by Peter Temple
Brent Rupert gave his dying testament to Stuart Wardle, expert on the Philippines. Was the deal that Stuart would wait until after Brent’s death to publish?
Not a long wait. A matter of hours.
And soon after that Stuart went to New Zealand and never came home again.
Stuart Wardle never went to New Zealand.
Stuart Wardle’s passport went to New Zealand.
Stuart Wardle probably died in this house.
Stuart Wardle could save my life.
I went back to the kitchen. ‘Where’s that phone log?’
‘There. On the counter. I was looking at it again yesterday. Brings things back to you. And mystifies you.’
‘What’s mystifying?’
Lyall came to the counter, flipped through the book. ‘July 3,’ she said. ‘Message reads, Bradley for Stuart, “Martin says you can use the box. He’ll tell them and leave the key with Alice.” Mystifying.’
‘Know the names? Martin and Alice?’
‘No. Stuart’s phone index thing’s here somewhere. The pop-up thing.’
She found it and came back, put it on the table, ran the pointer up to A, pressed the catch.
‘Alice, Alice. Here, Alice. No surname.’
I pulled the index across, took out the phone and tapped the numbers. Ringing. Deep breath, offered the phone to Lyall.
‘Ask her about Martin and the box.’
She put the phone to her ear. ‘Hello. I’m trying to get hold of Alice. Ah, hello Alice. I’m a friend of Stuart Wardle’s, Alice. Yes. Actually, he’s been missing for quite a long time. Yes. We don’t know. Alice, do you know someone called Martin? Yes, that’s probably him. He left a message here in July ’95 saying Stuart could use the box and collect the key from you. Can you remember that? Ah. Right. I see.’ Long listening pause. ‘Well, that clears that up. Yes. Thank you very much, Alice. Bye.’
Lyall gave me back the phone.
‘So?’ I said. ‘Don’t make me wait.’
‘Safe-deposit box at a place in Collins Street.’
I breathed out loudly.
‘Martin is Martin Seeberg, one of Stuart’s American friends. Used to live in Melbourne. I think I vaguely recall him now, might have come here once or twice. She says Martin still gets bills for the box. She sends them on to him in the States. He hasn’t been back for years, she says.’
‘The key. Where would the key be?’
‘Probably took it with him.’
Was this the time to say it? Yes.
‘I don’t think Stuart went to New Zealand,’ I said. ‘I think Stuart was murdered. Possibly on the road between here and the Gippsland lakes. Possibly somewhere else.’
She didn’t blink. ‘It had to be something like that, didn’t it?’ she said. ‘At the back of my mind, I always knew it would be something like that.’
‘Put on something warm,’ I said. ‘I think we’re going to find out why Stuart died. I’m going to bluff them into opening Martin Seeberg’s safe-deposit box. I’m going out the back gate. Pick me up opposite the movie house in Faraday Street.’
I went out the back gate, down the lane, studied the street. Nothing.
48
‘Allison,’ said the manager, ‘please come down with us. I’ll need a witness when I open the client’s box for Mr Irish.’
We went downstairs, manager, secretary, me, Lyall at the rear, down to the repository of secrets, to the rows of safe-deposit boxes.
Martin Seeberg’s box was one of the bigger ones.
At the last moment, the manager got cold feet. ‘We should wait for Mr Seeberg’s permission in writing,’ he said. ‘I’m not happy about this.’
I said, ‘I’ll say it again. The last person to use this box, my client Stuart Wardle, has been missing for three years and is thought to have been murdered. I’ll get a court order but it’ll take a day. You have a witness. I don’t seek to take anything away or to open anything. All I want to know is what the box contains.’
He nodded, unhappy. ‘Yes, all right.’
The lock opened with a snap.
Grey steel slide-out box with a hinged lid. He slid it out, carried it over to a carrel.
We crowded around him.
With a flourish, he opened the lid.
Empty.
We set off back to Parkville in silence.
‘Stuart was murdered because of an interview,’ Lyall said. ‘Is that what you think?’
I nodded. ‘Bits of a transcript are on his computer hard disk.’
Lyall said nothing, looking out of the window. We were at the Victoria Street intersection, when she said, ‘He asked me about video copying. How you did it.’
I came close to sideswiping an old Datsun. ‘When?’
‘When he bought the video equipment. The day he was learning to use it.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I told him to go to Imagebank. They do all sorts of photographic work, video, make certified copies, do vision enhancing, manipulation, that sort of thing. They seal and store stuff for you. Very efficient.’
‘Where are they?’
‘In South Melbourne. Fawkner Street.’
No-one has done the trip between Victoria Street and South Melbourne faster. We left in our trail many frightened people, people on foot, people in all forms of motorised transport.
I parked in a loading zone. How did contravening a municipal ordinance rate against the laws I’d seen broken in the past twenty-four hours?
‘July 1995?’ the bearded man said. ‘That’s not a problem. What’s the name?’
I told him. He went to a computer terminal.
Lyall and I looked at each other. She was wearing a soft leather jacket, brown, hair loose. I put my hip against hers, pushed. She put her hand down and ran her nails up my thigh.
‘Large men in suits make me randy,’ she said. ‘It’s a power thing.’
‘This is not the time or place,’ I said.
The man looked up. ‘Yes, Stuart Wardle, paid with a MasterCard. We copied two videotapes.’
Another moment to hold the breath.
‘Store them?’ I said.
He tapped the keys.
I closed my eyes.
‘No.’
49
We went back to Lyall’s house by reversing the way we’d left it. I followed the same route from Faraday Street, walking across the university campus in the darkening late afternoon. A wet wind was pulling at people’s hair and clothes and they had their chins down, holding books and files and bags to their chests.
This time I didn’t have to climb Lyall’s back wall. She was waiting to let me in the gate. Inside, I sat at the kitchen table and stared at the wall, mild panic rising. After a while, I said, ‘I should have said this earlier. People are trying to kill me.’
Lyall was at the fridge, getting out coffee. She didn’t look around. ‘An everyday predicament for your suburban solicitor, would you say?’
‘I would not, no. I’d better go. I shouldn’t have come back. Without Stuart’s tape, I’m feeling a bit vulnerable. Plus I don’t want to bring anything down on you.’
She came over and ran fingers through my hair. ‘What about the police?’
I shook my head. ‘Some of these people are the police.’
Lyall sat down opposite me. ‘You think Stuart came back here from his interview, transcribed it from the videotape, had the videos copied?’
‘Yes. Not necessarily in that order.’
‘And was murdered where?’
‘Well, I didn’t want to say it, but here most likely. Then the place was searched. That’s why his workroom got the second big clean-out in months.’
‘So they probably found the tapes.’
‘Probably. The safe deposit was the real hope.’
‘But if he had copies made, he wouldn’t keep the originals and the copies together. Not if he was worried about them. One set might be here somewhere.’
We sat
in silence for a long time, Lyall with her elbows on the table, chin in her palms. The day was fading into night, no lights on in the house, gloom gathering in the kitchen.
She got up, put on lights, went to the window. ‘I’m trying to think about the days after Stuart’s sister rang and said she was worried, what sort of things Bradley and I noticed. All I can think of is Bradley saying “Stuart’s been driving around without his spare. That’s a really stupid thing to do.’’’
‘His spare?’
‘Spare wheel.’
In the garage, on my first inspection of Stuart’s car, I’d seen the wheels leaning against the back wall.
Five wheels.
‘So Bradley didn’t take the spare out when he put the car on blocks?’
‘A man came and did it. But that’s what Bradley said. Stuart had been driving around without his spare. He must have seen it out.’
I could feel a tightness in my stomach.
‘Might have a look,’ I said.
Lyall found the car keys.
I went out to the garage. It was fully dark now, wind and rain muting the traffic noise from Royal Parade. No light. I found my way to Stuart’s car by feel, running my hand along the rough unplastered brick wall, finding the BMW’s right tail-lights, the boot lock.
The ignition key unlocked the boot. I remembered that the lid didn’t come up automatically, you had to get your fingertips under the numberplate and lift.
As before, it resisted, then came up suddenly.
The strong smell of leaked brake fluid.
I ran my hands over the bottom of the boot, a heavy-duty plastic lining.
A depression in the middle.
The spare wheel housing.
Something in the depression.
I pressed. It didn’t yield.
I felt the edges of the boot lining. Locking clips on each side. Six locking clips. I twisted them to vertical, grasped the lining with a hand on each side.
It came up.
I put my right hand under it, into the large sump in the middle, found the object.
Found a handle. Pulled it out.
Too dark to see anything. I left the boot as it was, bumped my way outside.
The kitchen lights sent a broad white carpet across the courtyard.
I was carrying a small aluminium suitcase, a worn suitcase with battered corners.
I couldn’t wait. Standing in the rain and wind, I pushed the catches sideways, opened the case.
Lyall in the kitchen doorway. ‘What?’ she said.
One thing in the case. A grey A4 document box, the kind with a spring clip inside.
I couldn’t hold the suitcase and open the box. Lyall came across in three strides, took the box out of the case, opened it.
I expelled breath, said, ‘Jesus, finally the Irish have some luck.’
Fiery wink at the edge of my vision, a blow to my chest, shoulder, not painful, a push, a powerful push, felt myself going backwards, turning, came right around, saw a man at the corner of the house, a man in black, arms outstretched, dull grey pipe in his hands pointing at me. Bark, bark of an old dog, a grey-muzzled dog, token bark, wink of flame with it, another bark and wink.
I was falling, staggering. No, I didn’t want to fall, I wouldn’t fall, steadied myself, didn’t fall, came back upright, suitcase in my left hand, put out my right hand. Get Lyall out of the line of fire, push her, push her away. My hand reached her, shoved, I saw her stumble backwards, away from me.
Looking at the man in black.
In the light from the kitchen now.
I knew him. The tired man from the Federal government who called on me at Taub’s with the woman with the gleaming tight-set teeth. Fair hair combed sideways, little widow’s peak, grey at the temples. A Uniting Church minister on the side.
Jack, piece of no-bullshit advice. You don’t want to be involved in anything to do with Dean Canetti. At the very least, it’ll be a serious embarrassment. Could be much, much worse than that.
He was right. It was much, much worse than that.
The bastard. One of the murderous bastards…kill your friend, kill your wife, kill your child, kill you, it’s all the same…A cold rage was in me now, no fear. He wasn’t going to kill anyone here, not here, the bastard, not here, I can’t afford to lose another person, not a single person, lost too many people, not one more, not a single…
He was pointing the pipe at me, smiling, not a Uniting Church smile, not an understanding and empathetic smile, more the smile of someone who has caught you out in a logical error, takes pleasure in your discomfort.
Bastard. Not taking anyone from me, not taking me from anyone, not here, not tonight…
My left arm came around, no thought to it, threw the aluminium case at him, saw it in the air, lid open, saw him take his left hand off the pipe, put it up to block the case. I went for him, lunged across the space between us, got to him just after the case, got both hands on the pistol, felt the heat of the silencer. Loud bark in my face, burning air against my cheek. I tried to break the weapon from his hand, failed, took a hand off it, tried to hit him, swiped at his face, missed, tried again, felt the contact, saw the gun butt coming…
A burst of light in my eyes, pain in my head, falling sideways, trying to hold onto him, his face back in focus, smooth clerical face, grey eyes…
One grey eye gone, hole where an eye was, dark hole, warm liquid on my lips, the man falling away from me.
I got up, surprised at my ability to get up. Standing.
Last man standing. Again.
No.
Another man standing. In the shadow of the house, not far away, weapon in hand, weapon that had taken away the man’s grey eye, weapon still pointing at him.
Lyall was on the ground, getting up. I walked over, not a sure walk, put out a hand to her, pulled her up, very little strength available. She rose, came to me, put her head on my chest, a person unharmed, and I was grateful beyond measure.
The man came out of the shadows.
A man in black. Short hair, lips parted.
Lipstick on the lips. Dark red. Gleaming teeth.
Not another man standing.
A woman standing. The clergyman’s partner at Taub’s, the woman with the TV commercial teeth and the black Smartie eyes, the tiny male cleft in her pale chin, the fingernail pressed into dough.
She walked over to us, putting the weapon into her armpit, looked me over, calm eyes, cold eyes, looked at Lyall, patted her on the shoulder like a coach, looked at me.
‘All right?’ she said.
I couldn’t speak, didn’t want to speak.
‘You’ll live,’ she said. ‘You’re on your feet, you’ll live.’ To Lyall she said, ‘Take him to St Vincent’s casualty. Thing’s probably out the other side, touched nothing. Luck. Like the movies.’
She took a wallet out of a hip pocket, held it to the light, found a card, gave it to Lyall. ‘Give them this. Anyone. Tell them to phone the number. Then book into the Hyatt, stay as long as you like, bill’s not your problem. We’ll clean up here. You stay away for a while.’
At me. ‘It’s not over, Jack.’
I looked at the man lying near the corner of the house, the man who tried to kill me, the big black pool spreading around his head, looked down at my shoulder, pulled myself together. ‘It’s over for this suit,’ I said. ‘Can’t find anyone to invisibly mend bullet holes anymore.’
She said, no change of tone, around the mouth a small inclination to smile, ‘We can’t mend. All we can do is pay.’
I looked into her eyes and I saw nothing. She stooped and picked up the document box, still open, the tapes pinned by the spring clip.
‘Take this with you,’ she said. ‘Less for the cleaners to do.’
Looking at each other. Pain in the side building up now, quickly.
‘Tasmania,’ I said. ‘Know about that?’
Black eyes. Giving away nothing.
‘Come this far, Jack,’ she said, �
��do what you have to do.’
50
The woman doctor who cleaned the wound looked like Ava Gardner in Bhowani Junction. She wasn’t impressed with the injury.
‘Call this a gunshot wound?’ she said. ‘I’ve seen worse from knitting accidents.’ She pointed at my old scar. ‘Now that’s a gunshot wound. Are you a dangerous person?’
‘This is called blaming the victim,’ I said. ‘The people who shoot me are dangerous.’
‘I’ll give you some painkillers. Come back and have the dressing changed tomorrow. Always the chance of foreign matter in there, dirty cloth fragments.’
‘Steady on,’ I said. ‘These are Henry Buck’s fragments. I paid top dollar for them. And the shirt’s one hundred per cent Australian cotton, nothing foreign about it.’
We didn’t go to the Hyatt. We went to the penthouse apartment, not talking, coming down. In the study, I slotted one of Stuart’s videos into the player, pressed the button.
On the big screen, a man appeared, out of focus at first, then sharp, a man with cropped hair, just stubble, a handsome, ravaged face. He was sitting in an armchair, long-fingered hands lying on the arms.
Lips hardly moving, he said in a soft, cultured voice:
Of course, Stuart, this isn’t some little smack operation, bunch of clever chaps, few kilos in statues of the blessed virgin, in the coconut milk tins, in some mule’s bowels. This is an international business run by Americans. Ex-CIA, ex-army, well connected. That’s why they called themselves The Connection, I presume. And we ended up, because of our greed, unforgivable greed, we ended up as the Australian arm of it.
A voice off-screen, faint American accent:
Just for the sake of the record, Brent, when you say we, you mean…
Lyall said, ‘That’s Stuart.’
The ravaged man said:
I mean me and Steven Levesque and McColl and Carson, of course. Led by Steven but willingly led, not an innocent among us.
I looked at Lyall. She raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said.
‘This is the grail,’ I said. ‘Stuart’s news story from heaven. It killed him. Now the trick is for us to stay alive.’
