The Other Side of Sorrow ch-23

by Peter Corris

  Geoff disappeared inside and after a few minutes a young woman came out, leaned in the open doorway and looked at me. She was large and overweight and if she stayed where she was Geoff would have trouble getting past her. Maybe that was her plan. I wondered what he’d told her about me that had excited her interest. I tried to look nonchalant as I mimed making a phone call. She looked disgusted and vanished.

  Anti mobile phones, I thought. That’s okay, so am I.

  Geoff came back carrying something not very heavy in a not very big case. He deposited it on the back seat carefully and got behind the wheel.

  ‘What did you tell your housemate about me?’ I asked. ‘She came out to get an eyeful.’

  ‘Oh, Jules. Yeah. I told her you were my uncle.’

  ‘Well, I am one. I’m an anti-godfather, too.’

  He started the car and I was pleased to see that he didn’t rev it unnecessarily. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A godfather who doesn’t believe in God. How long’s this going to take?’

  ‘All depends.’

  Ask an ignorant question, get a non-informative answer.

  Back at my place I left him in the spare room plugged in to the phone line I had installed upstairs when I’d toyed with the idea of getting on the e-mail and Internet myself. So far, I hadn’t done anything about it, but the day was coming. Down below I phoned Cyn, got her machine, and told her that Geoff and I were getting along okay but there were no further developments. It’s easier to lie to a machine than face-to-face with a person dying of cancer.

  I itched to know how the police were doing in their hunt for Talbot, but since Glen Withers left me and Frank Parker retired, I’ve lost my access to information the police don’t necessarily want citizens to know about. It was time for me to set about cultivating another contact but it’s got harder to do. Friendship was always the best method and money came next. These days, both avenues have more or less closed down except in peripheral areas like motor registration and such because cops have become paranoid and suspicious. Understandably. The funny thing is that the ‘cop culture’ all the reformers wanted to crack open has just hardened under the pressure.

  It’s much the same with the journalists. Back when they worked for owners, not corporations, and could smoke and drink in the office, they were willing to tell you things off the record in exchange for off-the-record information from you. Not any more; now the news is so processed and sanitised almost nothing gets out that could ruffle corporate feathers. The politicians take some heat occasionally, but the money men are safe. A journalist these days would rather find out that Princess Diana had had an ingrowing toenail than that the head of a multinational had embezzled a hundred million.

  Well, with my computer expert working upstairs at least I was moving with the times. I took him a cup of coffee and inhaled a little of the marijuana smoke.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Getting there. The security’s not as good as it should be. She left the server software in a desk drawer, so that was easy. Now I have to get the user to get into the data base.’

  ‘How will you do that?’

  ‘It’ll be something they can all remember – the name of the receptionist or one of the doctors, the street they’re in – something like that. I collected a up a few cards while I was there.’

  ‘You’re a natural’

  He took a sip of his coffee and a drag on his joint. ‘Leave me with it, unless you can help.’

  ‘Just be as quick as you can. I’ve got another job for you when you finish that.’

  ‘Okay. What’s my rate of pay?’

  ‘Room and board, son, room and board. D’you know the paperwork involved in actually employing someone these days?’

  ‘Yeah, the country’s fucked.’

  ‘Not quite. But they’re trying.’

  I left him to it and discovered, when I got downstairs, that my erection had subsided. It was the first time I’d ever been relieved about that. Out of curiosity I opened the box Mrs Merryweather had given me and removed several packets of fine needles designated for injecting insulin; the plastic injection kit and a leaflet on how to use it, another leaflet on priapism (a possible and very unwelcome side effect of the treatment), and a small bottle of the magic elixir. I studied the leaflets. ‘STORE IN REFRIGERATOR’ the sticker on the bottle read, so I did.

  ‘Hey, Cliff!’

  I raced up the stairs, glad to have that freedom of movement back.

  ‘Got it?’

  ‘Yep. I’m in and they haven’t password-protected the files.’ Geoff pointed to the screen where Damien Talbot’s file was set out in large type. The doctor had been more thorough with him than Dr Pradesh had been with me. Talbot’s height and weight were recorded along with his pulse rate and blood pressure. He had described himself as a social drinker and admitted to smoking twenty cigarettes a day. The injury to his foot (“damage to ligaments in ankle and foot’) was noted. Talbot had claimed to be in a permanent relationship and to have been impotent for the past year.

  The doctor’s notes indicated his scepticism: ‘Patient’s fingers heavily nicotine-stained; evidence of drug injection; blood pressure high, pulse fast, lung capacity poor.’ No medication had been prescribed pending a report from Talbot’s own doctor. The final note wasn’t comforting: ‘Patient violent and abusive’. I copied down the address Talbot had given and the name and address of his doctor, Dr Bruce Macleod.

  ‘Good work, Geoff. The address’s likely to be phoney but the doctor’s probably genuine.’

  ‘How do you figure that? And why’s the doctor so important?’

  ‘I’ve been told Talbot lives mainly in the van and anyone dodging fines the way he’s been doing wouldn’t give out his address easily. But my guess is he wanted the impotence treatment badly enough to stick to the track where he could. At least up until it looked as if he wasn’t going to get his way.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘The doctor’s the only bit of hard information we’ve got on him, and he’s got plenty of health problems – a crook leg, a broken thumb, drugs, sex. There’s a chance the doctor’ll be able to tell me what he might do next, how dangerous he is. Stuff like that.’

  ‘I get it. If he’ll talk to you.’

  ‘There’s that.’

  Geoff made a series of moves with the mouse. The slimline printer kicked on and he handed me a printout of the file. I expected a cheeky remark but he wasn’t looking amused. ‘Sounds like a real shit, this bloke.’

  I shrugged. ‘He’s said to be charming when he wants to be.’

  He turned the computer off and pushed his chair back. ‘So, do we go and see the doctor?’

  ‘I do, you don’t. Doctors can be difficult. They’re litigious and I’ve already violated the conditions of my licence by getting you to do what you’ve done. If I show up with you in tow…’

  ‘Well, we’re in the same boat. It’s illegal to hack into medical records.’

  ‘All the more reason for you to stay out of it. No, I’ve got something else for you to do. Something you can do better than me.’

  ‘You don’t often hear people your age saying that. What is it?’

  ‘I want you to go to Tadpole Creek and see if you can get yourself in somehow. As you pointed out yourself, you’re an environmental engineer. You must know the lingo. You could be doing a thesis or something. You’ll have to watch yourself. They’re not dumb. Particularly a woman named Tess Hewitt. She’s the sister of one of the leaders of the protest, Ramsay.’

  ‘Okay. What am I trying to find out?’

  ‘This Ramsay Hewitt got himself arrested in connection with the death of the security guard. I’d like to know how that stands. But the most important thing is to find out who’s backing the protest. Putting up the money and supplying equipment and so on.’

  ‘I thought the most important thing was to find Talbot.’

  ‘It is, but I’ve got a feeling there’s a connection. There’s someth
ing not quite right about this protest.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll show you the stuff I’ve got on the history of the site and you can make up your own mind. Are you all right to drive after smoking dope?’

  ‘One joint? Sure.’

  ‘Watch yourself with that when you’re out there. I’m not sure of their attitude to it.’

  He stood up and stretched and his fingers almost reached the ceiling. ‘How long’ve they been there?’

  ‘A couple of months I think.’

  He laughed. ‘They’re probably growing it.’

  We went downstairs and like a well brought up young person he took his coffee mug with him and rinsed it. I gave him the stuff I’d taken off the Net about Homebush and the material Smith had left. He wasn’t impressed. ‘I’m sure I could come up with more than this.’

  ‘Later. Here’s a key to the house and the number here and at the office and of the mobile. You can leave messages on all three so stay in touch.’

  ‘You’re sure you’re not fobbing me off with some bullshit job while you do the real work?’

  ‘No. And keep an eye out for Megan French.’

  ‘How’ll I know her?’

  ‘She’s tall and dark, bit beaky-nosed and she can do a four-metre long-jump in hiking boots.’

  ‘Your daughter in other words.’

  ‘Your sister, maybe. And don’t mention me, of course.’

  15

  I located Dr Macleod’s number in the phone book, rang him and got a male secretary. I stated my business in very general terms and secured an appointment to see the good doctor at 3 pm. That gave me some time to fill in so I took my Smith amp; Wesson. 38 apart and cleaned and oiled it. I hadn’t fired it in a long time and wasn’t anxious to again, but Talbot, a drug-user and violence-prone, sounded dangerous and I had a feeling I was getting closer to him. The. 38’s not a heavy gun, and it sat snugly in a lightweight holster under my left armpit, easily concealed by any kind of loose fitting jacket. I’ve found though, that I tend to move differently when wearing a gun, stand, sit and walk differently, so I strapped it on and kept it there to get used to the feeling while I ate a sandwich and a couple of bananas and drank a cup of caffeinated coffee.

  It didn’t surprise me to find my friend and medical adviser, Dr Ian Sangster, smoking and drinking black coffee in his break from surgery at 1 pm. What did surprise me was that he was smoking a filter cigarette and the coffee packet beside his percolator had the word ‘decaffeinated’ printed on it. Sangster was noted for his complete refusal to follow what he called ‘medical correctness’. He ate fast food, smoked, drank a lot, imbibed a dozen cups of coffee every day and didn’t exercise. He looked permanently exhausted but had boundless energy. I tapped the packet.

  ‘What’s this, Ian? My faith in you is in danger of shattering.’

  He took a deep drag on the cigarette and butted it. ‘Don’t worry. It’s only for six months. I’m giving medical correctness a trial. I’ll go in for tests and see if there’s any bloody difference in anything. You’d have been more astonished if you’d seen me at six this morning.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Walking. For half an hour.’

  ‘Mm. I think medical correctness’d advise cutting out the fags altogether. What about the grog?’

  ‘White wine only.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Stuff you. To what do I owe the pleasure?’ He lit another filter and made a face as he tasted the smoke. ‘I’ve got a clinic in half an hour, less if they’re scratching at the door.’

  This would be the free-as-air session Ian lays on for the indigent of Glebe, of whom, despite the rents, rates and mortgages, there are still quite a few tucked away here and there. I poured myself a cup of coffee and tasted it. It wasn’t bad and it reminded me that I hadn’t said anything about food to Geoff. No doubt he’d make his own arrangements.

  ‘I’m interested in a colleague of yours, Ian. Dr Bruce Macleod. In Flemington. Know anything about him?’

  One of Ian’s activities, along with drinking, smoking and eating like Elvis Presley, is his membership of innumerable medical bodies – discussion groups, tribunals, policy framing committees. Network should be his middle name. He shook his head and sucked in more smoke which came out in little gusts as he spoke. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells. Can you leave it with me?’

  ‘Not for long. I’ve got an appointment with him in a couple of hours.’

  ‘I’ll make some calls and get you on your mobile if anything turns up.’

  I strolled back home wondering if Geoff had left yet. When I’d gone off to see Ian he’d been still at the computer fiddling with something I didn’t bother asking about, figuring I wouldn’t understand it anyway. I caught him as he was getting into his car.

  ‘Just going,’ he said.

  ‘Need petrol money or anything like that?’

  He shook his head and drove off.

  To Melburnians Flemington signifies racehorses, to Sydneysiders it means a fruit and vegetable market. It’s about the only example I can think of where Melbourne sounds more exciting than Sydney. I was struck by the proximity of Flemington to Homebush, the basic area of operations in this case. What had I told Geoff? That I had a feeling there was a connection of some kind at work here. But experience has taught me not to trust intuition any more than halfway. This could be sheer coincidence.

  I was early and I sat in the car waiting for a call from Ian. It came, breaking in on a fantasy I was having about what might follow if Megan French was my daughter. I saw us on Maroubra beach where I’d spent nine-tenths of my time when I was young.

  ‘Ian?’

  ‘You’re anxious and I have to be quick. How this bloke’s kept his licence to practise is a tribute to the incompetence of the legal system. Talk about negligence suits. Someone should write to Evan Whitton about it.’

  ‘Dodgy?’

  ‘Decidedly. A slave to the health funds, a collaborator with plastic surgeons, a pill pusher, a quack for hire. Doesn’t do much hands-on doctoring and what he does he botches. What’s he up to now?’

  ‘I’m after a low-life who’s got a problem with a crippled leg, impotence and at a guess psychotic tendencies. Plus a history of drug use and violence.’

  ‘Just exactly Macleod’s sort of patient. He’s probably supplying him with heroin and helping him with his worker’s compensation or welfare fiddle in return for a cut.’

  ‘So he’s unlikely to supply me with information about one of his patients?’

  ‘Not at all. It’d depend on how much you were willing to pay him.’

  ‘And what sort of a bloke is Macleod himself? Tough?’

  ‘No. Obese, I’m told. A butterball. But he’s got some nasty types on the payroll, according to my source. Watch yourself, Cliff. You can only break certain bones in the human body so many times.’

  It was my day for visiting clinics. Dr Macleod’s setup went under the name of the Macleod Medical Clinic, according to the brass plate on the gate that gave pedestrian access. This was beside a driveway, also gated, and set into a high brick fence surrounding a half-acre block that commanded a good view across to the vast sprawl of Rookwood cemetery. The brass plate also listed Dr Macleod’s various degrees and diplomas. It was hard to guess from some of the initials exactly what medical fields they covered – and the institutions that had awarded them weren’t mentioned.

  For me, I was dressed formally. Not the suit, but I’d exchanged my usual casual jacket for a blazer, my jeans for a pair of charcoal slacks and I had on a clean blue button-down shirt and black slip-ons. No tie. I fancied I looked the part of an energetic semi-professional pursuing his lawful occupation. The gun under my arm was licensed after all, even if the one held on a clip under the dashboard of the Falcon wasn’t and the lock picks attached to my key ring would cause any alert policeman to take them from me, put me behind some bars and see how I got on from there.

  The
wall was two metres high with a strand or two of razor wire on top. Top security. Maybe the doctor collected Old Masters. I pressed the intercom buzzer beside the gate, got a recorded message and stated my business. There was a humming noise and the gate clicked open. Inside I noted grass and cement in about equal amounts; a well-tended native garden with seats and benches. It looked as if the doc liked his patients to sit in the sunshine while they waited for him – or while they wrote out their cheques afterwards. I realised that I was making judgements on the basis of Ian Sangster’s information. Why not?

  The main building was a long, low piece of colonial architecture, much modified over about a hundred years. A series of signs directed deliveries to the back, patients to one verandah entrance, business callers to another. My visit to the other clinic had filled me with confidence about my robust health; I was here on business.

  I responded to a ‘Please Open’ sign on a door and found myself in a waiting room that resembled something you’d see in an accountant’s office. Leather armchairs, low table, business magazines. A disembodied voice said, ‘Please make yourself comfortable. Dr Macleod will be with you in a moment. Please avail yourself of the refreshment facilities.’ This meant a coffee machine and a fresh juice dispenser. I made a cup of coffee and sat down. The seat hissed under me the way well-upholstered vinyl pretending to be leather will and I felt better. The coffee was lousy.

  A second door opened and a huge man entered the room. He was over 190 centimetres and built like Sydney Greenstreet; chalk him down for 140 kilos. I began to get up but he moved quickly and had to bend down slightly to offer me his hand.

  ‘Mr Hardy,’ he said in a strong Scots accent, rolling the Rs. ‘I’m Bruce Macleod.’

  The hand was soft from the heel pad to the fingertips. Shaking hands with him was like mixing dough.