Peter Corris - The January Zone

Tobin’s dark face flushed red and the flesh on his neck quivered. He fought for control and his voice grated with the effort. ‘Let’s eat,’ he said. ‘You’re paying, Hardy.’

‘I’ll pay for you and me,’ I said. ‘Ken’s on his own.’

Tobin looked at me for what seemed like a full minute, then he nodded and the other man stood up. He drained his glass and curled his damaged lip at me. Tobin nodded again and he walked away.

‘You’ve made an enemy there,’ Tobin said.

‘I don’t think we could ever have been friends.’

Tobin ordered soup, a steak and chocolate mousse, I had a ham salad but I helped him out with the wine, both bottles. His jaws moved rhythmically and he’d learned to talk around his food without being disgusting-presumably through long practice. He also nodded from time to time and shot quick looks to left and right. I caught a fleeting movement here and a still presence there and gathered that the chief of the anti-terrorist squad took no chances about his personal security. It made me feel anxious about mine.

‘You’ve seen all that crap January gets in the mail?’ Tobin asked.

I nodded and speared asparagus.

‘What d’you make of it? Your line of country, isn’t it?’

I thought about it while I ate. I’d dealt with threatening letters, suicide notes, ransom claims. I thought I could tell the mildly nutty from the truly mad but that was about all. ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Look, Tobin, I’m here to ask you about the bomb-what kind it was, what sort of experience behind it, that kind of thing. I’m buggered if I know what you want from me.’

He put down his knife and fork for the first time since the meal started. ‘I need a result. A real result. This is the first decent thing that’s come along. I need nasty faces, the more political the better as long as they’re of the right stamp. You follow me, Hardy?’

‘You’ve got the facilities for the job, haven’t you?’

He shrugged and started eating again. ‘Who knows? Who knows how to do the bloody job? Who knows if there’s a fuckin’ job to do even?’

‘What about the spooks?’

He almost choked on a bit of steak. A waiter hovered nearby while Tobin coughed and plunged. I saw movement by the door and a pale face peer anxiously through the smoke. ‘I’m all right, all right.’ Tobin waved the waiter away. ‘They’re the biggest headache of all. Top secret this, fuckin’ top security that. Some of those bastards literally can’t talk, can’t tell you their own names. I don’t know what they’re thinking.’

‘Mostly about their pensions,’ I said. If Tobin hadn’t been Tobin I might have told him about January’s suspicions, but the time to start trusting people like Tobin was when the priest was saying nice things about him over the grave.

‘I don’t like you, Hardy, never did. And nothing’s changed. Your mate Evans did me a bad turn and I was lucky to get out from under. But that’s not your fault. I don’t like Parker either.’

‘You’d have liked my Mum,’ I said.

‘Your smartarse talk’s another thing I don’t like. But I think we can do each other some good on this. You’d be on a good screw from January and the longer you can keep the job going the better for you. And I’m in no hurry. You follow me?’

‘No.’

‘Suppose you get a line on who planted the bomb. You tell me. We mount surveillance, tap phones, use all the technology crap they’ve given me and really make a circus of it. You’re on a daily rate and expenses. I can help you out a bit there. We move when we’re ready and we both look good. What d’you say?’

I had to keep eating although I didn’t have any appetite. Tobin had gone up in his world which meant that he’d got smoother and slimier than when he’d wanted to used the rubber hose on me in Balmain. Eating concealed expressions I didn’t want him to see.

‘What about the bomb?’ I said.

‘Standard sort of thing-gelignite, not much of it. Battery and timer.’

‘Planted when?’

‘Within 24 hours.’

‘By a pro?’

‘Not necessarily. They tell me there’s books you can learn this stuff from.’ He laughed and spooned up some chocolate goo. ‘D’you know we’ve got a whole library at the unit? They fitted us out with all these books-biographies, technical manuals, novels even. I haven’t read one of ‘em and I don’t think any of my blokes have either.’

‘Ken didn’t look like a reader.’

‘I’d rather have Ken with me than…Max bloody Harris at some of the interviews I go to. You want a brandy?’

‘No.’

‘I will.’ He lifted both hands and made a series of rapid movements with his fingers. Then he slumped back in his chair, belched loudly and laughed. ‘Got a deaf ‘n dumb waiter here. You gotta learn the sign language for brandy and coffee. Funny, eh?’

‘Oh, yeah, hilarious. So that’s all you’ve got? No leads? And the thing could’ve been put together by an HSC student?’

‘Hey, that’s an idea.’ Tobin unwrapped a fat cigar and watched approvingly as the brandy was poured into a balloon glass. The waiter lit his cigar and he puffed luxuriously. ‘The bomb could’ve been meant to kill the girl-planted by a jealous kid at her school.’

‘You’re disgusting, Tobin.’

‘Have some coffee, Hardy, and climb down a bit. Why’re you working for a politician except for the money?’

He wasn’t dumb, he’d hit the spot. I sipped coffee and tried to think objectively, professionally. ‘What do you think of January?’

‘He’s okay, good in fact.’

‘What?’ I couldn’t believe I was hearing something unqualified and positive from Tobin.

‘January’s okay. All that peace and no bombs and missiles stuff is shit of course, but compared to most politicians he’s a prince. He doesn’t go around spreading the dirt on his mates. He doesn’t pump you for more dirt than he already has.’ He waved the cigar and lifted the balloon. ‘You should see how most of ‘em carry on. Cunts!’

You’d know. I thought, but I drank some more coffee and didn’t say anything. Tobin drank his brandy and drew on his cigar. He did some more nodding at the shadows and then folded his napkin. He leaned forward across the table and I could smell all the sweet, strong, corrupt flavours on his breath.

‘You haven’t responded to the proposition, Cliff,’ he said quietly. ‘But I know you’ll see it my way.’

‘Why?’

He started to ease his bulk up and away from the table; it was going to be a long, slow process and I thought he might even need the waiter’s help. ‘Because whether you come through or not I have to find the guilty party. And who knows who the fuck it might be? It might be that good-looking Bell woman January and you and everyone else including me would like to screw. Or it could be you.’

I spent the next few days checking on the material in Trudi Bell’s file. I phoned organisations and snooped around their premises. I tried to unscramble acronyms like CLAOP (Committee for the Liberation of All Oppressed Peoples) and I did a tour of the area around January’s office looking at all the graffiti on the walls. I checked on everyone who’d had an appointment with the Minister in the last month and had come to the office. I drew blanks on everything.

I asked Trudi Bell what contact she’d had with Tobin and she shuddered. ‘Ugh, don’t call it contact.’

‘Has he been around much?’

‘Not much. He rang a couple of times to talk about nothing. He asked me out to dinner.’

‘I had lunch with him the other day. I don’t think I could’ve survived dinner. What did you say?’