by Peter Temple
‘Looked in there?’ I said.
‘Yup.’
The door was jammed. Cam opened it with a kick.
It was the cleanest room in the place, just an old concrete laundry sink, a boiler the size of a 400-pound bomb, and grey dust and cobwebs.
I shone the torch on the boiler, tentatively tried the fire door. It opened with a screech, ashes spilling out.
‘Course it could be out there somewhere in a wreck,’ said Cam. ‘Probably is. Boot of some scrap iron.’
I was looking at the boiler’s fluepipe. The ceiling collar had come loose, tilted.
‘Hold this.’ I gave Cam the torch.
The top of the boiler was at shoulder height. I put both hands around the fluepipe just above where it entered the boiler and twisted.
It turned easily.
I lifted.
The fluepipe went up into the roof, its bottom end came out of the boiler.
I pushed it to one side, let it hang from the ceiling, stuck a hand into the hole in the boiler, found something to grip with my fingers, lifted.
The top of the boiler came off.
I dropped it into the sink, put my arm down the boiler, touched something wet, recoiled.
‘What?’ said Cam.
‘Don’t know.’
I reached in again, touched the thing.
Plastic, something plastic. Rain had come down the pipe.
I took hold, pulled. It was heavy. I got some of it out. Cam put the torch down, helped pull the rest out.
A heavy-duty garbage bag, grey, closed with a plastic tie.
Cam opened it. I held the torch.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ said Cam. ‘My sweet lord.’
On the way out, down the dark avenue of dead machine bodies, Cam carrying the bag, he said, ‘Artie’s storin chemicals down the back. Thought I came for em.’
‘As in?’
‘Amphie cook.’
‘That’s punishable by law.’
‘Law doesn’t know. The big man says drop in for a drink. Good day’s racin.’
We passed through the gate. Cam put the bag in the boot of the streetslut. I read my notebook by torchlight, found the number.
Cam lounged against his vehicle, looking at me.
A woman answered, no name. I gave her mine. Barry Tregear came on.
‘What now?’ he said.
‘Arranging your promotion,’ I said. I gave him the directions. ‘The shed on the back boundary,’ I said. ‘That’s where the fun stuff is.’
‘Never thought you’d end up my dog.’
‘Also there’s a bloke chained to a Lada Niva.’
‘Cruel and unusual,’ said Barry. ‘Chained to an old Ford Prefect’s bad enough.’
‘Help’s on the way,’ I said to Cam.
I drove to Harry Strang’s house in Parkville, got there just after Cam. Lyn Strang let us in, robustly sexy as always, flesh an alluring shade of pink. She left us in the study, standing by the fire. Only the table lamps were on and I could see the flames reflected in the glass doors of the lower bookshelves. Charlie Taub bookshelves, made long before my time.
Harry came in, freshly shaved, hair oiled, brushed, a herringbone sports coat over a fine-checked shirt.
‘Jack, Cam,’ he said. ‘On the little mudeater, Jack?’
‘Handsomely,’ I said. ‘My creditors send their thanks.’
‘Pleasure. Element of risk there. Bollie’s in order, I reckon.’
Harry was looking at the canvas bag on the floor next to Cam.
‘Brought your swag, I see,’ he said. ‘Always welcome to stay. Plenty of room.’
Cam picked up the bag and put it on the desk. He gestured to me to open it, long fingers, puffy tonight, the knuckles puffy.
I shook my head.
Cam unzipped the bag, opened it.
‘Stuff,’ he said.
Harry stepped over, looked. He put his hand in and took out a bundle of notes, fifties, put it back, eyes on Cam.
‘Ours,’ said Cam. ‘And the Hales’.’
A smile grew on Harry’s face. He looked like a teenager, a naughty teenager, discoverer of sex.
‘Well, bugger me,’ he said, eyes going back and forth. ‘Chance maybe I thought, coupla bright fellas like yerselves.’
He went to the door, opened it, turned back to look at us, left the room.
‘Darlin,’ we heard him shout, ‘forget the Bollie, coupla bottles of the Krug.’
An inaudible response.
‘And an emergency one,’ shouted Harry. ‘No knowin.’
He came back, closed the door. ‘Violence,’ he said. ‘That wouldn’t be involved.’
Cam looked at me, looked at Harry, brushed fingers across his lips. ‘Not that you’d notice,’ he said.
49
Krug singing in the veins, all fatigue and guilt banished by the tiny silver bubbles, I parked outside the boot factory.
Lights on upstairs. A moment of fright.
Linda’s car parked in the shadows. She had a key. As my breath went out, my carefree mood returned.
She was on the sofa, lengthwise, watching television, drinking what was probably Campari and soda.
‘This is what it comes to,’ she said. ‘The little woman at home, washing socks and waiting for the man to come home from drinking pots and pots of beer with the blokes at the pub.’
I took off my coat. ‘Did that for a while. Went on to drinking Krug with a sexy woman in a little black dress.’
‘You bastard. Come closer.’
I came closer, stood over her.
She put out a hand, ran it over me. ‘Just as I thought,’ she said. ‘You’re still excited.’
I leaned down and undid the top button of her shirt. ‘No,’ I said. ‘This is a new excitement. I am capable of several excitements in the same evening.’
‘Better damn be,’ she said as she pulled me down. ‘I’ve got a newsagent waiting.’
‘Butchers are meatier,’ I said as I sank.
When the lust was spent, we warmed the duck pies Linda had brought, sent them down with a Mill Hill shiraz. Mid-pie, Linda looked at her watch, found the remote control.
‘News, got to have the news,’ she said. ‘News is my life.’
I said, ‘I was taught it was rude to have sex wearing your watch.’
‘Not if it’s on your wrist.’ She blipped through channels, found what she wanted, a dollwoman speaking.
Six people have been found dead at a remote house on the Gippsland lakes. One of them is Susan Ayliss, a member of the panel that decided the multimillion-dollar Cannon Ridge ski resort and casino tender.
I saw Dead Point from above. Then the television helicopter went in low. I didn’t want to watch.
The item went on for a long time. At the end, dollwoman said: The Premier has announced a full-scale inquiry into the Cannon Ridge tender process.
Linda cut the power. She didn’t look at me, snuggled down on the sofa, looked at me.
‘What would a seedy suburban solicitor know about that?’ she said, suspicion in voice and eyes.
‘No more than a newsagent. What he hears on the news, reads in the paper.’
She sat up. ‘Shit, I forgot. A courier came. It’s next to the front door.’
It was a square package, stoutly wrapped, taped like an injured footballer. I took it to the kitchen, performed surgery on it.
An album. An album with a red leather cover. I opened it, paged through it.
Mr Justice Colin Loder was a person of much greater versatility than I’d imagined, a man of wide-ranging interests and exotic tastes. The problem was he didn’t photograph well. He had a tendency to slit his eyes.
‘What exactly are you doing in there?’ said Linda.
‘Opening a bottle.’
I closed the album Xavier Doyle had decided he didn’t need, put it in the cupboard with the dud French frying pan that had a hot spot, opened a bottle of Seven Hills.
‘I’m not finished wit
h you,’ said Linda.
‘And nor am I complete.’
I took the bottle and went next door.
‘You’ll tell me,’ she said, athlete’s legs on the arm of the sofa, bare. She opened my old dressing gown, revealing more flesh.
‘I’ve taken an oath,’ I said. ‘You must respect that.’
‘Put that down and come here.’
‘It’s late. I run in the mornings.’
‘Come here, sunshine.’
All bad things come to an end. Almost. Now all I had to do was get justice for Enzio and the Meaker’s gang. I put this out of my mind for the moment. A long moment, but not long enough.
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