An Iron Rose (25 page)

‘Superheroes. Can’t get my superheroes straight. Darren had a big trust in cops, did he? Did he?’

‘No,’ she said, meeting my eyes in the mirror. ‘Didn’t trust anyone. Specially not cops.’

‘Wise man,’ I said. ‘Wisdom of an ex-cop.’

‘So wise he’s dead.’

‘No-one’s wise enough. Unfortunately.’

Cindy hugged herself. ‘What more can I tell?’

‘Things you didn’t tell the cops, right?’

‘Maybe. Some. I don’t know?’

‘Darren ever talk about someone called Algie?’

‘Algie? Didn’t say it like that.’

‘Didn’t say it like what?

‘Algie. Said it like El G.’

‘El G?’

‘Yeah, y’know, like El Torro?’

‘I get it. El G. Darren talk about El G?’

She shrugged. ‘Well, after the burg…’

‘What burg’s that?’

‘More like a hurricane than a burg,’ she said.

‘Place destroyed. Fifteen grand’s worth of damage.’

‘Darren said what?’

‘I dunno, El G. He said, fucking El G.’

‘He said, fucking El G. Like El G did it? You tell the cops that?’

‘No.’

‘What else didn’t you tell them?’

She hesitated.

Two cars went by in quick succession. Rush hour in Beachport.

‘Cindy,’ I said, ‘they’ve done the show. This is the tell.’

‘He said—Darren said—don’t worry, what they want, the lawyer’s got.’

‘The lawyer. Who’s the lawyer?’

‘In Melbourne. Fielding something, they used to write. I don’t know. I was out the house so quick. Fielding, three names. You want some coffee?’

‘Coffee would be nice, Cindy,’ I said. ‘Black.’

‘Sugar?’

‘Just the one. Thank you.’

There was a glass percolator on a warmer at the back of the room. She came back with coffee in glass cups.

‘Want to move?’ she said.

‘This is comfortable. Nice chair. You happy standing?’

‘Stand all day.’

We drank coffee. ‘Good, this,’ I said.

‘Real coffee,’ Cindy said. ‘Miss coffee places. Nescafé, that’s what they give you around here.’

‘Darren ever talk about someone called Lefroy?’

She didn’t hesitate. ‘Yeah. Saw him killed. Throat cut.’

My skin seemed to shrink, pull tight around my mouth, eyes. ‘Darren saw him killed?’ I said.

Cindy had a sip of coffee. ‘Video. This bloke showed them a video. Girl killed too.’

Never change your tone. Berglin’s rule. Start with it, stay with it. Want another tone, get someone else. ‘What bloke is this?’

‘El G. Took them to this place, big house, with like a little cinema.’

‘Who’s they?’

‘I dunno. Darren and his mates, I dunno. Cops. We stayed in a hotel after the burg, Darren got so pissed, just talked. I didn’t ask questions. Didn’t know about that part of his life.’

‘So they saw a video of a man called Lefroy and a woman being killed? That’s what you’re saying?’

‘Yeah. Darren told me that. Said it made him sick. The man laughed.’

‘El G?’

‘Yeah. El G laughed. Showed it twice, Darren said. Funny name that. Stuck in my mind.’

‘El G?’

‘No. Lefroy. Spell it how?’

‘Wouldn’t have a clue,’ I said.

A customer came in the door, elderly lady, head wrapped in a woollen scarf.

‘Not late am I, Marie?’ she said. ‘Lovely and warm in here.’

‘Have a seat, Gwen,’ Cindy said. ‘Won’t be a moment.’

‘On the night,’ I said, ‘Darren went out to the boat, never came back. That’s it?’

‘Where’d you hear that?’ Astonishment. ‘Cop said it must’ve gone on for an hour, more. Cut his ears off, burnt his hair off, don’t you know that?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Just testing. The lawyers—Fielding, Something, Something?’

‘Yes.’

She picked up a comb and combed my hair. ‘Nice hair.’

‘My father’s hair,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t give him anything back.’

I had plenty of time to think on the trip back. El G, Scully, Hill and Bianchi watching a video of the killing of Howard Lefroy and Carlie Mance. A quick video, home movie really. Made while I was telling Mackie there wasn’t any point in tailing Howard’s brother when he left. El G enjoying it, laughing, showing it again. Did it show the moment of Carlie’s execution? The man in rut behind her, between her legs, her head pulled back, blood squirting up the tiles?

One to do the killing, one to film it. Was that the way it had worked? Was the killer the driver, the man made up to look like Dennis Lefroy? Or was it the man who must have been in the boot when Dennis drove into the garage? Perhaps there were two men in the boot?

Years later, Bianchi burgled, then tortured and killed. Tortured for what? Pleasure? Something else?

Don’t worry, what they want, the lawyer’s got.

The killers Bobby sent had come up behind me on a country road. How could they know where I’d be?

I had a hamburger at a McDonald’s on the outskirts of Geelong, read the
Age
I’d bought in Hamilton, rang inquiries for the Law Institute of Victoria on Berglin’s mobile. An obliging woman took about two minutes to find the only three-name law firm in Melbourne beginning with Fielding: Fielding, Perez, Radomsky. She gave me an address in Rathdowne Street, Carlton.

I found a park across the street, outside a bookshop. As I crossed, the sun came out, took the edge off the wind. The gang of three had a shopfront office, two women behind a little counter. I said I’d like to see one of the lawyers. A five-minute wait produced a man who looked like the young Groucho Marx.

‘Alan Perez,’ he said, hand outstretched. ‘Come into my office.’

It was a very basic office, desk, computer, two client chairs, degree certificate.

‘Now. How may I help you?’ he said. ‘Mr…?’

‘Bianchi,’ I said, ‘Craig Bianchi. I’m helping my sister-in-law tie up the loose ends of her husband’s estate. He was a client of your firm.’

‘Who was that?’ he said, furry black eyebrows coming together.

‘Darren Bianchi.’

‘Not a client of mine. I’ll just look him up. Spell it how?’

He swivelled his chair, did some computer tapping, peering at the screen. He needed glasses. ‘Bianchi. Yes. Client of Geoff Radomsky’s.’ He swivelled back to look at me. ‘Deceased, did you say?’

‘Dead, yes.’

‘Well, both of them.’

‘Both of them?’

‘Geoff’s dead too. Here, in his office.’

‘Heart?’ I said. But I knew what was coming.

‘No. Abducted at his house, just around the corner, Drummond Street. Parking his car, garage’s off the lane. They, well, no-one knows, could be one person, brought him here, made him open the safe. Shot him. In the eye.’

Melanie Pavitt, lying there in her bath, gaping wound where her eye had been.

‘Nothing of value in the safe,’ Perez said. ‘Druggies, they think. Thought we kept money here.’

‘Things taken from the safe?’

Uncomfortable, pulling at a ring on the little finger of his left hand. ‘Don’t think so. Safe’s register of contents wasn’t up to date. Oversight, happens in a busy office. Everything thrown around, of course.’

‘When was this?’

‘More than a year ago now.’

‘And you wouldn’t know if there was anything concerning Darren in the safe. Right?’

Perez gave me a reassuring smile. ‘We can check that. I’ll get Mr Bianchi’s file.’

He went away. I got up and looked out the window. Two men, both balding and bearded, expensive clothes, were leaning on cars, BMW, Saab, parked next to each other on the median strip. They were talking across the gleaming metal, lots of gestures.

Alan Perez came back with a folder, sat down, went through it, eyebrows again trying to merge. There were only two pages as far as I could see.

‘Yes,’ he said, eyes down. ‘That’s unfortunate.’

‘What?’

‘File’s confidential, obviously, but there is a record here of a tape, audio tape, left with Geoff for safekeeping.’

‘Where would that be kept?’

‘Well, in the safe I imagine. In the absence of other instructions.’

‘Are there other instructions?’

Perez drew his furry upper lip down. ‘No. So that’s where it would have been put. I’m sure.’

‘Still there?’

‘I’ll check,’ he said, left again.

He was back inside a minute.

‘No. Not there. No tapes.’

‘So it could have been taken?’

Eyebrows again, black slugs trying to mate. ‘If it was in the safe. Where we would expect it to have been. But we don’t know. Yes. It could have been.’

I tried him on. ‘My sister-in-law says my brother left clear instructions with you about something. That would be about the tape, would it?’

He wasn’t happy. ‘Client’s instructions are confidential, we can’t…’

‘Client’s dead,’ I said. ‘And you don’t know what you had in your safe. Followed his instructions, have you? I’m happy to have the Law Institute take this up.’

I got up.

Perez said, ‘Mr Bianchi, you’ll appreciate our problem here. With Geoff dead, no-one was aware of his client’s instructions. We could hardly go through all his files to see…’

‘He’s my brother,’ I said. ‘All I want to know is what he wanted you to do. There’s something says you can’t tell me that?’

Pause. Perez shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose not. He wanted the tape handed over to the Director of Public Prosecutions. With copies to the media.’

‘In the event of what? When was this to be done?’

He couldn’t back off now.

‘In the event of his death from other than natural causes.’

‘He’s dead. Of unnatural causes.’

‘We didn’t know that. Unfortunately.’

‘Followed the instructions?’

He shrugged, crossed his legs. ‘You’ll understand our position, Mr Bianchi. The circumstances are such that we find ourselves…it would be unreasonable…we didn’t even know he was dead.’

‘Okay, I’ll accept that. Is there a Mrs Radomsky?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’d like to talk to her. He may have said something to her about the tape.’

‘Very unlikely. And I’m not sure that she…’

‘Alan,’ I said, ‘you owe this to Darren’s widow. You were negligent in your handling of a client’s affairs. You did not have procedures for ensuring that a client’s instructions were followed and…’

‘I’ll ring her,’ he said. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’

I went out and sat in the waiting area for a few minutes. Perez came out and beckoned me back into his office.

‘Helen Radomsky says she knows absolutely nothing about any tape. Geoff never talked about clients’ affairs— never.’

‘What about his secretary? She here?’

‘No. She took Geoff’s death badly. Both secretaries did. They both resigned. You can understand…’

‘Got a number for her?’

Perez looked unhappy again.

‘Ring her,’ I said. ‘Explain what it’s about.’

I didn’t have to leave the room this time. He got out the phone book. ‘I got a call from some solicitors in Hawthorn asking about Karen,’ he said. ‘Blandford something. Here we go.’

He dialled a number. ‘Alan Perez, Fielding, Perez, Radomsky. Do you have a Karen Chee? Yes, thank you… Karen, Alan Perez. Good thank you. You’re well, settling in?…It was a pleasure. Karen, we’re trying to find out about a tape that should have been in the safe. Audio tape.’

He listened for several minutes, saying ‘Yes. Right’.

Finally, he said, ‘Didn’t see them again. Sure about that?… Yes. Well, thanks. Look after yourself…I’ll certainly pass that on. Bye.’

He put the phone down.

I held my breath.

‘She says Geoff asked her to get the tape copied, two copies. There was some urgency about it. The copying was done by DocSecure—they do confidential copying. She went into the city by taxi, the job was done, she came back and put the master tape in the safe.’

‘She had a key?’

‘No, there’s a slot. Anyway, she then dropped the copies off at Geoff’s house. It was after five. The arrangement was for a courier to pick up the package at Geoff’s to deliver to Darren Bianchi in Noosa. She assumed both copies were being sent.’

‘I’d like to talk to Mrs Radomsky.’

Perez sighed, hesitated, caught my look, dialled. ‘Helen, Alan, sorry to disturb you again. Look, it really would be a great help if Mr Bianchi could talk to you for a few minutes…I know, I know. It’ll put his mind at rest. I’d appreciate it…Great, fine, yes. Thanks, Helen.’

The Radomsky house was a minute away, a freestanding brick two-storey, lace ironwork in need of paint. But not for much longer: a panel van with Ivan De Groot, Painter written on the side was parked outside. I pushed a brass button on the front door. It was opened by a short blonde woman, chubby, in her early forties.