Peter Temple: Bad Debts

There was another shot, the car closer, the faces clearer.

In the next picture, Anne Jeppeson was lifted off the ground, top half of her body on the bonnet of the Kingswood, the lower half in the air.

Now you could see the faces of the driver and the passenger clearly.

The driver was Garth Bruce, Minister for Police. Younger but unmistakably Garth Bruce.

The passenger was Martin Scullin, now lying dead on the floor in the shack in the Otways.

‘We have every reason to believe,’ the presenter said, ‘that the driver of the vehicle seen colliding with Anne Jeppeson is Garth Bruce, now Minister for Police, and that the passenger is Martin Scullin, then a Drug Squad detective and now owner of a security company, AdvanceGuard Security, the company started by Garth Bruce after leaving the Victoria police.’

Cam made a sound of triumph that could have been heard by low-flying aircraft.

Then they got on to Ronnie Bishop’s videos, the ones I had found in the nice sewing machine box under the floor of the roof cubbyhouse. They did their fuzzy pixels to prevent us seeing exactly what was happening but it very clearly involved sexual acts with young people of both sexes who couldn’t be said to be willing partners.

They did show us the faces of the adults.

Lance Pitman, Minister for Planning, was there.

Father Rafael Gorman was there.

So was a man the presenter identified as the late Malcolm Bleek, once the highest ranking public servant in the Planning Department.

Then there were two leaders of the trade union movement, a prominent financial entrepreneur now living abroad, and other men the presenter didn’t identify. Someone would recognise them. Wives. Children. Colleagues.

There were a lot of close-ups. Ronnie had made sure everyone was identifiable.

‘These shocking films,’ the presenter said, ‘are believed to have been taken by Ronald Bishop, an employee of the Safe Hands Foundation, an organisation founded by Father Rafael Gorman to help homeless young people. It is likely that the films were used to blackmail Mr Lance Pitman and others seen in them. It appears likely that Bishop kept a copy of the films, perhaps as some form of insurance.’

Then Linda came on, poised and professional, and told the full story of Yarrabank and Hoagland. Names, dates, everything. How Anne Jeppeson came close to torpedoing the whole thing and was murdered for it. How Detective-Sergeant Scullin probably provided the helpless Danny McKillop to take the rap and how Father Gorman probably provided Ronnie Bishop to seal Danny’s fate.

The whole thing took half an hour. Much of the detail was conjecture, but it made a powerful case. When it was over, Cam got up, flexed his shoulders gingerly, and said, ‘Shocking. Could undermine faith in grown-up people. There’s some Krug around here. What about you?’

I looked at him and said, ‘Give me a beer mug full to start.’

There is ice in the wind at Caulfield on a Saturday in late autumn. Long-legged Cynthia the head Commissioner and Cyril Wootton were both dressed for it: tweedy, scarves.

At 2.50 p.m., I was looking at Nancy Farmer, Tony Ericson, and Dakota Dreaming, aka Slim, in the mounting yard. Nancy was fidgety, patting the horse, tugging at her silks, pushing strands of hair into her cap. Tony was worse. He had the air of a man waiting for the jury to come back. But the horse was calm enough for the three of them. He looked at the ground mostly, like someone who knows about waiting.

Tony’s children were at the rail, popeyed with excitement. The girl had been neglecting her grooming. Dakota didn’t look as lustrous as when I’d last seen him. It was worth trying, but it wasn’t going to fool anyone. The horse was right: rippling, tight behind the saddle, poverty lines on the rump.

The man next to me was looking at Dakota too.

‘Nothin wrong with that bugger you can see,’ he said, pointing at the horse with his rolled up copy of the Herald Sun. ‘Shockin history though.’

‘Shocking,’ I said. Ron Pevsner in the Age thought so too. He assessed Dakota’s price at 50-1. That was about tops for Ron. His colleague Bart Grantley rated the horse at two out of ten. No-one knew what a horse had to do to get a rating of one. Die in its previous race, perhaps. The form comment was: ‘Comeback race. Lightly raced but injury prone and seems fully tested. Hard to have.’ All the other form guides said much the same. The Wizard assessed his odds at 100-1 and said: ‘Must improve.’ It would be hard to argue with this daring judgment.

I’d driven Harry to the track. Cam was in Sydney, handling the plunge on the interstate ring at Randwick.

Harry was in a philosophical mood. ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘pullin off a coup’s a bit of a miracle, y’know. I’ve had a coup horse run last. Stone motherless last. Goodbye seventy grand.’ He smiled. ‘There’s a number of worries. The horse, the weight, the jockey, the barrier draw, the track. Any one can sink you. And then there’s another tiny matter. Today, thirteen other bloody cattle. Some of ’em even trying to win.’

Before we parted, he said, ‘Lunch money in your pocket?’

I nodded.

He said, ‘Jack, somethin extra I want you to do. Occurred to me.’

At 2.45 p.m., I went over to where Wootton was reading his race book. He looked every inch the bank manager at his leisure.

‘Well, Cyril,’ I said, ‘I’ve been thinking about another one of your commissioners. Eddie Dollery. I hope your Cynthia doesn’t have a taste for rooting men wearing uniforms and crotchless underwear.’

I gave him the small white card. He took it with the lack of enthusiasm of a man being offered a business card by an encyclopedia salesman.

He turned it over and read: ‘Six nine.’ He looked at me for confirmation.

I nodded. ‘Six nine.’

Then I gave him Harry’s last-minute instruction. Cyril didn’t blink, put his race book into a side pocket of his jacket and walked off. Cynthia was talking to a tall man with the hair of the young Elvis Presley and the face of peatbog man. She saw Wootton coming, cocked her head and said something.

Wootton walked straight up to her, gave her the card, said two words.

Cynthia said two words back, looked at Elvis Peatbog, walked off briskly.

Dakota Dreaming opened at 50-1. The favourite, Shining Officer, was at 4-1. The second favourite, Steel Beach, was 6-1.

I approached a bookmaker called Mark Whitecross, a large man, sour, a reputation for staying well ahead of the punters. Harry saw Mark as a challenge.

‘I’ll have $12,000 to $2000 on number four,’ I said.

Number four was Steel Beach.

Whitecross looked at me without interest. It went into the computer.

When I had the ticket, I said, ‘I’ll have another twelve to two on number four.’

This time, Whitecross pushed out his cheek with his tongue.

I put the ticket in my top pocket and said, ‘Twenty-four thousand to four thousand. Please.’

No interest. I got it. Then I said, ‘Same again.’

Whitecross’s offsider said something in his ear. He leaned forward to look across at another bookie. I looked too. Cyril Wootton was there. The bookie had just shortened Steel Beach to 2-1.

‘It’s 12 to 6 now,’ said Whitecross.

Between us, Cyril and I pulled Steel Beach down to 9-4 before we stopped.

We also pushed Dakota out to 100-1, which was when Cynthia, Elvis Peatbog and the others went into action.

The 100s dropped to 66s. They shrank to 33s. Then the word came through from Randwick. Cam had struck. The price went to 20s, 14s, 7s. When Dakota and Nancy Farmer set out for the starting gate, the price was 9-4 and nobody was taking very much.