Peter Corris - The January Zone

‘I’ve been close but it keeps slipping away. I’ll ring Peter.’

I was only dimly conscious of her using the phone. I had some more wine and I suppose I dozed. She shook me awake. ‘Get up to bed. I’m in the spare room.’

I blinked. ‘Can’t afford to sleep in. Have to set an alarm.’

‘No need. Gunther wails like a banshee at seven thirty.’

‘Great. Has he met the cat?’

‘They agreed to differ. I’ll see you in the morning, Cliff.’

The door to the room Cyn used to do her drawing in and which Hilde had occupied and where clients and friends had slept at odd times over the years was closed when I got up the stairs. Gunther was curled up on the carpet outside but it wasn’t Gunther that kept me from going in and it wasn’t fatigue. It was something else. I crawled into bed half dressed; I heard aeroplane engines; telephones rang; I smelled dirty socks and marijuana smoke; a 150 watt bulb was burning in the ceiling but none of it could stop me falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I didn’t hear Gunther howl, I wouldn’t have heard an elephant trumpeting in the next room. Trudi woke me up by turning off the light and opening the blind. She was dressed and she had coffee and toast balanced on the bread board.

‘Couldn’t find a tray,’ she said.

I sat up. ‘There isn’t one. Thanks, Trudi. Did you get on to January last night?’

‘Yes. He’ll be there. Get this into you. I’m expecting a call about the tape at nine.’

She went away and I ate the toast and drank the coffee. A gallon wouldn’t have been enough. When I got downstairs to make more she was on the phone saying yes and no and shaking her head. She was making notes but not very energetically. It didn’t sound too promising.

‘Okay, thanks, Lee. Yeah, I’ll let you know.’ She hung up and looked at her notes.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Not much. Nothing really. Possibly Irish…’

‘Tobin’ll like that.’

She grimaced. ‘But a long way back. The thing is the speaker has overcome a stammer. It’s left him with some strange speech patterns but there’s nothing, you know, exotic or specific. Jesus, I’m sure I’ve heard that voice. I wish to Christ I could remember.’

‘Easy. Maybe Tobin’s got something.’

‘The only thing he’s got is a filthy mind.’

I poured the water into the glass beaker over the grounds and set the plunger in place before I realised that I wasn’t using the percolator. Plunging was Helen’s favoured method and this was her machine. ‘Tobin’s not stupid. He wants a good result for himself. I just wish we had something on him to keep him honest.’

‘Im-possible. Oh! No, shit!’

‘What? What’s wrong?’

‘I was so close to placing the voice just then.’

‘Give it a rest, love. Your brain’ll seize. Have some more coffee. Christ, I wish Helen’d ring.’

We drank coffee and looked at the paper. The News had January on the front page. The headline read: JANUARY ZONE-A BEAUTIFUL THING! The article quoted the Indian Prime Minister, who was in Australia for a few days, to this effect. ‘Peter January’s idea of oceanic zones of peace and freedom has seized imaginations around the world,’ the reporter wrote. I gave up on the article when I got to the bit about ‘the new wave’ sweeping across international discussion. Trudi was right about Peter: he looked tired and strained in the centre page photograph but full of zeal and energy. A leader of men, and women.

Tobin’s office was in the new police building in Darlinghurst. The building wasn’t finished, there was scaffolding around part of it, and pneumatic drills were hammering not too far away. After some fast talking and a phone call to the right place I managed to gain entry to the building’s underground carpark. There was no parking in the streets for blocks around, presumably as a precaution against the sort of bombing they’d had in Melbourne.

We rode the lift up to the reception area. I had an impression of high security-light beams, heavy doors, TV cameras.

‘I’d better wait for Peter here.’ Trudi said. ‘He won’t like any of this. I’ll try to smooth him down.

You go on and see if you can get Tobin to behave reasonably.’

‘OK.’ I snapped my fingers suddenly. ‘Quick! The voice! Anything?’

She shook her head and I took the lift to the third floor. Tobin’s office was inside a series of other offices, like the last in a set of Chinese boxes. He and Ken were there with papers spread out on the desk. For once Tobin wasn’t eating, but there was a smell in the air suggesting that he’d tucked into something not too long ago. Ken glowered at me but Tobin was effusive.

‘Sit down, Hardy. Where’s your boss and Trudi?’

‘They’ll be along.’ I sat and looked around. Nice office-grey carpet, big bullet-proof glass window, filing cabinet, mini-bar. It was a long way from the detectives’ room in Balmain where I’d first seen him.

‘Do any good on the voice?’ Tobin unbuttoned his waistcoat which was constricting him. He wore another expensive suit and ditto accessories. I couldn’t be sure but I think his hands were manicured.

‘No. No luck.’

‘We’ve done better. D’you know we’ve got equipment here you wouldn’t believe. There’s a camera that can take a picture of a nose hair and make it as big a baseball bat.’

I grunted my lack of interest and looked out the window. It was a nice day; Tobin had a window full of blue sky with a bit of tree low down in the left corner. He waved a paper at me. ‘Interesting, that note January got. Standard sort of wrapping paper, cut down with scissors. All sorts of crap on the scissors and the paper.’

‘Like what?’

Ken turned away to close a filing drawer as if this frank talk with a civilian was painful to him. Tobin looked benign. ‘Cornflour, wholemeal flour stone-round, some honey, bit of peanut oil.’ I realised why Tobin was feeling so good-he was talking about food. ‘Does this mean anything to you?’

My dislike of him welled up. ‘No. Does it mean anything to you that the voice could be Irish originally and the guy’s overcome a stammer?’

‘Irish is good. Take a look at the drawing.’ He passed a sheet of cartridge paper across.

‘How’s Sammy?’ I said before I turned the paper over.

‘Got the shakes. Can you believe a man losing his guts like that when he had his big break right there in his hand?’

‘Wouldn’t happen to you, eh, Tobin?’

‘Give me a chance and just watch me.’

I looked at the drawing. All identikit pictures tend to look the same and I couldn’t say this one did anything for me. It certainly didn’t flatter the subject-dark, stringy hair, a narrow forehead, thin nose and mouth. No Robert Redford, not even a Jack Nicholson. There was a noise behind and I turned to see January, Trudi and Gary Wilcox come into the room. Ken looked even more angry at this mass invasion of the citadel. Tobin got up from behind his desk and extended his hand to January.

‘Minister. Ms Bell’

January was pale, his skin had not much more colour in it than the bandage on his head. His right hand was still bandaged but more lightly. He nodded at Ken and introduced Wilcox who did some nodding too. I turned towards Trudi, still holding the drawing. She gasped and her finely plucked eyebrows shot up. She almost staggered and grabbed at my shoulder for support. She stared at the drawing.

‘Jesus Christ,’ she gasped. ‘It’s Charles!’

Tobin jerked to his feet. His soft, swelling belly hit the edge of the desk and he sank back into his chair half-winded. ‘Who the fuck is Charles? Excuse me, Minister.’