlets. I saw two fat joggers, a thin runner, half-a-dozen walkers, a woman in jodhpurs on a high-spirited chestnut horse. Then the golf course was on my left, greens like great dollops of pureed spinach, people on motorised buggies. I watched a man duff a tee shot.
The golf clubhouse was low, sinuous, heavy with flowering creepers, and then the village appeared on my right, a semicircle of whitewashed buildings of different heights, different roof shapes and pitches, a clock tower in the middle, someone’s idealised Mediterranean village, water glimpsed beyond the buildings, flashes at the end of narrow lanes. Two small parking areas were as snobbish as stockbroker bikies, European metal only, nothing Japanese here.
This was where big money came to die, water without, guards within.
I found Adriatica behind a white creepered wall broken by bays housing big shrubs, leaves large and polished. Its gate was black wrought iron, ornate metal stems and leaves. It was a gate for cars. No-one arrived on foot in this place; there was nowhere to walk, nowhere to park, no pavement, no kerb, no gutter.
I parked in front of the gates, got out. It was warm. I took off my jacket and approached the gates.
‘Take off the coat,’ said a voice.
‘I’m not wearing a coat. I’m carrying my coat.’
He came into view from the left, a thin man, not young, slicked-back hair, one eyebrow like a furry caterpillar stuck to his forehead. The weapon held at his side, pointing at the ground, was extravagant, a long-barrelled. 38.
I said, ‘Put that fucking thing away. I’ve got an appointment to see Mr Filipovic.’
He shrugged, opened the gate.
I walked up a paved driveway to where a path through tropical jungle branched off to the house. The air was dense with exotic scents.
At the front door, a huge studded Moorish creation, another man, young, tee-shirt and jeans, was waiting, holding a device like a cordless telephone. ‘Gotta check you over,’ he said, then ran the metal detector over me.
‘Give him your coat,’ he said.
The man with the revolver had come up behind me. I complied.
‘Arms up,’ said the detector of metal.
I raised them. ‘Looking for a wire?’ I said. ‘Go very carefully.’
He smiled at me, excellent teeth. ‘I’m very careful. Loosen your tie, unbutton your shirt, cuffs too.’
You sensed a lack of trust in him.
When he was finished, he said, ‘Come in.’
We went through a hallway decorated with oversize Grecian-style urns, down a passage and into a sitting room the size of a four-car garage. It was full of white leather chairs and sofas and glass-topped tables holding heavy bowls of tortured coloured glass. On the wall above a fireplace hung a huge picture of a red rose lying on stone steps. The blowsy petals held perfectly rendered drops of dew the s
ize of oranges.
Through the open French doors, you looked over a broad deck to where a boat was tied up, at least ten metres of gleaming white craft with a flying bridge. A man was working at the stern, kneeling on the deck, straightening up every few minutes to relieve his back.
‘Welcome to my house.’
The man had come into the room from a door to the right of the French doors. He was in his fifties, heavily built, oiled silver hair combed back, wearing only striped shorts and boat shoes. His skin was the colour of fudge and his chest was grey-furred, like the belly of an old dog.
I put out a hand. ‘Jack Irish.’
‘Milan Filipovic.’ He applied a challenging grip and I gave it back.
‘Strong hand,’ he said. ‘Don’t work behind a desk all the time, hey?’
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ I said.
‘Not a problem, mate.’
Another man had come into the room, a younger man, strong looking, a bodybuilder, with dark hair cut short. He was in shorts, a golf shirt and boat shoes.
‘Steve,’ said Milan. ‘He works for me.’
Steve didn’t offer to shake hands, just smiled, another mouth of first-rate teeth. Something in the local water, perhaps, or a good cosmetic dentist.
‘Hey,’ said Milan, ‘we’re jus goin out on the boat, test the engines. Steve, ask that cunt if he’s finished?’
Steve went out.
‘This place, what you think? Nice, hey?’
‘Very nice. Must be good to live on the water.’
‘The best. Cost a fucken bomb. What you reckon they want for management, upkeep, security, all that shit?’
‘Quite a bit.’
‘Forty grand a year. How’s that?’
‘That’s a lot, that’s steep.’
He scratched his chest pelt. ‘I told em, I don’t need your fucken security, look after myself. Little cunt says it’s not an option.’
I watched Steve come back. His legs were too short for his torso.
‘Ready,’ he said.
‘Pineapple juice,’ said Milan, ‘get a coupla litres.’
He led the way to the boat. We passed the man who’d been working on it. ‘She’s ace, Mr Fil,’ he said. ‘Runnin smooth.’
‘Good boy,’ said Milan, patting him on the chest. ‘Tell Denny I said cash.’
We were at the centre of a bay, a big expanse of water. The village’s long curving boardwalk was on the right, two-storey boathouse-like buildings lining it, people sitting under market umbrellas. Perhaps forty other waterfront houses were in sight, most of them with boats tied up at their landings, big white muscle boats, here and there a yacht supplying some class.
‘Like it?’ said Milan.
‘Top spot,’ I said.
‘You gotta earn it.’ He was first onto the boat.
Steve and the young man who’d searched me arrived, Steve carrying a big pitcher of yellow juice. The young man cast off, went up to the flying bridge, Steve went below.
‘Take a seat,’ said Milan, waving at the banquettes. They were gently scalloped into individual seats.
I sat down. He sat opposite me, his pectorals sagging, dark nipples peeping out of the dense hair like the noses of inquisitive forest creatures.
The engines fired, a satisfying sound, a growl that made the deck beneath my out-of-place leather soles vibrate. My searcher took the boat away from the landing, howling off at forty-five degrees from the land. In a few minutes, we were passing through a broad opening to the sea, a dead calm sea, blue-black.
Milan got up, climbed the steps to the bridge, muscles showing in the big calves, said something to the helmsman, who throttled back the engines, settled on a modest cruising speed.
Back in his seat, Milan looked at me, opened his arms, palms upward, smiled. ‘Fucken paradise, hey? Whatya think?’
I looked around. There wasn’t much to see. An endless flat paddock of ocean, a boat here and there. ‘Very close to it,’ I said. ‘You’re a lucky man.’
He laughed, ran a hand over the oiled hair. ‘Lucky? Jack, listen, mate, I come to this country with fuck-all, I work like a dog, anythin, mate, anythin, cleanin gully traps, that’s what I did. Cleaned a gully trap?’
I shook my head. I had, actually, but this wasn’t the moment to compare experiences.
‘Yeah, well, don’t talk lucky to me, mate. Qualified fitter and turner, you think I get a job? No way, they don’t want a fucken wog can’t speak two words of English.’
Steve emerged with the pitcher of yellow juice and two heavy-bottomed tumblers. ‘Yellow peril ready to go,’ he said.
‘Just a small one. I’m driving,’ I said. It sounded lame.
Milan laughed as if I’d said something very entertaining. Steve poured two full glasses, handed me one.
‘Pineapple and vodka,’ said Milan. ‘Good for you, builds up acid, cleans the bowel.’
He put back half his glass. ‘No, mate, I’m just a fucken Serb. Nobody likes Serbs, right? Be fine if I was a Kosovar. Right? Remember that lot?’
I nodded.
‘Everybody bleeding about fucken Kosovars. Mate, they not even Christians. Christian country this, right? Those people are fucken Arabs. Not from Europe. You see the women? Hide their fucken faces. Got no pity, either. Kill children. Right, mate?’
I didn’t say anything. What was there to say to six hundred years of breeding?
‘So what’s this Marco shit?’ he said. ‘You NCA, Feds, what?’
I shook my head. ‘I saw you mentioned in the newspaper. I’ve got a client who needs some information. That’s it.’
Now he had a good laugh. I was becoming funnier every minute.
‘Listen, you not from the Feds, okay, you give the Feds a message from me. Okay? Okay?’
‘If they ask me, okay.’
‘You tell those bastards, Jack, I tol em, they don’t listen. They never gonna make this drugs stuff stick on me. I don’t deal drugs, I never deal drugs, never will. Not interested. People come to me with offers all the time. I say no. That’s right, Steve?’
‘Right,’ said Steve.
‘Right. I’m not sayin I don’t know some stupid people, they get involved in this shit. Not sayin that. Everybody knows stupid people. You can have a stupid brother, how’s that your blame, hey? But I tell them, keep away from me, keep that shit away from me.’ He leaned over, belly creases deepening. ‘Jack, you think I’m such a dumb cunt I’m dealin while I’ve got the fucken Feds on my fucken hammer?’
‘It wouldn’t be smart, no,’ I said.
‘Tell em that, Jack, tell em. Tell em to get off my fucken back. Adult entertainment, that’s my business. That’s fucken all. And property, I got a bit of property. Plus a couple investments. All in the open.’ He looked at Steve.
I said, ‘Can I ask you about Marco Lucia?’
‘You ready?’ Milan said to Steve.
‘Ready.’ Steve went below and came back with a flat case. He opened it and took out a small machine-pistol and two long magazines. A magazine made a snick as it went into the butt.
Milan took the pistol, showed it to me. ‘Nice, hey? Ingram. Better than a Glock. Don’t trust fucken Austrians.’
Steve shouted something from the bow of the boat. We slowed to walking speed. A blow-up pool toy drifted by: a swan.
Milan stood up, went to the side and fired a short burst at it. The swan collapsed without a sound.
‘And another thing, Jack.’ Milan turned to me, took on a sad look, a man injured to his core. ‘I’m hurt there’s no gratitude.’
‘Gratitude?’
‘Gratitude. What these pricks in Sydney do when their fat boy gets in the shit with whores? They come to Milan, that’s what. I squeeze that cunt Papagos for them like a grape, end of problem. So where’s the gratitude?’
‘You deserve more,’ I said.
‘Fucken right. You tell them, Jack.’
‘Any time I get the chance. About Marco Lucia?’
A bl
ow-up crocodile came by, followed by several big balls, two ducks and Mickey Mouse. Milan went into a firing frenzy, changing magazines in mid-carnage. The objects deflated, slumped on the water.
‘Marco,’ I said.
Steve appeared. ‘Hey, shootin,’ he said.
‘Pretty boy cunt,’ said Milan. ‘People say I topped Marco. Bullshit. Wouldn’t fucken waste my time. Cut his cock off, that’s somethin else. Find him, I sew it up in his mouth.’
‘Have to stick half down his fucken throat,’ said Steve. He laughed, showing his teeth.
‘Gimme another drink. Jack, have another one.’
‘No thanks. Why do they say you topped him?’
‘He just fucked off, no-one seen him, so they say he’s dead, they point at me.’
‘Why at you?’
Milan eyed me over the top of his glass, lowered it. ‘Warm as piss,’ he said. ‘More ice, Steve. Why?’
‘Why do people point at you over Marco?’
‘He did some work for me.’
‘What kind of work was that?’
Steve was putting ice into Milan’s glass with tongs.
‘Just work,’ said Milan. ‘Things I give him to do.’
‘Marco’s dead,’ I said.
Milan looked at Steve, eyes eloquent, looked at me. ‘Says who?’ he said.
‘Drug overdose in Melbourne.’
Milan drank some pineapple juice. ‘Melbourne,’ he said, as if hearing the name of some remote cattle station. ‘What’s he doin in Melbourne?’
‘Working as a part-time barman.’
I could see a huge powerboat coming our way at speed, foaming bow waves. It slowed, veered away to increase the distance between us when we passed. Perhaps the idea was to lessen the risk of spilling Milan’s drink.
The three men and a woman on board all waved. Milan moved a hand at them. ‘Everybody knows Milan,’ he said.
‘Marco was calling himself Robbie Colburne,’ I said.
Another exchange of looks.
‘Robbie what?’ said Milan.
‘Colburne.’
‘You sure the dead one’s Marco?’ said Milan.
‘I’ve got a picture. It’s in my jacket. Inside pocket.’
