Dead Point (Jack Irish Thriller 3)

by Peter Temple

  ‘What now?’

  ‘The plumber and the wood man.’

  I went inside, found Jean Hale’s faxed list, made haste to quit the dusty ice cave for the clean warmth of the vehicle outside.

  ‘Plumber I wouldn’t be hopeful about,’ said Cam, eyes on the paper. ‘Make too much money. Like doctors. Now wood’s another matter. Very seasonal, wood.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ I said.

  ‘Lizard Ellyard.’

  ‘Lizard Ellyard,’ I said. ‘Used to be a bikie gang called the Lizards.’

  Cam turned his head, interest in the dark eyes.

  I found the Hales’ number in my book, got out the mobile. Jean answered.

  ‘Jean, Jack. Can you ask your husband or Sandy if they know why this man Ellyard is called Lizard?’

  She was gone for several minutes. I heard the labrador bark, a door bang.

  ‘There, Jack?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Dave says Lizard wears an old leather jacket with Lizard on the back. Bought it at an op-shop, he reckons.’

  I said thanks.

  Cam was looking at me. I told him.

  ‘The Coburg milk bar lady said Artie was a bike person, very noisy,’ he said. ‘What happened to the Lizards?’

  I tried to remember. ‘They were in the news, fighting with some other mob.’

  ‘Lizards,’ said Cam. ‘Not a good name for a gang. Too close to the ground, the lizard.’

  Something on television: a smouldering building, fire engines.

  ‘Their clubhouse was attacked,’ I said. ‘Or they torched the other lot’s place.’

  ‘They all do that,’ said Cam. ‘That’s what they do on Sunday night. I might ask around. Listen, the big man said to tell you, eight in the seventh at the Valley on Sunday. Not the house at all, each-way. And pray for rain in the mornin.’

  ‘Getting back into it?’

  Cam half smiled. ‘Kiwi horse, come for the winter pickins. Trainer’s dad’s a Pom, rode against Harry in England. This nag loves mud. The big man’s picked the suitable outin for him.’

  In the office, a male on the answering machine said: Jack, here’s a number.

  I wrote it down, walked to the Lebanese shop and ordered a salad roll. Then I rang the number, a mobile.

  Senior Sergeant Barry Tregear answered.

  ‘Working days now?’ I said.

  ‘Days, nights, on a taskforce, mate. We’re all on taskforces, force of taskforces. Listen, go a beer? I’m about five from that place, y’know?’

  He was standing with his back against the counter, a depleted beer in his right hand: a big man in a dark rumpled suit watching two stringy young men playing pool.

  ‘Where’d you get the tan?’ I said.

  ‘Holidays, mate. Private-school boys wouldn’t understand. Life’s all play to you.’

  ‘I’m close to played out.’ I found my beer behind him and had a deep drink. Cooper’s. ‘What taskforce did you draw?’

  ‘Street dealers. War on street dealers. Finished our task, mate, it’s a fucken indoor activity.’

  ‘That’s when you form a taskforce to drive them onto the streets again.’

  ‘Exactly. We’re like the tides. Move shit in and out.’ He drank half his glass, burped, a full-blooded burp. ‘I reckon they should give McDonald’s the franchise to sell drugs. Quality control, clean premises, collect fucking GST. Plus the junkies get a burger with every hit, keep em healthy. McSmack.’

  ‘Leaving you and your colleagues free to drive around at high speeds and shoot people.’

  ‘Yeah. That and the relationship counselling, role modelling.’ He eyed me. ‘Down in the weights. Dying or a new girlfriend?’

  ‘Exercise, strict diet.’

  ‘Dying then. On the subject, this query of yours. Mick Olsen. Why are you always fucking around with dangerous things?’

  One of the pool players wore a bandanna, the other a cap backwards. Bandanna man was going for an impossibly acute angle. We watched. It wasn’t impossible after all.

  ‘Fuuuck,’ said his opponent.

  ‘The person’s a cop,’ I said. ‘Cops are only supposed to be dangerous to wrongdoers.’

  Barry turned his head, had no trouble finding the barmaid’s eyes where she stood talking to a fat man in a Bombers beanie and scarf. She tossed her head. The light from the west window spangled off the rings and stones in her nose and ears and eyebrows.

  ‘Mick’s a cop in history,’ Barry said. ‘Resigned a while ago. Now a man of leisure. But dangerous still. You don’t even want to know his name.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Drug squad. Policing where the shit interfaces with the fans, if you get my meaning.’

  ‘Just the melody.’

  ‘Here ya go.’ The multi-pierced one put two new beers on the counter. I paid.

  ‘I say again, dangerous is the word,’ said Barry. He was intent on the pool players. Bandanna man was sighting down the length of the table, trying to pot one of three balls in a cluster.

  ‘This bloke’s fucken ambitious,’ said Barry.

  Bandanna picked the nominee out of the group, thudded it into the corner pocket.

  ‘Shit,’ said Barry, impassive, appreciative. ‘Man with the golden stick.’

  ‘This Olsen,’ I said. Mick Olsen had picked up messages from Alan Bergh left with the lovely Kirstin Deane at her minimally stocked boutique.

  ‘The Commissioner’s enema. Just the name’s a suppository. And there’s blokes in the squad want him dead, they say.’ He drank. ‘Anyhow, Mick’s highly deadly, shouldn’t speak ill of him.’

  ‘The name Alan Bergh mean anything?’

  Barry looked at me briefly, probed a tooth with his tongue, shook his head, went back to watching the pool.

  ‘Bergh made calls to Olsen’s girlfriend. To be passed on, I gather.’

  ‘Jack, Mick’s in the drug business. Get lots of messages. It’s a message business.’

  ‘What’s made him history?’

  ‘Done the Feds like a dinner. Unbelievable fuck-up.’

  ‘Coke jackets?’ The case before Mr Justice Loder.

  He looked at me, a full look, shook his head in a sad way. ‘Jack, I don’t know. You had a profession. I looked up to you.’

  ‘Did you really?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Tell me about Olsen,’ I said.

  Barry drank some beer.

  I drank some. I was starting to like the taste. I put my glass down, pushed it away. Just a few centimetres away. The symbolic distance between the me who would once have knocked back this beer and then woken up somewhere strange with a full beard, and the me now.

  ‘A bloke called Ross set it up,’ said Barry. ‘Conned the Feds he’s got Mr Big on the line, the man’s placed a trial order. A controlled delivery scam. Very stylish, made the Canberra boys look like absolute cunts.’

  Bandanna’s opponent played a two-cushion shot that sank a ball.

  ‘Jeez, luck,’ said Barry. ‘These two cunts were supposed to lead to a Mr Big, like you get to the big-time by being such an arsehead that the delivery boys can take the Feds to you.’

  ‘Where’s Olsen come in?’

  Barry put a hand into his jacket and, without taking out the packet, found a cigarette. He lit it with a plastic lighter, coughed, calmed his throat with a long drink of beer. ‘The talk is that Olsen’s the brains. He’s a smart fella. Nearly finished law at Monash.’

  ‘That’s not a sign of smartness,’ I said. ‘He got what out of this business?’

  ‘Well,’ Barry said, looking around the room, ‘it appears the Feds helped the boys bring in more stuff than the two Ks they find on them, so the extra’s what Mick got out. Between the airport and the handover, that vanished.’

  ‘How do they know that?’

  Barry shrugged. ‘Apparently they heard from the supply end. After. Over here, these Fed dickheads just took it on trust what the boys were carrying. Couldn’t have a loo
k in Perth, open their cases. It was on the pricks, in these jackets, world’s heaviest fucken ski jackets, must’ve hung down to their knees.’

  ‘Where’d Olsen’s excess go?’

  ‘On-sold quick-smart you’d imagine. Same night. But that’d be a contract.’

  He finished his beer, wiped his lips with a thumb. ‘Got to go, sweep some of Mick’s stuff off the fucken streets.’

  ‘There’s a small thing,’ I said.

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘I need to find out who identified a body.’

  ‘Fuck, Jack, you’re a nuisance.’

  ‘Your day will come.’

  ‘I doubt that very fucken much. Shoulda been a crook. Chose the wrong end of the fucken stick. What body’s this?’

  I told him, watched him leave. The pool players watched him too. They knew a cop when they saw one. Then they looked at me. I looked back. They found other things to look at.

  A new BMW was parked outside my office, illegally. The driver was on the phone, head back on the rest. I recognised the profile, tapped on the window centimetres from his face. His head jerked around.

  Gavin Legge, former journalist and master of the contra-deal, now, according to Linda, a spinphysician for an international PR firm. He got out, right hand outstretched.

  ‘Jack, old mate.’ Legge exuded warmth. He also exuded prosperity: new pinstriped suit on the chubby body, expensive haircut and a good dye job, rimless glasses to replace the thick-framed, scratched and smeared pair I’d last seen him in.

  ‘Gavin.’

  We shook hands.

  ‘I hope you’re not looking for legal representation,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a new policy of only taking on clients who promise to pay within five years.’

  He slapped my arm. ‘Man on a mission, I am. Can we talk inside?’

  We went in. Legge looked around the unadorned chamber.

  ‘Backstreet law, eh? Down at the level of the people. I admire that.’

  ‘Some slurp champagne from the tainted silver chalice,’ I said, ‘some choose honour and a stubby.’

  Legge laughed, not a convincing effort, and sat down. I went around the desk.

  ‘I won’t beat around the bush, Jack, no, that’s not our way at all.’

  ‘Our? Have you subdivided yourself? Been cloned? Is there more than one Gavin Legge now? The world may not be ready for that.’

  Another feeble attempt at laughter. ‘I’m speaking for Ponton’s,’ he said, crossing his legs, pulling at his trousers. ‘I’m with Ponton’s now. World’s most respected image management consultants. Headhunted.’

  ‘Are you sure they’ve got the most valuable part? What can I do for you? All of you.’

  ‘Jack, one of our clients is Anaxan. You’ll be familiar with Anaxan, they’re going to develop Cannon Ridge, multimillion-dollar development, something all Victorians, all Australians, will be proud of, a world-class ski resort and casino, the Aspen of…’

  I held up a hand. ‘Gavin, I liked you more when you weren’t writing the media releases, just sneaking them into the paper.’

  He coloured a little. ‘Sorry, my enthusiasm carries me away. It’s about Alan Bergh. We understand you were interested in Alan Bergh.’

  I didn’t say anything. I sat back and laced my fingers on the tabletop and looked at him.

  ‘That’s correct, isn’t it? You were interested in Alan Bergh.’

  I didn’t reply, kept my eyes on his. He licked his lips, made a smacking noise with them.

  ‘Now, Jack,’ he said, hands in action, ‘please don’t take this amiss, we’ve known each other a long time and I’d hate to think—’

  ‘Gavin,’ I said, ‘you have no way of knowing what interests me unless you’ve been spying on me. Will you confirm that you’re spying on me?’

  Hands in the air. ‘Jack, Jack, mate, mate, hold on, listen to me for a second, I’ll explain. I can explain.’

  ‘Explain. Briefly.’

  ‘Right.’ Legge coughed. ‘Right. Now, Jack, our client, that’s Anaxan, they’ve been very disturbed, disturbed and disgusted, I might say, by the tactics of WRG, the other tenderer… Are you with me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course you are. Our clients believe that WRG gained information from inside the Cannon Ridge tender panel. Alan Bergh was involved, we’re pretty sure of that, an absolute scumbag, Jack, you’ll know that.’

  ‘Why are you here, Gavin?’ I asked.

  A raised hand. ‘Out of courtesy, Jack. Courtesy and friendship. Someone told us you were inquiring about Bergh – no, don’t get angry, there was no spying involved, pure chance that it came to our ears. And I wanted to tell you to be careful that WRG didn’t try to use you, feed you misleading information. That’s all there is to it. No more than that. Just an act of friendship. And courtesy.’

  ‘You’re saying that Bergh worked for WRG?’

  ‘Absolutely. Dangerous people, Jack.’ He looked relieved.

  ‘What’s he supposed to have done?’

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s pretty much an open secret. Bribed Paul Rykel. Department of Conservation.’

  ‘I thought the story was your clients bribed Rykel? Anaxan.’

  Legge nodded sagely. ‘That’s the story WRG have put out. Total fabrication. Opposite of the truth. Diametric.’

  ‘Forgive my naivety, Gavin, but if WRG had stuff leaked to them, why didn’t they win the tender?’

  He smiled, eyes narrowing. ‘We believe that Rykel told them the panel was sensitive to price. So they thought they could pull it off by just topping us, coming in a few dollars above. Not very smart. The panel put the extra dollars aside, went for an all-Australian company, top-class consortium, broad range of expertise, access to—’

  ‘Quite,’ I said. ‘Who killed Bergh?’

  His look turned conspiratorial. ‘I can’t speculate on that, Jack. But of course…’

  I waited. He smiled, shook his head. ‘Let’s just say WRG are known for covering their tracks.’

  I didn’t have anything to lose. ‘So WRG went for Rykel. And your mob went for Susan Ayliss.’

  Without hesitation, he said, ‘Ayliss was WRG’s first choice but she gave them the arse. Rykel was second cab and he delivered.’

  Legge rose, tugged at his tie. ‘Well, Jack, that’s all I came to say. WRG are people who will try to use anyone. Use them and spit them out. Take it from an old mate.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern,’ I said, ‘but I don’t know WRG and I don’t know that they know me.’

  He nodded at me in a way full of meaning. ‘They know you, mate. Believe me.’

  At the door, I said, ‘Good luck in your new career, Gavin. I can’t fault Ponton’s judgment in hunting your head.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Next time we’ll crack a bottle of the French.’

  Rain had beaded on the BMW. I was beginning to hate beading.

  At the Prince, the Youth Club were conducting a panel discussion covering, simultaneously, the certain outcomes of all eight of the weekend’s games. I joined in but most of my mind was elsewhere.

  ‘Now, Jack,’ said Norm, ‘we goin to this bloody Docklands again on Sundee or not?’

  Sunday afternoon was St Kilda against Essendon, second from the bottom against the top.

  ‘Going,’ I said. ‘There’ll be a million Bomber fanatics there. They can’t get enough blood. The team needs us.’

  ‘Goin then,’ said Norm. He turned to the others. ‘Sundee’s on.’

  They raised their glasses.

  ‘We might have a bet on the way,’ I said.

  All eyes glittered.

  ‘Got the oil?’ said Eric. ‘Got the oil, Jack?’

  I held up my right hand, moved it around in the maybe, maybe not way.

  ‘He’s got the oil,’ said Wilbur. ‘He’s got the oil.’

  She rang when hope was gone. I was at the freezer, looking at my personal Antarctic. Scott knew no bleaker moment.

  ‘I�
�m shutting down my week here,’ said Linda. ‘You’d be on your way out, I suppose. Freshly showered.’

  ‘Well, yes and no. On my way out I have no doubt. Showering I was putting off until later.’

  ‘Yes or no?’

  ‘Yes. Please. There’s nothing to eat here.’

  Silence.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘we’ll cross that little obstacle when we come to it.’

  I made the bed, cleaned the toilet, the washbasin, stacked the dirty dishes. For the rest, the place was reasonably clean from my recent manic attack.

  The Avoca kindling came to life briskly. I put on Milly Husskind, sad and sexy trailer-park songs, a voice torn at the edges.

  A shower, a quick shower.

  I was barely in clean denims and an old and faithful shirt when the buzzer went.

  Tonight, her hair was drawn back severely and she was dressed for outdoors in a leather jacket, polo-neck sweater and corduroy pants.

  ‘That’s a good look,’ I said. ‘Sort of tough.’

  She came in and looked around. ‘I am tough. Toughest woman on radio.’ She took off her jacket.

  ‘I heard you roughing up that life coach.’

  ‘That was nothing compared with what I did to the woman selling her book on colonic irrigation.’

  ‘Stuck it right up her, I’m sure. I’m opening white wine. I suppose…’

  ‘I’ll drink anything.’

  Linda followed me into the kitchen and sat on the table while I opened the wine. I brought the glasses over, put them down next to her. She put a hand in my waistband and pulled me over into the fork of her legs.

  I looked down at her. ‘That’s a suggestive thing to do,’ I said.

  ‘I’m in a suggestive frame of mind.’ She hooked her legs around mine, drew me in tight.

  ‘Nothing wrong with those muscles,’ I said, experiencing shortness of breath. I bent down to kiss her neck, her mouth, felt her hands in my hair.

  We came apart.

  ‘You’re pretty suggestible, aren’t you?’ she said, moving a long-fingered hand between us. She was flushed, an erotic sight.

  ‘I’ve got a new mattress,’ I said, hoarsely. ‘Very hard.’

  She took hold of me. ‘Hard I like,’ she said. ‘Harder the better.’