Peter Temple - An Iron Rose

Dr Crewe didn’t say anything for a while. Out on the calm water, a man in a single scull was sitting motionless, head bowed, shoulders slumped, could be dead. Then he moved, first stroke slow and smooth, instantly in his rhythm, powerful insect skimming the silver surface. At the end of each stroke, there was a pause, missed in the blink of an eye.

‘This Ned,’ he said. ‘Any drug problem there?’

‘No.’

We walked in silence for perhaps fifty paces. ‘Ian had a drug problem,’ I said.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t look at me. We passed a scowling group of seagulls on a jetty, identical commuters waiting in anger for an overdue train home.

‘I left the practice on my seventieth birthday,’ said Dr Crewe. ‘Nine years ago last month. Saddest day of my life. Second saddest. Nobody feels seventy, y’know. Not inside the heart. Always twenty-five inside.’

More silence. Two runners came from behind, short chunky men, hair cut to stubble, big hairy legs. Footballers. Then a tall blonde came into view, white singlet, tight black stretch shorts, hair pulled back. She was at full stride, moving fast, balanced, arms pumping. As the balls of her feet touched the ground, her long thigh muscles bunched above the knee. Her legs and torso were flushed pink, her head was back, mouth open, eyes slits.

We both turned to watch her go. Our eyes met.

‘Always twenty-five inside,’ he said. ‘And sometimes you feel you could be twenty-five outside too.’

‘Eighteen,’ I said. ‘Eighteen.’

He gave a snort and picked up the pace. We were going up an incline between two huge oaks when he said, ‘You don’t want to accept your friend’s suicide.’ A statement.

‘No.’ It came out sharply.

‘I won’t talk psychological bullshit to you, but some questions you have to leave alone. They didn’t do it to hurt you. They did it because something hurt them and they wanted to put an end to that pain.’

‘Dr Crewe,’ I said, ‘I don’t know about Ian, but Ned wouldn’t kill himself.’

He stopped. I was taken by surprise, went a pace further.

‘They don’t end up hanging by accident,’ he said. ‘So I don’t know what you’re saying.’

I said, ‘I think Ned’s suicide was staged. I think he was murdered.’

He put his head back and looked at me down the long nose. ‘Police think what?’

‘Investigating officer seems to think it’s a possibility.’

‘Probably humouring you. You reckon the same might hold for Ian?’

‘If I’m right about Ned, it’s possible.’

Dr Crewe sighed and started walking. After a while, he said. ‘Loved the boy, y’know.’

I didn’t say anything.

‘Loved his mother, too, might as well tell you. People say he’s mine, but he’s not. Often wished he was. Instead I’ve got Tony-every inch a Carew, not a trace of Crewe in him. Mean-spirited, selfish, whole bloody clan’s like that. Mean-spirited and selfish genes pass on to every generation, doesn’t matter who they marry. Tony’s mother was a prime example.’

A small, round man in a tracksuit overtook us, wobbling as he ran. ‘Doc,’ he gasped. It sounded like an appeal for help.

‘G’day Laurie. Walk, you bloody fool.’

The man gave a feeble wave.

‘Three Carews joined up the same day I did,’ said Dr Crewe. ‘Wife’s brother, two of his cousins. You’d think one of ’em would see some action. Hah. Whole war in Canberra, fighting the paper, all three. More than luck involved, I can tell you. Tony’s the same. If there’s an easy way, he’ll find it.’

‘Ian was at Melbourne Uni with Tony,’ I said. ‘Little group of local boys, I gather.’

Dr Crewe looked at me, shook his head. ‘Done anything to keep Ian away from Tony and Andrew Stephens and the Veene boy. Andrew’s father was a good man, fine man, fought with the Greek partisans in the war. Good doctor too. Andrew. Young Andrew’s just rubbish. Too much too soon. Like Rick Veene. Rick’s got Carew in him somewhere down the line. His mother’s Tony’s mother’s third cousin or something. Poisonous breed. Buy their way through life. Bought off bloody Carew, that was easy enough.’

‘Carew?’

‘Carew College, University of Melbourne. Tony’s mother’s grandfather paid for it. Out of ill-gotten gains. Unjailed criminal. College. Place you stay in. Know about that?’

‘Only just,’ I said.

He gave me a look and an appraising nod. ‘Blacksmith. Name again?’

‘Mac.’

‘Mac. I remember. Mac.’

There was a sound like sandpapering behind us and a group of male runners split to pass us, came together, all one physical type, a big pack of brothers sent out to run until supper time.

‘So,’ I said, ‘Carew.’

‘Carew?’

‘Bought off. Carew.’

‘Bought off?’

‘The college.’

‘Oh. That’s right. Bought off. Andrew Stephens, Carews and the Veenes. Bloody Carew family trust gives the college some huge sum every year. Clive Carew and Bob Veene were on the council then. Bob Veene. Bloody rabbit. Pathetic. Rick’s the only son. Four girls. Nice things, bit on the big side mark you, but nice, healthy girls, never heard a bad word about them. One’s married to a carpenter. That’d make the bloody Veenes’ foreskins curl.’

‘Why did they buy off the college?’

‘Business with a girl. Didn’t hear about it till years later. Tony’s mother and the rest of them did the dirty work. Kept me in the dark ’cause they knew me. I’d have let the buggers take the consequences. Jail if necessary. Never been any consequences for Tony and Andrew. Never. Not in their lives. Now Tony’s the bloody attorney-general. Unbelievable. Makes you think even less of politics. Never thought that’d be possible. Not an ounce of respect for anything. Went into politics because he saw it was easy money. All talk and some bloody public servant does the work. Or doesn’t.’

He shook his head. ‘Shocked me that old Andrew’d get involved in something like that. Doted on that bloody boy of his. We had a big blue, not the same after that. Friends for going on thirty years. Still, bribery’s bloody bribery. Can’t brush over it.’

‘So Ian was involved in this Carew business?’

‘Don’t know. Suppose so. Time I found out, it was pretty pointless to ask.’

We had reached a marker that said two kilometres. Dr Crewe said, ‘Turnaround time.’

‘Kinross Hall,’ I said. ‘Why did Ian stop being Kinross Hall’s doctor?’

His shoulders seemed to sag a little at the mention of the place.

‘Don’t know. Gave me the brushoff when I asked him. That Carrier woman, probably. Picked her for a cast-iron bitch moment I laid eyes on her. Another brilliant piece of work by Tony.’

‘Tony?’

‘Chairman of the management committee. Got her appointed instead of Daryl Hopman. He was deputy when old Crosland retired. Good man, sound. Well, he didn’t last long after Carrier arrived. Took early retirement, died. Inside a few years, all the old staff gone.’

‘Did you know about Ian’s pethidine problem?’

He glanced at me. ‘Ian had a lot of problems. Not a well man.’

‘Physically not well?’

‘Mind, body, all the same. Not a well man.’

I had a stab in the dark. ‘Someone said he might have had some sort of sexual aberration.’

He didn’t reply. We walked in silence. At his gate, Dr Crewe said, ‘Big word for a blacksmith, aberration. Well, Mr Blacksmith, I’d like to think that Ian didn’t kill himself. But I can’t. For your man, maybe you’re right. I’ll say good day.’

I said thank you.

He nodded, opened the gate and went down the path without looking back.

On the way home, in minutes, the day darkened and it poured, solid sheets like a monsoon rain. A freezing monsoon rain. Then it stopped, the clouds broke, the sun came out and all along the road the shallow pools were full of sky.