Peter Temple - An Iron Rose

I went over to the pub and rang inquiries. Then I rang Berglin. I gave them my name, we went through the rigmarole and they connected me.

‘Wanting to ask you,’ he said without preamble. ‘What is it with you and dead people?’

‘Raised the subject of Bianchi?’ I could see Flannery at the bar, hunched, staring into a glass of beer, just a shadow of Saturday’s hero.

‘I mentioned it, yes.’

‘So what’s going to happen?’

‘Don’t think it’s going on the priority list.’

‘It should.’

Berglin sighed. ‘Mac, listen. We talked about this before. Things blow up on you, it happens. The smack lost, the woman in the wrong place. Lefroy, that was a plus. Nailed him, he’d own the whole fucking prison system now, living like King Farouk, meals from Paul Bocuse, hot and cold running bumboys. Do a line anytime he likes. You’ve got another life now. Forget about the shit. Any brains, if I had them, I’d ask you can I join you out there in chilblain country, making candlesticks, whatever the fuck it is you do.’

I let the subject lie. ‘I need another trace.’

‘Jesus, I don’t know about you.’ Pause. ‘Who?’

I spelled it out: Gabriele Elaine Makin, born Frankston 1967, juvenile offender last known in Cairns. Not in the phone book.

‘Hope she survives your interest in her,’ Berglin said. ‘Don’t call me.’

‘Something else.’

Silence.

I changed my mind. I had been going to ask about Bianchi’s widow.

‘Forget it, not important.’

‘I’m glad.’

I went to the bar and sat down next to Flannery.

‘I like the next day more when we lose,’ he said. ‘Whole week more. I don’t think we should win again this Satdee.’

‘Three in a row?’ I said. ‘In another life.’

‘Beer’s on the house,’ Vinnie the publican said. ‘Few more Satdees like that, I’m takin the place off the market.’

‘Didn’t know it was on the market,’ Flannery said.

‘Pub without pokies?’ Vinnie said. ‘Pokieless pub is on the market.’

‘Tabletop dancers,’ Flannery said. ‘That’s the go. Uni girls shakin their titties, showin us the business. Have a pickin-up-the-spud competition.’

Vinnie looked over to where two elderly male customers were grumbling at each other. ‘Tabletop dancers? Need a bloody ambulance on standby outside. Mind you, that fuckin’ cook’ll need an ambulance if he doesn’t come in the door in two minutes.’

When the cook arrived, Flannery and I ate steak and onion sandwiches. From where we were sitting, I could see the wet road and the entrance to my lane. I was washing down the last bite when Allie’s truck turned in. We had work to do on the gateposts.

I woke early, stood in the shower thinking about the heft of Lee-Anne’s breasts, the sight of Allie naked. Then I thought about being fifteen, digging out rotten stumps from grey rock and unyielding clay, face down in fifty centimetres of damp and cold crawl space, breathing the dank, dead air under a farmhouse near Yass. Crawling out, hearing footsteps on the boards above me, turning over and looking up through a gap between old floorboards, parched boards, tongues shrunk, parted from their grooves, unmated. Seeing from below a woman, a naked woman, mature woman, my eyes going up the sturdy legs, parted legs, pink from the bath, seeing at the junction the secret hair, the dark, curly, springy, water-beaded hair that marked the place, the little folds of belly, the plump wet undersides of breasts, a glimpse of chin, of nose. Of seeing her move her buttocks against a towel, run it over her breasts, breasts swaying, long nipples, of seeing her open her legs, wipe the towel casually between the thighs, wipe the dark, intimate folds of skin…

Time for breakfast. I was sitting in a patch of weak sunlight eating breakfast, grilled bacon and a poached egg, when the phone rang. It was Berglin.

‘That inquiry,’ he said. ‘Party’s no longer with us. Motor accident in 1993, dead on arrival.’

I swallowed my mouthful. ‘Sure about that?’

There was silence, then he said, ‘As sure as one can be on the basis of the information supplied and the absence on all available records of anyone else with identical particulars. Yes.’

‘Sorry. Thanks.’

‘One more thing. The person in the Vatican we spoke of. You with me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Extremely resistant on a number of grounds to revisiting the matter in question.’

‘So?’

‘So the future of this course of action is uncertain.’

I went back to my breakfast. A cloud extinguished the sunlight like a door closing on a lit room.

When I’d finished, I got Gaby Makin’s letter out again. It was dated 12 July 1995.

Written from beyond the grave. Either that or Berglin was lying to me. Everything was starting to remind me of the old days.

I drove into town and consulted the Cairns Yellow Pages. I tried the Mercedes dealership first, asking for the workshop.

‘Have you got a mechanic called Otto?’ I said. ‘German?’

‘Otto the Hun. Otto Klinger. Not any more. He’s at Winlaton Motors in Brissy. Couple of years now. Miss him, too.’

He gave me a number.

The workshop office at Winlaton Motors got Otto Klinger on the line inside a minute.

‘Ja, Klinger,’ he said.

‘Otto, I’m a friend of Gaby Makin…’

‘Gaby and I are no longer together,’ Otto said. ‘She has gone with another person.’

‘I heard she was killed in a car accident in 1993.’

‘Gaby? Incorrect. She has only gone approximately one year.’

‘Any idea where?’

‘No. It is no concern of mine.’

‘Do you know anyone who would know?’

Otto sighed. ‘I suppose her girlfriend down the road would know. This is important, yes?’

‘Otto,’ I said, ‘it could be a matter of life and death, yes.’

He sighed again. ‘Give me a number for you and I will speak to the woman today if I can find her.’

I gave him a name and number. On the way home, I thought about how I’d got Melanie Pavitt’s address from Berglin. Would Melanie be alive now if I hadn’t? It wasn’t a thought I wanted to entertain. Why would Berglin lie to me about Gaby? He had never heard of Kinross Hall until I rang him to trace Melanie.

But, before that, why had Marcia lied to me about Ian Barbie and Ned?

Allie was dampening the green coal in the forge when I came in the door. The dog was watching her. She was wearing jeans, a leather apron and one of her shirts with canvas sleeves.

‘Okay to fire it when you’re not here?’ she said. ‘We didn’t discuss that.’

I gave the question some thought. It had meaning. Significance. ‘You mean, can you play with my toy when I’m not here. Is that it?’

‘Pretty much,’ she said. ‘I should have raised it. Some smithies are like petrolheads, only the forge is the car. One vehicle, one driver. One toy, one boy.’

‘The toy can be played with,’ I said. ‘Day and night. And the bits in between.’

She gave me her slow, one-sided smile. ‘Day’ll be fine. I’ve got till four. Reckon we can get these giant wangers out of the way?’

We finished the things just before three pm, no feeling of achievement, just relief. I made corned beef and cheese sandwiches and we ate them sitting on the office step, reading bits of the paper, not saying much.

‘That vet,’ I said. ‘Rottweiler or Jack Russell?’

Allie frowned. ‘Labrador, it turned out. Nice but not too bright.’

‘Sometimes,’ I said, standing up and taking her plate, ‘that’s what you want in a dog.’

She looked up at me from under her straight eyebrows. ‘Maybe it’s a mongrel I’m looking for.’

‘Flannery’s between engagements.’