Peter Temple - Dead Point

I remembered what Colin Loder had said:

I don’t think it would be unjudicial of me to describe the operation as a massive cock-up.

‘Anyway,’ said Drew, ‘he didn’t miss much. The boofheads are found to be carrying less than two kilos and apparently the marching powder is of a quality that doesn’t produce quite as much of the wit, confidence and feelings of general wellbeing as the punters expect.’

‘So what the prosecution’s got are two blokes approached to buy drugs by a police informer who says he was acting on behalf of a mystery man.’

‘Yup. And the only person the drugs were delivered to is the informer. Needless to say, the judge will have the Appeal Court much on his mind. Pratchett QC is of the opinion Colin Loder will kick the thing into the street next week.’

‘The Feds wouldn’t be buying their dog a big bone.’

‘Only themselves to blame. My mate Terry says the word is McCallum, dumb though he is, knows more than he’s saying.’

‘Meaning?’

‘He may know something about Leavis, the mystery man.’

‘Something the dog doesn’t know?’

‘Possibly. Brian might have been just smart enough to find out who the real client was. Someone the Feds apparently suspect but can’t do anything about.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Your fund of knowledge obviates the need to buy newspapers or watch television. Not to mention read the learned journals.’

‘Honoured to be of service. What’s your interest?’

‘Purely professional. Highly professional. On that subject, how is the high-achieving personally trained one?’

‘Ravishing. A weekend has been proposed. Windswept beaches, just the cries of the seabirds.’

‘As they impale themselves on used syringes.’

With a soothing mug of the warm brown fluid to hand, I went to bed with my novel. But I couldn’t concentrate, eyes on the page, mind on Marco and Alan Bergh and the judge. If Brian McCallum knew who put up the money for the drug deal, someone would want to be very sure he didn’t go down and then decide to bargain with the Feds. And that someone would have made sure Brian knew he had nothing to fear, knew that he was going to walk.

I gave up on the book, doused the light, and lay awake for a long time, soft rain on the old iron roof, liquid whispers in the downpipes, all around the hoot and squeal and wail of the animal city. Oddly comforting sounds tonight.

In the morning, I was at the door, ready to hip-and-shoulder the day, when the phone rang.

‘I find you decent?’

Linda.

‘I find you jolly nice too,’ I said, ‘but I’d like to be seen as, well, more raffish than decent. Can you do that?’

‘Work needed on my interrogative inflection. No wonder I’m having so much trouble with interviews.’

We met at a place in Rathdowne Street north. Once, this end of Rathdowne Street boasted only the best pizzas in town and Frank and Maria’s coffee shop, the best-loved coffee shop in town. I hadn’t tried the pizzas in a while but Frank and Maria’s was gone and now there was an eating strip two blocks long.

‘Toast,’ said Linda after we’d ordered. ‘Toast is with breakfast. Toast is part of breakfast. Toast is not of itself breakfast. Are you in love?’

I’d forgotten how the morning suited her.

‘I didn’t want to say I’d had my breakfast.’

‘What was it?’

‘Porridge, scrambled eggs and a piece of steak. Sausage or two. Three, actually. Bit of bacon.’

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Mouldy muesli with curdling milk.’

‘Yes, I am in love,’ I said. ‘I feel you understand me.’

She gave me several bits of bacon and half a grilled Roma tomato. We were on the coffee when she said, ‘Jamie Toxteth. You were asking about him.’

It took a moment to summon up Jamie Toxteth. ‘The polo player.’

The unknown woman in the surveillance clip waiting for Robbie/Marco was in a car owned by a Jamie Toxteth company.

‘I was talking to someone in Sydney and I remembered your question.’ She drank coffee. ‘She said Susan Ayliss worked for Jamie and this Blackiston person before she became a media talent.’

Susan Ayliss had for a time been television’s favourite economics commentator, a Canberra academic who made Treasury notes sound like love letters. She had long blonde hair and a slightly pointy nose, and when she looked over her rimless glasses you wanted to be in her tutorial and you wanted to be the one who said something intelligent.

‘What became of the perfect creature?’

‘She’s an eco-consultant, she reinvented herself, did another degree. Became the squeakiest and cleanest consultant in the known universe, the flying darling of eco-consultancy. Whatever the fuck that is.’

‘Flying?’

‘She flies her own plane. Like Amelia Earwig. Sees the world from a great height. And won’t be interviewed because it could compromise her. The woman is beyond publicity. Beyond fucking belief, in fact.’

‘I forget why we’re talking about her.’

‘Before her career change, she had an affair with Jamie. More than an affair. She got divorced. Jamie left his wife, some even richer snorting-nostrilled horse-mounter no doubt. They lived together but in the end Jamie would not actually cut the painter.’

She’d lost me. I didn’t care much about the affairs of Sydney people. ‘Not since Van Gogh has a painter been properly cut,’ I said. ‘Why are you telling me this?’

Linda ignored the question, put marmalade on her last quarter of toast. ‘Apparently a poisonous breakup. Susan had become a partner in the firm, she was the one bringing in all the business, and she had to be bought out. My friend says Susie’s lawyer nailed Jamie.’

‘That’s interesting. I’m glad I know that. I’ve always felt there was something missing in my global picture.’

She smiled at me. ‘Including a new car every three years for a good while.’

She bit off a piece of toast. I watched her chewing. I’d always admired her eating. She was a very neat eater, no teeth showed, no crumb stuck or fell.

‘Susan Ayliss’s got long hair,’ I said.

‘So?’

‘The woman driving the car’s got short hair.’

‘When last did you see Ms Ayliss?’

‘Few years ago. Well, five or six, could be more. Ten.’

Linda put her head on one side and looked at me.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘It’s early.’

‘She was on the Cannon Ridge tender panel,’ said Linda. ‘I can’t remember why you were interested in the car?’

‘It appears in a video. Probably by accident. Why was she on the panel?’

‘I’m told the last Premier got prickly feelings around her.’

‘If that was the only qualification, panel meetings would have been at the Melbourne Cricket Ground.’

‘She’s also Ms Integrity.’

‘Integrity plus the pricklies, now that’s an unbeatable combo. I’ve got to go. I work in the hours of daylight.’

She leaned forward. ‘I sense,’ she said, ‘that you’re withholding. You’ll tell me if you chance upon anything of broadcast quality?’

‘With what inducement?’

Under the tablecloth, a hand was on my thigh. ‘I have inducements to offer.’

‘I’m not sure I fully grasp what you mean,’ I said.

Her hand moved upwards. The long fingers came into play. I could feel my blood rushing downhill, upper body going pale.

‘Grasp?’ she said. ‘I could fully grasp you right here.’

I looked at her. Her face was impassive, head cocked as if listening to distant sounds. She wasn’t wearing lipstick.

‘This hasn’t happened to me in public for, ah, fifteen years,’ I said.

‘Is it like Kennedy’s death?’ she said. ‘A whole generation of people know exactly where they were when they heard about it?’ She was scratching me, an unbearably erotic feeling.