I checked my message bank, hoping that Lanie had called to accept my invitation to the Croupiers’ Gala. No such luck. Ayisha was the only caller. I dialled the electorate office. Mike Kyriakis had phoned, she reported, wanting to know if I’d made up my mind.
‘He’s talked himself into running,’ she said. ‘What do you want me to tell him?’
‘Tell him if he holds off announcing his bid until tonight, I’ll take readings of the branch secretaries, see if I can’t rustle him up some support. First round votes only. Nobody’s going to die in a ditch for him.’
‘By you, I presume you mean me.’
‘You don’t keep a dog and bark yourself.’
‘Careful Murray,’ Ayisha said. ‘I know where you live.’
‘But first, can you please call Phil Sebastian at Barry Quinlan’s office,’ I said. ‘Tell him we’re poised to assist and you’re setting up some appointments with local movers and shakers on Wednesday. Turn on the charm.’
‘Appointments with who?’
‘Nobody,’ I said. ‘We’re blowing smoke.’
‘Does that mean…?’
‘Anybody else call?’ I said, cutting her off short. ‘An Andrea Lane?’
While I was talking, I flipped through Margot’s pile of condolence cards. A parchment-quality envelope with a heraldic device in the corner caught my eye. A lion rampant surmounting the words Mildura Grand Hotel.
‘No Lanes,’ said Ayisha. ‘Just the usual. Nothing that can’t wait.’
When I left the Grand, I hadn’t thought to enquire about Charlie’s bill. It suddenly occurred to me that he’d flagged out, but maybe he hadn’t checked out. Surely the hotel hadn’t forwarded his bill to his widow? I thumbed open the envelope. It contained a letter of condolence, signed from the management and staff, and a courtesy slip with Charlie’s uncollected messages attached. Calls he’d missed while he was busy eating breakfast and dying of a heart attack. There were only two. One was taken at 7:45, the other at 9:15. Please call urgently. Two different numbers, but the same name on each slip.
‘Before you do anything else, do me a favour, will you?’ I said to Ayisha. ‘Call the House and give my apologies for the Health and Social Services Committee meeting.’
I rang off and dialled the number on the second slip, the one left at 9:15. Business hours. The phone was answered after three rings.
‘Pro Vice-Chancellor’s office,’ said a plummy female voice.
‘I have a message to ring Colin Bishop urgently.’
‘The professor isn’t here at the moment. He’s at a conferring ceremony at our city campus.’
‘The one in Flinders Street?’
‘That’s correct. If it’s urgent, perhaps I can assist.’
I doubted it. I thanked her, hung up and tapped the cabby’s elbow. ‘Just here, thanks, mate.’ We were at the lights outside Flinders Street station.
‘Parmalat House?’ He looked uncertainly towards the railway station, the finest example of Indo-Colonial architecture in the southern hemisphere.
‘That’s right, mate,’ I said, scribbling a voucher and thrusting it into his hand. ‘Good job.’
The city campus of the Maribyrnong University was a twelve-storey office building above a shopping arcade near the corner of Queen Street. Student types were dawdling around the lifts, toting folders and chatting in Cantonese. I scanned the directory and decided the top-floor Assembly Hall was the likeliest prospect for the diploma-bestowing solemnities.
The Assembly Hall owed less to the traditions of Oxbridge than the aesthetics of a hotel-basement ballroom. The seats were crammed with polyglot parents and well-wishers while graduands wearing rented academic gowns and their best trainers stood in a shuffling line waiting for their names to be called. One by one, they stepped forward to receive the rolled parchment in a cardboard tube that certified them to be fully credentialled Bachelors of Food Handling and Spinsters of Tourism Marketing. The faculty, doing its best to add lustre to the occasion, was sitting solemnly on the dais in floppy velvet scholars’ caps and colour-coded gowns. They looked like a high school production of A Man for All Seasons. Colin Bishop was standing centre stage, dishing out the diplomas.
There seemed still to be another fifty or so customers waiting their turn, so I sidled along the back wall and slipped outside onto a long balcony that overlooked the river and Southbank. The drizzle had lifted and a couple of rough-nut fathers were sneaking a quick fag at one end. I botted a light, took my smoke and my phone out of earshot and dialled Peter Thorsen’s office. After a short wait, the deputy leader came on the line.
‘That matter we discussed,’ I said. ‘Still in the market for a kamikaze pilot, or has your Turkish mate Durmaz already found one for you?’
‘Durmaz couldn’t find Anatolia in an atlas,’ said Thorsen. ‘Got a taker, have you?’
‘Two conditions,’ I said. ‘First, if I get this bloke to run, I want a definite commitment that I’ll be a member of any shadow cabinet you form if and when you’re elected leader, and that I’ll remain there until the next election.’
Across the river, work crews were erecting stages in the forecourt of the new casino building, getting everything chip-shape for the grand opening on Thursday evening. This gambling caper, I thought, it can really suck you in.
‘Second,’ I continued. ‘This stalking horse, he’s a mate. I don’t want to see him completely humiliated. I need your assurance that you’ll do your best to get him some central panel votes, at least for the first round.’
Thorsen thought for a moment. ‘Done and done.’
‘In writing.’
A written commitment to include me in his putative frontbench team would be a token of Thorsen’s good faith, nothing more. If niggle came to nudge, it wasn’t worth the paper it was written on. An undertaking to steal votes from Phil Sebastian, however, was documentary evidence that he was conspiring to white-ant his liege lord, Alan Metcalfe.
Thorsen didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes to the first, no to the second.’
‘Done,’ I said. Some you win, some you just try for size.
‘So who’s your candidate?’
‘Mike Kyriakis, Mayor of Broadmeadows, hero of the rank and file, pillar of the influential Greek community, valued member of the Left.’
‘Beautiful,’ said Thorsen. ‘Fits like a glove. I’m penning my promise as we speak.’
A sustained, concluding burst of applause came from the conferring ceremony. The Exalted Ones were processing down the central aisle, followed by the newly minted graduates. The audience was on its feet, clapping proudly. I went back inside and contributed to the goodwill. May Providence smile upon them and all who consume their portion-controlled comestibles.
The procession arrived at an area lined with tables laid out with teacups and self-serve urns. There, it broke into its constituent parts and began milling around, joined immediately by members of the audience. Cameras began to flash and a congratulatory din arose.
I waded into the crowd and found Colin Bishop being dragooned into a photo-op with a beaming, tube-brandishing young lady and her camera-wielding mother. He recognised me and projected a telepathic plea. If this wasn’t nipped in the bud, he’d be fair game for the rest of them.
‘Pro vice-chancellor,’ I cried, charging into shot. ‘Come quickly. You’re needed in the symposium. The dean’s had an aphorism. He’s defalcated on the bursar again.’
Grabbing him by the vestments, I dragged him into the lift lobby, shouldered open the fire door and steered him into the stairwell.
‘Thank you, Murray.’ He shook himself free, pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and checked that his beard was still attached. ‘It’s the clobber. They always want a picture with the robes. You’ve got someone graduating today? One of your kids? I’ll just go and hang this up.’
I blocked his way. ‘Before you do,’ I said. ‘A word in your Thomas Cranmer-like orifice, if you don’t mind.’
He re
gistered my stance and the edge in my voice. ‘What’s wrong? Are you upset about something?’
‘I’m upset that you lied to me, Col. I’m upset that you think I’m an idiot.’
‘Lied?’ He furrowed his brow and blinked, owl-like behind his spectacles. ‘Idiot?’
‘Is there an echo in here?’ I said. ‘You heard me. Out at the cemetery at Charlie Talbot’s funeral, you said you’d lost touch with him, hadn’t spoken with him in years, that you’d been meaning to catch up but never seemed to get around to it. Turns out that you rang him at seven-thirty on the morning he died. At a country hotel. Funny time and place to call somebody out of the blue. Slip your mind, did it, Col?’
His mouth did the goldfish thing. ‘I…’
‘What was so urgent that morning, Col?’ I brandished the message slips. ‘That’s what your messages said. “Urgent”.’
He took a step backwards and stumbled. I grabbed him and didn’t let go, even after he had a steadying grip on the tubular steel banister. His eyes were wide with fear. But that didn’t stop me. I wasn’t going to hurt him, just ask a few questions.
‘Something you read in the paper that morning, was it? Human remains found in Lake Nillahcootie, presumed to be a long-lost drowning victim. You thought it might be a good idea if you all got your heads together—you, Charlie and Barry—make sure you still had your stories straight when the cops came around checking the details again?’
He stared at me, open mouthed, like I was Mario the Magnificent, mind-reader extraordinaire. He made a blustery noise and started shaking his head.
‘You didn’t tell them anything you might regret, I hope.’
Bishop shook his head, then nodded, then shook it again. His floppy velvet hat bounced around, adding to the pathos. To think this man had once taught self-assertion to officials of the Nurses’ Federation.
‘I wouldn’t…’
‘You wouldn’t what, Col? You wouldn’t have a fit of the wobblies and decide to make a clean breast of it? Of course you wouldn’t. Because that would mean dobbing in Barry Quinlan. And Barry wouldn’t like that, would he? Told you to get a grip, did he? Told you when you rang him that morning and told you again at the funeral?’
I was winging it. Firing wildly and hoping for a reaction. Bishop’s mouth was opening and closing, but nothing was coming out.
If nothing else, I’d managed to freak him out. He started sweating, actual beads of moisture forming on his forehead. He took off his extra-large chocolate beret and wiped himself. I’d pummelled him into submission. He was on the ropes. I paused for breath and he summoned up his indignation.
‘Now listen…’
The door bumped against my back. Somebody wanted to use the stairs. I held the door shut.
‘No, you listen, Professor,’ I said. ‘You’re in deep shit right now, and I’m here to throw you a lifeline. Take me somewhere we can talk in private.’
He gulped, turned and trotted down the fire stairs. I followed him down three floors and along a corridor to a door with a name plate that read VISITING FELLOWS. That was us, all right.
The room contained two empty desks with cheap office chairs and a window that looked onto a blank wall. I herded him ahead of me into one of the chairs and loomed over him.
‘Now tell me what happened when you got to the Shack and found Merv Cutlett dead.’
‘Dead?’ The pro vice-chancellor blinked. ‘Where on earth did you get that idea? He was alive as you and me.’
I sank into the vacant chair. Its hydraulics were kaput and it deflated slowly beneath me, folding my knees into my chest.
Colin Bishop took off his silly hat and scratched at his thinning hair, staring at me like I’d lost my marbles. I suddenly realised I was his Sid Gilpin. A raving lunatic spinning wild fantasies out of random scraps of information.
‘Are you okay, Murray?’ he said soothingly. ‘What’s all this about?’
Now that I’d stopped raving, he was going all pastoral care on me. Next thing, he’d be suggesting a doctor. I had to find a different approach before he smothered me in solicitude. I elevated my posterior and fiddled with my piston. The seat rose beneath me.
‘Those questions you asked at the cemetery about Charlie’s final last words and so forth, they’ve been playing on my mind, Col. Truth is, he did say something. It didn’t make sense to me at the time. I thought it was just heavy breathing. But now I think he was saying, “Merv, Merv”.’
The rabbit-in-the-headlights look came back into Bishop’s face.
‘I didn’t see the report in the Herald Sun about Lake Nillahcootie until after the funeral. And then, when I found those message slips from the hotel in Charlie Talbot’s effects, I thought…well, the heart attack and everything. I thought maybe there are things I’m entitled to know. Especially now that the police have been to see me, asking questions about Charlie and his relationship with Merv Cutlett.’
My apologetic, wounded tone had the right effect. The voltage dropped and Bishop gave an understanding nod. He opened his mouth. Before he could apply the soft soap, I changed tack again.
‘It’s pretty clear the cops think something untoward happened to Merv Cutlett,’ I said. ‘And now that the press is taking an interest, there’s some concern among, well, certain people as to the potential fall-out. Since I happened to have a background at the Municipals, albeit minor, I’ve been tasked on a very confidential basis to appraise myself of the essential facts of the situation and to minimise the prospect of an adverse outcome.’
Col was going cross-eyed trying to unravel this combination of obfuscation, misrepresentation and management-speak. ‘There are a number of issues of concern here,’ I said, counting them off on my fingers. ‘First, Charlie Talbot’s reputation. Second, Barry Quinlan’s exposure to risk. Third, the overall standing of the party.’
Bishop nodded along with the beat.
‘So far your name hasn’t come up,’ I said. ‘But it’s there in the Coroner’s report and…well, suffice to say, I’ll do my best to see that your interests are protected. Assuming, of course, you’re frank with me.’
Bishop took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. There was no getting around the fact that I knew considerably more than I should about this matter. Also, I was clearly capable of going off like a Catherine wheel if he didn’t at least go through the motions.
‘What do you want, Murray?’
‘The truth, Col,’ I said. ‘My objective is to keep the lid on this thing. I can’t do that if I’ve only got half the picture.’
He didn’t exactly look enthusiastic. Rain washed across the window, darkening the room.
‘I’ve told you the truth,’ he said. ‘Cutlett was alive and well when Barry and I got to the Shack.’
‘Have it your own way then, Col.’ I stood up. ‘But if anybody takes the fall over this, you can bet it won’t be Barry Quinlan.’
Bishop gestured for me to sit back down. ‘He was alive,’ he said glumly. ‘But he wasn’t too well. He usually got blotto on the drive up from Melbourne, so we expected he’d be a bit the worse for wear, but we’d never seen him in such a bad way. He was sprawled on a couch, semi-conscious, groaning and grunting. Charlie said he’d slipped and hit the back of his head on the corner of the car door when they stopped for a roadside leak. His hair was matted with dried blood, but he wouldn’t let Charlie near him to clean it up.’
So Charlie had told Margot the truth, I thought. Her blow with the lamp wasn’t fatal. Merv must have come round at some point, probably while he was being bundled into the car. Charlie probably assumed that he’d recover on the way to the Shack. And when he got his wits back, he’d be both chastened and grateful that his behaviour with Margot had been covered up. That would also account for Charlie’s fabrication about his condition.
‘The three of us got hold of him and tried to take a look, but that just stirred him up. Bastard kicked me in the shins.’ Bishop rubbed his lower leg, demonstrating the
precise location. ‘We waited until he flaked again, then dragged him into a bedroom and dumped him on the bed. We took off his shoes, tossed the bedspread over him, turned on his electric blanket and left him to sleep it off.’
‘But he didn’t wake up?’ I said.
Bishop took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his glasses, fully committed now. ‘We had a drink, went to bed. Next morning, it wasn’t even light, I got up for a pee. On the way back from the bathroom, I stuck my head in Merv’s door. He was flat on his back, just like we’d left him. Something didn’t look right. All this gunk had leaked out of the back of his head onto the pillow. It was…’ he smiled weakly, ‘very unpleasant. And he didn’t seem to be breathing.’
‘So you woke up Charlie and Barry.’
He nodded. ‘We tried to revive him. CPR, mouth-to-mouth. It was useless. His body was warm but that was probably because of the electric blanket. It was set on high and it had been running all night.’
‘Why didn’t you call an ambulance?’ I said.
‘I wanted to,’ Bishop said. ‘So did Charlie. He was at his wits’ end. I think he blamed himself for not being more forceful. He thought if he’d got Merv medical attention earlier, he’d still be alive. But Barry didn’t agree. It was too late for an ambulance, he said. Cutlett was obviously dead. It wasn’t like they could bring him back to life.’
‘And Barry was concerned about the way it might look?’ I said.
‘You know what he’s like,’ Bishop nodded. ‘Always one step ahead. Cutlett dying under those circumstances, at that time, alone with three of his known political adversaries. Years of patient work were at risk. Something like this could have made us pariahs in the union movement. Or laughing stocks. Or worse still, a bit of both.’
‘He told you that it would be better to stage an accident. Drop Merv’s body in the lake, make it look like a tragic boating mishap.’
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