by Peter Temple
Noyce’s expression didn’t change but a breath drew in his nostrils, clenched them like buttocks.
Pat coughed, a come-to-order sound.
‘Today was sport, late pick-up,’ Noyce said. ‘Carmen says she stayed in the front part of the store, Anne went down the back. There’s another entrance at that end. To Gawler Street. It was crowded and when Carmen looked for her, she was gone.’
‘What time?’ I said.
‘Carmen came back to the car at 4.50.’
‘Kidnapped. What says that?’
‘Someone phoned my office,’ Tom Carson said. ‘Just three sentences, repeated several times. Sounded like an American voice, the girl says, a strange voice.’
‘Saying what?’
‘We have the girl. Do nothing or she will be killed. Wait till you are contacted.’
‘There’s a recording?’
‘No.’
‘Number displayed?’
Tom turned his gaze on Noyce.
‘Callbox in St Kilda,’ Noyce said. ‘Only unvandalised callbox in Fitzroy Street.’
I said, ‘You got that from where?’
Noyce shrugged. ‘We have these people. Jahn, Cullinan, security people.’
‘You’ve got Jahn, Cullinan,’ I said. I looked at Pat Carson and the Carson boys and at Graham Noyce and they all registered that I was looking at them. ‘You’ve got Jahn, Cullinan and you give me a call?’
‘Don’t trust em,’ Pat said.
‘Mr Carson, they protect presidents, kings. Marcos, Shah of Iran.’
‘Most of those dead too,’ Pat said. ‘Don’t trust em.’ He shook his head dismissively.
‘Jahn do the corporate work,’ Noyce said. ‘Family security is handled in-house.’
‘Or not fucking handled,’ Tom said.
Noyce swallowed and his face pinkened. He wasn’t happy being Tom’s scapegoat.
‘What time was the call?’ I said.
‘Just after five,’ said Noyce.
‘That’s at least two people,’ I said. ‘Probably three, maybe more.’
‘How’s that?’ said Barry. He’d been far away, looking at his hands, flexing his fingers. Something to do with golf, perhaps, thinking about the shot he was about to make when the mobile rang with the bad news.
‘Can’t get to Fitzroy Street from Armadale in ten minutes in peak hour. Two to get the girl, one waiting in St Kilda for a signal to make the call. Three at least, probably more.’
‘Why two to take the girl?’
‘I’m assuming there’s a vehicle involved. Big ask for one person to force a fifteen-year-old out of a crowded store, get her into a vehicle, maybe have to go around to get into the driver’s seat.’
‘It doesn’t matter how many,’ said Pat. ‘Three, thirty-bloody-three, doesn’t matter.’
I leaned forward and looked into Pat’s eyes. ‘It matters,’ I said, speaking softly. ‘That’s why you need the police. Put plainclothes cops into the area. All low-key. Someone would have seen two people and a girl in the store, getting into a vehicle in Gawler Street. Get descriptions, might even get a number, bit of a number. Maybe someone saw the person make the call in St Kilda. Person using an electronic device on a payphone. You’d notice.’
Pat raised his big hands, palms outward. ‘Frank, listen, son. Last time, that’s what happened. They did all their bloody police things. And we almost lost the child. The police didn’t save her. She saved herself. This time, we’re just payin.’
‘Give the cops another chance,’ I said.
Pat shook his head. ‘No. No. They had their chance last time. Afterwards, nothin. They got nowhere. What they ask now, we’re payin. It’s only money, it’s nothin. The child safe. That’s what we want. That’s all.’
I didn’t want any part of this and Pat Carson saw it in my face. Perhaps he saw other things in me, too, the way I had learned to see things in people, to read their bodies and faces, know their eyes.
‘And what you ask, we pay too,’ Pat said. ‘Your rate, forget your rate. When the child’s back, tell Graham the fee. No argument from anyone. Cash, bank cheque, any way you bloody want it.’
He’d read me. He knew I’d hear the rustle of the money in the packet, salivate over the prospect of its chewy, salty, crispy taste. He’d looked at me and he’d read me.
But I didn’t want to be readable. Better to spend more time in Footscray fighting with men in plastic neckbraces than be read by rich people.
‘For doing what?’ I said. ‘When they tell you what they want, give it to them. What happens after that is anybody’s guess.’
I looked at Noyce. His eyes were on Pat. I met Pat’s eyes.
‘Graham can give it to them, Mr Carson,’ I said. ‘A cab driver can give it to them. Send the girls’ driver. The man’s got an interest in getting it right.’
The room was silent. I’d said no. Time to excuse myself. Hope it goes well. I could go, but I couldn’t say that. I couldn’t say anyone can do it and then use the word hope. Although hope was what it would come down to.
‘Thanks for comin, Frank,’ Pat said. His lips moved, not a smile, some outward sign of a reflection on life, on himself perhaps. ‘Usually, the money talks. Not for you. I respect that in a man. Particularly a man who’s been a policeman. Goodnight. Graham will see you’re paid for your time.’
I sat. Pat and I looked at each other. His eyes were the colour of first light in a dry country.
‘If it goes wrong,’ I said, ‘it’ll somehow be my fault. And I’ll blame myself too. For not having the brains to walk out now.’
Pat’s right hand went to his throat. ‘All you have to do is give them what they want. No police stuff, nothing. What could go wrong? A cab driver could do it, not so? And blame? Yes. We’ll blame ourselves, blame you, blame the bloody stars above. Graham will give you ten thousand dollars tonight. Cash. An advance on your fee.’
He looked at Noyce. Noyce looked at Tom, still languid before the fireplace. Something passed between them. Tom’s consent? Did Graham need Tom’s permission to follow Pat’s instructions?
‘Of course,’ Noyce said. ‘It’ll take an hour or so, Frank.’
In my mind, I sighed a deep sigh. ‘A few things first,’ I said. ‘I want to talk to the driver. I’m not even being the bagman here unless I’m happy about him.’
They all looked to Pat. He nodded.
‘Tom, your office line, it’s diverted?’
He nodded.
‘Recording device?’
‘All incoming calls are recorded automatically,’ Noyce said.
‘Other family children. I’d bring them here till this is over.’
‘I think everyone at risk lives here,’ Noyce said. ‘That would be right, wouldn’t it, Tom?’
‘There are five houses in the compound,’ Tom said to me. ‘We’re the fucking Kennedys of Australia. The kids who aren’t here are overseas. We can’t bring them back.’
‘Okay. Which phone will ring?’
‘Next door. Diverted calls will ring next door.’
‘The girl’s parents, where are they?’
A glance between Tom and Barry, between Tom and his father. ‘Mark’s in Europe,’ said Tom. ‘We’ll speak to him in the morning. Her mother’s not well. It’s better that we don’t alarm her.’
‘I’ll need to bring someone else in,’ I said. ‘And I’ll have to stay here, so I’ll need clothes.’
Tom looked me over like a bloodstock agent. ‘Mark’s clothes should fit you. There’s a room full of them upstairs. Have some put out, Graham.’
Graham didn’t like that command. His mouth twitched and he tested the fit of his collar, glanced at Barry. Barry was still engaged elsewhere, not flexing his fingers now but holding their tips to his lips.
Silence, one man standing, four seated, an interlude between something concluding and the future. Into it, Pat said, ‘Never thought it would happen twice.’ His chin was on his chest, his eyes on the desk. ‘And the
sinners walk free.’
I couldn’t resist it. ‘What sinners would those be?’
‘What?’
‘What sinners walk free?’
Pat raised his head and looked at me, blinked. ‘Figure of speech, son,’ he said. ‘No shortage of sinners walkin free. Cop, you’d know that.’
‘Former cop,’ I said. ‘Yes.’
3
The room next door explained why there weren’t any books in Pat Carson’s study. It was a library, a striking room, mellow parquet floor, four walls of floor-to-ceiling books, ladders on wheels, armchairs covered in faded fabrics, a long, narrow library table surrounded by upright chairs, stern chairs.
I sat at the table, ran my fingertips over the green leather inlay, unhappy at being bought, tempted to find Noyce and tell him I’d changed my mind. These people were capitulating in the hope that it would save a girl’s life. It probably wouldn’t. And I was complicit, not abetting them, no, but certainly aiding them, taking money to carry their money. Why? Broke and prospectless, that was a good enough reason. If not me, then someone else.
I got out my book and found the number of Corin McCall, garden designer and lecturer in horticulture, my date after class. It had taken me five months to find the courage to ask her out, five months of doing all my homework, spending hours formulating intelligent questions, shaving before my night class.
‘McCall.’ She had a deep voice for such a lean and wiry person. A little electric jolt went through me the first time she spoke to the class.‘
Corin, Frank Calder.’ It occurred to me that I’d never said her name. I coughed. ‘Listen, I couldn’t get to class…’
‘I noticed,’ she said. ‘And you can’t make it tonight.’
‘Called out for an urgent job. I’m really sorry, I’d turn it down, but…’
She said, ‘That’s fine, Frank, happens to me all the time. I mean, I do this to people.’ Pause. ‘Anyhow, I’m exhausted, wouldn’t have been good company.’
‘Can we make another time? Next week? Any night.’
‘I’m in the bush on Monday and Tuesday, possibly Wednesday.
You could give me a call mid-week.’
‘I will. I’ll call you.’
‘Yes, call me. I await your call.’
‘I await calling you. I’m sorry I spoiled your evening. You could’ve taken up another offer.’
Corin laughed. ‘It’s early, I may still.’
‘Goodnight. See you next week.’
‘Goodnight. Call me.’
‘Mid-week. Goodnight.’
Repeating myself, breathing too shallowly. What kind of teenage nonsense was this?
A sallow man in a white jacket was at the open door pushing a small serving trolley. Supper was grilled fish, tiny tomatoes and roasted eggplant. I had just finished it when there was a knock: a big handsome man in a dark suit, fortyish, fat coming on, neat short hair. Dennis Whitton, Pat Carson’s driver, the girls’ driver. I’d questioned Noyce about him. Ex-cop, excellent credentials, four years in the job.
‘Mr Noyce said…’
I got up and shook hands, closed the door, sat him at the library table, sat opposite him.
‘Bad luck this,’ I said.
He nodded, rolled his head ruefully, scratched the back of it. He had pale blue eyes, wary. ‘Let em talk me into it,’ he said. ‘Went in the first coupla times, hung around, pretend I’m lookin at the CDs. You feel like a perv, no one more than sixteen in the place. Second time, a bloke come up to me, he’s about twenty. He says, I’m the manager, we’d be happier if you looked at CDs somewhere else. After that…’
‘How long’s this been going on?’ I said.
‘This term, that’s all.’
‘Every day?’
‘No.’ He was indignant. ‘Only on sport days. Tuesday and Thursday. It’d be six, seven times.’
‘Who talked you into it?’
‘They did, the girls.’
‘Both of them?’
‘Yeah. They worked on me. I gave in, I’m an idiot, what can I say?’
‘Who suggested it? Whose idea?’
He shrugged, put up his big hands. ‘Jeez, I can’t remember. They talk all the time, they tease me, shave your head Dennis, no, he should grow his hair, Dennis, PE teacher said she thinks you’re a spunk, Dennis, how old were you when you did it the first time? They go on like that all the time. You wouldn’t think they were fifteen. Not like kids at all.’ He sighed. ‘I dunno who asked first.
Really don’t know.’
‘The times you went in, they talk to anyone?’
‘Sure. There’s other kids from the school there.’
‘Girls?’
‘And boys. That’s what it’s about. Boys.’
‘That’s what what’s about?’
‘Goin there. The record place. Triple Zero.’
‘Triple Zero. That’s its name?’
He nodded.
‘They went there to meet boys. Any boys in particular?’
‘Dunno. I said, only went in twice, didn’t really notice.’
‘But they were talking to boys.’
‘Well, yeah. In a group like, boys and girls.’
‘The time. How long were they in the store?’
‘Twenty, twenty-five minutes.’
‘You tell anyone you were doing this? Taking them to this place?’
‘No.’ Quick response. ‘Who would I tell?’
I got up, put my hands in my pockets, looked at a pen-and-ink drawing on the wall above the writing desk: a cobbled street, shops on either side. Somewhere in Europe. It was signed A. Carson. In the glass, I could see Whitton. He was rubbing his jaw with his right hand, looking at the ceiling.
I turned and walked around the library table, perched close to him so that he had to lean back and look up at me.
‘They’d kick your tyres a bit before you got a job like this,’ I said.
‘Cop in WA, that’s right?’
‘Right.’
‘Quit to be a security man at Argyle. Diamond mine pay better?’
‘Lots, yeah.’
‘And then the Hanleys. Big move. Perth to Melbourne.’
‘Married a Melbourne girl, she wanted to come back. Kept on about the green grass, all that. Never stopped.’ He shrugged. ‘What can you do?’
‘How long in that job?’
‘Hanleys? Nine years. Done all the driver courses, done one in England. Brands Hatch. Hanleys sent me. Ten days. Blokes from all over, America, Italy, you name it. Then Mr Clive Hanley died. Mrs Hanley wanted me to go to Sydney with her, she went to live in Sydney. Couldn’t go, the wife wouldn’t go, her family’s all here.’
‘England. So you know all the stuff. Unpredictable routes, evasive actions, emergency drills, that sort of thing.’
A slight blush crept up from his collar, tinged his jowls. ‘Yeah, all that.’
‘Put it into practice, driving the girls?’
‘Sure, yeah.’
‘So you’d never take the same route from the school to Armadale? Use different cars?’
He hesitated. ‘That’s right.’
I didn’t say anything, sat with my fingers on the table, still, expressionless, looking over his right shoulder.
‘Not worth much if they know where you’re going,’ he said. ‘All that stuff.’
I didn’t comment. ‘Know about the other Carson kidnapping?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Think about it before you gave in to the girls?’
He sat forward, shoulders hunched, eyes on the table. ‘Not enough,’ he said. ‘Jesus, not enough.’
‘So you told no one.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you’re not involved in any way?’
‘Christ, no.’
‘Mr Whitton,’ I said softly, ‘you’re pretty much finished in this line of work. But things can get much worse. Whatever happens to this girl, even the best result, you are going to be gone over by peop
le who will look into every pore of your skin, stick a probe up your arse and look at your eyes from the inside. If you’re involved, they’ll find out. Believe that, believe it. And then you’ll be finished in all lines of work. Listening?’
His eyes were still on the table.
‘Look at me,’ I said.
His head came up. His eyes were watering.
‘I’m asking you again, Mr Whitton. Tell me the truth. You’ll be glad you did. Are you involved in any way?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, no, no. No.’
The telephone rang at a writing table between the French windows. It was a flat black high-tech device and its ring was a gentle warbling sound, a sound suitable for a library.
Noyce came in without knocking. ‘Wait in your quarters, Dennis,’ he said.
Tom Carson was in the doorway, Barry behind him. They stood back to let Whitton leave. Then, not hurried, Tom went to the writing table. He sat down, took a fountain pen from an inside pocket, removed the top, fitted it to the back. He picked up the receiver.
‘Tom Carson.’
We watched him listen and write on the broad white tablet in front of him. He said only one word: ‘Yes.’
When he’d put the receiver down, Noyce went over to the table and pushed a button. We listened to the ringing, to Tom saying his name. Then a harsh, grating, high-pitched electronic voice said:
Make sure you’ve got two hundred thousand dollars in notes by twelve noon tomorrow. Fifties. If you contact the police, we’ll know and the girl dies.
Straight away. Got that?
Tom’s voice: Yes.
Wait for a call.
They were all looking at me.
‘That’s pretty straightforward,’ I said to Noyce. ‘Purely out of interest, ask your friends at Jahn, Cullinan where the call came from.’
4
When they had gone, I rang Orlovsky on the high-tech library telephone. It was a long time before he answered.
‘Frank,’ he said.
‘How did you know?’
‘No one else lets it ring for five minutes.’
I saw the survivors of C Troop irregularly but we never lost touch. We were like people who had come through a death camp, bearers of a guilt that knew no rationality and admitted of no untroubled sleep. In any year, I talked to all of them. Except Lucas, who disappeared at night from a prawn trawler lolling in its reflection on a Torres Strait sea, and the small and lethal Jacoby, who went to Burma to fight for the Karen rebels and never came back. They called from truckstops and brothels, from jails and pubs, from backpackers’ hostels and a rich woman’s beach house in Byron Bay. I went to see one in the feral, freezing high country, slept in a foul-smelling bark tepee beneath strips of rabbit flesh black from smoke. It wasn’t that we liked one another that much. It was that we were like children of the same abusive father: beyond his reach now and scattered, but always joined by our secret knowing.
