Dead Point ji-3

by Peter Temple

  ‘Stick some chicken bones on it and call it Century of Bones.’

  ‘Century of Bones,’ said the hulking fraud approvingly. ‘Gotta ring to that. Century of Bones. You can have the call on the house.’

  ‘Calls plus ten per cent,’ I said.

  The telephone reposed on a tree stump in the far corner of the former sewing sweatshop. I dialled and got D.J. Olivier himself.

  ‘You’re a busy lad,’ he said. ‘This bloke’s ex-army, got two convictions for fraud and he ran a building company that took customers for plenty. Now he’s tied up with Geddan Associates. Know them?’

  ‘No.’ We were talking about a man called Warren Naismith, someone Alan Bergh had phoned regularly.

  ‘Strategic consultants. That’s PR, with violence if required. Do the lot.’

  ‘The lot?’

  ‘Fix. Here, New Zealand, Pacific islands. Office in Canada. Rumour says they blackmailed a cabinet minister in Queensland on behalf of a client. Developer client.’

  ‘I didn’t know that was necessary in Queensland,’ I said. ‘Sounds like overkill. And this person, what would he do for them?’

  ‘Low level, a postman, fetch and carry, that sort of thing. Not welcome around the office, that’s for sure.’

  I said thanks, rang Cam’s latest number. He was a long time answering. I told him about Jean Hale’s names.

  ‘This bloke Almeida,’ he said. ‘I’ve got him.’

  I needed a second to place the name. Too many names. Yes. The dealer on the motorbike Marie pointed out to us in Elizabeth Street was called Glenn Almeida.

  ‘At that address?’ My inquiry had provided a vehicle registry address in Coburg for Almeida.

  ‘Long gone. New one from the landlords’ revenge file, my real-estate shonk looked him up. He’s out there in the hills.’

  A rubbing noise, a towelling sound.

  ‘I found this milk bar lady in Coburg,’ said Cam. ‘Round the corner from Glenn’s old address. She knows the boy, knows Artie too. Her kid, he’s naughty, studyin at this new place, the Port Phillip college, new slammer, the boy told her Glenn and Artie had the holiday together.’

  I tried to think about this. I was heavy with information, underweight on thought. ‘We still don’t have Artie.’

  Cam said, ‘Maybe Artie’s just the hammer. Maybe Glenn’s the man.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I didn’t know that I didn’t think so until I said it. ‘Jean Hale’s trouble. How’s that fit?’

  ‘Dunno. Might have a look up there in the foothills tomorrow. Free?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘tomorrow’s bad.’ I felt guilty.

  ‘Come round on my way back. Sawin or lawin?’

  ‘Lawin,’ I said. ‘What passes for lawin.’

  Receiver replaced, I stood for a moment, no energy in me, no wish to do anything except sleep. Then I sucked in some air and began my exit.

  McCoy was staring at his canvas, standing well back, hands on where hips would be if pillar boxes had hips. As I approached, he said, ‘Century of Bones. What about a skull in the middle there?’

  ‘I don’t think you should kill humans for your art,’ I said. ‘Unless it’s yourself. In which case, just mark the spot and I’ll be happy to stick it on for you. For your estate.’

  ‘Animal,’ he said, distant, deep in whatever process took place behind the opaque eyes. ‘Rabbit. Sheep. Maybe dog.’

  It was as if I had woken from a dream of toothache to find myself pain free.

  ‘Dog,’ I said. ‘Dog. I have the perfect dog.’

  33

  Outside, the day was at an end, rain had fallen, now a misty yellow light was on the world. The cobblestoned gutter outside my office was painterly, each cobble glistening like the top of a fresh loaf of bread, a top painted with egg and milk.

  I set off for home. On the radio, Linda was talking to a man who called himself a life coach.

  And what qualifies you to tell other people how to run their lives?

  Life coach: My training. I have a life coach qualification.

  Linda, the amused voice, not insulting, somewhere between curious and dangerous: Is that from the university of life? School of hard knocks?

  Life coach, serious: No, from Life Coach College, it’s an accredited institution.

  It occurred to me that I needed this man’s services or this qualification. And, perhaps, I needed Linda.

  No. Well, perhaps. But only on my terms. What would they be? I had no idea, could not think of a single term.

  Supper. I could think about supper, the limited range of suppers available. Not so much a range as an item.

  I ate pasta and walked around preparing to go to bed early, seek refuge in my bed, take the decision to activate the answering machine and turn the volume down to nought. Incommunicado.

  Even to Linda.

  And to Lyall.

  Perhaps Lyall would ring me one day and say that there had been a misunderstanding, that Brad had not actually been celibate for all those years and could we take up where we left off?

  My shrinking sensible bit said I should not stay awake waiting for this to happen.

  The transcript of Mr Justice Loder’s trial — I hadn’t read it.

  I could put on warm and waterproof clothing, leave the apartment and go down to the car, look for the folder, which might be in the office. Or.

  I rang Drew at home. ‘Are you in a position to talk?’ I asked.

  ‘I find myself able to talk in most positions. Is there one I should know about?’

  ‘There’s a trial going on before Colin Loder, cocaine smuggling.’

  ‘Ah, the ski jackets debacle.’

  ‘Know about it?’

  ‘As a practitioner of the law, I make a point of knowing about such things. As it happens, I was recently privileged to hear the views of my learned friend Dick Pratchett QC on the subject. Over lunch.’

  That was where the Rosa business had begun.

  ‘I remember. Give me the story in as few words as possible.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it goes like this. The Feds’ve got a dog who calls himself Aaron Ross, apparently well known in drug circles. He told them he was asked by someone called Frank Leavis, a mystery man, noone’s ever heard of him, to supply six kilos of cocaine. The Feds became dizzy with excitement when they heard this.’

  ‘I get the drift already.’

  ‘Yes, dulled though you are by sniffing wood glue. Anyway, Ross rounded up Brian Arthur McCallum, a dickhead, and a lad called John Stavros Ionides, an even bigger dunce. I say this as someone who represented him when he was known as John Stephens. Mystery man Leavis hands over a large sum in US and Aussie currency, and the boys take off for South Africa.’

  ‘South Africa? Since when?’

  ‘Apparently it’s like Bangkok, Karachi and Beirut all in one. With Russians added. United drugs of the world. But you can bet your last pack of Fitzroy Football Club fundraising condoms that it wasn’t McCallum and Johnny Stephens’ idea. Couldn’t find the place on the map.’

  ‘The Feds’ idea?’

  ‘Or someone else’s. So off they go with their bag of money, customs instructed not to touch them. In due course, and I have to say this really surprises everyone who knows them, they actually come back with the coke. They’re wearing it in matching ski jackets.’

  ‘You can ski in South Africa?’

  ‘Of course not. But would that occur to these dolts? Again, customs usher them through. McCallum rings from the airport. Ross rings mystery man Frank Leavis. Well, he rings a number and leaves a message. In Tullamarine, off Mickleham Road, by arrangement, McCallum and Johnny Stephens meet Mr Ross to hand over. Change of plan, Ross tells them. The client wants you to deliver the stuff to him personally.’

  ‘Feds want to stitch it up tight.’

  ‘Exactly. So Brian and Johnny and Ross and four hundred hyper-excited Feds all end up in the freezing cold at a service station in fucking Brimbank in the middle of the ni
ght. But the mystery man is one step ahead of these dunderheads and never shows up.’

  I remembered what Colin Loder had said:

  I don’t think it would be unjudicial of me to describe the operation as a massive cock-up.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Drew, ‘he didn’t miss much. The boofheads are found to be carrying less than two kilos and apparently the marching powder is of a quality that doesn’t produce quite as much of the wit, confidence and feelings of general wellbeing as the punters expect.’

  ‘So what the prosecution’s got are two blokes approached to buy drugs by a police informer who says he was acting on behalf of a mystery man.’

  ‘Yup. And the only person the drugs were delivered to is the informer. Needless to say, the judge will have the Appeal Court much on his mind. Pratchett QC is of the opinion Colin Loder will kick the thing into the street next week.’

  ‘The Feds wouldn’t be buying their dog a big bone.’

  ‘Only themselves to blame. My mate Terry says the word is McCallum, dumb though he is, knows more than he’s saying.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘He may know something about Leavis, the mystery man.’

  ‘Something the dog doesn’t know?’

  ‘Possibly. Brian might have been just smart enough to find out who the real client was. Someone the Feds apparently suspect but can’t do anything about.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Your fund of knowledge obviates the need to buy newspapers or watch television. Not to mention read the learned journals.’

  ‘Honoured to be of service. What’s your interest?’

  ‘Purely professional. Highly professional. On that subject, how is the high-achieving personally trained one?’

  ‘Ravishing. A weekend has been proposed. Windswept beaches, just the cries of the seabirds.’

  ‘As they impale themselves on used syringes.’

  With a soothing mug of the warm brown fluid to hand, I went to bed with my novel. But I couldn’t concentrate, eyes on the page, mind on Marco and Alan Bergh and the judge. If Brian McCallum knew who put up the money for the drug deal, someone would want to be very sure he didn’t go down and then decide to bargain with the Feds. And that someone would have made sure Brian knew he had nothing to fear, knew that he was going to walk.

  I gave up on the book, doused the light, and lay awake for a long time, soft rain on the old iron roof, liquid whispers in the downpipes, all around the hoot and squeal and wail of the animal city. Oddly comforting sounds tonight.

  34

  In the morning, I was at the door, ready to hip-and-shoulder the day, when the phone rang.

  ‘I find you decent?’

  Linda.

  ‘I find you jolly nice too,’ I said, ‘but I’d like to be seen as, well, more raffish than decent. Can you do that?’

  ‘Work needed on my interrogative inflection. No wonder I’m having so much trouble with interviews.’

  We met at a place in Rathdowne Street north. Once, this end of Rathdowne Street boasted only the best pizzas in town and Frank and Maria’s coffee shop, the best-loved coffee shop in town. I hadn’t tried the pizzas in a while but Frank and Maria’s was gone and now there was an eating strip two blocks long.

  ‘Toast,’ said Linda after we’d ordered. ‘Toast is with breakfast. Toast is part of breakfast. Toast is not of itself breakfast. Are you in love?’

  I’d forgotten how the morning suited her.

  ‘I didn’t want to say I’d had my breakfast.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘Porridge, scrambled eggs and a piece of steak. Sausage or two. Three, actually. Bit of bacon.’

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Mouldy muesli with curdling milk.’

  ‘Yes, I am in love,’ I said. ‘I feel you understand me.’

  She gave me several bits of bacon and half a grilled Roma tomato. We were on the coffee when she said, ‘Jamie Toxteth. You were asking about him.’

  It took a moment to summon up Jamie Toxteth. ‘The polo player.’

  The unknown woman in the surveillance clip waiting for Robbie/Marco was in a car owned by a Jamie Toxteth company.

  ‘I was talking to someone in Sydney and I remembered your question.’ She drank coffee. ‘She said Susan Ayliss worked for Jamie and this Blackiston person before she became a media talent.’

  Susan Ayliss had for a time been television’s favourite economics commentator, a Canberra academic who made Treasury notes sound like love letters. She had long blonde hair and a slightly pointy nose, and when she looked over her rimless glasses you wanted to be in her tutorial and you wanted to be the one who said something intelligent.

  ‘What became of the perfect creature?’

  ‘She’s an eco-consultant, she reinvented herself, did another degree. Became the squeakiest and cleanest consultant in the known universe, the flying darling of eco-consultancy. Whatever the fuck that is.’

  ‘Flying?’

  ‘She flies her own plane. Like Amelia Earwig. Sees the world from a great height. And won’t be interviewed because it could compromise her. The woman is beyond publicity. Beyond fucking belief, in fact.’

  ‘I forget why we’re talking about her.’

  ‘Before her career change, she had an affair with Jamie. More than an affair. She got divorced. Jamie left his wife, some even richer snorting-nostrilled horse-mounter no doubt. They lived together but in the end Jamie would not actually cut the painter.’

  She’d lost me. I didn’t care much about the affairs of Sydney people. ‘Not since Van Gogh has a painter been properly cut,’ I said. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  Linda ignored the question, put marmalade on her last quarter of toast. ‘Apparently a poisonous breakup. Susan had become a partner in the firm, she was the one bringing in all the business, and she had to be bought out. My friend says Susie’s lawyer nailed Jamie.’

  ‘That’s interesting. I’m glad I know that. I’ve always felt there was something missing in my global picture.’

  She smiled at me. ‘Including a new car every three years for a good while.’

  She bit off a piece of toast. I watched her chewing. I’d always admired her eating. She was a very neat eater, no teeth showed, no crumb stuck or fell.

  ‘Susan Ayliss’s got long hair,’ I said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘The woman driving the car’s got short hair.’

  ‘When last did you see Ms Ayliss?’

  ‘Few years ago. Well, five or six, could be more. Ten.’

  Linda put her head on one side and looked at me.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘It’s early.’

  ‘She was on the Cannon Ridge tender panel,’ said Linda. ‘I can’t remember why you were interested in the car?’

  ‘It appears in a video. Probably by accident. Why was she on the panel?’

  ‘I’m told the last Premier got prickly feelings around her.’

  ‘If that was the only qualification, panel meetings would have been at the Melbourne Cricket Ground.’

  ‘She’s also Ms Integrity.’

  ‘Integrity plus the pricklies, now that’s an unbeatable combo. I’ve got to go. I work in the hours of daylight.’

  She leaned forward. ‘I sense,’ she said, ‘that you’re withholding. You’ll tell me if you chance upon anything of broadcast quality?’

  ‘With what inducement?’

  Under the tablecloth, a hand was on my thigh. ‘I have inducements to offer.’

  ‘I’m not sure I fully grasp what you mean,’ I said.

  Her hand moved upwards. The long fingers came into play. I could feel my blood rushing downhill, upper body going pale.

  ‘Grasp?’ she said. ‘I could fully grasp you right here.’

  I looked at her. Her face was impassive, head cocked as if listening to distant sounds. She wasn’t wearing lipstick.

  ‘This hasn’t happened to me in public for, ah, fifteen years,’ I said.

  ‘Is it like Kennedy’s death?’ she
said. ‘A whole generation of people know exactly where they were when they heard about it?’ She was scratching me, an unbearably erotic feeling.

  ‘It was in a train just outside Birmingham in England. Snow on the ground. Getting dark. I was eating a British Rail sausage roll.’

  ‘Who was the grasper?’

  ‘Let’s see now. I think it was someone I knew…’

  She removed her hand. ‘That’s probably the way I’ll survive in memory. Just another hand. Oh well, off you go.’

  Deep in thought, I drove to Fitzroy.

  Finding a phone number for Susan Ayliss wasn’t easy. I rang Simone Bendsten. She was back in five minutes.

  ‘Her company’s called Ecomenical. She gave a paper at a conference in Canberra last year. Here’s the number.’

  I rang it. The brisk and pleasant reception person wanted my name and my company and the nature of my business. ‘Tell Dr Ayliss my business is Robbie,’ I said. ‘I’ll spell that for you. R-O-B-B-I-E.’

  35

  I was early and had no trouble finding parking near the Albert Park Yachting amp; Angling Club. A cold day, the palms shaking in the wind.

  She was early too. A new VW Passat, a trim and potent-looking machine in a Wehrmacht shade of grey, nosed into a space. A woman got out, dark glasses, headscarf. I watched her walk towards the pier, hands in the high pockets of her trench coat.

  I sat for a while. Two hardy skateboarders came by, followed by a group of four fit-looking runners, women. I got out and went for a short walk along the esplanade, came back and went out on the pier.

  She was looking my way, kept her eyes on me as I approached.

  ‘Mr Irish?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  ‘I’d like to ask you about Robbie.’

  She made an impatient head movement, the kind of dismissive oh-fuck-off-you-idiot gesture that features in Learn Body Language For Success videos.

  ‘Spit it out,’ she said. ‘It’s cold here.’

  ‘Your choice of venue.’

  ‘I say again, Mr Irish, what do you want?’

  ‘You knew Robbie Colburne?’

  ‘What do you want?’