Peter Temple - White Dog

My last session with Milovich was brief, I had four people to see and an appearance that morning. While maintaining his innocence, the creep now wanted to plead guilty. I told him the prosecution’s case was shaky, I thought I could take it apart, he had a good chance of walking. ‘Well, I’m in your fucken hands,’ he said. On our day in court, everything went wrong, we struck a mago in a bad mood, and Milovich got twice what a guilty plea and a bit of contrition would have earned.

So I could put my finger on the day, on the precise moment in the battered room in Pentridge, when the only part of my life in which I was unreservedly happy had its date for expiry set. But that was with hindsight. In the course of this business I’d had at least two signals that only a potato could miss. I hadn’t missed them. I’d ignored them.

A prostitute who looked fifteen killed by a big man in a suite in the city’s most expensive hotel. Who was he? Who were the others? People who knew Mickey Franklin, who knew him well enough, trusted him enough, to call him in to take care of things.

Did they send for Mickey? Was he the fixer? Did Mickey make the problem with the dead girl disappear? In December 1994, Mickey still worked for MassiBild. He was a fixer for MassiBild. He dealt with the contractors, a preparation for hell, said Steven Massiani.

‘From the eastern states, are you, Jack?’ said Nola.

‘Just the one,’ I said. ‘I’m from Melbourne.’

The refreshment trolley was approaching.

‘What about a little drink?’ I said.

She patted my arm. ‘Well, Jack, it’s naughty but I don’t mind half a glass of beer around this time of day.’

It was raining on Melbourne, no wind, just water falling through air pollution. A dented bus from security parking collected me, a reckless youth with a bad mullet driving. ‘Col sends his regards,’ he said. ‘He says, let me get this right, he says to say you’re a person of interest to someone and you’re not due back till next week. Make sense?’

I looked at the darkening world pinstriped with grey. ‘Tell him I said thanks,’ I said.

After the awful tollway, the jammed streets, I parked where I could look across the open space and see the old boot factory, my place of residence.

Early evening in the expensive inner city, a woman getting home, claiming a park, taking her briefcase out of the Volvo, the bag heavy with paper brought from the paperless office, bleeping the car, flashes of light, yellow.

I sat. I wished I could smoke. I saw my new neighbour come home. After a while, her lights went on upstairs, the two street windows. The curtains closed and the building was dark again.

A tired man sitting in his old Studebaker watching his own house, burdened with knowledge he’d sought and now didn’t want. My mobile rang. I’d only just remembered to switch it on.

‘Back from the state of sand, are we?’ Wootton.

‘I’m no stranger to sand,’ I said. ‘My life’s built on it.’

‘Detect a note of melancholy, old sausage? Bit liverish? Hit the organ with a couple of decent scotches. Cheers it up no end.’

From the boyish yelps in the background, I gathered that he was at the Windsor, administering the liver tonic to himself.

‘Any luck with that stuff?’ I said.

‘My helpful concierge has prised open the lips of his counterpart at the establishment. Using a rolled-up three-figure note, I’ll ask you to remember.’

‘It’s indelible. What?’

‘Booked for that night by a company called Barras Holdings. The occupants aren’t recorded.’

‘Don’t people have to sign the register?’ I said.

‘Not in the case of corporate bookings.’

‘So the Bersaglieri Running Band could have stayed up there that night?’

‘In theory.’

‘And black-tie functions?’

‘Hold on, I’ve got it here.’

I listened to the younger stockmarket advisors having a laugh, that would be about the shittiness of dealing with the gripes of people you’d put into shares you wouldn’t personally touch wearing a cast-iron condom.

‘As one might expect,’ said Wootton, ‘the place doesn’t record the dress required of guests. But my person suggests that black tie would be the Conrad Spratt Youth Foundation dinner in the Flinders Room and the Concrete Association dinner in the River Room.’

The windows were fogged. I found the handle and wound. Steel cogs meshed. You felt that the Stud’s winders could raise and lower a drawbridge. Cold, damp air came in, carrying the seductive chemical smell of the city.

‘No,’ I said, ‘not those.’

I was looking at the boot factory, not seeing anything.

My scalp tightened.

A lighter had flared in a window, someone lighting a cigarette.

Someone was standing in the dark at one of my front windows. Waiting for me, for the Stud, to come into view.

‘Still there, sport?’

‘Yes.’

‘There were other small things on at the hotel that night but we won’t have a list for a while. I’ll bear the cost of this exercise as a mark of something or other.’

‘Mark of Cain would be about right,’ I said, eyes on my upstairs window. ‘Thanks, Cyril.’

What to do? Someone waiting for me to come home, sitting, standing, walking around in my house, opening drawers, looking in cupboards, opening my fridge, taking a piss, pissing in my bathroom.

Not pissing. I didn’t like that thought.

By the dim streetlight, I found the latest number in my little book.

‘Home invasion,’ said Cam. ‘Taking up your personal space. You could send the jacks in. You’re a citizen. You’re entitled.’

I could hear a piano in the room with him, slow, deliberate notes, repeated, then a quick passage, lovely, nothing I knew. ‘I’ve had it with this stuff,’ I said. ‘I live there.’

‘I remember that,’ he said.

In his silence, the piano, talented hands. Why was it that he always seemed to have a musical person in his life?

‘Lighting up in the window is smart,’ said Cam. ‘He thought he was in a movie. This is presumably just a fuckhead sent to hurt you. We can kick his arse but maybe you need to think about kicking some heads. That way they don’t send anyone else.’

Where to start kicking heads? Who sent the man to my office to bash me? The people who killed Mickey and Sarah, that was all I knew.

Around the corner from the factory, a grey four-wheel-drive pulled into a space. Someone got out.

‘I think the shift’s changing,’ I said.

At the corner, the person turned left, went directly to my front door.

‘Shift change or someone visiting me,’ I said.

The door opened, someone came out, the newcomer went in, the door closed.

‘New shift,’ I said.

The man walked around the corner. He was going to his replacement’s car… no, he walked past it, I lost sight of him, he had his own car, probably in the next street.

‘The new one’s parked just around the corner,’ I said.

‘Cheeky,’ said Cam. ‘That’s not acceptable. Got anything to mark it?’

I opened the glovebox, rummaged around, found a roll of masking tape. I told Cam. He gave instructions.

‘Is this wise?’ I said.

‘Beats me,’ said Cam.

I was back in the same parking place inside ten minutes, got out my little silver flask, watched, had a few sips, the lovely burn of neat single malt, a kind of smoking. An occasional car, the odd person crossing the park in the drizzle, men, young, in a hurry, late for the children’s bathtime at home perhaps. They would die regretting every chance missed to nuzzle a plump, powdered tummy.

Fifteen minutes went by. The mobile rang.

‘Any minute,’ said Cam. ‘Probably best you don’t go home tonight. I can fix you up.’