The Spotted Dog

by Kerry Greenwood

  ‘Daniel tells me you’ve been seein’ some action,’ he ventured.

  I laughed. ‘I think that’s putting it mildly. But yes, I have. And I think we have only one plotline after all. We have a promising lead. And while I don’t know for sure, I think we know where Geordie might be. I think he’s being held captive, and I believe I know where.’

  ‘Aye, somewhere in Kilmarnock.’ He shook his head. His hair was growing out, I noticed, from its soldierly close-crop. ‘It seems a wee bit strange, though. I’ve been tae Kilmarnock in Scotland. I’m guessin’ this one’s a wee bit different.’

  ‘A lot more sunshine, for one thing.’

  He thought about this. ‘And mebbe they grand hooses with big garridges?’

  ‘I think that would definitely be the case.’ I looked at Daniel. ‘Are you coming with us?’ I asked.

  He laughed. ‘You’ll be safe with Alasdair, I’m thinking. Meanwhile, I badly need a rest. Is it all right if I stay here?’

  Music to any woman’s ears – this particular tune like an effervescent Mozart piano concerto. I sternly suppressed my libido, telling it that work must come first. It almost listened to me. ‘I hope you haven’t been doing anything too dangerous?’

  ‘I’ve been casing the joint. Several joints, in fact.’ His mild, dark eyes seemed alert with mischief. Seeing the blatant concern in my expression, he took my hand and clasped it firmly. ‘I have visited a few Armenian warlords, or so I believe. And that I was not expecting. I knew about the Azeris, but these people look uncommonly armoured up, and dangerous. But don’t worry. I was sufficiently disguised, or so I hope.’ He handed me a card on which was a logo for El Dorado Real Estate, with the name Gordon MacTavish proudly in the centre and a mobile phone number beneath it. At the bottom, in small print, was a web address: www.eldoradorealty.org.au.

  ‘Armenian?!’ I exclaimed. ‘That’s a coincidence.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  And I told him about the hummed tune, and how Marie had identified it as an Armenian love song.

  ‘So,’ I concluded, ‘it is only too likely that our Second Burglar – the one who wasn’t the ineffable Jordan – is in fact Armenian.’

  ‘Hmm. That seems quite likely, under the circumstances – which I’ll come to in a moment.’

  I noticed that Alasdair had subsided unobtrusively onto a chair in one corner of the room. Soldier instincts, no doubt. A clear field of fire and no possibility of unexpected ambush.

  Daniel sat down in the chair next to mine and took my hand again. ‘Gordon MacTavish?’ I asked him. ‘Really?’

  ‘A patently fake Scots name, such as might have been adopted by Glaswegian Jews a few generations back to avoid suspicion.’

  ‘And you impersonated a real estate agent because nobody thinks of them as anything other than a mildly annoying nuisance. Daniel, that’s brilliant! What did you find out?’

  ‘Several things. I spoke to many Armenians. We have a kindred interest, both being holocaust survivors, so by and large we get on. I tried one house, where I got a reception around the temperature of liquid nitrogen, but I think they were Caucasian Muslims, and they may just have been responding to my self-evidently Hebraic appearance. But the Armenians worried me. One house in particular is a proper fortress, and nobody came to the door. I gave them my spiel through the intercom, and their dismissal was … brusque. I need to talk to Uncle Solly again.’ He leant back in his chair and poured himself another glass of my sauv blanc. I noticed he was a little paler than usual. Despite his offhand manner, I guessed that his enquiries had been stressful in the extreme. I wanted to embrace him and bury his head against my breasts, but not in front of an audience. Even one so unobtrusive as Alasdair.

  ‘Did you meet any Greeks?’

  ‘Yes, I did. Why?’

  I explained about Philomela and her sister. When I mentioned Anzac Drive his face split into a grimace.

  ‘They looked at me as though I were an inferior brand of gastropod. It probably was number thirty-four, as you say. But they didn’t look anything like gangsters, so I left quickly.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ I turned to our tame squaddie. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink, Alasdair?’

  He shook his head slowly and smiled. ‘No thanks. Shall we go and do this Soup Run thing?’

  I looked at my clock. Seven-thirty. It was still light, but why not? In summer the Soup Run began in daylight.

  I kissed Daniel goodbye and bade him make himself well and truly at home. Taking the lift down with Alasdair was a strange feeling. I trusted him. The British Army does not make mistakes with their psychological profiling. Yet this man had been tried beyond endurance, I guessed, and was still on the road to recovery. We exchanged glances as the lift descended, and he smiled. ‘Ye’ve nothing to fear, Corinna. I just wanted to gae oot. Daniel explained the Soup Run to me. It sounds grand.’

  The doors slid open, and we emerged in time to see Mrs Pemberthy and her dreadful little dog Traddles, who sniffed once at Alasdair’s ankles then disappeared behind his mistress with the merest of whimpers. Mrs Pemberthy glared at me and shook her head with the air of someone who has just discovered five-eighths of a caterpillar in her salad sandwich. She pushed past us into the lift, Traddles padding next to her high heels in demure silence. As the doors closed upon her, she emitted a snort like a dyspeptic locomotive.

  Alasdair looked quizzically at me. ‘So whae’s the auld biddy?’

  ‘One of our tenants. She, and her dog Traddles, perform an essential role in our little community.’

  ‘Neighbourhood Witch?’

  ‘Actually, we do have one of them. You remember Meroe? ‘

  ‘Aye, she give me the sleep charm. So what’s her story? ’

  ‘Mrs P is someone no one else can get on with, so she impels us together like little magnets. I doubt we’d manage half as well without her.’

  ‘Aye, my grandma wis the same. She swung a mean umbrelly back in Paisley.’ His eyes swept across Calico Lane and his chin jerked downwards. ‘Whaur now?’

  I led the way towards the cathedral, where the Soup Run began its nightly ministry under the benign aegis of the Anglican church. Alasdair stared in wonder. As did I. Since I had last seen the van, it had grown. There was Sister Mary, tiny and indomitable in her grey habit and blue wimple. Inside the van, wearing an apron and stirring a large pot of soup, was none other than Jordan King. His eyes caught mine for a millisecond, then with a toss of his dark fringe his head bent once more over the pot. Beside him was a sweet-looking girl assembling sandwiches. But next to the van were two new erections. Within a small marquee barbers were plying their trade at two chairs, barbering, shaving and generally prodding. And next to that was a busy laundromat, in which two pairs of windows showed forth the gladsome sight of soapy laundering and tumble-drying.

  Sister Mary appeared beside me and stretched out her wrinkled hand with pride. ‘Corinna, it’s good to see you. Are you coming out tonight? Oh, and Alasdair! Splendid to see you looking so well. You’re coming too?’

  Alasdair bowed his head stiffly. ‘Sister,’ he muttered, with the tiniest bob of his head. No Catholic this squaddie, obviously. I recalled now that Strathclyde had long been a hotbed of sectarian strife. But he would be on his best behaviour. Of that I was certain. She beamed up into his face and took his hand. He flinched, ever so slightly, but relaxed. Doubtless the love of God was flowing freely into him and calming him down.

  ‘Sister Mary,’ she announced brightly. ‘Glad to have you, Alasdair. We have Ma’ani tonight, but he might need some backup. Saturdays are always a bit fraught, especially on these hot summer nights.’

  He grinned weakly, and she let go his hand at last.

  ‘Corinna, isn’t this wonderful? We have our own laundrette now, and it’s made such a difference to our poor lost souls.’

  ‘And the hairdressing salon?’

  She laughed like a peal of small silver bells. ‘That’s down to Kelvin.’ She pointed her de
termined chin towards a young man with a full bushranger beard busily snipping away at a dishevelled street kid. ‘He was a long-term patron of our operation until he got back on his feet at long last. He quit the grog, got a job as a hairdresser and next thing we knew he had his own thriving business. So he comes here on Saturday nights, sets up his tent and ministers to them all. She exchanged glances with Kelvin, who nodded briskly and returned to his craft. ‘That’s his girlfriend Stephanie next to him, doing the women.’

  I lowered my voice. ‘And Jordan?’

  She patted my arm. ‘He’s getting along fine here. As long as he keeps doing what he’s told, I’ll put in a good word for him when his case comes up.’

  ‘And he’s quite penitent?’

  ‘Quite. But I doubt he’ll want to talk to you. The poor dear’s a bit embarrassed, to say the least.’

  ‘All right. I’ll keep clear of him. But …’ I left my sentence hanging, and she shook her head with emphasis.

  ‘I have my suspicions, dear. Something absurdly doctrinal, I believe. If the poor lad spent less time bothering his head about matters best left to the clergy, it would be a fine thing. But let it go. I hear you have matters of more moment on your plate at present?’ She looked down at my new ring, gave me a penetrating look from her gimlet eyes, and smiled. ‘The Lord will protect you too, dear. Now, it’s time for the sandwiches, I think. Would you like to help with that? After all, it’s your bread we’re using.’

  I did so. Tonight’s lawyer, I noticed, was rather more kempt than I remembered them being. This one wore about five-eighths of a business suit, but without the tie of bondage that would have sent too much of a Corporate Guy signal. He conversed with our clients in a soft voice. It may only have been my imagination, but our down-and-outs seemed less hapless than usual. Perhaps it was the laundry and haircuts. But there was more to it than that. Those who sleep rough used to be angrier. These seemed humbler, and more willing to give the Normal World a go. And unless I was quite mistaken there were fewer junkies. I tried my best not to stare at their faces and arms, but I couldn’t help noticing. These unfortunates were mostly clean, or I was out of my reckoning altogether.

  ‘You’ve noticed it too?’ Sister Mary was suddenly at my side. I looked at her all-forgiving features and shrugged. ‘I thought you might. Some are the lost souls you remember. But every night there are more and more ordinary folks who suddenly find themselves on the streets and are still wondering how it happened.’

  ‘Greedy landlords?’ I suggested.

  She shook her wimple. ‘Not necessarily. Now that Missing Link has abandoned all pretence of looking after the poor, all sorts of people are having their benefits cut off, for any or no reason. You remember the Robot Letters?’

  I did. For reasons that entirely escape me, The Missing Link Corporation (the agency that was supposed to dispense charity to the poor) had embarked on what was the postal equivalent of a drive-by shooting spree. They had a computer program, apparently. This explained everything, though it was cold comfort to those who received letters out of thin air telling them that they suddenly owed the government ten thousand dollars, three goats and an aardvark. Middle-class folks accustomed to fighting for their rights were able to prove that they owed no such thing. The poor and meek were not so fortunate. There were suicides, which was probably just fine as far as the government was concerned. End of problem! I could almost hear them chuckle, and crack open a jeroboam of bubbly in celebration.

  Sister Mary went into a short conclave with tonight’s nurse, who was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, issued a few orders and came back to me. ‘They’re mostly a lot quieter than they used to be. They’re cowed. This worries me.’

  It worried me too.

  Just then there appeared to be a disturbance up ahead of us. It was beyond the cathedral precinct, heading towards the Russell Street corner. Something was undoubtedly up. People were running towards us. Alasdair moved into the shadows of the church, but he was looking intently straight ahead, ready to spring into action. And out of the soup kitchen rose the vast, imperturbable figure of Ma’ani. He caught Alasdair’s glance and made a flicking motion with his jaw. ‘It’s all right, mate. I’ve got this.’

  Alasdair fell in next to me, almost humming with suppressed tension. I was pleased to see that he accepted Ma’ani as his superior officer for the night. But he planted himself directly in front of me, feet braced slightly apart and hands hanging loose at his sides. Towards us came a running man: tall, shaggy with facial growth, and the eyes of a crazed tiger. I saw he was brandishing a machete, and he was coming straight towards me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  O! so light a foot will ne’er wear out the everlasting flint.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, ROMEO AND JULIET, ACT 2, SCENE 6

  Ma’ani took two quick steps along the footpath, grasped the man and lifted him high into the air. He held him aloft, high above his head, with one hand. With the other gigantic fist he knocked the machete to the footpath, where it landed with a clatter. At once Alasdair whipped out a handkerchief and swept it up. He looked around to see a uniformed constable running towards him. Alasdair placed the machete on the footpath, still wrapped in his hanky, and raised both arms. The cop slowed down, looked at the tableau before him, and inclined a granite face.

  The entire episode had lasted maybe five seconds. We all stopped to catch our breaths, except the cop, who was now speaking urgently into his radio. The discussion ceased, and we all stared at Exhibit A. He struggled frantically in Ma’ani’s grasp, and the gallant officer walked over towards him. ‘What’s your name, son?’

  ‘Fuck off, cunt!’ came out more or less as a bellow: the sort made by a Mallee bull with its hoof caught in a cattle grid.

  ‘So which one of those is your first name?’ the cop enquired, as if asking a child what sort of ice-cream he wanted. The offender groaned. Some of the fight had gone out of him, unquestionably. His face was still brick-red, and his eyes a window into a pit on which I had no wish to speculate. Inarticulate noises escaped from the half-open mouth, but nothing resembling articulate speech. And there he still dangled, waving his legs ineffectually and attempting to kick at the man-mountain who continued to hold him aloft without apparent effort. The total effect was as if a Dalek had been interrupted in its quest for world domination by an unexpected staircase. Ma’ani grinned at the dapper police uniform. ‘You want ’im?’

  The cop smiled a wintry smile. ‘Not till my backup arrives.’ He gazed, fascinated, at the feebly kicking captive then raised an eyebrow at Ma’ani. ‘You okay until then, mate?’

  Ma’ani grinned proudly. He was wearing a yellow singlet which inadequately covered his bulging chest, mighty biceps and gargantuan shoulders. Even his muscles had muscles. It was as though he had at least three other men inside him, and they were all taking turns at this citizen’s arrest. ‘Yeah, bro, I’m fine. Reckon this one’s on ice?’

  The cop’s expression turned reflective for a long moment before arriving at a decision. ‘Well, we won’t know that until later on,’ he conceded, ‘but he’s had quite a night of it already, by the sounds of it. We’ve had reports of disturbances all along Flinders Street. Can you give us a hand with him until we get him back to the station?’

  The cop turned to look at Alasdair, who was still standing alert, obedient and reserved. ‘I’d like you to give me that machete, please. It’s evidence, and we’ll need it later.’ He produced a ziplock bag and stowed the weapon, carefully holding it by the handkerchief. The officer sealed the bag and his eyes raked Alasdair again, noting the quick, neat movements and military bearing. ‘What’s your name, soldier?’

  ‘Alasdair Sinclair.’

  That was intriguing. No rank, no serial number, no further information. Alasdair was not handing out anything more than was absolutely necessary.

  ‘Are you his backup for tonight?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The policeman nodded. ‘Well, that’s han
dy, seeing as I’ll be borrowing your friend here.’ He gestured to our Maori enforcer.

  The offender had subsided for the moment into inertia. But I knew enough about ice and related substances to know that uncontrollable rage might return at any moment. He didn’t look human right now. More like an animated zombie. Or a vampire suffering from an overdose of garlic. I saw that his mouth was bleeding. I guessed he had bitten himself, and felt a momentary pity for the poor man. Another urban casualty of wasted youth. Just then, a police car ground to a squealing halt at the kerb, and more policepersons erupted out of it. Handcuffs were produced. One of the newcomers caught a flying boot in the chest, and Ma’ani grasped both the man’s wrists and forced him down to the footpath.

  ‘Listen, bro,’ he rasped. ‘These blokes are goin’ to take you away for a nice rest. If you don’t start playing nice you’re going to get hurt a lot more.’ Ma’ani pulled both hands behind the man’s back, and one of the cops clicked the handcuffs shut. ‘You want they should put leg-irons on you?’

  The captive went as limp as a dejected celery stalk. I was keeping well clear of any of this, but from my safe distance I saw a semblance of sanity return to his features. He was quite young: Caucasian, probably mid-twenties. Torn T-shirt, gym-enhanced muscles, two days’ growth on his unhealthy-looking chin. He blinked. ‘Have I been bad?’ he enquired in a child-like voice.

  Cop Number One laughed. ‘Mate, I think that’s putting it mildly. Now you’re going in the back of this divvy van, and your new friend Ma’ani here has very kindly volunteered to accompany you. Now do as he says, play nice, and nobody else gets hurt. Deal?’

  A silent nod, hunched shoulders, and a general air of complete resignation. The rear door was flung open, and Ma’ani stepped into the back with one of his arms around the offender. The police car pulled away from the kerb sedately, and I turned to the soup van. We had a number of fascinated observers, but at the front, arms stretched out protectively, was Sister Mary. Beside her, also with outspread arms, was Jordan King. He was still avoiding my eye, but doing his very best impression of Good Catholic Boy. I nodded to Sister Mary, and she dropped her arms. I grinned weakly at her. ‘The Iceman Goeth?’ I suggested.