Peter Temple - Black Tide

‘What was his job at TransQuik?’

‘I never quite worked it out. He used to go to business meetings a lot. All over. Europe, Asia, America.’

‘On his own?’

‘Mostly. Brent Rupert, he was one of the bosses, he used to go to Manila and to America with Gary.’

She came to the front door with me. As we left the conservatory, I looked back. The thin man was emerging from another turn, water streaming from his head.

In the broad passage, Chrissy said, ‘Something wrong about TransQuik. Always felt that from Gary’s behaviour. Alan says someone told him there’s funny money in the company. They had this American manager, Paul Scanga. He’d been in the American army. Dead eyes and these thick, short fingers. Creepy. Gary and I weren’t sleeping together by then. Don’t know why I was hanging on, beats me now. One night, Gary’s off his face, he says Scanga wants to sleep with me, it’s okay with him. I was packed and out of there in fifteen minutes. Less. He was lying on the sofa laughing at the television. Gave me a wave like this.’

She made a twirling gesture with her left hand. It spoke of profound indifference.

Beauty and manual dexterity do not of themselves bring happiness, I thought as I drove down the road towards the freeway. In the side mirror, I saw a car two behind me shift out for a better view. A green Jeep Cherokee. The driver was wearing dark glasses. He shifted the car back in.

Just another impatient driver on a busy road?

Down the freeway. The Lark liked freeways, a compact cat of a cop car bred to chase perps in sloppy oversprung V8s with big fins along Los Angeles freeways. Beyond the airport, an arrogant, paperweight Porsche came along, drew abreast, a hummingbird really. The driver, a bald man wearing thin dark glasses, back from a business trip to Sydney no doubt, heard the sound of the Stud’s eight, the music of a serious piston ensemble, looked at the short, squat body, looked at me and decided to try it on. Generally, you let them go. That was sensible. And sometimes you didn’t. And that was silly. But it was nice, silly but nice, simply to drop down a notch, get the growl, feel the torque bunched like a bicep. Then tread the button and, with one smooth kick of power, leave the other person behind. What more innocent pleasure has the century produced?

I let Mr Porsche go and thought about the dead security consultant Koch. Once employed by TransQuik. American. Ex-army. Scanga, TransQuik’s manager when Gary worked there. American. Ex-army. Gary the security officer going to business meetings in Europe and Asia. Two dead travel agents, Novikov and Gary’s friend Jellicoe. Rinaldi’s allegation that Steven Levesque could derail a prosecution for murder.

I looked in the mirror for a green Jeep Cherokee.

Nothing.

‘What’s that noise?’ asked Harry Strang.

We were sitting in a coffee shop in Ballarat, waiting for McCurdie. The sun was out and at the pavement tables the locals were exposing fishbelly skin. They looked stunned, like people from Irkutsk transported to Hawaii by aliens.

‘Miles Davis,’ said Cam. ‘A John Denver for people who don’t like words. And voices.’ He was staring at the wiry man in black piloting the espresso machine. ‘I know that bloke from somewhere.’

‘Miles,’ said Harry. ‘Miles. Good name for a horse. Rode a bloke called Miles Ahead in the Irish St Leger. Bugger of an animal. Huge thing. Caught wide and ran fourth. Bloody miles behind.’

The man brought the coffees over. ‘Two lattes, one short black,’ he said.

Harry examined his coffee. ‘That’s black,’ he said. ‘I can tell you’re a man knows black. Wear it. Make it.’

‘Let me know if it’s strong enough,’ the man said. ‘We can do it again.’

‘Got you,’ said Cam.

The man cocked his head.

‘Demons,’ Cam said. ‘Played a few for the Demons. Right? Crackers Keenan’s day.’

The man smiled, a self-effacing little smile, said, ‘I wasn’t much good.’

‘You were good,’ Cam said. ‘Crook ankle, I remember.’

‘Crook everything after some games.’

I saw McCurdie crossing the road. He was dressed for town: brown sportsjacket with bulging side pockets, grey flannels with turn-ups some distance above big brown shoes, checked Gloster shirt and a green tie wide enough to double as a table napkin. Even from a distance, I could see evidence that it had often served this secondary purpose.

McCurdie came right up to the window, peered into the cafe. Cam tapped on the glass, just below his nose. McCurdie recoiled like a startled horse, focused, recognised us. A smile of relief. He came in, had a good look around as he worked his way through the tables to get to us.

‘Pretty smart place this,’ he said, sitting down with care.

‘Ensures we won’t see anyone we know,’ said Harry.

A waitress appeared.

‘Cuppa tea, please,’ said McCurdie.

‘English Breakfast, Irish Breakfast, Earl Grey…’

McCurdie frowned at the table.

‘Make it the Irish,’ said Harry. He waited until the waitress had gone. ‘Done the paperwork then?’

McCurdie looked uncomfortable, scratched himself under his jacket. ‘Reckon.’

‘Who’s the new owner?’

‘I. and J. Grogan. He’s the wife’s cousin. Had a few horses before.’

‘Any luck?’

‘One run third at Murtoa.’

‘We’ll put that down as No,’ Cam said. ‘He appreciate the finer points of this?’

McCurdie nodded.

‘Explain the rules?’

‘He knows what he gets he gets from me.’

‘Settled in at Devine’s?’ asked Harry.

McCurdie nodded, more enthusiastically this time. ‘Treatin us good, that Karen,’ he said. ‘Knows horses too. Spose you know what happened to the husband.’

‘Some hoons rammed his horse float,’ said Harry. ‘Don’t go near her on the track. She’s the trainer now.’

‘Who’s the jock?’

‘Tommy Wicks.’

‘Mind if I have a word with the jock?’

‘Yes,’ said Harry. ‘Don’t go near him.’

The tea came in a pot with small jugs of milk and hot water. McCurdie eyed the makings with unease, big hands in his lap.

Harry poured the tea, as if that was his duty. ‘Milk?’

McCurdie nodded.

Harry pushed the sugar towards him. ‘Given the boy the drum,’ he said. ‘Field’s a bit small. Wouldn’t be too bad that. Problem is there’s two dead-uns in it I can see.’

McCurdie drank his tea in two mouthfuls, poured a refill, added hot water, milk, sugar.

Harry nodded encouragingly at him, pleased by his pupil’s progress.

McCurdie swilled tea, looked unhappy.

‘Tell us, McCurdie,’ Harry said. ‘You look like the one didn’t get picked.’

‘Well,’ McCurdie said, ‘I reckon I feel out of it. Like it’s nothin to do with me now.’

Harry leaned across the table. ‘Believe me, son, the investment here, that’s the feelin you want to have. But if there’s doubts, now’s the moment.’

Cam took a mobile phone the size of two matchboxes out of an inside pocket, flipped open the top, looked at McCurdie.

‘Jesus,’ said McCurdie, ‘didn’t mean it like that. I’m solid, I’m happy, I’m…’

‘That’ll do,’ said Harry. ‘Karen fill you in about today?’

McCurdie nodded.

‘He pulls up all right today,’ said Harry, ‘you’ll hear from me through her. Till it’s over, don’t call me. Want to talk, tell Karen, she’ll tell me. Understood?’

McCurdie nodded again. Harry put out a hand and they shook. ‘Full accountin when it’s over,’ said Harry. ‘Things don’t work the way we’d like em to, well, that’s racin. Work, we’ll find a place for a quiet drink. Off ya go.’