Did canna lilies, I wondered, benefit from the occasional dose of concentrated uric acid? This slash was taking on the proportions of an Olympic event. Marcus Taylor. Perhaps he, too, tried to piss in somebody’s garden. Maybe he thought he’d found the perfect way to avenge himself on Fiona Lambert. Maybe she had unwittingly given him the opportunity to engineer her downfall. Maybe he had wanted his forgeries to be discovered, as evidenced by the stamp on the back of Dry Gully. But not for the reasons Claire had postulated—not out of a forger’s vanity—but to discredit and destroy Fiona Lambert.
For months he had toiled in obscurity, producing an entire collection of fake art works in his ratty studio at the old YMCA. For months he had bided his time, waiting for just the right moment. For the moment when he could reveal that his perfectly innocent post-modern tributes had knowingly been passed off as the real thing by Fiona Lambert.
But something even better had come along. The CMA’s acquisition of Our Home. An irresistible opportunity—not just to avenge himself on Lambert—but to strike a blow against his dead father as well. Frustrated by his inability to obtain anything but the most meagre recognition of his own achievements as an artist—a paltry grant can be even more insulting than none at all—Taylor had manufactured a carbon-copy of Our Home with the object of compromising the integrity of Victor Szabo’s entire artistic output. Oedipus meets Hamlet on the banks of the Yarra.
At long last, the call of nature rang less stridently in my ears. Drained, I parted the broad green leaves of the cannae, stepped back out onto the lawn and gave the scandalised lovers a cheerful wave. Through the trees, I could see the white facade of the Centre for Modern Art. A scenario, part memory, part speculation, began to take shape.
Poor little Marcus Taylor. He really was a fuck-up. He painted his duplicate Our Home, but then got pissed and cocky and tipped his hand at the CMA opening. That little performance of his must really have set the cat among the pigeons. No wonder Salina Fleet had looked so nervous when he got up on that table and started waving his arms about. She knew what he was going to say. He’d given her a sneak preview of the notes to his speech a few moments before, out in the back garden.
Fiona Lambert was a cool customer, though. She didn’t betray herself, even though she was the one with most at stake. Later that night, while supposedly home in bed, she caught up with Taylor and sunk him and his troublesome plans in the National Gallery moat.
The sky was blue. Birds were singing. The grass was green and cool underfoot. I walked back towards Hope Street, where the Charade was parked, through a beautiful summer afternoon. I wondered how she had done it. How she’d managed to get Marcus Taylor’s unconscious body up over the parapet and roll it into the water. Knocking him out would have been the easy part. He was practically legless the last time I’d seen him, staggering down the Domain Road footpath.
His big moment had come to nothing. But he still hadn’t played his trump card. Our Home Mark 2 was still on its easel back at the YMCA. His day would come. Just you wait, he said. Just you wait.
Through an intermittent stream of traffic, I could see the very spot where I’d heard him mumble those words. Pausing beside an enormous Moreton Bay fig, I leaned against the trunk and recalled the scene.
Taylor coming one way. Me going the other. Up ahead of me, the Botanical Hotel. Ahead of Taylor, Lambert’s flat and, a fifteen-minute walk away, his own room in the YMCA. The disappearing tail-lights of Lloyd Eastlake’s Mercedes.
Rewind further. Up in the flat. Fiona on the phone. Out the window, standing less than fifty metres from where I was currently standing, also on the phone, Spider Webb.
The Missing Link. I’d been battling to put Spider into the picture. He and Fiona Lambert were, after all, far from a natural pair. But now that I began to put the pieces together, an alliance between the two of them made a certain sort of sense. Each was working Eastlake from a different direction— Spider looking for the main chance, Fiona needing help to work her gold mine.
Spider. Warning me off. Tidying up the loose ends. Loose ends like the fact that Taylor had gone to the bottom of the moat with his keys in his pocket. So somebody had to go back the next morning and retrieve the duplicate Szabo and dispose of the evidence of the Austral forgery factory. Loose ends like the fact that I’d got there first and had to be locked in the basement with Willy the Whale. Loose ends like Salina Fleet.
I thought again of Salina’s reaction at the moat. Those frozen expressions on her face, caught by the flashing ambulance light. Shock, panic, fear. Did she guess what had happened? Was her insistence that Taylor had killed himself a hastily improvised way of protecting herself, of demonstrating that she could be trusted to keep silent? And her appearance at the YMCA? Was she acting on her own initiative, hastening to clear out all evidence of Taylor’s work? Or was everyone just after Taylor’s version of Our Home?
Then I had come along, sticking my bib in. Not content to remain locked in the basement of the YMCA, I’d kicked up a racket. When Salina inadvertently released me, I put her on the spot. She was a fast thinker, but not entirely convincing in the clinches. And, by then, I’d seen the picture on the easel in Taylor’s studio. By then, I was starting to make a real nuisance of myself. I sought out Giles Aubrey, a man who could be relied on to grab the first opportunity that came his way to stir the pot, and gone running to Eastlake with what he told me. But Eastlake, in turn, told Lambert. So Aubrey had ended up at the bottom of the nearest riverbank with a compound fracture of the corpus delicti. At least Sal had the sense to make herself scarce.
As I stood there, concealed by the grey folds of Moreton Bay fig, contemplating my responsibility for Giles Aubrey’s death, Fiona Lambert came out of the block of flats. Hands empty, teeth shining, looking exceptionally pleased with herself, she crossed Domain Road and walked towards the Centre for Modern Art.
It was, I decided, time to blow the whistle on Ms Lambert. Get the cops on the case while she still had the hundred grand stashed in her flat. Detective Senior Constable Chris Micaelis would be hearing from me, I resolved, very soon. Just as soon as I’d made a couple of phone calls.
Once Fiona Lambert disappeared into the CMA, I hurried to the Charade and headed back towards the office. It was getting on for 4.30 and the ebb tide of early rush-hour traffic had begun to flow out of the city. Anybody with half a brain had already clocked-off and was headed for the beach.
Something I’d overheard in Fiona Lambert’s flat was exercising my mind. The world of high finance was terra incognita. It was time I got hold of a tourist guide. Even as I turned into St Kilda Road, I was pulling up in front of the Travelodge and fishing in my pockets for coins.
I could find only notes. This meant that before I could use the pay-phone, I was compelled to go into the bar and buy myself a drink. A shot of Jamiesons with a beer chaser. I needed to be both alert and relaxed. I fed the change in a phone in the lobby and called the Business Daily. ‘You’re a finance journalist,’ I told Faye Curnow.
‘If that’s a news tip,’ she said. ‘You’re a bit late.’
‘Matter of fact, I do have a tip,’ I said. ‘A scoop. But first tell me about Obelisk Trust. It’s like a bank or a building society, right? Government guaranteed.’
‘Don’t you believe it. High returns, high risk.’
‘And what if I told you that Lloyd Eastlake has been sinking large amounts of Obelisk money into the Karlcraft project without his board’s approval?’
‘I’d say that he might well soon regret it. The rumours are flying thick and fast that the banks are about to refuse to roll over Karlin’s loans. If that happens, he’ll have no alternative but to file for bankruptcy.’
‘How would he go about that?’
It wasn’t complicated. ‘You lodge some forms with the Federal Court. A court-appointed trustee moves immediately, shuts the doors and starts liquidating your assets. Your creditors howl like stuck pigs. Then they sit around for the next ten years not getting t
heir money back.’
‘So what would you say if I told you that, even as we speak, Max Karlin’s lawyers are approaching the court, bankruptcy forms in hand? And that, further, I’ve got my life savings in Obelisk Trust.’
‘I’d tell you that if you don’t get your money out of Obelisk by close of business tonight, you can probably kiss most of it goodbye. And I’d ask you how reliable is your information about Karlin.’
‘Straight from the horse’s mouth.’
‘Then you’d better get off the phone. I’ve got a story to break, and you’ve got a hasty withdrawal to make. Thanks for the tip.’
I didn’t get much thanks for my next call. In fact, I got a flea in my ear. ‘Murray Whelan here,’ I said. ‘Calling from Angelo Agnelli’s office.’
‘What now?’ barked Duncan Keogh.
This wasn’t going to be easy. The last time I’d rung the finance committee chairman, I’d hung up on him. ‘It’s about that deposit with Obelisk Trust.’
‘Thought I told you I’d done it.’
‘You did,’ I said. ‘Only there’s been a bit of a rethink in the strategy department. Angelo wants the funds withdrawn immediately and put back where they were.’ Eastlake wasn’t the only one who could play at this exceed-your-authority game. ‘Like you said this morning, Duncan. No need to get our shirt-tails in a flap.’
Standing at a pay-phone in the lobby of a budget hotel with a finger in one ear to drown out the muzak bouncing off a tour party of Taiwanese dentists’ wives was not the ideal location for a conversation of this nature.
‘You tell Agnelli from me,’ said Keogh. ‘That I’m still the finance committee chairman, not some bank clerk, and if he wants something done he should have the courtesy to call me himself, not get his office boy to do it.’
This was great. Keogh had finally decided to grow a backbone. ‘Listen, Duncan…’ But Duncan wasn’t listening. It was his turn to hang up.
This was not good. I went back into the bar and bought myself another beer. With the option of bluffing Keogh now closed, the only way left to get the party funds out of Obelisk before the balloon went up was to call Agnelli and have him speak to Keogh. That would entail a great deal of explanation. Frankly, given the choice, I’d rather have gone straight back up to F. Lambert’s kitchen, stuck my bare hand into her high-speed Moulinex blender and thrown the switch.
I racked my brain for a plausible lie. It was a fool’s errand. The truth, or a passable facsimile of it, was my only option. But first I would have to get through to the ministerial hovercraft plying the distant waters of Lake Eildon. I gorged the pay-phone with coins and dialled Agnelli’s mobile. ‘The mobile telephone you have called has not responded,’ said a female robot. ‘Please call again shortly.’
Shortly? Just how much time did she think I had? It was exactly five o’clock. If Obelisk kept standard business hours, it had just shut its doors for the day. I hung up. The phone ate my change.
I dialled the Arts Ministry and asked Trish for a precise fix on my employer’s whereabouts and contactability.
‘Somewhere in transit,’ she said vaguely. ‘Not due back in town until later tonight. Why, is there a problem?’ Trish’s discretion was a one-way valve. Nothing came out, but she was always open to input.
‘No problem,’ I said. ‘Any messages?’
My contact at Corporate Affairs had called. Austral Fine Art, Pty Ltd, was an off-the-shelf number with a paid up capital of two dollars, incorporated the previous year. Its sole shareholder was a Lloyd Henry Eastlake of Mathoura Road, Toorak.
This took a moment’s consideration. If Austral was Fiona Lambert’s company, how come Eastlake owned it? What a sucker. He even had his name on the corporate shell his girlfriend used to doublecross him.
Right at that instant, the structure of Austral Fine Art was the least of my worries. Unless I did something pronto, our campaign funds would disappear into financial never-never land. Which in turn meant that Angelo Agnelli, rather than being carried shoulder-high through the next election-night victory party, would be lucky if he was allowed to slink away and commit harikari with a blunt raffle ticket.
My meeting with Eastlake was at six o’clock. But if I could get through to him before then, perhaps he could see his way clear to reverse Keogh’s deposit. In a deregulated world of round-the-clock electronic banking, surely Eastlake could authorise an after-hours transaction. Maybe there was still scope for some fancy financial footwork. I didn’t need to tell him the truth. I could say I’d been tipped off by a Business Daily journo.
Eastlake’s direct line was engaged. So was his mobile. I looked up Obelisk in the book and rang the number. Yes, said his secretary, Mr Eastlake was in. But no, he couldn’t take my call. He was currently in conference and absolutely could not be disturbed.
The ‘in conference’ bit was a nice touch, spoken with the strained plausibility of a nuclear power plant press officer during a meltdown. Eastlake was either still desperately trying to track down the elusive Max Karlin, or the penny had finally dropped and he was on the phone trying to parley his way out of financial ruin.
My name had nudged the secretary’s memory. ‘Mr Eastlake just asked me to contact you, Mr Whelan. Regarding your meeting at six. He said can you please meet him at the Little Collins Street entrance to the Karlcraft Centre. He said he wants to show you some of the public art there.’
A building site was an odd place for a business meeting, but I wasn’t arguing. Eastlake was perhaps hoping to find Max Karlin there, too. He’d have to settle for me. It had just gone five-fifteen. Enough time to drive back to the Arts Ministry, park the car and walk the three blocks into the city. Calling the cops could wait.
Famous last words.
Thirty storeys of concrete and steel skeleton towered upwards. A construction hoarding ran along Little Collins Street, thick with show posters and aerosoled graffiti. Iggy Pop. Leather is Murder. On the footpath opposite, an endless stream of home-bound shoppers and office workers flowed out of the Royal Arcade, sparing only a passing glance at the big Mercedes parked tight against the hoarding. Construction Vehicles Only, read the sign, 6 a.m to 6 p.m.
The hours were a fiction, a pretext for the council to issue parking tickets. Building industry hours are 7.00 a.m. to 4.30 p.m. and the only remaining evidence of construction vehicles was a powdery sludge in the gutter, the hose-down water from long-departed concrete trucks. A pink slip nestled beneath the Merc’s windscreen wiper.
Spider Webb was nowhere in sight. I wondered exactly where he was. If he was lurking about, I doubted he would try anything smart with Eastlake present.
Not that Eastlake’s presence was apparent. The building site was deserted. Through a chain-mesh gate in the hoarding, all I could see was a maze of scaffolding, piles of sand, stacks of breeze bricks, the silvery worm-casings of air-conditioning ducting. I rattled the padlock and peered inside, finding only shadows and silence.
Down a side alley was a smaller gate. An open padlock dangled from its bolt. It led directly into an access walkway, a two-metre-wide tunnel of whitewashed plywood extending into the interior of the site, its walls streaked and pitted from the casual buffeting of loaded wheelbarrows and the elbows of apprentice plumbers. Safety Helmet Area, said a sign. No Ticket, No Start.
I didn’t have a ticket, at least not one from the Building Workers Industrial Union, but I started anyway. I headed along the unlit passageway, breathing plaster dust and the smell of polymer adhesives, hearing nothing but my own footsteps, hoping I was headed in the right direction. Forty metres in, the tunnel doglegged sharply, ramped upwards and opened onto a broad balcony of raw concrete.
An immense atrium extended before me, as vast as the interior of a cathedral. Muted sunlight filtered through a glass ceiling high overhead. A series of galleries lined the sides, ascending three storeys above me. From the floor, two storeys below, a forest of scaffolding sprouted upwards, clinging to the edges of the jutting balconies and wrapping it
self around the row of columns that marched down the centre of the great space. The whole place was the colour of ashes.
Lloyd Eastlake was sitting on a pallet-load of ceramic tiles at the edge of the balcony, staring out into the void. One hand was resting on the metal piping of a temporary guard rail. The other was supporting his chin in the manner of Rodin’s Thinker. Whether this disconsolate pose was deliberate or not, I couldn’t tell. But it spoke volumes. Here was a man who had heard the news.
He turned at my approach and slowly rose to meet me. His arm swept wide in a grand, operatic gesture. ‘Welcome to the Karlcraft Galleria,’ he declared, his voice larded with irony, his words instantly swallowed up in the empty vastness of the place. ‘Come. Admire.’
We stood together at the guard rail and gazed at the vista spread before us as if it was some marvel of nature, some wondrous subterranean grotto. ‘Over forty thousand square metres of retail space. Nearly a hundred fashion boutiques and specialty stores. Five bars, three restaurants, a cinema.’ Eastlake spoke as though offering me dominion over the cities of the world. ‘Above us, twenty-eight floors of prime commercial office space. Below us, parking for a thousand cars.’
I remained silent, not knowing how to respond. Eastlake was inviting me to share the loss of his dream. I could hardly tell him that parking for a thousand had never been one of my visions.
‘Even as a hole in the ground it was impressive,’ he went on, wistful now. ‘Sometimes I’d come here and just look for hours on end. Watching it take shape. Imagining what it would be like finished.’
That, at a guess, was about three months away. The finishing-off was well under way. All the essential structure was there. The escalators sat ready to roll, sheathed in protective cardboard. Stacks of plaster sheeting, pallet-loads of tile and marble, plate glass, rolls of electrical conduit lay everywhere, giving the place an air of having been abandoned in haste.
It was not entirely abandoned, though. Across the concrete canyon, on the level below, something flickered at the periphery of my vision. I leaned forward and squinted, trying to penetrate the shadows. All I could see was the doorway of an embryonic boutique, the pitched angle of a sheet of plate glass. Nothing moved. A play of the light, perhaps.
The Brush-Off Page 26
