Peter Temple - Dead Point

‘I’ll be back with one,’ I said. ‘One of their top agents. Licensed to sell.’

Walking back to the car, I felt smug for a minute. A hunch that paid off. Or had it? What had I learned by finding out that Ros Cundall owned an apartment in a building Marco had gone into? Nothing. Ros Cundall probably owned apartments in every expensive block in the city.

Marco working at The Green Hill, Marco going into Cathexis, Marco from the Umbrian idyll turning up on Colin Loder’s doorstep.

I was beginning to like the Umbrian story less and less. Too romantic for my taste. And, in the light of what I now knew about Marco and Susan, implausible.

From the car, I rang Colin Loder’s borrowed mobile. He wouldn’t be in court, it was lunchtime.

‘Yes.’

‘Jack.’

‘Jack.’

‘Clarification. Umbria, the person arrives on the doorstep, later reappears.’

‘Yes?’

‘Bullshit, yes?

A pause, a sigh. ‘Well. Yes. A story.’

I waited.

‘I didn’t want it to sound like…well…’

‘A pick-up?’

‘Yes. Umbria was a fiction.’

‘Where then?’

He hesitated. ‘A place I’ve had a few drinks at. So as not to be completely removed from reality. As are most of my colleagues.’

‘The Green Hill?’

Pause. ‘How exactly did you work that out?’

‘Is that in the Snug?’

‘Yes. You know it?’

‘No. I know Xavier Doyle.’

‘Well, the Snug’s like a club, I suppose. You have to be with someone who’s persona grata.’

‘Who were you with?’

‘Ros Cundall, Mike Cundall’s wife. I’m on a gallery committee with her. She insisted I join her after a meeting. Introduced me to Xavier.’

‘Who introduced you to Marco?’

‘Ros. He was behind the bar. She said, meet Marco before he’s famous, he’s writing the great Australian novel. Words to that effect.’

This was a small city. But in the end all cities are small.

‘Any headway, Jack?’ Not a confident voice.

‘A little. Get back to you.’

‘Thanks.’

Little was the word. I drove back to Fitzroy thinking about the versatility of Marco, the number of lives he’d touched.

I was unlocking the office door, wind pulling at my clothes, when a respectable Subaru drew up, double-parked.

Cam.

I got in. It was warm and comfortable, things I had been missing.

‘Pretty up there in the hills,’ he said, no expression. ‘Total waste of time. The address’s at the top of a dead end, three houses on the road. Dunno how you deal drugs from a place like that, all that commutin.’

‘Anyone home?’

‘Woman hangin up washin, two kids hangin on her, cattle dog.’

‘What now?’

‘The plumber and the wood man.’

I went inside, found Jean Hale’s faxed list, made haste to quit the dusty ice cave for the clean warmth of the vehicle outside.

‘Plumber I wouldn’t be hopeful about,’ said Cam, eyes on the paper. ‘Make too much money. Like doctors. Now wood’s another matter. Very seasonal, wood.’

‘What’s his name?’ I said.

‘Lizard Ellyard.’

‘Lizard Ellyard,’ I said. ‘Used to be a bikie gang called the Lizards.’

Cam turned his head, interest in the dark eyes.

I found the Hales’ number in my book, got out the mobile. Jean answered.

‘Jean, Jack. Can you ask your husband or Sandy if they know why this man Ellyard is called Lizard?’

She was gone for several minutes. I heard the labrador bark, a door bang.

‘There, Jack?’

‘Yes.’

‘Dave says Lizard wears an old leather jacket with Lizard on the back. Bought it at an op-shop, he reckons.’

I said thanks.

Cam was looking at me. I told him.

‘The Coburg milk bar lady said Artie was a bike person, very noisy,’ he said. ‘What happened to the Lizards?’

I tried to remember. ‘They were in the news, fighting with some other mob.’

‘Lizards,’ said Cam. ‘Not a good name for a gang. Too close to the ground, the lizard.’

Something on television: a smouldering building, fire engines.

‘Their clubhouse was attacked,’ I said. ‘Or they torched the other lot’s place.’

‘They all do that,’ said Cam. ‘That’s what they do on Sunday night. I might ask around. Listen, the big man said to tell you, eight in the seventh at the Valley on Sunday. Not the house at all, each-way. And pray for rain in the mornin.’

‘Getting back into it?’

Cam half smiled. ‘Kiwi horse, come for the winter pickins. Trainer’s dad’s a Pom, rode against Harry in England. This nag loves mud. The big man’s picked the suitable outin for him.’

In the office, a male on the answering machine said: Jack, here’s a number.

I wrote it down, walked to the Lebanese shop and ordered a salad roll. Then I rang the number, a mobile.

Senior Sergeant Barry Tregear answered.

‘Working days now?’ I said.

‘Days, nights, on a taskforce, mate. We’re all on taskforces, force of taskforces. Listen, go a beer? I’m about five from that place, y’know?’

He was standing with his back against the counter, a depleted beer in his right hand: a big man in a dark rumpled suit watching two stringy young men playing pool.

‘Where’d you get the tan?’ I said.

‘Holidays, mate. Private-school boys wouldn’t understand. Life’s all play to you.’

‘I’m close to played out.’ I found my beer behind him and had a deep drink. Cooper’s. ‘What taskforce did you draw?’

‘Street dealers. War on street dealers. Finished our task, mate, it’s a fucken indoor activity.’

‘That’s when you form a taskforce to drive them onto the streets again.’

‘Exactly. We’re like the tides. Move shit in and out.’ He drank half his glass, burped, a full-blooded burp. ‘I reckon they should give McDonald’s the franchise to sell drugs. Quality control, clean premises, collect fucking GST. Plus the junkies get a burger with every hit, keep em healthy. McSmack.’

‘Leaving you and your colleagues free to drive around at high speeds and shoot people.’

‘Yeah. That and the relationship counselling, role modelling.’ He eyed me. ‘Down in the weights. Dying or a new girlfriend?’

‘Exercise, strict diet.’

‘Dying then. On the subject, this query of yours. Mick Olsen. Why are you always fucking around with dangerous things?’

One of the pool players wore a bandanna, the other a cap backwards. Bandanna man was going for an impossibly acute angle. We watched. It wasn’t impossible after all.

‘Fuuuck,’ said his opponent.

‘The person’s a cop,’ I said. ‘Cops are only supposed to be dangerous to wrongdoers.’

Barry turned his head, had no trouble finding the barmaid’s eyes where she stood talking to a fat man in a Bombers beanie and scarf. She tossed her head. The light from the west window spangled off the rings and stones in her nose and ears and eyebrows.

‘Mick’s a cop in history,’ Barry said. ‘Resigned a while ago. Now a man of leisure. But dangerous still. You don’t even want to know his name.’

‘Why?’

‘Drug squad. Policing where the shit interfaces with the fans, if you get my meaning.’

‘Just the melody.’

‘Here ya go.’ The multi-pierced one put two new beers on the counter. I paid.

‘I say again, dangerous is the word,’ said Barry. He was intent on the pool players. Bandanna man was sighting down the length of the table, trying to pot one of three balls in a cluster.

‘This bloke’s fucken ambitious,’ said Barry.

Bandanna picked the nominee out of the group, thudded it into the corner pocket.