Sucked In (25 page)

Not so fast, Barry, I thought. I've got a few questions of my own.

‘Thought you'd dipped out,' he said amiably. ‘We'd better make it quick.' He tilted his head, inviting me back inside his office.

This time, I wanted him alone. Somewhere beyond the reach of watch-tappers and file-handers, the providers of pretexts if he started looking for an easy out. I turned back the way I'd come, back towards the central nub of the vast building, the direction of the Senate chamber.

‘We can do this on foot,' I said.

He fell into step with me, brushing a fleck of invisible dandruff off the lapel of his beautifully cut jacket. ‘So, what can I do for you in person that I can't do on the phone?'

‘You can talk to me about that day at Lake Nillahcootie,' I said.

He gave a sidelong glance and registered that I was serious. ‘You seem to be taking a great deal of interest in this matter, Murray.'

The corridor was hung with botanical illustrations by Joseph Banks, priceless originals every one. Quinlan was still looking at me, his shrewd eyes narrow.

‘Frankly Barry, I'd rather not know about it. But that's not the way events have transpired.'

We reached an internal courtyard, an expanse of black marble surrounding a low, shallow fountain. The ceiling was open to the floor above and a party of schoolchildren were standing at the railing, looking down at the tops of our heads. Shoulder to shoulder, our voices muffled by burbling water, we slowly began to circumnavigate the ornamental pool. Looking, I imagined, as if we were discussing weighty matters of state.

‘I know what really happened,' I said. ‘Not that cock-and-bull story about Cutlett getting pissed and falling overboard.'

Quinlan's jaw tightened. ‘Murray, mate,' he said. ‘I've got no idea what the fuck you're talking about.'

‘How about you cut the crap, Barry? I'm trying to do you a favour.'

‘What makes you think I need any favours?'

Muted giggles descended from above. The schoolkids were dropping coins into the water.

‘Suit yourself,' I said. ‘It's not my problem if the genie gets out of the bottle. I'll tell Sid Gilpin to go ahead, do his worst, Barry Quinlan has nothing to hide.'

‘Gilpin?' he snorted. ‘What's Gilpin got to do with anything?'

‘He asked me to give you a message. That's why I'm here. He showed me a couple of bankbooks.'

‘Bankbooks? What bankbooks?'

‘Cast your mind back, Barry,' I said. ‘The bogus accounts Gilpin opened to make it look like you and Charlie Talbot were scamming the Municipals. The ones he nicked from your briefcase.'

Quinlan put his hand on his forehead and moved it back over his wavy black hair. ‘You've been talking to Colin Bishop, haven't you? The silly fucking goose.'

‘Don't worry,' I said. ‘The cone of silence is still intact. Your problem's not Bishop. It's Gilpin. He's back for a second bite of the cherry. He kept the bankbooks. He's threatening to send them to the police anonymously. Stir things up. Then he'll start making allegations.'

Quinlan narrowed his eyes. ‘What sort of allegations?'

‘Think about it, Barry. Why do you think the Homicide Squad is asking questions about relations in the union? They obviously suspect there's more to Cutlett's death than originally reported. Right now I'll lay you odds they're looking for a motive. And Sid Gilpin is offering to supply them with one.'

Quinlan made a dismissive gesture, like flicking water off his wrist. ‘Old bankbooks,' he said. ‘Not exactly a smoking gun.'

‘But intriguing enough to keep the cops on the boil, poking around, asking questions. You're a big target, Barry. You don't want something like this hanging over your head.'

Quinlan's well-polished toe was tapping a tattoo on the black marble floor. His eyebrows had moved so close they were almost touching.

‘Gilpin wants money, I assume.'

I reached down, dipped my fingertips in the fountain and stirred the water slightly. ‘Gilpin's stony broke and woofing bonkers, Barry, and he thinks you're the cut-and-come-again pudding. You'll have to find a more effective way of dealing with him.'

‘Like?'

I let the drips fall from my fingers. ‘It seems to me that you need someone willing to apply himself to the problem. Somebody who can see that your good name remains untarnished. The way things sit right now, Barry, you need a friend.'

‘A friend?' He gave a derisive snort. ‘Are you trying to horsetrade with me?

‘Not at all,' I said.

‘But you want something?'

‘Of course.'

‘Let's hear it then.'

‘Just your assurance that if any of this comes out, for any reason whatsoever, you won't try to shift the blame to Charlie Talbot, hang his reputation out to dry.'

‘Why would I do that?'

‘Because you're a realist, Barry,' I said. ‘Because you're alive and Charlie's dead, and the dead don't care.'

Quinlan stared me hard in the face, taking my measure. ‘You think I'm a cunt, don't you?'

‘I don't really have an opinion, Barry. I'm just the messenger boy. But I do know that even if Charlie no longer cares what happens to his good name, Margot does. And his three daughters and all the other people who looked up to him.'

Quinlan broke eye contact and turned his head away. I should have left it there. But I had to sink in the boot. I couldn't stop myself.

‘You thought of everything that morning, didn't you? Even having Charlie jump overboard. Nice detail, that. Lent a real touch of verisimilitude to the lie. Easy to convince, was he? Take all your powers of persuasion? Or did he need a helping hand? Bit of a shove?'

Quinlan's face remained averted. I'd gone too far. He was going to walk away. My stomach was churning.

‘Well?' I said. ‘If the shit hits the fan, Charlie doesn't feature. You cop it all. Deal or no deal?'

He turned, slowly, and I was facing a naked man. The carapace of his tailoring had cracked open. All front had dissolved. He took a deep breath.

‘I'm going to tell you something that nobody else knows, not even Col Bishop. Something I've lived with for nearly twenty years. Something Charlie Talbot lived with until the day he died.'

I waited. Water trickled over the edge of the fountain.

‘Merv Cutlett,' he said at last. ‘He wasn't dead when we threw him into the lake.'

And they reckon Rasputin was hard to kill. By comparison, Merv Cutlett was Lazarus on a trampoline.

My jaw almost hit the black marble floor. Barry Quinlan registered my shock.

‘Oh, we thought he was,' he said. ‘We were convinced of it. He wasn't breathing and he didn't have a pulse. Not that we could detect, at least. He was limp as a rag doll when we rolled him out of the boat. But the moment he hit the water, he came alive. The shock must have kick-started him.'

Quinlan shuffled uncomfortably, a man unaccustomed to candid admissions.

‘He went under, then bobbed straight back up. He took this great gasp of air…' Quinlan inhaled demonstratively, the inrushing breath resonating against the back of his throat like a plaintive moan, ‘…then he sank back under the water.'

He paused, conjuring the image into the space between us.

‘And, no,' he said. ‘For your information, Charlie Talbot didn't need a lot of persuading. Truth be told, I was surprised how easy it was to convince him that dumping Merv was something that had to be done. But disposing of a dead body was one thing, letting an injured man drown was another. It was a different matter entirely. For both of us.'

He looked me briefly in the eye, then dropped his gaze.

‘Charlie drew the line, Murray. He drew it without a moment's thought or hesitation. He was in the water like a shot. Bang, straight over the side. He got hold of Merv and dragged him back up to the surface and tried to keep his head above the water. But the rain came plummeting down like some fucking judgment from above, and the wind started blowing the boat away. And I was bloody useless.'

Quinlan's hands were moving, moulding and shaping the empty air. ‘I grabbed the wheel and slammed the lever into reverse but the motor stalled. The rain's absolutely sheeting down and churning up the surface. I'm looking back over my shoulder and trying to get the thing started and the rain's running down my face and getting in my eyes.'

He wasn't talking to me anymore. He was telling himself what happened, trying to put it into words.

‘I push the starter and push it and finally it kicks over. The rain is almost horizontal, pelting down and I see this arm sticking up and I steer towards it.' His arm carved a wide, sweeping arc though the air, the trajectory of the boat. ‘And I slam the lever into neutral and rush to the side and grab hold of the sleeve as I go past and I almost get dragged overboard and it's Charlie and I'm pulling him back into the boat and…'

Abruptly, the torrent of words stopped.

The schoolchildren had moved away, bored. The faces looking down at us were Asian now. Flat, incurious. Korean?

They started taking photos and dropping coins. Plop, plop, plop. What were they wishing for, I wondered? A job for life at Daewoo? A year's supply of kimchi?

‘He was spluttering and shaking. He said he'd lost hold of him, that he'd gone back under. I circled around again, but there was no sign of him. Charlie was shivering so much I thought he was going into shock. We weren't going to find Cutlett without help, but I had no idea where we were by that stage. You could just make out the shoreline and some of the dead trees sticking up looked familiar. I tried to get my bearings but the only way back was to head for the shore and follow it. The whole way, I'm thinking “Maybe it's not too late, maybe we can get help soon enough to save him,” and I'm wondering how we're going to explain things if that happens and Charlie, he's just a devastated shuddering wreck.'

He cleared his throat, raised his chin and inhaled deeply through his nose. There was a long moment of silence.

‘So now you know.'

He squared his shoulders and began to fix his cuffs, making sure the amount showing was just right, marshalling his composure. I looked at my shoes. Compared with Quinlan's they looked cheap and shabby.

‘I don't need your absolution,' he said. ‘And I don't give a rat's arse about your opinion of me. But if you think Charlie Talbot's good name is something I'd treat lightly, you're a very poor fucking judge of character. Now tell me what you really want and I'll do my best to see that you get it.'

Ayisha was hunched over the conference table in the general work area when I let myself into the electorate office just after five o'clock. Her hair was pinned up, she had a phone glued to her ear and her much-chewed pencil was crosshatching an asterisk against a name on a list. Other lists were laid out in a line on the table in front of her, all heavily marked and annotated. I recognised them as the ones we'd roughed out at our meeting before I left for Canberra.

Empty take-away coffee cups littered one of the bench-desks, along with copies of that morning's
Herald Sun
and
Age
. The newspapers were open at their coverage of Mike Kyriakis's announcement of his intention to contest the Coolaroo preselection.
ALP Bid Clash
headed the
Herald Sun
report, its most prominent page three story. The
Age
had gone with
Labor Mayor in By-election Contest
. Page eleven, below the fold, six pars.

Beneath the
Age
piece was a pointer to a 2000-word Michelle Grattan eye-glazer on the op-ed page.
Labor Needs to
Regain Trust of Core Supporters
. I'd read it on the flight to Canberra between the safety aerobics and the artisan-crafted macadamia-chip cookie. The cookie was easier to digest and the crash procedure lecture contained more useful information.

Ayisha's pencil inscribed a question mark against one of the names on her list, over-wrote it several times, drew a circle around it and underlined it. ‘Just a tick,' she said, then covered the mouthpiece with her hand and turned towards me. ‘Well?' she said. ‘Yes or no?'

‘Yes.'

She gave me a sceptical look. ‘Are you sure you're not having a mid-life crisis?'

‘Call it a mid-life epiphany,' I said. ‘Mike?'

‘He'll be here at six. Helen, too.'

‘Peter Thorsen?'

‘In his office until five-thirty. And the whip wants you to ring him.'

‘Any other messages?' My mobile was still drawing a blank, Lanie-wise. Please God, I prayed, I've been a good boy. Let her have called.

Ayisha shook her head. ‘Nothing pressing.'

‘No Andrea Lane?'

Ayisha gave me a cunning look. I ignored it and went into my office. I hung up my jacket, loosened my tie and rolled up my sleeves. Whenever the temperature dropped below twenty, Ayisha turned the heating on full bore. My African violet must have thought it was back in Angola. I gave it a drink and hit the dog.

‘Yes, what now?' barked Inky, answering his phone after one ring.

‘It's Murray.'

‘Sorry, mate. Thought it was my ex.'

‘Which one?'

At last count, Dennis Donnelly had been married three times and begotten offspring on two other women. He was rumoured to have paid maintenance on seven children over a thirty-year period. Little wonder the poor bastard had an ulcer.

‘Mind your own beeswax,' he said. ‘I suppose you want to know the latest from Vic Valentine? I'm still waiting on his call. But in the meantime, I gave the police media liaison mob a bell. A very obliging young lady constable told me they're still working on identifying what she coyly described as the material remains. To that end, they've located the burial site of Cutlett
mater
and
pater
, to wit the Mooroopna cemetery, and they're awaiting an exhumation order for DNA purposes.'