by Peter Temple
I finished my coffee, wished I hadn’t had a second one. ‘You’re saying I’m like that?’ I said. ‘Like a tuna?’
‘No, you’re the guy with the.22 and the piece of wire.’
‘That’s better. So you’re the tuna?’
‘I could have been,’ said Orlovsky. ‘I could have been. But I resisted.’
‘Swam away with a bullet in your brain. See if you can find out who’s working on this voice stuff,’ I said. ‘Start now. About tomorrow, you’re going on the road.’
‘Before dawn,’ he said.
‘How much do you make?’
Orlovsky eyed me suspiciously. ‘It’s a commitment,’ he said. ‘It’s an obligation.’
‘Far be it from me to come between you and your commitments. Can you get a stand-in?’
He rubbed his jaw, an imperfectly shaved jaw, a shave in progress. ‘The boss might do it himself. Can’t just bring in a temp for work like this, you know. There’s trust involved, I’m dealing with people…’
‘Don’t tell me,’ I said. ‘I’m not a cop anymore and I still don’t want to know. Tell the boss your temporary employer has urgent need of your services and he’ll pay, what, five hundred? For inconveniencing the man, the person. How much do you make?’
‘For the three days, six-fifty a day.’
‘Okay, two grand to you for lost earnings, five hundred to the boss. He saves the two grand you get, he’s up two-and-a-half on the deal.’
‘If he wanted to save two grand, he’d always do it himself. He doesn’t like going out there. That’s why he pays me.’
‘A thousand.’
‘This is Carson money you’re spending. You’re acting as if it’s yours.’
I shook my head at him. ‘The concept of honest stewardship of other people’s money means nothing to you, does it?’
Orlovsky smiled, stroked a patch of stubble. ‘Nothing that I can think of, no.’
We drove back to the Carson compound. No one was waiting in the underground carpark, no messages.
Walking though the garden, I listened to the voice in my head saying: It’s not too late, it’s not too late. Call Noyce now. Tell him you think you were wrong. They must call in the cops now. But I knew I couldn’t, wouldn’t.
27
From the Garden House, with nothing else to do, in deep dread, unable to simply wait, I rang Graham Noyce.
‘Two things. First, if and when they ring, I want proof that she’s alive. I’m giving them a deadline to produce it. I’ve got a bad feeling.’
‘I’ll clear it with Tom,’ he said. ‘I think he’ll agree. What else?’
‘I’d like to ask Mark’s old firm some questions. Ross, Archer amp; Stegley.’
A moment’s silence. ‘Why’s that?’
I gave him a moment’s silence back. ‘Idle curiosity.’
A sniff. ‘It’s a reasonable question, Frank.’
‘You didn’t tell me about Mark and the Poles. The Polish Russians.’
‘Jesus, what else haven’t I told you about? Let’s set aside a week or two, I’ll give you a background briefing on the Carson family, close and extended, near and far. In the meantime, I don’t think these shonks Mark gets mixed up with would actually get around to abducting his daughter, cutting off her finger. Do you?’
I gave him another measured silence.
‘For Christ’s sake, Frank,’ he said wearily, ‘Mark is the one who gets ripped off in these insane deals.’
‘Is Mark out of bounds? Just say the word.’
‘Fuck. I’d like to kick the cunt out of bounds. Listen, the reason it’s not a good time to be asking around about Mark is simply that the float’s two weeks off. People are sniffing around. Journos, the fucking stockbrokers’ analysts. And someone’s putting out the word that the institutions think Tom should stand down as chief executive, that he’s too old, lacks vision, he’s a drag on the company’s future. With me?’
‘Just vaguely.’
‘So this is a really tense time. Anything can have a spin put on it, we can see five years’ work, fifty years’ work you might say, all go down the tubes.’ Pause. ‘Anyway, who told you about Mark and the Poles?’
‘Pat. And Martie Harmon.’
‘Who put you onto Martie Harmon?’
‘Barry.’
‘To what end, may I ask?’
‘He thought I should have been told about the phone call from the person with the American accent. Should I have been, do you think? And another question: who do you work for?’
‘I work for the company. I’m a servant of the company.’
‘You work for Tom?’
‘It’s not that clear-cut.’ Another sniff. ‘I work for the Carsons. All the Carsons. I steer my frail craft among the Carson shoals and reefs. Tom is now formally the head of the company but until recently I reported directly to the old man, to Pat. And I was hired by Barry.’
Only the questions are simple. Who said that? I felt sand in my eyes, grit, and I blinked and blinked.
‘Tom was at the first meeting,’ said Noyce. ‘He had ample opportunity to tell you about Mark and the threat from the Poles, whoever. He didn’t. I took my cue from that.’
A moment’s silence. Then he said, ‘Is Barry suggesting Mark’s Poles are relevant?’
‘No. I mentioned Mark and he told me about the phone call.’
Now Noyce sighed, a sigh felt deeply. ‘Frank, a month ago a newspaper wanted to do a two-part feature on the Carsons. On the family. Life and times and empire. I cannot tell you what I had to do to get that project shelved. Things that make me shudder now, in the clear light of day. And I am not a shudderer. And the reason was Mark. All we need is the media getting onto the story of the family fucking idiot and his loony deals and his scummy associates. Not to mention his totally crazed wife.’
‘It’s his daughter I’m worried about.’
Breath expelled loudly. ‘Obviously. We have to do whatever we can to get Anne back. But essentially we are waiting for instructions on how to ransom her. Not so?’
Two people were coming down the brick path beside the cutting garden, a tall woman and a man, shoulder-height to her. They were smiling at each other.
‘Tom’s wife,’ I said. ‘Is she around?’
‘Carol? Sometimes. She travels a lot. Shopping trips. Why?’
‘There’s a woman in the garden with a much younger man. Tall blonde woman.’
‘That’s her. He’s probably the latest plaything.’
‘She’d be concerned about her granddaughter.’
‘Carol’s not exactly your doting grandmother. I gather she can’t stand Anne. About Mark…’ ‘Yes.’ Outside, Carol Carson raised her right hand and brushed her fingertips across the young man’s full mouth.
‘Poking around Mark’s life, that’s not going to help. All you’ll do is create a danger of someone tipping off the media that the Carsons are paying an ex-cop to dig into Mark’s life. Frank, we can’t run that risk. Not now. Are you with me?’
I said I was. Carol Carson and her friend were walking back the way they had come, close together, touching. Clearly, the man had no fear of meeting an angry spouse.
I went to the kitchen to make a pot of tea, had to choose from five teas, imported from France. France? What did the French know about tea? I chose one at random, looked out of the window while I waited for the kettle to boil. The day had turned fine, weak lemon sunlight bathing the garden, turning the rain lying on the evergreen leaves into drops of mercury.
He was Mr Hotshot Young Lawyer. And compassionate, night a week at the Altona Legal Centre. Out there in the chemical smog.
Compassionate Mark, Mark drooling over violent porn films. Incompatible emotions? Perhaps not. Humans were dealt all the cards. Life and a bit of choice decided which ones they’d play.
Mark’s wife had said something, something about him being the sick one. But not a reliable informant was Christine.
I made a pot of tea, in a b
one china pot, kept in a cupboard with teacups thin as parchment, and left it to draw.
Mark would have been a volunteer at the Altona Community Legal Centre around 1988. I rang inquiries, got the number, was put through to the centre’s solicitor, told her a lie.
‘In 1988? Wow. I’ve only been here since 1998. Hold on, I’ll ask someone.’
She was gone only a minute or two.
‘That was easy,’ she said. ‘Our secretary had a stint here from ’85 to ’90 but she’s gone out for a bit. I looked up the records, the solicitor then was Jeremy Fisher. He’s a big-deal corporate lawyer now. I think he’s with Stone, Boyle, Carides-they’re takeover specialists, takeovers, mergers, company stuff like that. He’d know your person. I don’t think they had many volunteer solicitors then, too far from the bright lights.’
I poured a cup of tea through a silver strainer, squeezed in a drop of lemon juice. Excellent French tea. Was this what your Bordeaux vigneron drank after a hard morning’s work doctoring the fermented grape juice with battery acid and Algerian plonk?
I got the number and rang Stone, Boyle, Carides.
It was easy to get to Jeremy Fisher’s second secretary. Then I moved on to a full secretary. They were both bright-voiced, both infected with the superiority of working for a first-tier law firm. They wanted to know my business and not in vague terms. I didn’t want to tell them my business even in non-vague terms. At length, I was put on to someone who was apparently an actual solicitor, not Jeremy Fisher but someone I imagined as a work-experience person operating out of the basement carpark.
‘Jeremy’s tremendously busy,’ he said, another cheerful person. ‘Can’t I help you?’
‘Listen, son,’ I said, ‘I’ve had it with the runaround. I represent Carson Corporation. I’m going to give you my number. I expect Jeremy to ring me inside five minutes.’
‘I’ll take that number,’ the man said. ‘And get back to you soonest. ASAP.’
The phone rang inside the limit.
‘Mr Calder, Jeremy Fisher. Forgive me, my people should’ve put you straight through. Bit over-protective, I’m afraid.’
It was a smooth voice, a competent voice, an unflappable voice that would be balm to a troubled corporate ear. It said: You are in good hands.
‘I understand you represent Carson Corporation,’ Jeremy said. ‘We obviously haven’t met. In what capacity would you be representing the company?’
I was getting a feeling, not a good feeling. ‘Not Carson Corporation, the family. Check that with Graham Noyce, if you like, he’s the in-house counsel. Would you like the number?’
‘No. I talk to Graham quite enough as it is. The float’s taken its toll of both of us. How can I help you?’
Takeovers, mergers, company stuff like that.
Like companies going public? Like CarsonCorp?
My instinct was to make an excuse and leave.
But.
If Graham was scared that bad publicity could harm the float, the leak that brought the publicity certainly wasn’t going to come from the law firm handling it.
So, what the hell.
‘In the strictest confidence,’ I said, ‘and without giving any reasons, I’d like to ask you a few questions about the time when you were the solicitor at the Altona Legal Centre and Mark Carson was a volunteer.’
‘Yes?’
He said Yeees? An intonation conveying extreme caution. The kidnappers’ electronic device could convey that intonation. I was beginning to see that it might be a technical achievement.
‘It was about that time that Mark left Ross, Archer amp; Stegley.
I wondered if you knew anything about the circumstances of his leaving the firm?’
‘The circumstances?’ A musing tone. ‘As far as I can remember, Mark was with Ross’s all the time that he was helping out at Altona. So that must have been later. But I really can’t say, it’s so long ago.’
Pause. A pause for thought.
‘Mr Calder, I’ve got an overseas call on the line,’ he said. ‘I’ll get back to you soonest. Sorry about this, these people won’t wait. Talk to you again.’
Not in this life, I thought. I didn’t know why, but I knew. I took my time finishing the very fine French tea, held the cup to the light, extended a finger behind it. Through the pale, translucent, expensive shell, I could see its shape, like a boat’s shadow on the seabed.
The phone rang.
‘What the fuck is this about?’ Graham Noyce, equal stress on each word, not the affable, careworn, reasonable Graham Noyce. ‘Frank, exactly what the fucking hell is this about?’
I didn’t have the remotest idea what it was about. And every hour that passed left me more ignorant.
Mid-week. It was mid-week.
28
Corin McCall answered her phone from what sounded like a building site, brute machines roaring in the background.
‘Back from the bush, yes,’ she said. ‘Came back last night, had to. My earthmoving man found he had a day free, you don’t let that get away.’
‘That’s him in the background?’
‘Rearranging nature. Socrates Kyriakos. No one can play an earthmover like Soc.’
‘The earth moves for him.’
A laugh, not big, but a laugh. The laugh when I’d called off our date, that hadn’t been a laugh.
‘I’m in a bad position,’ I said. ‘Sort of a twenty-four-hour-a-day job, open-ended, no end in sight.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘thanks for calling. Anyway.’
‘No,’ I said, nervous. ‘Lunch. What about lunch? Eat lunch?’
‘Eat my sandwiches. My sandwich.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In Hampton. My client’s flattened two houses and he wants to get the landscaping done before he builds some appalling structure.’
‘I can get to Hampton in fifteen, twenty minutes, we can have lunch in Hampton. Many good places to have lunch, I’m sure.’
She thought about this incredibly appealing proposal for a long time.
‘I’ll give you the address, but I’m not dressed for eating out,’ she said. ‘Bring your own sandwich. We’ll eat in my vehicle.’ Pause.
‘Buggered old Land Cruiser with bags of compost in the back.
How’s that suit your style?’
‘To perfection. How do you like your coffee?’
Another pause. ‘Black. Long black.’
‘The address?’
I took a Carson car, an Audi, the high life coming easily to me now, stopped at a smart coffee place, ordered bagels with smoked salmon and other exotic ingredients, long black coffees.
At the address, the Land Cruiser was parked in what would once have been the driveway of a house. Twenty metres away, a small earthmover was triumphant on a heap of sandy earth. On the street frontage of the two suburban quarter-acre blocks, a large rectangle had been pegged out where the building would go.
Corin McCall got out of the Land Cruiser as I parked. She was dressed like a workman: check shirt, sleeveless oilskin jerkin with many pockets, jeans, lace-up boots. I’d never seen her in work gear, only in lecturing gear, which was suits and high-collared blouses. It was hard to say which outfit made the more favourable impression on me.
We met on the pavement, dishwater sky, the wind off the bay blowing right through me. She put out her right hand and we shook.
‘Welcome to the glamorous world of landscape design,’ she said, running her left hand through her short dark hair.
‘What’s happened to Socrates?’
‘Soc’s got another job going in Sandringham. He’s gone over to check on Soc junior in his lunch hour, get on the machine and redo everything the boy’s done today.’
‘Ah, the family firm,’ I said. ‘I’m learning about the family firm.’
‘In your twenty-four-hour-a-day, open-ended job?’
I nodded. ‘I’ll get the supplies.’ I went back to the car and got out the box with the bagels and coffee.
> ‘I hope this vehicle doesn’t smell of manure,’ Corin said. ‘I’m beyond being able to detect it.’
The Land Cruiser didn’t smell of manure, it smelled of nothing except a suspicion of perfume, such as might come to you in a memory.
‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘Like an urban picnic.’
I opened the box, offered her a bagel. ‘I thought you could save your sandwich for afternoon tea.’
She looked at me, eyes narrowed. ‘How did you know I’d prefer smoked salmon and cream cheese on a bagel to Vegemite on last week’s bread?’
‘Call it intuition, call it a shot in the dark.’
We settled down to eat. After her first bite, Corin said, ‘Good filling, proper boiled bagel too. Do you mind me asking what you do for a living?’
‘I’m a mediator.’
She was looking at her bagel, gave me a sideways glance. ‘Someone at the college said you used to be a cop.’
I nodded. ‘It scares people off, ex-cop. I usually say I used to be a soldier, that’s more acceptable somehow.’
‘Were you?’
‘A soldier, yes. Much longer than I was a cop.’
‘Why’d you stop being a soldier?’
‘I got hurt.’
I paused. That was what I always said, all I said. Today, I added, ‘Other people got hurt at the same time. And afterwards I didn’t think I had what it took anymore.’
We chewed in silence. Then she wiped her lips with a napkin, no lipstick, and said, ‘What does it take?’
‘A certain indifference to personal safety. How’d you get into landscape design?’
She wasn’t easily deterred. ‘Why’d you stop being a cop?’