Dead Point (24 page)

I found my picture of Alan Bergh. ‘Is this the man?’

No hesitation. ‘Yes. Who is he?’

‘Alan Bergh. The late.’

She sighed and looked away.

‘Robbie had a relationship with a man,’ I said. ‘Does that surprise you?’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘he said he took any work that was going.’

‘There’s an album of photographs missing.’

‘I think we’re talking about sex again, not a relationship.’

‘Yes. We think the album was passed on to someone. Any idea who that might be?’

A shake of her head. ‘No, no idea, not the vaguest.’

‘Robbie didn’t mention anyone.’

‘No. He didn’t talk about himself. One of the things I found attractive.’

Rain again, big spots freckling the pier, cold on the face.

‘Thanks for talking to me,’ I said. ‘Did his death surprise you?’

She looked away, at the sea. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It made me sad. I was hoping I’d have the chance to kill him myself for making me feel so defiled and so worthless.’

I watched her go, the wind pulling at her trench coat, lifting the shoulder flaps found so useful on the Somme those many years ago, now threatening to levitate Susan Ayliss. She turned her head and looked back, came back.

‘I’ve told you everything I can, Jack,’ she said. ‘Will you promise me it’ll remain confidential?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Susan.’

I liked her even more than I had when she’d been a media star.

I brooded, driving automatically, registering nothing, a danger on the roads. There was nowhere else to go in the matter of Marco/Robbie. I couldn’t help the judge. It had all been for nothing, traipsing around the country, the city.

Marco was a blackmailer’s bait, bait for all sexual persuasions. The blackmailer could be Alan Bergh, representing other interests. Why else had he been filmed? In any event, both men were dead. The attempt on brave Susan Ayliss had failed, the one on principled Colin Loder would too. Cannon Ridge was a decided matter, another judge would make the finding Colin Loder could not.

This matter was almost at an end.

And yet and yet. Marco was murdered, Alan Bergh was murdered.

I pulled up at lights.

Susan Ayliss had no doubt that the Cannon Ridge tender was the reason for the plot against her. Which side? Anaxan or WRG? The latter would have been eager to add some weight to their side of the seesaw, the other side having a Cundall, son of a man who could walk into the Premier’s office and berate him. But they didn’t get the weight, their tender failed. That could have left Bergh and Robbie as untidy bits, much too knowing.

Cathexis.

I had been looking at the building, looking at it across the intersection without seeing it. It was austere, all its materials visible, concrete and marble, bronze and glass, steel and copper – rough, smooth, shiny, dull, hard, soft materials. I could see the incised name that Marco was photographed passing.

Cathexis.

The lights changed. I went around the block, found an unlawful park, walked back to the building. A smoked-glass sliding door admitted me to an extravagant, hard-surfaced lobby, a hall that hummed the word Money. Directly ahead were two lift doors, pale timber. Nothing so crass and indiscreet as a list of tenants was in sight. I was glad I was wearing a decent suit. A recent suit, anyway.

A hotel-sized reception counter was at the right, two young women in black on duty behind it. Beyond that was a door marked Security. I couldn’t see cameras but they would be on me and the entrance.

‘How may I help? She was English, willowy, blonde, nectarine skin.

‘Gone blank. I can’t remember the agents for the building.’

‘Barwick & Murphy,’ she said, smiling. ‘Is it something I can help you with?’

‘Well, you might.’ I took out my notebook, thumbed. ‘Here it is. The Doyle apartment. For sale.’

‘Doyle?’ She looked at the other woman, also blonde but more mature oak than willow. ‘Do we have a Doyle?’

The woman was looking at a monitor, didn’t turn her head. ‘No.’

‘Sorry,’ said the first blonde. ‘It’s probably in another of their buildings. They handle dozens.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thanks anyway.’

I walked away. Another hunch that failed to deliver. Near the door, I thought, what the hell, try another one. I turned and went back, notebook open.

‘I think I had the wrong page,’ I said. ‘It’s Cundall, the Cundall apartment that’s for sale. If I’ve got the right building.’

The willowy blonde frowned, turned. ‘Jean, do we have a Cundall?’

Mature-oak blonde didn’t turn. ‘What?’

‘It’s supposed to be on the market. The gentleman’s not sure whether he’s at the right building.’

Mature blonde looked around, an annoyed face, deep lines between her eyes, spent a millisecond on me, made a judgment. ‘Who says it’s on the market?’

‘B and M told this gentleman.’

Jean sniffed. ‘They told you it was Mrs Cundall’s apartment?’

‘Yes.’

‘That is quite irregular. Twelve two is owned by Dalinsor Nominees.’

‘I don’t really care who owns it,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for an apartment.’

‘They’re supposed to inform us,’ said Jean. ‘And there are no inspections without a B and M agent.’

‘I’ll be back with one,’ I said. ‘One of their top agents. Licensed to sell.’

Walking back to the car, I felt smug for a minute. A hunch that paid off. Or had it? What had I learned by finding out that Ros Cundall owned an apartment in a building Marco had gone into? Nothing. Ros Cundall probably owned apartments in every expensive block in the city.

Marco working at The Green Hill, Marco going into Cathexis, Marco from the Umbrian idyll turning up on Colin Loder’s doorstep.

I was beginning to like the Umbrian story less and less. Too romantic for my taste. And, in the light of what I now knew about Marco and Susan, implausible.

From the car, I rang Colin Loder’s borrowed mobile. He wouldn’t be in court, it was lunchtime.

‘Yes.’

‘Jack.’

‘Jack.’

‘Clarification. Umbria, the person arrives on the doorstep, later reappears.’

‘Yes?’

‘Bullshit, yes?

A pause, a sigh. ‘Well. Yes. A story.’

I waited.

‘I didn’t want it to sound like…well…’

‘A pick-up?’

‘Yes. Umbria was a fiction.’

‘Where then?’

He hesitated. ‘A place I’ve had a few drinks at. So as not to be completely removed from reality. As are most of my colleagues.’

‘The Green Hill?’

Pause. ‘How exactly did you work that out?’

‘Is that in the Snug?’

‘Yes. You know it?’

‘No. I know Xavier Doyle.’

‘Well, the Snug’s like a club, I suppose. You have to be with someone who’s persona grata.’

‘Who were you with?’

‘Ros Cundall, Mike Cundall’s wife. I’m on a gallery committee with her. She insisted I join her after a meeting. Introduced me to Xavier.’

‘Who introduced you to Marco?’

‘Ros. He was behind the bar. She said, meet Marco before he’s famous, he’s writing the great Australian novel. Words to that effect.’

This was a small city. But in the end all cities are small.

‘Any headway, Jack?’ Not a confident voice.

‘A little. Get back to you.’

‘Thanks.’

Little was the word. I drove back to Fitzroy thinking about the versatility of Marco, the number of lives he’d touched.

I was unlocking the office door, wind pulling at my clothes, when a respectable Subaru drew up, double-parked.

Cam.

I got in. It was warm and comfortable, things I had been missing.

‘Pretty up there in the hills,’ he said, no expression. ‘Total waste of time. The address’s at the top of a dead end, three houses on the road. Dunno how you deal drugs from a place like that, all that commutin.’

‘Anyone home?’

‘Woman hangin up washin, two kids hangin on her, cattle dog.’

‘What now?’

‘The plumber and the wood man.’

I went inside, found Jean Hale’s faxed list, made haste to quit the dusty ice cave for the clean warmth of the vehicle outside.

‘Plumber I wouldn’t be hopeful about,’ said Cam, eyes on the paper. ‘Make too much money. Like doctors. Now wood’s another matter. Very seasonal, wood.’

‘What’s his name?’ I said.

‘Lizard Ellyard.’

‘Lizard Ellyard,’ I said. ‘Used to be a bikie gang called the Lizards.’

Cam turned his head, interest in the dark eyes.

I found the Hales’ number in my book, got out the mobile. Jean answered.

‘Jean, Jack. Can you ask your husband or Sandy if they know why this man Ellyard is called Lizard?’

She was gone for several minutes. I heard the labrador bark, a door bang.

‘There, Jack?’

‘Yes.’

‘Dave says Lizard wears an old leather jacket with Lizard on the back. Bought it at an op-shop, he reckons.’

I said thanks.

Cam was looking at me. I told him.

‘The Coburg milk bar lady said Artie was a bike person, very noisy,’ he said. ‘What happened to the Lizards?’

I tried to remember. ‘They were in the news, fighting with some other mob.’

‘Lizards,’ said Cam. ‘Not a good name for a gang. Too close to the ground, the lizard.’

Something on television: a smouldering building, fire engines.

‘Their clubhouse was attacked,’ I said. ‘Or they torched the other lot’s place.’

‘They all do that,’ said Cam. ‘That’s what they do on Sunday night. I might ask around. Listen, the big man said to tell you, eight in the seventh at the Valley on Sunday. Not the house at all, each-way. And pray for rain in the mornin.’

‘Getting back into it?’

Cam half smiled. ‘Kiwi horse, come for the winter pickins. Trainer’s dad’s a Pom, rode against Harry in England. This nag loves mud. The big man’s picked the suitable outin for him.’

In the office, a male on the answering machine said:
Jack, here’s a number
.

I wrote it down, walked to the Lebanese shop and ordered a salad roll. Then I rang the number, a mobile.

Senior Sergeant Barry Tregear answered.

‘Working days now?’ I said.

‘Days, nights, on a taskforce, mate. We’re all on taskforces, force of taskforces. Listen, go a beer? I’m about five from that place, y’know?’

He was standing with his back against the counter, a depleted beer in his right hand: a big man in a dark rumpled suit watching two stringy young men playing pool.

‘Where’d you get the tan?’ I said.

‘Holidays, mate. Private-school boys wouldn’t understand. Life’s all play to you.’

‘I’m close to played out.’ I found my beer behind him and had a deep drink. Cooper’s. ‘What taskforce did you draw?’

‘Street dealers. War on street dealers. Finished our task, mate, it’s a fucken indoor activity.’

‘That’s when you form a taskforce to drive them onto the streets again.’

‘Exactly. We’re like the tides. Move shit in and out.’ He drank half his glass, burped, a full-blooded burp. ‘I reckon they should give McDonald’s the franchise to sell drugs. Quality control, clean premises, collect fucking GST. Plus the junkies get a burger with every hit, keep em healthy. McSmack.’

‘Leaving you and your colleagues free to drive around at high speeds and shoot people.’

‘Yeah. That and the relationship counselling, role modelling.’ He eyed me. ‘Down in the weights. Dying or a new girlfriend?’

‘Exercise, strict diet.’

‘Dying then. On the subject, this query of yours. Mick Olsen. Why are you always fucking around with dangerous things?’

One of the pool players wore a bandanna, the other a cap backwards. Bandanna man was going for an impossibly acute angle. We watched. It wasn’t impossible after all.

‘Fuuuck,’ said his opponent.

‘The person’s a cop,’ I said. ‘Cops are only supposed to be dangerous to wrongdoers.’

Barry turned his head, had no trouble finding the barmaid’s eyes where she stood talking to a fat man in a Bombers beanie and scarf. She tossed her head. The light from the west window spangled off the rings and stones in her nose and ears and eyebrows.

‘Mick’s a cop in history,’ Barry said. ‘Resigned a while ago. Now a man of leisure. But dangerous still. You don’t even want to know his name.’

‘Why?’

‘Drug squad. Policing where the shit interfaces with the fans, if you get my meaning.’

‘Just the melody.’

‘Here ya go.’ The multi-pierced one put two new beers on the counter. I paid.

‘I say again, dangerous is the word,’ said Barry. He was intent on the pool players. Bandanna man was sighting down the length of the table, trying to pot one of three balls in a cluster.

‘This bloke’s fucken ambitious,’ said Barry.

Bandanna picked the nominee out of the group, thudded it into the corner pocket.

‘Shit,’ said Barry, impassive, appreciative. ‘Man with the golden stick.’

‘This Olsen,’ I said. Mick Olsen had picked up messages from Alan Bergh left with the lovely Kirstin Deane at her minimally stocked boutique.

‘The Commissioner’s enema. Just the name’s a suppository. And there’s blokes in the squad want him dead, they say.’ He drank. ‘Anyhow, Mick’s highly deadly, shouldn’t speak ill of him.’

‘The name Alan Bergh mean anything?’

Barry looked at me briefly, probed a tooth with his tongue, shook his head, went back to watching the pool.

‘Bergh made calls to Olsen’s girlfriend. To be passed on, I gather.’

‘Jack, Mick’s in the drug business. Get lots of messages. It’s a message business.’

‘What’s made him history?’

‘Done the Feds like a dinner. Unbelievable fuck-up.’

‘Coke jackets?’ The case before Mr Justice Loder.

He looked at me, a full look, shook his head in a sad way. ‘Jack, I don’t know. You had a profession. I looked up to you.’

‘Did you really?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Tell me about Olsen,’ I said.

Barry drank some beer.

I drank some. I was starting to like the taste. I put my glass down, pushed it away. Just a few centimetres away. The symbolic distance between the me who would once have knocked back this beer and then woken up somewhere strange with a full beard, and the me now.