by J. M. Green
‘The Brodtmann’s take over and now they have almost double the original size of their tenements. Double the profit on the ore, presumably,’ Vince said.
‘Yes,’ I said, seeing what he was getting at. ‘And now they have permission to mine from the traditional owners. It might have taken Brodtmann and Crystal years to get a new agreement, but the liquidators transferred the Bailey Range arrangement to the new operators.’
We sat in silence for a moment.
‘So all the initial sample testing they did of the area was wrong?’ Vince said.
‘Yes, but wait, there’s more.’ I pulled Tania’s DVD, back in its pirated The Blue Lagoon cover, out of my bag and slid it across the table.
‘What’s this?’
I knew the title by heart. ‘It is the Report on the quality of Mount Percy Sutton alluvial samples for Blue Lagoon Corp and Bailey Range Metals. August 2010.
He stared at me. ‘How did you get this?’
‘Tania. It’s proof that someone knew there was more iron ore than gold at Mount Percy Sutton before the joint venture.’
‘Fuck me,’ Vince said. ‘That’s devious.’
‘You’ve been looking into their business activities, is it that surprising?’
‘That’s the first report, the proper one from the geologists,’ Jimmy said, casually. ‘Tania rewrote a whole new one. Had to forge it, put names of the geologists on it. She said it had to be way more positive about gold.’
We both looked at her. ‘Why did she do that?’
‘Crystal.’
33
TWO DOORS down from the pub was the Fancy Fingers Nail Salon. I selected a shade of crimson and I handed over my fingers, all ten. Jimmy seemed to be enjoying the experience. But I found it tedious and unsettling. I kept thinking about Tania and how I’d completely misjudged her.
When it was over I did not recognise my own hands. With our talons shining, Jimmy and I crossed the road, to where Vince was waiting for us.
We sat in the shadow of a late-nineteenth-century pavilion, watching the Indian Ocean; the slow repeat of waves as they smacked, retreated, curled, and smacked again into the sand. Though it was winter, and the breeze off the water was nippy, people were everywhere, walking, playing ball games, lounging on blankets spread out on the grass. Some game souls were jumping in the waves. Couples jogged together.
I stared at the horizon. ‘Why call the mining company Blue Lagoon?’
‘Crystal’s choice,’ Jimmy said. ‘Her pet project, so she chose the name. She saw the movie as a kid — that’s what Tania told me. The movie was banned in Croatia or Poland or wherever she’s from. The communists didn’t like Brooke Shields, I suppose. Anyway, she saw a smuggled-in video and after that the fantasy of total freedom in a tropical paradise became a kind of obsession for her.’
She went quiet and her head began to droop down to her chest.
‘You okay? You look a little worn out.’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, snapping back upright and gazing at the waves.
‘Time to go back to hospital, I think,’ Vince said.
Back in Vince’s shack, he handed me one of his lethal mugs of tea.
‘Crystal asked Tania to procure a fraudulent mineral analysis.’ Vince stabbed a finger at the DVD on the table. We’d been going over it together in the car since we dropped Jimmy off back at the hospital.
‘Asked, or maybe coerced,’ I said, wanting to give Tania the benefit of the doubt.
‘Okay. Coerced. And Brodtmann made a fortune from the deal.’
‘Correct,’ I said.
‘But Tania kept the original mining report. Why?’
‘Insurance?’
‘God, would her own parents —’
‘I doubt it. But what about the Bailey Range directors and all those investors? They’d be interested to see that original report.’
Vince was attacking his laptop. ‘Got the names of the directors of Bailey Range. You check them out — I’ve got to see a man about a horse.’ Vince went outside and started to cough. A disgusting hacking, followed by gross spitting. He may have coughed up a lung. I heard a fart that lasted the better part of a minute. Then somewhere in his yard another door creaked open and closed. Now that was quaint, an outside toilet. I suspected he’d be there for some time.
I studied the list of Bailey Range directors. Three mega-rich, middle-aged white men. I imagined it would be easy to discover their movements in the last four years. They probably had publicists. You make the BRW rich list and get little puff pieces in the paper about your nice house in the country, your beautiful wife, your fucking cute dog.
After half an hour I was ready to give up. I’d tried all manner of business websites and not one of them was a director of anything anymore. And I was beginning to worry about Vince. Perhaps he’d died.
I was trawling through endless hits — they all had boring common names, and a basic Google search picked up half the western world: Colin Cartwright, John Billings, and Trevor Michaels. I finally tracked Colin down. A piece on NGOs said he was now a volunteer working in Africa. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy. But he’d be impossible to contact. John turned up in an institution for the catatonic. He, too, was effectively unavailable for comment. Trevor was a greater challenge. My searches yielded no likely candidate. It seemed that he had dropped off the grid. I wondered if he had joined a hippy commune or something.
I switched to reading a news website while I waited for Vince to come back from the loo. That’s when I found him — Trevor Michaels had been found dead in the car at Mount Percy Sutton.
When Vince returned, I gave him the bad news. No former Bailey Range director would be able to confirm our theory.
After my tea, I needed to venture outside, myself. The facility was a little tin shed down the back of the yard and it stank like a corpse flower. I pulled a rope by the door and the single bulb shed a dirty yellow light on a nightmarish scene: cobwebs, a wet concrete floor, a roll of paper on a stick protruding from a hole in the wall, dodgy magazines in a bucket. I propped myself on the toilet, shivering, ever on the lookout for spiders. I hoped it was too cold for them. When I finished I stood in the dark and cold McKechnie backyard. I could smell the sea in the air. I pictured Brophy in the empty gallery and felt sad.
Inside, McKechnie was pointing to his laptop. ‘A full list of the investors,’ he said.
‘And?’
‘Company names mostly.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘And a few of individuals. I checked a couple of names: Rodney and Ida Lloyd.’ Vince looked up at me. ‘They’re interesting. I found a newspaper article that says they tried to force their way into the Blue Lagoon office after Bailey Range folded. Didn’t get far. Tackled by security. I could have told them, the Blue Lagoon head office is like Fort Knox. They use thumb-print recognition.’
‘Impressive. But if a couple of old people tried to storm into Blue Lagoon, wouldn’t that be on the evening news?’
Vince winced at me. ‘Seeing conspiracies again?’
‘Just asking.’
‘I gather Crystal kept it discreet; she came out and spoke to them, sorted it out before any camera crews arrived.’
‘Of course.’
‘Then later she slapped them with a restraining order.’
Vince snorted and went back to jabbing at the keyboard like it was an old typewriter. He looked at the screen, read silently, and bashed the keys some more. ‘God bless them, they’re in the White Pages. Nedlands.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Not far,’ he said, picking up his keys and heading out to the car.
I felt uneasy in McKechnie’s house when he wasn’t home. I hung around in his front room, decorated in the same spartan theme as the rest of the h
ouse: green vinyl couch, bookshelf, circular glass-topped coffee table. Outside, a large, black four-wheel drive pulled up in front of the house. The driver, in a black suit and chauffeur’s cap, opened a rear door. Crystal unfolded her legs from the back seat, sheathed in black leather, the front zip straining to contain her breasts, across which the designer’s label appeared in gold letters.
The chauffeur slouched against the car and tipped back his cap. Broad, Brodtmann’s right-hand man. Crystal wiggled some fingers at him, the sign for him to stay. I opened the door as she rang the bell. She raised her large, dark sunglasses and nestled them in her hairdo. Smudged eye-makeup deepened the melancholy. ‘We are a mess …’ She dabbed her nose on a tissue. ‘Clay, he can’t eat, can’t sleep, no interest to check stock price.’
‘Would you like to come in?’
She looked with distaste at the room behind me. ‘I’m here to ask you, Miss Hardly, personally, to leave all this alone.’
‘It’s Hardy.’
‘Leave us to remember Nina in peace, and go back to Melbourne.’
‘I’m just here visiting a friend.’
‘No. Please. You listen to me. You don’t need to be busy body. Clay has the police looking for those fucking animals,’ she said. ‘The New Zealand one, that fucking bastard.’
‘I hope they catch him.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, he will pay,’ she said, and showed her teeth, even and white. ‘You go home, yes? Tonight?’
‘Sorry,’ I said, and started to close the door.
Crystal put a point-toed boot in the crack. She lowered her extended lashes and her voice. ‘What were you thinking to take Jemima out of the hospital? The poor girl is dying.’
I was stunned. Who were these people? ‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Last warning for you.’ She gave me a threatening stare and sashayed to the car.
I rushed down the path after her. ‘Hey!’
Crystal was at the car and the driver had the door open. I caught up and gripped Crystal’s arm; it was like leather-covered rock. The driver landed a blow in my solar plexus that sent the air from my lungs in one huge puff. I dropped to my knees. He grabbed a handful of hair and yanked my head back. He growled in my ear. ‘Go back to Melbourne, bitch.’
‘It’s … a … free … country.’
He pushed his cap back on his head and spat. ‘You’re one ugly dog, you know that?’
He let go of my hair before his steel-capped toe slammed into my kidneys. I fell sideways to the ground. From there I had a worm’s eye view of the car as it edged away from the curb. I stayed there, trying to breathe through the searing pain in my back. It was several minutes before my breathing returned to normal, and I sat up just as Vince pulled into the driveway.
‘They’ve moved.’
‘Who?’
‘The Lloyds. I asked the neighbours, there’s no forwarding address.’
‘Bugger.’
‘What are you doing down there?’
‘Resting.’ I was on my feet now, walking to the house.
‘What happened? What did I miss? Come on. Tell me and I’ll make you some tea.’
‘No tea, ever again,’ I said, and gave him a genial pat on the shoulder. I moved on wobbly legs inside, with my shaking hands in my pockets. The buzzing in my head was possibly from shock.
He was not surprised to hear that Crystal had had me followed and had warned me off. He was surprised that her chauffeur had punched and kicked me in broad daylight on his street. I reassured him that I was fine, other than bruised and humiliated.
‘That’s who we are dealing with,’ he said.
I took him to mean that I could call the cops if I wanted but not much would come of it. So I changed the subject. ‘So, no luck with the Lloyds?’
‘Oh, we had some luck.’ He started going through his papers on the kitchen table. ‘Not a total waste of time. The neighbour knows where the Lloyds were headed.’
‘Where?’
Vince dug through his files for a while. ‘Maybe it’s in me briefcase.’
I checked my phone and found a missed call from Phuong. I also had one from Shane Farquar. Nothing from Brophy. I called Phuong first. ‘Can you die from being winded?’
‘Depends. No. I don’t think so. What’s happening over there?’
‘My own stupidity.’
‘Be careful.’
‘Careful. Right. Will do. Got some news for you. Finchley Price — Maurangi works for him.’
‘How do you know? Jesus, don’t answer that.’ Phuong paused. ‘I’ve got news for you. A fire at Pickering’s mother’s house: place gutted, two bodies inside, a fifty-eight-year-old woman and a twenty-nine-year-old male. Suspicious, the deaths and the fire.’
‘Mr Funsail?’
‘We believe the crime is related to the case, yes.’
‘But the case all revolves around Mr Funsail, doesn’t it?’
I could hear her sigh. ‘That Funsail thing, it’s a doodle in a book, we don’t know what it refers to — it’s probably nothing.’
It was strange to hear Phuong say ‘we’.
‘Say hi to Bruce,’ I said, genuinely happy for her.
‘Found it.’ Vince came back, flapping a folded map at me. He spread it across the table. The map covered 22,000 square kilometres, roughly half the size of Switzerland. It could have been a foreign country — large swathes of green, few roads, and lots of empty space.
I rubbed my aching back. ‘So, where are the Lloyds?’
Vince pointed to a convergence of three roads. ‘Laverton.’
34
AFTER A sleepless night on the floor in Vince’s spare room, he offered to take me out for breakfast. My flight to Laverton was not due to leave until the afternoon. Both of us sat in grim silence in his Toyota. I was wearing a jacket I had brought with me that was too small and pulled across the shoulders. We crossed a bridge, heading south. Fremantle. I was getting the tour. The place had a past — lots of nineteenth-century statues, historical markers — and was now in various stages of reconstruction and renewal. Some tenants left over from the time before the gentrification were the tattoo parlours, the needle exchange, and the VD clinic; not that they advertised, but I was versed in the signs.
There was an outdoor café on a corner in the middle of town. Vince dropped me off, saying something about finding a park. Despite a fine drizzle, people were sitting at tables under large umbrellas. An adjacent doorway was open, with stairs leading up to a methadone clinic.
I made no conscious decision — I just went up the stairs.
It was a cruddy waiting room: one grubby window with bars, a couple of low counters built into a wall, each with a slot in the perspex big enough to talk through. Posters on the wall advised clients to ask for a smaller dose if it had been a while. I sat next to a fidgeting youth in a lumber jacket. His face covered in scratches, some dried blood. Next to him there was a girl in parachute pants, with a puppy in a shopping bag — no wait, it was a soft toy.
I took off my stupid jacket and noticed, seated near a pot plant, a large man in chinos and a clean check shirt. With his clean-shaven face and good haircut he looked like an industrialist headed to a Sunday barbeque. He radiated a ‘fuck off’ vibe.
A door opened and a woman in a zip-up nurse’s uniform came out. ‘Simon?’
The man in the chinos sprang up and bolted past her to the back room.
She looked at me, frowned. ‘You registered here?’
‘No.’
She handed me a clipboard and a pen. ‘Fill this out. Got your Medicare card?’
‘Yes.’
She went away and I sat there, looking around. Thinking of Brophy. Coming in here was a mistake, I wasn’t going to learn anything about him by jud
ging this place. Who knows why we love who we love? I put the clipboard down and made a coy little manoeuvre towards the door. I was thinking about Crystal forcing Tania to make a false report. Was she planning to expose the fraud? What would Crystal do if she got wind of the plan? The girls at the salon said Crystal had come in, abused her. There was stomping behind me and Simon, the chino man, came thundering down the stairs. ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘Lovely day for it.’
‘Shit-awful, actually.’ I was trying to put the damn jacket back on, pulling at the sleeves.
He laughed, like that was funny. ‘Sounds like you need a cup of coffee.’ He had a British accent, somewhere between Prince Charles and Stephen Fry.
‘Urgently,’ I agreed.
Outside, he waved at a boy in a long apron standing in front of the café then pointed to a sidewalk table. I sent a quick text to Vince, and joined Simon. Hands flat on the laminex, knees wide, eyes closed, he breathed deeply, like a man lately released from prison. ‘How long?’
‘Hmm?’ I was miles away. In Victoria, Melbourne, Footscray, in an art gallery, with an artist — and I was speaking to him of exoneration. Acceptance. Love. ‘How long what?’
‘Your habit?’
I had a habit. Of sorts. ‘Too long.’
‘Oh don’t.’
‘Don’t what?’
‘Feel sorry for yourself. You’re alive, aren’t you? It’s a great time to be alive.’ He spread his arms wide, beaming at the world.
‘Aren’t you worried about being seen? At the clinic, I mean.’
‘Not at all,’ he chuckled. ‘Do it in plain sight and they’d still not believe it. Not the type.’
‘Right.’
‘Like you. Not too many users of the service have manicured nails. You are … let me guess … a manager? National manager of something?’
I hooted. ‘Not even close. I’m in social … policy.’ A lie. I felt the need to be a rung or three up from the actual.
‘A wonk? Good God. You bureaucrat beggars are running the country into the ground. Babies out of school, spending our dough on art classes for gay cats or some nonsense.’