Dead Point (22 page)

‘I’ve had it with you lot,’ she said.

‘He phoned you often,’ I said. ‘Your dead friend Alan.’

She took a deep breath, she still had lung capacity, her emaciated upper body expanded, she opened her mouth and breathed out like a steam train.

‘Not my fucking friend,’ she said, some life in the voice now. ‘I said I don’t know who the fuck Alan is. I’m the messenger girl. And I don’t wanna know any more of this cop shit, right? Right? I’m finished with Mick, wish I’d never seen the prick in my life and I’ll kill him if he ever—’

I held up my right hand. ‘Settle down.’

Kirstin’s eyes vanished, became slits. ‘Don’t you fucking tell me to settle down, I’ll—’

‘Taking messages can get you into deep trouble,’ I said, now a kite myself, out on the winds. ‘When someone says he doesn’t know about the messages, never got a message from you, you’re in trouble. Who’d you give the messages to, Kirstin?’

She closed her eyes, punched the plastic counter top repeatedly with both long-fingered fists, symbolically beating someone. ‘Tell Olsen I’ll kill him. He’s not landing me with his shit. You people, you call yourselves ethics squad or fucking whatever, you’re trying to cover something up for the cunt, aren’t you. Well, forget that, detective whatever the fuck you are. Whofuckingever. Piss off.’

I did, left without a murmur, like a poor person given too much money by a bank machine.

A name. Mick Olsen. A cop called Mick Olsen.

Alan Bergh left messages for Mick Olsen with the engaging Kirstin Deane, super-salesperson. Who thought I was from ethical standards or whatever name it now had, the old police internal affairs section, the dog investigating its own balls someone once said of it, unkindly.

I would have to ask Senior Sergeant Barry Tregear about Mick Olsen.

At the office, the answering machine held three messages: my sister, curt but with a hint of forgiveness, Cam, equally brief but with no hint of anything, and one that said:

Re your accommodation inquiry, please ring at your convenience
.

The D.J. Olivier code.

I went to the window. McCoy was at home, lights on in the alleged studio. I crossed the street and knocked. He came to the door wearing a knitted blanket with a hole for his head. Beneath it, his massive legs were bare save for their covering of beard-like hair and his feet looked like parcels badly wrapped with lengths of horse harness.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Don’t think I didn’t see you spying on me yesterday.’

‘Watching that innocent young thing enter this house of horrors,’ I said, ‘I considered calling the police. I need your phone.’

‘She wanted to learn from a master’s hand,’ he said, leading the way into the studio.

‘No chance of that here.’

I stopped at an unfinished canvas of monumental size and awfulness. ‘What an inspired way to recycle fowl manure and horse hair,’ I said.

‘That’ll fetch ten grand,’ said McCoy. ‘Gissa name for it.’

‘Stick some chicken bones on it and call it Century of Bones.’

‘Century of Bones,’ said the hulking fraud approvingly. ‘Gotta ring to that. Century of Bones. You can have the call on the house.’

‘Calls plus ten per cent,’ I said.

The telephone reposed on a tree stump in the far corner of the former sewing sweatshop. I dialled and got D.J. Olivier himself.

‘You’re a busy lad,’ he said. ‘This bloke’s ex-army, got two convictions for fraud and he ran a building company that took customers for plenty. Now he’s tied up with Geddan Associates. Know them?’

‘No.’ We were talking about a man called Warren Naismith, someone Alan Bergh had phoned regularly.

‘Strategic consultants. That’s PR, with violence if required. Do the lot.’

‘The lot?’

‘Fix. Here, New Zealand, Pacific islands. Office in Canada. Rumour says they blackmailed a cabinet minister in Queensland on behalf of a client. Developer client.’

‘I didn’t know that was necessary in Queensland,’ I said. ‘Sounds like overkill. And this person, what would he do for them?’

‘Low level, a postman, fetch and carry, that sort of thing. Not welcome around the office, that’s for sure.’

I said thanks, rang Cam’s latest number. He was a long time answering. I told him about Jean Hale’s names.

‘This bloke Almeida,’ he said. ‘I’ve got him.’

I needed a second to place the name. Too many names. Yes. The dealer on the motorbike Marie pointed out to us in Elizabeth Street was called Glenn Almeida.

‘At that address?’ My inquiry had provided a vehicle registry address in Coburg for Almeida.

‘Long gone. New one from the landlords’ revenge file, my real-estate shonk looked him up. He’s out there in the hills.’

A rubbing noise, a towelling sound.

‘I found this milk bar lady in Coburg,’ said Cam. ‘Round the corner from Glenn’s old address. She knows the boy, knows Artie too. Her kid, he’s naughty, studyin at this new place, the Port Phillip college, new slammer, the boy told her Glenn and Artie had the holiday together.’

I tried to think about this. I was heavy with information, underweight on thought. ‘We still don’t have Artie.’

Cam said, ‘Maybe Artie’s just the hammer. Maybe Glenn’s the man.’

‘I don’t think so.’ I didn’t know that I didn’t think so until I said it. ‘Jean Hale’s trouble. How’s that fit?’

‘Dunno. Might have a look up there in the foothills tomorrow. Free?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘tomorrow’s bad.’ I felt guilty.

‘Come round on my way back. Sawin or lawin?’

‘Lawin,’ I said. ‘What passes for lawin.’

Receiver replaced, I stood for a moment, no energy in me, no wish to do anything except sleep. Then I sucked in some air and began my exit.

McCoy was staring at his canvas, standing well back, hands on where hips would be if pillar boxes had hips. As I approached, he said, ‘Century of Bones. What about a skull in the middle there?’

‘I don’t think you should kill humans for your art,’ I said. ‘Unless it’s yourself. In which case, just mark the spot and I’ll be happy to stick it on for you. For your estate.’

‘Animal,’ he said, distant, deep in whatever process took place behind the opaque eyes. ‘Rabbit. Sheep. Maybe dog.’

It was as if I had woken from a dream of toothache to find myself pain free.

‘Dog,’ I said. ‘Dog. I have the perfect dog.’

Outside, the day was at an end, rain had fallen, now a misty yellow light was on the world. The cobblestoned gutter outside my office was painterly, each cobble glistening like the top of a fresh loaf of bread, a top painted with egg and milk.

I set off for home. On the radio, Linda was talking to a man who called himself a life coach.

And what qualifies you to tell other people how to run their lives?

Life coach:
My training. I have a life coach qualification
.

Linda, the amused voice, not insulting, somewhere between curious and dangerous:
Is that from the university of life? School of hard knocks?

Life coach, serious:
No, from Life Coach College, it’s an accredited institution
.

It occurred to me that I needed this man’s services or this qualification. And, perhaps, I needed Linda.

No. Well, perhaps. But only on my terms. What would they be? I had no idea, could not think of a single term.

Supper. I could think about supper, the limited range of suppers available. Not so much a range as an item.

I ate pasta and walked around preparing to go to bed early, seek refuge in my bed, take the decision to activate the answering machine and turn the volume down to nought. Incommunicado.

Even to Linda.

And to Lyall.

Perhaps Lyall would ring me one day and say that there had been a misunderstanding, that Brad had not actually been celibate for all those years and could we take up where we left off?

My shrinking sensible bit said I should not stay awake waiting for this to happen.

The transcript of Mr Justice Loder’s trial – I hadn’t read it.

I could put on warm and waterproof clothing, leave the apartment and go down to the car, look for the folder, which might be in the office. Or.

I rang Drew at home. ‘Are you in a position to talk?’ I asked.

‘I find myself able to talk in most positions. Is there one I should know about?’

‘There’s a trial going on before Colin Loder, cocaine smuggling.’

‘Ah, the ski jackets debacle.’

‘Know about it?’

‘As a practitioner of the law, I make a point of knowing about such things. As it happens, I was recently privileged to hear the views of my learned friend Dick Pratchett QC on the subject. Over lunch.’

That was where the Rosa business had begun.

‘I remember. Give me the story in as few words as possible.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it goes like this. The Feds’ve got a dog who calls himself Aaron Ross, apparently well known in drug circles. He told them he was asked by someone called Frank Leavis, a mystery man, noone’s ever heard of him, to supply six kilos of cocaine. The Feds became dizzy with excitement when they heard this.’

‘I get the drift already.’

‘Yes, dulled though you are by sniffing wood glue. Anyway, Ross rounded up Brian Arthur McCallum, a dickhead, and a lad called John Stavros Ionides, an even bigger dunce. I say this as someone who represented him when he was known as John Stephens. Mystery man Leavis hands over a large sum in US and Aussie currency, and the boys take off for South Africa.’

‘South Africa? Since when?’

‘Apparently it’s like Bangkok, Karachi and Beirut all in one. With Russians added. United drugs of the world. But you can bet your last pack of Fitzroy Football Club fundraising condoms that it wasn’t McCallum and Johnny Stephens’ idea. Couldn’t find the place on the map.’

‘The Feds’ idea?’

‘Or someone else’s. So off they go with their bag of money, customs instructed not to touch them. In due course, and I have to say this really surprises everyone who knows them, they actually come back with the coke. They’re wearing it in matching ski jackets.’

‘You can ski in South Africa?’

‘Of course not. But would that occur to these dolts? Again, customs usher them through. McCallum rings from the airport. Ross rings mystery man Frank Leavis. Well, he rings a number and leaves a message. In Tullamarine, off Mickleham Road, by arrangement, McCallum and Johnny Stephens meet Mr Ross to hand over. Change of plan, Ross tells them. The client wants you to deliver the stuff to him personally.’

‘Feds want to stitch it up tight.’

‘Exactly. So Brian and Johnny and Ross and four hundred hyper-excited Feds all end up in the freezing cold at a service station in fucking Brimbank in the middle of the night. But the mystery man is one step ahead of these dunderheads and never shows up.’

I remembered what Colin Loder had said:

I don’t think it would be unjudicial of me to describe the operation as a massive cock-up
.

‘Anyway,’ said Drew, ‘he didn’t miss much. The boofheads are found to be carrying less than two kilos and apparently the marching powder is of a quality that doesn’t produce quite as much of the wit, confidence and feelings of general wellbeing as the punters expect.’

‘So what the prosecution’s got are two blokes approached to buy drugs by a police informer who says he was acting on behalf of a mystery man.’

‘Yup. And the only person the drugs were delivered to is the informer. Needless to say, the judge will have the Appeal Court much on his mind. Pratchett QC is of the opinion Colin Loder will kick the thing into the street next week.’

‘The Feds wouldn’t be buying their dog a big bone.’

‘Only themselves to blame. My mate Terry says the word is McCallum, dumb though he is, knows more than he’s saying.’

‘Meaning?’

‘He may know something about Leavis, the mystery man.’

‘Something the dog doesn’t know?’

‘Possibly. Brian might have been just smart enough to find out who the real client was. Someone the Feds apparently suspect but can’t do anything about.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Your fund of knowledge obviates the need to buy newspapers or watch television. Not to mention read the learned journals.’

‘Honoured to be of service. What’s your interest?’

‘Purely professional. Highly professional. On that subject, how is the high-achieving personally trained one?’

‘Ravishing. A weekend has been proposed. Windswept beaches, just the cries of the seabirds.’

‘As they impale themselves on used syringes.’

With a soothing mug of the warm brown fluid to hand, I went to bed with my novel. But I couldn’t concentrate, eyes on the page, mind on Marco and Alan Bergh and the judge. If Brian McCallum knew who put up the money for the drug deal, someone would want to be very sure he didn’t go down and then decide to bargain with the Feds. And that someone would have made sure Brian knew he had nothing to fear, knew that he was going to walk.

I gave up on the book, doused the light, and lay awake for a long time, soft rain on the old iron roof, liquid whispers in the downpipes, all around the hoot and squeal and wail of the animal city. Oddly comforting sounds tonight.

In the morning, I was at the door, ready to hip-and-shoulder the day, when the phone rang.

‘I find you decent?’

Linda.

‘I find you jolly nice too,’ I said, ‘but I’d like to be seen as, well, more raffish than decent. Can you do that?’

‘Work needed on my interrogative inflection. No wonder I’m having so much trouble with interviews.’

We met at a place in Rathdowne Street north. Once, this end of Rathdowne Street boasted only the best pizzas in town and Frank and Maria’s coffee shop, the best-loved coffee shop in town. I hadn’t tried the pizzas in a while but Frank and Maria’s was gone and now there was an eating strip two blocks long.

‘Toast,’ said Linda after we’d ordered. ‘Toast is
with
breakfast. Toast is
part
of breakfast. Toast is not of
itself
breakfast. Are you in love?’

I’d forgotten how the morning suited her.

‘I didn’t want to say I’d had my breakfast.’