Peter Temple - Black Tide

‘About a year: 1984.’

‘And you didn’t hear the stories till then. So you broke up for other reasons.’

She leaned back in her chair, put her chin up. ‘You could say. Yes, other reasons. I’d put up with being bashed about. Don’t know why. Reason two, he was rooting my little sister. How did I find out? She told me. Why did she do that? Reason three. She was really, really upset. She’d walked in on him rooting my mother.’

I nodded. The practice of the law teaches you that some things require no comment.

‘What sort of work did he do after the force?’

‘Worked for a transport company. Security. What else can ex-cops do? It’s that or deal drugs, armed robbery.’

‘Remember the name of the company?’

‘TransQuik. They were much smaller then.’

Every time you turned a corner you seemed to be behind a TransQuik truck.

‘Know how long that lasted?’

‘Still there when I put his case out with the rubbish.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘that gives me a bit of a feeling for Gary.’

Judy smiled the smile of resignation. ‘Wish I’d developed a bit of a feeling for the shit before I married him. As a matter of interest, where does he live now?’

‘Toorak. Very smart apartment. Drives an Audi.’

‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘And I’m still in Richmond with a clapped-out Corolla. Hope you find the bastard. Don’t suppose there’s any chance he could go to jail for this?’

‘No. You wouldn’t know anything about the second wife, would you?’

Two more customers came in. ‘Would indeed. Got to get to work,’ said Judy, getting up. ‘Friend of mine goes to this hairdresser in Little Collins Street, UpperCut it’s called, these two Poms run it, trained by Vidal Sassoon, all that crap. Well, one day the one Pom says Chrissy, his best girl, the bitch, is getting married. To the most divine man, he says. Gary Connors, that’s his name. What’s he look like? It’s Gary.’

I said, ‘Chrissy. When would that have been?’

She puffed her cheeks, exhaled. ‘About ’85. Around there. She’s a Housing Commission girl, apparently, Chrissy. Broadmeadows. Not that that matters.’

‘You’ve been a big help, Judy. Thanks.’

She touched my arm. ‘Give my love to Des. Tell him to come in any day he feels like lunch. Cab’s on me.’

‘I’ll tell him. Make his day.’

Outside, the sun was gone and a cold, insistent wind was running through the town. I walked to Collins Street, chin tucked in, thinking about Gary. If he could defraud his father, he probably made a habit of taking people’s money. The other victims might be less passive than Des. Gary could well be on the run. That probably meant Des’s money was history, but there would be no knowing until Gary was found. I didn’t fancy my chances.

At the office, I found the shopping dockets I’d taken from Gary’s kitchen. The most recent one was from a bottle shop in Prahran. On April 3, Gary bought a case of beer and six bottles of wine and paid an employee called Rick $368.60.

Customers form relationships with their suppliers. Suppliers very much want to form relationships with customers who pay $368.60 for a slab of beer and six bottles of wine.

A place to start.

Gary Connors’ source of liquor was near the Prahran Market and more wine merchant than grog shop. From behind the cash register, a slick young man smiled at me: white shirt, blue tie, long dark-green apron. I showed a card.

‘Mr Connors. Got two Connors. One’s really old.’

I said, ‘He was in here on the third of April, bought six bottles of Petaluma chardonnay and a slab of Heineken.’

‘Police?’

‘No. I represent his father. Mr Connors junior seems to be missing.’

He took this seriously, frowned. ‘Rick reckons a bloke was after Mr Connors that day.’

‘Rick?’

‘Works here. He’s in the back.’ He went to the back of the shop, opened a door and shouted the name, came back. A tall youth appeared in the doorway: teenage skin, cropped hair, wearing the green apron over a white T-shirt and jeans.

‘Rick, Mr Connors, the one you deliver to in Toorak?’

‘Yeah.’

‘About the bloke following him.’

The youth took a few paces, stopped, sniffed, wiped his nose with a thumb. He had intelligence in his eyes. ‘I was at Ronni’s. On the corner. Saw Mr Connors get out of his car in the carpark.’

‘Remember the car?’

‘Yeah. Green Audi. Carried lots of stuff to it before. Anyway, he crossed the road, walked down this way and came in here. Then a bloke parks, blue Commodore, illegal park, on the lines, that’s why I noticed. It’s a joke around here-bout a million tickets a year in that spot. He jumps out, then he walks casual, like he’s just window-shoppin, round the corner. And he stops across the road.’

Rick pointed to the other side of the street. ‘See the bookshop there? He looks in the window, looks over his shoulder. Then he goes inside, I can see him lookin out the window. And he stays there till Mr Connors comes out of the shop with Sticks.’

‘Sticks?’

‘Other bloke works here. He carried the stuff to the car. When they get down by the corner, the bloke in the bookshop, he comes out and he’s up the street, movin quick, not window-shoppin now. Not quick enough, the cop’s just puttin the ticket under the wiper. He gets in, doesn’t even take the ticket off. When Mr Connors comes out of the carpark, he hangs a U-turn and he’s off after him.’

‘What’d he look like?’

‘Sort of medium. Like a businessman. Suit. Dark hair, not long. Little limp.’

‘Limp?’

‘Yeah. Not much. Like a sore knee, sort of.’

I found a ten-dollar note. ‘Thanks, Rick. I’m being paid, so should you.’

He looked at the boss, took the note, nodded, left.

‘Thanks for your help,’ I said to the man behind the counter.

‘Not a problem.’

‘By the way, Mr Connors ever talk to any other customers? You get to know people at your bottle shop, don’t you?’

‘Sure do. Haven’t seen Mr Connors’ mate for a while either.’

‘What mate’s that?’

‘Mr Jellicoe. Chat down the back there, where the fine wines are.’

‘Regularly?’

‘Every now and again, yeah. Two, three weeks. Mr Connors comes in when Mr Jellicoe isn’t here. But if Mr Jellicoe comes in, you know Mr Connors will be here soon.’

‘You wouldn’t have an address for Mr Jellicoe, would you?’

Doubtful look. ‘Not supposed to give you that. Shouldn’t give out customers’ addresses.’

‘It’s just to ask about Gary,’ I said. ‘We’re very worried about him. His father would appreciate your help. No mention of how we got the address, of course. Absolutely confidential.’

‘Well, if you don’t mention us. He’s on the mailing list, gets the newsletter.’

He went over to the computer, tapped a few keys, gave me an address in East St Kilda.

Mr Jellicoe lived in a narrow single-storey house, fifties infill, behind a high pale-yellow wall. I pressed the buzzer. No answer.

A newish Saab did a smart reverse park outside the house next door and a thin middle-aged woman in denim overalls got out, pulled a briefcase after her.

I buzzed again, longer. Waited, tried the solid wooden gate. Locked. No luck here.

‘No-one living there,’ the Saab woman said sternly. She was standing at the next-door gate, key in hand.

I smiled at her. No response. Inner-city suspicion.

‘I’m looking for a Mr Jellicoe,’ I said. ‘He lived here until recently.’

‘He’s dead,’ she said. ‘Someone bashed and strangled him. Police say he must have surprised a burglar.’