Peter Temple - Dead Point

‘So,’ said Enzio. ‘You fix it?’

‘I’ll fix it.’

We shook hands. I watched him go. At the corner, he felt my eyes, turned his head, smiled, raised a hand. I did the same.

Oh, Lord, why hast thou anointed me the fixer of all things? And why hast thou ordained this in a cold season in which too many things need fixing?

There were moments when I wished I could go somewhere quiet and ask sensible questions like these. My office wasn’t the place because the phone was ringing. It was Drew.

‘What is it with you?’ he said. ‘You no sooner take an interest in someone and bad things happen to them.’ He didn’t have to say the name. I knew.

‘Who?’

‘Alan Bergh. Found dead in his car at the airport. Execution-style killing, says the paper. Three shots in the head from a. 22.’ Someone was knocking at the door. I knew who it was. My day for being knowing.

They sat in the client chairs, a soft-looking big man with a moustache, a younger man with a long horse face. Agents Mallia and Bartholomew, Federal Police.

‘Let me understand this clearly,’ said Mallia. ‘You asked this Vietnamese gentleman…’

‘I have no idea whether he’s a gentleman,’ I said. ‘Do you?’

‘Manner of speech.’

‘Offensive manner of speech, if I may say so.’

Mallia coughed, looked at Bartholomew, who ran a hand over his head bristles.

‘If you say so,’ Mallia said. ‘You asked him a lot of questions about Bergh?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll say it again. Clearly. I was interested in using the services of Mr Bergh’s company. He wasn’t in, so I spoke to Mr Ngo. I asked him if he knew when Mr Bergh would be back or where he could be contacted.’

‘He says you didn’t know what Coresecure did, what its business was.’

‘That’s a misunderstanding. I asked him how much he knew about Coresecure. At that point, I thought he might have some involvement with the company.’

Equine-faced Bartholomew thought he’d chip in. ‘You wanted to use Bergh’s services. What for?’

‘What for?’

‘Yes. What for?’ He developed a smile, as if he’d been clever.

‘Security.’

‘Security for?’

‘Nothing in particular. Security in general. I wanted a feeling of security. I’ve always wanted to feel secure. What about you?’

The smile departed.

Mallia stroked his moustache, then, carefully, scratched the arranged hairs on his head. ‘You’re probably not aware of the powers conferred upon us by-’

I said, ‘I’m perfectly aware of them, agent. If you’re taking that route, my lawyer can be here in minutes. He’s a lawyer’s lawyer.’

Mallia shook his head. ‘Appreciate your co-operation, that’s all, Mr Irish. The man’s dead, you were at his office the day before, you’ll understand-’

‘Why’s this a federal matter?’

‘I can’t disclose that sort of information.’ He looked at his large hands, bunches of hair on the first joints. ‘How did Coresecure come to your attention?’

‘I’d seen the name on the door.’

‘In the area a lot?’

‘My work takes me everywhere.’

‘Yes.’ Mallia raised himself from the chair. Bartholomew followed his lead.

‘You’re not unknown to us, Mr Irish,’ said Mallia, attempting to give me the narrowed eye.

‘Nor your agency to me, Agent Mallia,’ I said. ‘And I can tell you I’ve derived very little pleasure from the acquaintanceship.’

I didn’t rise to see them out.

At the door, Mallia turned. ‘Have a good day,’ he said. ‘Give my regards to His Honour.’

Peter Temple

Dead Point (Jack Irish Thriller 3)

Things were quiet at The Green Hill, no-one braving the elements out front and only one customer in Down the Pub. Dieter the barman wasn’t on this morning, in his place a young woman in the establishment’s dark-green livery.

‘Good morning, sir,’ she said. ‘What can I serve you?’

‘I’m after Xavier Doyle,’ I said.

‘I’ll see if Mr Doyle’s in,’ she said. ‘It’s Mr…?’

‘Irish. Jack Irish.’

She went to a telephone on the back counter and spoke to someone, came back. ‘He’ll be along in a moment.’

Doyle appeared from my right, through a door beyond the last booth. He was wearing Donegal tweeds and a yellow shirt.

‘Jack,’ he said, hand out. He looked like a mildly debauched cherub. ‘My oath, you legal fellas are up and about with the sparrers.’

We shook hands. ‘Come and have a cup of coffee in the office,’ he said. ‘Coffee right for you?’

‘Perfect.’

‘Belinda, lass, lay on a pot of coffee, darlin. In me office.’

Doyle took my arm and escorted me back the way he’d come. We went through the door into a flagstoned passage, past two doors to the end. He opened a wide four-panel oak door and waved me in.

It was a big room, as much lounge as office, modern leather armchairs in front of a fireplace, a desk behind them, its top a curved slab of polished redgum holding a squat computer tower, a thin-screened monitor and a keyboard. One wall of the room was a floor-to-ceiling oak cupboard.

We sat in the armchairs, a low table separating us.

‘Not a social call, Jack,’ Doyle said. ‘Am I right?’

‘Business,’ I said. ‘I wanted to ask you a few more things about Robbie. Do you mind?’

‘Not at all.’ He sat back, laced fingers over a tweed knee. ‘But I don’t think I know much more to tell.’

‘Did you know his real name?’

He ducked his chin. ‘Real name? Meanin?’

‘His name’s Marco Lucia.’

Doyle shook his head. ‘That’s news to me. What’s the reason for another name?’

‘I’m not sure. He was involved with some fairly hard people in Queensland, may have been on the run.’

There was a knock at the door. Doyle got up, opened it, took a tray from someone. He put it down on the table, poured coffee dark and fragrant into china cups.

‘Sugar?’

I accepted a spoonful.

‘Have a bikkie. Bake em ourselves. Almond short-bread.’ He chewed. ‘Delicious. Well, we certainly didn’t do any checkin on Robbie. No-one bothers for casuals. Why would ya?’

The coffee was rich as rum, the biscuit dissolved on the tongue, all butter. I got out the photograph of Alan Bergh. ‘Ever seen this man?’

Doyle took it from me, had a good look, frowned. ‘Don’t think so. Although there’s an awful lot of people come through, you’ll understand. I can’t say he’s never bin here, that I can’t. But I can’t recall the face offhand. No.’

‘Good coffee,’ I said.

‘Our own blend. Fella in Carlton makes it up. So who’s the man?’ He put the photograph on the table.

I drank some more coffee, not in a hurry. Then I took out my notebook and found the page. ‘These numbers.’ I read them out, numbers from Alan Bergh’s mobile-phone bill. ‘They’re your phones.’

Doyle wiped his lips with a napkin from the tray. His look was of mild amusement. ‘Now you’re findin out a great deal about us, Jack. Business numbers, those.’

He wasn’t amused, not even mildly. The expression was an instinctive one, animal, speaking of wariness, uncertainty.

‘The numbers? They’re not in any book.’

I pointed at the photograph. ‘This man rang those numbers. Thirteen times in a month. Sure you don’t know him?’

Doyle was raising his cup to his lips. He didn’t complete the movement, replaced the cup on the saucer. ‘Now Jack,’ he said, ‘you won’t mind me sayin this is borderin on the impertinent. You’d have to be doin somethin illegal to know enough to ask such questions. Would that be right?’

‘You don’t know him?’