Peter Temple - Bad Debts

Pixley seemed to have gone down a gear. His eyelids were drooping. He shook himself alert. ‘About a year after Baygate, the same senior man in my department talked me into chucking out a planning decision against a company called Hexiod Holdings. Big shopping mall in Apsley. Millions involved. I also had the local MP camping in my office and a man called Massey, Dix Massey. Know of him?’

‘Owns racehorses.’

‘And other things. He’s Charis Corp’s chief cocksucker and standover man. Well, a couple of months later the same man in my department, Bleek, comes to see me. He’s sweating blood. He says there are things he wants to tell me but he wants indemnity first.’

Pixley drank deeply. ‘I said, “Tell me what it’s about, I’ll think about the indemnity.” He won’t. The bastard wants forgiveness before confession. We went on like this for a while, I told him to go away and think about it, come back tomorrow. He comes back the next day, says he had a brainstorm, he was talking rubbish on medication. Stress. Overwork. He’s taking sick leave. Please forget about the matter. Never came back. Early retirement. Never set foot in the building again. He’s dead now. Killed himself about six months later.’

‘You’re saying this was connected with Pitman?’

Pixley shrugged. ‘You can make your own connections. You know the name of the company that had the foresight to buy Hoagland?’

‘Yes. Hexiod Holdings.’

He nodded. ‘That’s the company. Sold it to Charis Corporation the other day, I see.’

‘Can I get this straight?’ I asked. ‘You’re saying that Pitman closed down Hoagland so that Hexiod could buy the site and turn it over to Charis?’

‘Draw your own fucking conclusions.’ He leaned forward. ‘What do you reckon’s the company that ended up building Baygate?’

‘Charis?’

‘Fast learner. That’s right. Came from nothing to be one of the biggest developers in the state in about ten years. Bloody miraculous. And now Pitman’s in the Planning chair again, old Joe Kwitny’s two boys can get seriously rich. Charles and bloody Andrew really can’t miss now. Next thing the Kwitnys are going to want their pederast pal Father fucking Gorman in Parliament.’

Father Gorman’s fulsome tribute to Joseph Kwitny came back to me. ‘Close to the Father, are they?’ I asked.

‘Old Joe’s the biggest donor to that shonky foundation of his. And I think Dix Massey’s one of the directors or whatever they call them.’

Pixley had another coughing fit. When it stopped, he pushed his glass away. He looked utterly worn out. ‘I’ve said enough, Jack. Time for some lettuce and my nap.’

I stood up. ‘Just one last thing,’ I said. ‘The death of Anne Jeppeson.’

‘Spot of luck for Mr Lucky Pitman, eh? Or do people make their own luck? See yourself out, Jack. Come again.’

I said thanks again. On the way out, I saw Jackie Pixley looking out at the bay. I said goodbye and she said something without turning.

We were sitting in front of a fire in the house Anne Jeppeson grew up in, drinking tea out of bone china cups with little roses on them. The room was comfortable: good furniture scuffed by life. Outside, it was raining on the big garden, the usual thin Melbourne drizzle that dampened the heart more than anything else.

‘I’m sorry to ask you to talk about something so painful,’ I said. I meant it. There’s a special kind of dread you don’t know about until you have children.

Mrs Jeppeson shook her head. ‘Nothing can make it any worse than it is,’ she said. She was in her sixties, a thin and pretty woman with short hair and a faraway look. She was dressed for outdoor work: trousers, shirt, sleeveless jacket and short boots. ‘Sometimes I’m glad to talk to someone about it. My husband can’t bring himself to. But Anne’s death lies there all the time.’

‘Did you see much of her?’

‘Not as much as we wanted to. She was always busy and she had her own friends. But she came for most Sunday lunches, well, perhaps every second Sunday here and at the sea. We have a place at Portsea. She was there with us for a few days that summer. Our son and his family were here too. They were living in Hong Kong then. He’s in banking, like his father.’

She looked out of the window. Some bedraggled sparrows were pecking the terrace. ‘Do you find the winters depressing?’

‘Yes. Except for the football.’

‘Anne liked football. Richmond. The Tigers. No-one else in the family has any interest in it. My husband pretends to be interested when we’re with people who are. I don’t know why. It’s a male thing, I suppose. I spend as much time outside as possible in winter. I try to ignore the weather.’

‘Does that help?’

‘I’m not sure. I’d have to stop to find out. Why is Anne’s death of interest now?’

‘There’s a possibility that the person convicted of knocking her down didn’t do it.’

She didn’t react. ‘More tea? I think I’ll have some.’

‘Thank you. It’s very good.’

She poured. ‘Have another biscuit. They’re homemade. Not by me. I bought them at the church fete. I can’t bring myself to go to church any more so I go to all the fundraising efforts and buy things that never get eaten.’

I took another biscuit. ‘Perhaps you can tell me something about the days before…’

‘Her death. We hadn’t seen her for a fortnight. She phoned on the Sunday to say she couldn’t come to lunch. That Housing Commission business was on the go, so we saw her on television all the time. My husband was secretly quite proud of her, I think. Although you’d never have known it from the fights they had over those squats in people’s houses she used to organise.’

‘So you never had the chance to talk about the Hoagland protests?’

‘Just a few words on the phone. Well, more than a few words, I suppose. It was very difficult to limit Anne to a few words. She was always so passionate about everything, even when she was little. When she was thirteen or fourteen she knew everything about every oppressed group in the world. It drove her father up the wall. He even complained to the school about one of the teachers putting ideas into the girls’ heads. They couldn’t agree on anything political. If she wasn’t arguing with her father, she was fighting with her brother. She enjoyed baiting him. He’s very like his father. Conservative, I suppose. He used to call her Annie the Anarchist. It’s funny how different children grow up to be, isn’t it? Do you have children, Mr Irish?’

‘Just the one.’

‘I wish we’d had ten, spaced over twenty years. A stupid idea, isn’t it?’

‘No.’

She smiled. ‘Of course it is. You’re very diplomatic.’

The time had come. I said, ‘Do you know of any reason why someone would want to murder Anne?’

She put her cup and saucer down and looked at me steadily. She had the inner stillness of someone who has found meaninglessness in everything. ‘Are you saying that Anne’s death might have been murder?’

‘There’s a possibility she was murdered.’

She looked away. ‘I don’t know what to think about that. Who would do something like that? No-one ever suggested…’

‘It’s just a possibility,’ I said. ‘Both the man who went to jail and the witness have been shot dead in the last ten days.’

‘Are the police investigating?’

‘Not Anne’s death, no.’

‘So it’s your idea that Anne might have been murdered?’

‘My first concern was my ex-client’s death but other things have turned up. Anne’s death may be the key to what’s happened since.’

She gave me a doubtful look. ‘I don’t know what I can do to help you, Mr Irish. Don’t you think it’s a police matter?’