Peter Temple: Dead Point

‘Shit,’ said Barry, impassive, appreciative. ‘Man with the golden stick.’

‘This Olsen,’ I said. Mick Olsen had picked up messages from Alan Bergh left with the lovely Kirstin Deane at her minimally stocked boutique.

‘The Commissioner’s enema. Just the name’s a suppository. And there’s blokes in the squad want him dead, they say.’ He drank. ‘Anyhow, Mick’s highly deadly, shouldn’t speak ill of him.’

‘The name Alan Bergh mean anything?’

Barry looked at me briefly, probed a tooth with his tongue, shook his head, went back to watching the pool.

‘Bergh made calls to Olsen’s girlfriend. To be passed on, I gather.’

‘Jack, Mick’s in the drug business. Get lots of messages. It’s a message business.’

‘What’s made him history?’

‘Done the Feds like a dinner. Unbelievable fuck-up.’

‘Coke jackets?’ The case before Mr Justice Loder.

He looked at me, a full look, shook his head in a sad way. ‘Jack, I don’t know. You had a profession. I looked up to you.’

‘Did you really?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Tell me about Olsen,’ I said.

Barry drank some beer.

I drank some. I was starting to like the taste. I put my glass down, pushed it away. Just a few centimetres away. The symbolic distance between the me who would once have knocked back this beer and then woken up somewhere strange with a full beard, and the me now.

‘A bloke called Ross set it up,’ said Barry. ‘Conned the Feds he’s got Mr Big on the line, the man’s placed a trial order. A controlled delivery scam. Very stylish, made the Canberra boys look like absolute cunts.’

Bandanna’s opponent played a two-cushion shot that sank a ball.

‘Jeez, luck,’ said Barry. ‘These two cunts were supposed to lead to a Mr Big, like you get to the big-time by being such an arsehead that the delivery boys can take the Feds to you.’

‘Where’s Olsen come in?’

Barry put a hand into his jacket and, without taking out the packet, found a cigarette. He lit it with a plastic lighter, coughed, calmed his throat with a long drink of beer. ‘The talk is that Olsen’s the brains. He’s a smart fella. Nearly finished law at Monash.’

‘That’s not a sign of smartness,’ I said. ‘He got what out of this business?’

‘Well,’ Barry said, looking around the room, ‘it appears the Feds helped the boys bring in more stuff than the two Ks they find on them, so the extra’s what Mick got out. Between the airport and the handover, that vanished.’

‘How do they know that?’

Barry shrugged. ‘Apparently they heard from the supply end. After. Over here, these Fed dickheads just took it on trust what the boys were carrying. Couldn’t have a look in Perth, open their cases. It was on the pricks, in these jackets, world’s heaviest fucken ski jackets, must’ve hung down to their knees.’

‘Where’d Olsen’s excess go?’

‘On-sold quick-smart you’d imagine. Same night. But that’d be a contract.’

He finished his beer, wiped his lips with a thumb. ‘Got to go, sweep some of Mick’s stuff off the fucken streets.’

‘There’s a small thing,’ I said.

‘Oh yeah.’

‘I need to find out who identified a body.’

‘Fuck, Jack, you’re a nuisance.’

‘Your day will come.’

‘I doubt that very fucken much. Shoulda been a crook. Chose the wrong end of the fucken stick. What body’s this?’

I told him, watched him leave. The pool players watched him too. They knew a cop when they saw one. Then they looked at me. I looked back. They found other things to look at.

A new BMW was parked outside my office, illegally. The driver was on the phone, head back on the rest. I recognised the profile, tapped on the window centimetres from his face. His head jerked around.

Gavin Legge, former journalist and master of the contra-deal, now, according to Linda, a spinphysician for an international PR firm. He got out, right hand outstretched.

‘Jack, old mate.’ Legge exuded warmth. He also exuded prosperity: new pinstriped suit on the chubby body, expensive haircut and a good dye job, rimless glasses to replace the thick-framed, scratched and smeared pair I’d last seen him in.

‘Gavin.’

We shook hands.

‘I hope you’re not looking for legal representation,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a new policy of only taking on clients who promise to pay within five years.’

He slapped my arm. ‘Man on a mission, I am. Can we talk inside?’

We went in. Legge looked around the unadorned chamber.

‘Backstreet law, eh? Down at the level of the people. I admire that.’

‘Some slurp champagne from the tainted silver chalice,’ I said, ‘some choose honour and a stubby.’

Legge laughed, not a convincing effort, and sat down. I went around the desk.

‘I won’t beat around the bush, Jack, no, that’s not our way at all.’

‘Our? Have you subdivided yourself? Been cloned? Is there more than one Gavin Legge now? The world may not be ready for that.’

Another feeble attempt at laughter. ‘I’m speaking for Ponton’s,’ he said, crossing his legs, pulling at his trousers. ‘I’m with Ponton’s now. World’s most respected image management consultants. Headhunted.’

‘Are you sure they’ve got the most valuable part? What can I do for you? All of you.’

‘Jack, one of our clients is Anaxan. You’ll be familiar with Anaxan, they’re going to develop Cannon Ridge, multimillion-dollar development, something all Victorians, all Australians, will be proud of, a world-class ski resort and casino, the Aspen of…’

I held up a hand. ‘Gavin, I liked you more when you weren’t writing the media releases, just sneaking them into the paper.’

He coloured a little. ‘Sorry, my enthusiasm carries me away. It’s about Alan Bergh. We understand you were interested in Alan Bergh.’

I didn’t say anything. I sat back and laced my fingers on the tabletop and looked at him.

‘That’s correct, isn’t it? You were interested in Alan Bergh.’

I didn’t reply, kept my eyes on his. He licked his lips, made a smacking noise with them.

‘Now, Jack,’ he said, hands in action, ‘please don’t take this amiss, we’ve known each other a long time and I’d hate to think-’

‘Gavin,’ I said, ‘you have no way of knowing what interests me unless you’ve been spying on me. Will you confirm that you’re spying on me?’

Hands in the air. ‘Jack, Jack, mate, mate, hold on, listen to me for a second, I’ll explain. I can explain.’

‘Explain. Briefly.’

‘Right.’ Legge coughed. ‘Right. Now, Jack, our client, that’s Anaxan, they’ve been very disturbed, disturbed and disgusted, I might say, by the tactics of WRG, the other tenderer… Are you with me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Of course you are. Our clients believe that WRG gained information from inside the Cannon Ridge tender panel. Alan Bergh was involved, we’re pretty sure of that, an absolute scumbag, Jack, you’ll know that.’

‘Why are you here, Gavin?’ I asked.

A raised hand. ‘Out of courtesy, Jack. Courtesy and friendship. Someone told us you were inquiring about Bergh — no, don’t get angry, there was no spying involved, pure chance that it came to our ears. And I wanted to tell you to be careful that WRG didn’t try to use you, feed you misleading information. That’s all there is to it. No more than that. Just an act of friendship. And courtesy.’

‘You’re saying that Bergh worked for WRG?’

‘Absolutely. Dangerous people, Jack.’ He looked relieved.

‘What’s he supposed to have done?’

‘Well, I suppose it’s pretty much an open secret. Bribed Paul Rykel. Department of Conservation.’