Black Tide (28 page)

‘Well, I see it. But how much can you make setting up something like this?’ I said.

They both looked at me. Harry drew on the cigar, looking at Cam. He took the tight brown truncheon away from his lips, oozed aromatic smoke. ‘A bit,’ he said. ‘Enough.’

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‘We had the TAB figures in,’ Cam said. ‘Looked at eighty Kirsch wins. There’s money for them all over the country. Queensland stands out.’

‘It’s millions, Jack,’ said Harry.

‘The bloke runnin it here for Kirsch is called Dingell. Jeff Dingell. Moved from Queensland. He’s got a big place other-side Macedon. His own lake, tennis courts, huge heated pool, four-car garage, another house on the property. There’s three Queensland goons live there.’

‘Sure it’s the right person?’ I asked.

Cam nodded. ‘Had another talk to Johnny Chernov. Very brief talk. I parked next to him at a McDonald’s near the bridge, said to him through the window, look away, I’m going to say a name. It’s the right name, look at me. Just look.’

‘And?’

‘He looked.’

‘What now?’

‘Can’t have this kind of thing goin on, Jack,’ Harry said. ‘Offerin the hoops a quid’s one thing, usually doin your dough anyway. Bloke takes a quid from you, he’s probably takin a quid from four others in the same race. Tryin to kill em, that’s something else. Can’t blame the trainers, can’t blame the hoops. Bad for business. Bloke’s got to go back to Queensland. Got to know people want him to go home.’

I looked at Cam, who was looking at me impassively. Harry was also looking at me.

‘I don’t know why you’re looking at me.’ I sighed. ‘Why are you looking at me?’

Harry coughed politely. ‘Mentioned the matter, vaguely you understand, to Cyril Wootton,’ he said. ‘He reckons there’s a certain person, kind of person would be helpful here, this person would give you a kidney if you were short.’

I looked from one to the other. ‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘I’m going to kill Wootton.’ I thought about the message on my answering machine.

Jack. No chance to say you’re the bloke got the fucken result. Bargain result, K-Mart price for that result. Listen, I’m grateful, you understand? That’s serious, mate.

Anything. Ring me, I’ll fix it. I’m solid, right? Cheers.

I sighed again, took out my notebook and wrote Brendan O’Grady’s name and number on a page. I tore it out and gave it to Cam.

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‘When you talk to him,’ I said, ‘this is all you’re allowed to say about me: Jack says thanks for the message. Nothing else. Clear on that?’

‘Got it,’ said Cam.

Harry smiled at me. ‘Teamwork,’ he said. ‘That’s what wins races.’

38

To my office, full of dead air, not opened for days. The office of a barrister and solicitor said the dirty plate outside. It was badly in need of cleaning. The practice of the law. I couldn’t remember when I’d done anything that resembled the practice of the law. I could: Laurie Baranek’s outrageous lease. It resembled the practice of law. Vaguely.

I was becoming more and more like Barry Tregear and the men in the long-gone Consorting and Major Crimes squads. You needed a team list to tell them from the people on the other side.

A suburban solicitor without the law. Lesser breeds without the law. Who said that?

Kipling? He could have been referring to dogs. Dogs know no law. Obedience, perhaps.

Law, no. Many lesser breeds of dog. The smaller ones, packed with venom and cringe.

The answering machine: Mrs Davenport. Four times.

Then Linda. Breath-stopping no more. Perhaps just a small breath stopped. Linda, with drink taken.

Jack Irish. Speaking to the machine of. Linda. How often do you say your own name?

Remember Linda? I have difficulty remembering Linda. Never saw myself as a Linda, anyway. I told you that. Between the sheets.

Pause.

Anyway. Hard to catch you. Well, the catch was reasonably easy. Sorry. It wasn’t a catch. It was, I suppose. I came to your place…No, that’s you catching me. Listen, you won’t care, why should you? I’m giving this job the shove. Or it me. It me is probably right. What did that journo on the Mirror say? Never pee in your own handbag. That always puzzled me. A male journo. Dead.

Pause.

Yes. Handbags. I suppose it’s a version of the doorstep. Why couldn’t I see that before?

I feel like a handbag. Shove any old thing into it. Open the catch, shove it in. It’s there, it’s available. Whichever, I’m out of here. Shover, shovee, it’s shove. Just the money to 193

be sorted out. The man wants me off the premises. He’s moved on, finds it awkward having me around.

Pause.

Sorry. I’m a bit pissed. I’ll try again.

Pause.

Or you could try. No. I’ll…Goodnight. Jack. Goodnight, Jack Irish. Goodnight.

What did I feel? Sadness, that’s all. Sadness on top of weariness. What night was that message recorded? The machine didn’t have a time stamp. I sat back in the chair, swung my legs onto the tailor’s table, stared at nothing, thought about finding the man in the water tank, Dean Canetti, father of Princess Charlotte, a man executed from above, his shattered face now dissolving. And the men in the car, the smell.

In what order had they died? Killed by one person? With help maybe, Dave said. The outside enemies of Black Tide? Did that mean Levesque?

Tired, nodding off.

Knock at the door.

I sat up, startled. ‘Who’s there?’

‘Simone Bendsten.’

She was dressed for going out, high-collar coat, open, underneath a black velvety-looking number, low in the north, high in the south. It suggested, possibly by optical illusion, that Ms Bendsten was two-thirds leg. Was that a peculiarly Scandinavian configuration? In the genes? Only empirical research could answer that question.

‘I was going to put it under the door,’ she said, holding up a yellow A4 envelope.

Very svelte in velvet. Svelvety. I was tired.

Simone came over and put the envelope on the desk.

‘I followed up the Secure International reference in the European databases. That’s Major-General Gordon Ibell. And I found a mention in this Swedish source of a company called Eagle Exprexxo they say was involved in transporting arms to Angola. The American side in Angola. To Unita. Jonas Savimbi.’

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Jonas Savimbi. Where was he now? Tired. Long days and athletic sex. A balanced life, that was what was required. Short days and unathletic sex. ‘You followed up Secure International. And you got to Eagle?’

‘Twice, actually. There’s also a mention in the International Herald Tribune about a case still before the French courts. About missiles, small missiles, I don’t quite understand missiles. They were found in a semi after a freeway accident. The semi owner says he was hired by a company called Redan. Redan says it got the job from an agency, a freight agency. The agency says it understood the hirer to be Eagle Exprexxo but has nothing on paper.’

‘That’s good work,’ I said. I hadn’t registered much.

‘More,’ she said. ‘I found a piece in an American magazine.’

‘An American magazine.’

She had a concerned look, concerned about me, not a look I wanted to encourage in women.

‘You’re tired, Jack. If this is useful, we can follow it up.’

I blinked a few times. ‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘I’ll read the report, give it some thought.’

‘A good night’s sleep,’ she said. ‘Does wonders.’

I saw her to the door. Across the street, the McCoy studio was dark but within a piano was tinkling. The hirsute charlatan was presumably doing something to music, something that did not require illumination.

I closed the front door, put Simone’s envelope into my safe, the hinged false bottom I’d added to the tailor’s table, headed for home. A call to Lyall, soup, then bed.

An old Volkswagen blocked my driveway, the student from across the road. I cursed him, turned left at the corner, parked in my landlady’s driveway. She was in Queensland, taking the sun with all the other Melbourne landlords and landladies. I took the short cut up her drive and across her dark backyard to the wall.

Hand on the high wooden gate leading to my stable, I paused, scalp tightening, some atavistic instinct awakened.

I put my eye to the widest gap between the boards.

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Looking to the left, I could make out my front doorway, a darker shape in the gloomy bluestone facade, see the window to the left of the doorway, to the right, the open-fronted wood shelter with its sentry-box roof.

Nothing to be seen. I relaxed, took my eye from the crack, grasped the gate handle.

A light came on upstairs in the double-storeyed house next door.

I looked up. Opaque glass: a bathroom.

Something made me put my eye to the crack again.

I saw him instantly, leaning against the wall beside the wood shelter, faint light from the upstairs window now falling on his face.

His head was cocked. Listening?

A bony face. Bony head. Short hair.

The man in the grey suit outside Parliament in Canberra. The man bringing dark glasses up to his face. And then finding them uncomfortable, stopping to adjust the fit, looking down.

He was waiting for me, dressed in black. Perhaps someone else nearby.

Waiting to kill me?

Dave’s voice in my head.

The worry is the other side gets nervous about you now, decides to do something.

I backed away slowly from the gate, turned and walked carefully across the dark courtyard, down the driveway.

39

Find Gary. The only way to save my life, according to Dave at our meeting on the windy night.

Talk to Des.

Talk to Des about what?

If we find him, it’ll be because he’s somewhere he feels safe. That’s going to come from way back.

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I drove to Northcote, not taking my usual route, going up St George’s Road, watching the rear-view mirror, eyeing the cars at intersections. I crossed the railway line, parked in High Street, waited, watched, did a U-turn, parked on the other side. Saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Des showed no surprise at seeing me.

‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Watchin this nonsense on telly, eatin a bit of chocolate. The girls give it to me. Never buy chocolate. Seen the price of chocolate?’

We sat down on the brown cut-velvet armchairs with wooden arms in the dim room, photographs on the mantelpiece, wedding pictures, pictures of two couples, two women, each with a baby, two men next to a car, a couple and a fair-haired boy.

‘Have some.’ He offered the bar of chocolate.

‘No thanks.’

‘What about a beer? I could use a beer.’

‘Beer would be nice.’

He came back with two open stubbies of Vic Bitter and glasses. We poured.

Des wiped his lips. ‘Goes down a treat, don’t it. Can’t drink on me own, never got in the habit. Wish I had, too late now.’

‘Des, I’ve got to ask you about Gary,’ I said. ‘They may sound like silly questions but I’ve got to ask.’

‘Ask,’ he said, waving a big hand. ‘Ask.’

‘If Gary changed his name, what would he change it to?’

Des looked away, gave me a sidelong glance. ‘Changed his name? Why would he do that?’

‘If he wanted to hide, he might change his name to make it hard to find him.’

‘Oh, right. Get ya. The whole name. I was thinkin somethin different like him callin himself Bruce Connors or Wally Connors.’

‘He might use a family name,’ I said. ‘People often do that. Like his mother’s maiden name.’

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‘Keegan?’

‘Perhaps. What about the aunt who left him the place near Warrnambool? What was her surname?’

‘Dixon.’

He had a small sip of beer, chewed it thoughtfully. ‘Funny boy, Gary. Reader he was, great reader, read anythin. Sit here on the floor in front of me, me readin the paper, he’d be readin the front and the back page. Just a little bloke. Ask me questions. Like, what’s nude mean, Dad? Bit embarrassin, I’d say, ask yer mother.’

His eyes were on the mantelpiece, on the photographs.

‘Used to tell other kids we wasn’t really his mum and dad. Any new kid around here, Gary’d tell him he wasn’t really Gary Connors.’

Something was nagging at me. ‘If he wasn’t Gary Connors, who was he?’

‘Had a whole story, name and all. Got it out of a book, probly. How his parents were these rich people in England and people wanted to kidnap him and get all the family’s money, so his mum and dad sent him to live with us. Told em he’d be goin back to England soon as the danger was over. Funny boy, Gary. Could’ve come from bein an only, I don’t know.’

He took another sip of beer, admired the glass, nodded at it. ‘Good drop this, Bill. Don’t drink by myself, never got…’

A vehicle stopping. Close by. Further along the street.

I went to the window and looked out through the crack at the side of the heavy curtain.

Two women getting out of a small white car.

I came back to my seat. ‘The name, what was it?’

‘The name?’

‘His story about not being Gary Connors. What did he call himself, Des?’

He looked at me for a second, far away, hadn’t noticed me getting up. ‘The name.

What was the name now? Three names. No. No use in sittin here tryin to think of it.’

‘Try, Des. It’s important.’

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‘No,’ he said, ‘don’t have to try. Just go down the passage to the boy’s room. All his books there. Mum wouldn’t hear a gettin rid of em. Every last one of em there. He used to write the name in his books.’

He left the room. I sipped beer, listened to cars going by, only two cars. A quiet street.

I could bring down a terrible visitation on this street. Men with guns who would shoot anyone. Young and old.

…kill your friend, kill your wife, kill your child, kill you, it’s all the same.

Tramping down the passage. Des, with a book.

‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Boy’s Book of Adventure. Might have a read of this myself.

Bloody paper’s got nothin but sorrow in it.’

He sat down, opened the book, showed me the flyleaf.

A slanting, childish handwriting, large capitals, upsweeps on the terminal letters of each word.

Christopher Anthony Armstrong (Kit).