Peter Temple - Shooting Star

‘Can she describe him?’ I said. It was hard to keep in mind that I was only a bagman, not paid to do anything else.

Pat put up his hands. ‘Frank, this is not the time. Lauren, they want money, we’re givin the bastards money. Tomorrow, Frank will give em the money. Then when Anne’s safe we’ll find em, make sure they don’t do this again. The police can ask all the questions then.’

Lauren Geary looked at me, looked at Pat. He smiled at her. It wasn’t the smile of an elderly employer, not that kind of smile.

‘Fine,’ she said, nodding. ‘Afterwards. Yes, when we’ve got her back.’ She turned to me. ‘I’ve put you in the Garden House, Mr Calder. I’ll send over some clothes for you to try on.’

‘I’m going home for clothes,’ I said. ‘But thank you.’

When she’d gone, Pat, revived, held out his glass. I fetched the decanter and poured a fat finger. He drank, studying me. There was something he wanted to talk about. ‘Alice,’ he said, ‘never stopped botherin me. When she came back to us, the police questioned her. Over and over. Even hypnotised the little thing. Nothing. Very calm, she was, like a little grown-up, but she couldn’t tell em anythin. Never saw a face except for a few seconds at the start, in the garage. Where they kept her, the man wore somethin over his head, a mask.’

He sighed. ‘Then, when that was over, we had the psychiatrist. That was the advice we got. From America. A specialist in victims. A week here, talkin to her every day. Dr Wynn. I reckon that was our mistake. Maybe you should just leave people alone. Maybe she would have gotten over it if we just pretended it never happened. What do you think, Frank?’

What did I think? A man who had nightmares almost every night. ‘I think you probably did the best you could,’ I said.

The old eyes were on me, looking for something. ‘Man is born unto trouble,’ he said.

I said, ‘As the sparks fly upwards.’

Deep lines at the corners of Pat’s mouth. ‘Know your Job. Soldier. Policeman. Haven’t been a bloody priest too, have you?’

‘My mother,’ I said. ‘She had a lot of time for Job.’

‘This job,’ he said. ‘Just a good man to give em what they want. Don’t want any police stuff, any messin about with who and why. Clear to you, is it, Frank?’

I said yes, drove home, found the two new shirts, the emergency shirts, packed a small bag. It wasn’t hard to leave the cold, unlovely unit, drip hitting the kitchen sink like a finger tapping.

We sat in the library, four of us, me, Tom Carson reading a computer printout, Graham Noyce writing in a small leather-bound book, Orlovsky apparently asleep, hands in his lap, palms upward, right cupping left. Barry Carson was next door, talking to his father.

I was looking out of a window, watching the flow of life in the compound, when the call came. It was 12.35.

Tom dropped the printout into his open briefcase, let the phone ring twice, three times, four times, going through the routine with his fountain pen. Barry was in the doorway by the time Tom picked up the receiver.

‘Tom Carson.’

He listened, then he turned to Noyce, standing to his right, and said, ‘Mobile number.’

Noyce had a business card out in seconds. Tom read a number from it, slowly. Then he listened again and said, ‘Yes.’

Pause.

‘Yes. What about the release of Anne?’

He took the receiver away from his ear.

Noyce was at the table, pressed the button. The strange voice said:

Give me a mobile number, quickly .

Tom asking Noyce for a number, reading it off the card.

One person take the money in a sports bag to the Melbourne Cricket Ground tomorrow. Sit at the top of the Great Southern Stand. Be there by half-time and wait for a call on the mobile number. Understand?

Tom saying, Yes.

One person. Any funny business or any sign of the police , you will never hear anything about the girl again. Understand?

Tom saying, Yes. What about the release of Anne?

You’ll hear.

Disconnection.

Silence in the room. Tom got up from the writing table. He was in weekend clothes: lightweight tweed jacket, cream woollen shirt.

‘Well,’ he said, looking at me. ‘Over to you. Why the fuck the MCG?’

‘This is Melbourne,’ said Orlovsky, a finger moving in the collar of his shirt, loosening the slippery nylon secondhand-shop tie. He straightened in his chair as if he were about to leave.

Eyes were upon him. Mr Calder’s associate.

‘Carlton plays Collingwood,’ he said. ‘Even kidnappers, they want the money but they want to support their team.’

Tom looked at Orlovsky for several seconds, the slate eyes, not a blink. Orlovsky looked back, the startlingly blue eyes, not a blink. Then Tom looked at Noyce, blaming him for Orlovsky. Noyce couldn’t hold his gaze, accepted blame. I was sorry, because after Noyce, it was me, and I wasn’t going to blink either.

‘This is just the beginning,’ said Barry.

Everyone looked at him. He was leaning against the doorjamb, not in golf clothes today. Today, it was grey, all grey, like a drug dealer or an architect or someone who owned a smart cafe designed by architects. Different glasses too, more oval than the day before, duck’s egg shape, with a black rim.

‘That’s a fucking useful contribution, Barry,’ said Tom. ‘Matches your finest insights to date. And what a standard that is to live up to.’

In the air, contempt hung like flyspray.

‘Big crowd,’ I said. ‘Easy to switch bags, lots of exits.’

Noyce said, ‘Wouldn’t they be scared that we’d seal the ground, check bags?’ He coughed, ‘Sorry, silly, we’re just paying up. Anxiety drives out common sense.’

‘Depleting small reserves,’ said Tom. ‘Get a sports bag.’ It was a bark.

I watched Noyce. He straightened his spine, made small masticating movements, opened his lips, not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. The set of his shoulders changed to favour his right side. Then he drew the back of the index finger of his right hand across his upper lip, put his hand behind his head. You can see these signs any time you care to stay late in the wrong pubs, get down to the hard core, just you and men who love life and beating the shit out of it.

‘I’d like to say, Tom,’ Noyce said, lawyer’s smooth and reasonable voice but with a twang in it, the twang of taut piano wire, a little tremolo, ‘that I won’t be spoken to like that. Not in private. Or in public.’

Tom turned his body to Noyce, full on, challenge accepted. But he didn’t have to fight Noyce, he could sack him on the spot. Or couldn’t he? There was a moment of indecision, of calculation, of balancing things. Then Tom made a flicking gesture with his left hand. ‘Point taken,’ he said, no contrition in his low, throaty voice, in his movement only impatience. ‘Let’s get on to what has to be done.’

That wasn’t enough for Noyce. He breathed out hard, nostrils flaring.

‘Point taken? I’m not sure it is. I think I’d be better off walking out now and sending you my…’

‘Graham,’ said Barry Carson, his voice emphatic but entreating. He had come across the room, put his back to his brother, extended a hand to touch the sleeve of Noyce’s jacket.

Noyce didn’t look at Barry, didn’t take his eyes off Tom. He had the look of a bullied schoolboy, scared, but determined to look his tormentor in the face.

Barry moved to block Noyce’s view of Tom’s face. He didn’t want Noyce to leave. ‘Don’t take Tom so seriously, Graham,’ he said. ‘It’s just that he’s a man born to command. Pity they timed the wars so badly.’