Peter Temple - Bad Debts

I punched the number. It was answered on the second ring. A woman. I said John English wanted to speak to the Minister.

‘Please hold on,’ she said.

I leaned against the car. The sun had come out, making the day seem colder. One of the bearded men on the knoll was trying to strangle the last drop of wine out of the bladder.

‘Yes.’ It was Bruce.

‘Someone’s trying to kill me,’ I said. ‘Twice today.’

He said nothing for a moment. I could hear him breathing.

‘God,’ he said. ‘You all right?’

I said yes.

Another pause. ‘Where are you?’

‘In the street.’

‘Jack,’ he said, ‘this is getting out of hand.’ His speech was measured. ‘I think I’ve underestimated Pixley’s old mates. We’ll have to put you somewhere safe till we can shake some sense into them. The Hillier woman too. Can you get in touch with her?’

‘Yes. She’s being followed.’

‘That so? Be the same people. Okay, listen, we’ve got to do this carefully. Yarra Bend. There’s a park up there, near the golf course. Know it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Get hold of Hillier and get up there, park as far away from those public toilets as possible. What are you driving? What’s the rego?’

I walked around the back of the car and read out the number. ‘Ford Granada,’ I said. ‘Blue.’

‘Right. Let’s make it in an hour’s time. The two blokes from last time will pick you up, get you somewhere safe.’ He paused. ‘Now this is important. Don’t talk to anyone except Hillier. And don’t say a word about this arrangement to her on the phone. She’s probably tapped.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘An hour from now.’ The lead ball of fear in my stomach was dissolving.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘You’ll be fine. Just take it easy. We can fix this up in a day or so. I’ll see you tonight.’

I rang Linda’s number. She answered straight away.

‘I want you to make sure you’re alone and get a cab to the place where we ate. The first time, remember?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Something very serious. I’ll tell you when I see you. Get the cab to park as close to the place as possible. Wait in the cab until you see me.’

‘Jack, what’s going on?’ she said.

‘Half an hour from now. Okay?’

‘Yes. Okay.’

‘See you then. Love.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Love.’

I got back into the Granada. Cam was reading the paper, smoking a Gitane.

‘I’ll get off your back in an hour’s time,’ I said. ‘I won’t take up that offer of yours. Need to disappear for a day or so.

Cam gave me a long look. ‘I’ll miss the excitement,’ he said.

I was looking in my wallet to see how much money I had. There was a piece of cardboard in the note section. I took it out: I rembered somthing else about what you was asking about. See me at my house. B. Curran, 15 Morton Street, Clifton Hill.

Clifton Hill was as safe a place as any to pass the half-hour until it was time to pick up Linda.

‘Can we take a little drive around to Clifton Hill?’ I said.

The man was wearing the same outfit as before: dirty blue nylon anorak, black tracksuit pants. There was every chance that it hadn’t come off since our previous meeting.

‘Wondered when you’d come,’ he said.

‘You remembered something else about Ronnie Bishop,’ I said.

He looked at me, said nothing.

I took out my wallet and offered him a twenty.

He took it. ‘Had to walk round to your place,’ he said. ‘Bloody long way. Had to take a cab back. Me legs is bad.’

I found a ten and gave it to him.

‘Wait,’ he said. He shuffled down the dark passage and came back a minute later, folded newspaper in his hand. ‘’Member I said cops come around next door couple times?’

I nodded.

He coughed and spat past my right shoulder. ‘One’s a cunt called Scullin.’

‘You told me that.’

He sniffed. ‘Didn’t know who the other was. Do now.’

‘Yes? Who?’

He unfolded the paper. It was the Herald Sun. He looked at the front page. ‘This bastard,’ he said.

He turned the newspaper to face me. There was a large colour photograph of a man sitting in front of microphones. He was flanked by two high-ranking policemen in uniform.

‘Which cop?’ I said, studying the policemen.

‘Not the cops. The cunt in the middle. The fucking Minister. That’s him.’

I was about to put the phone down when the woman answered.

‘I need to get in touch with Vin McKillop,’ I said.

She started coughing, a loose, emphysemic sound. I waited. When she stopped, I said again, ‘Vin McKillop, I need-’

‘Vin’s dead,’ she said. ‘Overdose.’

I didn’t ask her any questions.

I went into the sitting room. Linda was standing in front of the huge fireplace in the centre of Cam’s absent girlfriend’s place off Crombie Lane in the heart of the city. Her apartment occupied the top floor of an old six-storey warehouse. She was an artist. Paintings were everywhere, mostly landscapes at different stages of completion.

‘Vin McKillop’s dead,’ I said. ‘Pixley’s dead, Vin’s dead. It’s like a battlefield.’

‘Oh, Jesus,’ Linda said. ‘Oh, Jesus.’

‘Garth Bruce visited Ronnie Bishop with Scullin more than once around the time of Anne Jeppeson’s death,’ I said. ‘If Scullin fixed up Danny for killing her, Garth Bruce must be part of the whole thing. He was setting us up.’

Cam was lying on a sofa, long legs over the arm, head propped up by cushions, drinking Cascade out of the bottle.

‘So Bruce’s got the motor’s number,’ he said. He’d had no trouble grasping my explanation of what was going on. It didn’t seem to surprise him either.

‘I suppose that was dumb,’ I said, ‘but you don’t expect the Minister for Police to try to kill you.

‘It’s just possible he’s not involved,’ Linda said. She was dressed for business in a suit, cream silk blouse, black stockings and high heels. Overexcited though I was, the sight aroused a frisson of lust.

‘I don’t think we should operate on that assumption, I said. ‘What can we do about the car?’ It was now in the girlfriend’s garage on the ground floor.

Cam swung his legs to the floor. ‘It can stay where it is. I’ll get my mate to report it stolen, give me another one.’ He stood up and walked off down the long room in the direction of the kitchen.

Linda’s eyes followed him. ‘What does he do for a living?’

‘He’s a gambler,’ I said. ‘He shot a midget firing a sub-machine gun off a motorbike this morning. That’s how I’m here.’

She nodded. ‘I can believe that,’ she said. ‘What do we do now?’

‘Think. Think about evidence. Evidence is the only thing that can help us now.’

‘Did you tell me once,’ Linda said, chin on her palms. ‘Did you tell me that Danny’s wife said there was evidence he didn’t do it?’

I thought back to the night, in the family room Danny built. Yes. She said a woman phoned Danny. The woman said her husband had died.’

But she didn’t give Danny the evidence?’

‘No.’

‘I don’t suppose it follows that if it’s evidence that proves Danny didn’t do it, it’s evidence of who did’, Linda said.

‘It might be.’ I was thinking. ‘What kind of person would have the evidence? It would have to be a cop, wouldn’t it?’

‘Could be someone connected with Charis Corp.’

I sighed. ‘That’s right. This is a dead-end.’

Linda got up and crossed to a huge steel-framed window. Her high heels went tock on the polished concrete floor. She had to stand on tiptoe to look out. Her calf muscles tensed deliciously. At any other time I would have been seized with an impulse to rush her from the rear.