by Peter Temple
‘Whole fucking day to warm up,’ said Mary Ballich. She picked up a remote control from a chair, pressed several buttons before the television died. ‘Fire goes out, place’s a fucking freezer inside ten minutes. Start again next day. Sit down, have a seat.’
I had the choice of a squat leather chair, its arms folded and held down with buckles, and an old office chair. I sat on the office chair. Mary went to a counter, a two-litre cask of wine on it, wet circle on the carpet below the nozzle. She showed me a glass, half full, yellow liquid in a Vegemite container given a second life.
‘Little heartstarter,’ she said. ‘Shit, I slept so fucking bad, I can’t tell you. Take a wine?’
‘A small one,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
She found another Vegemite glass for me, filled it from the tap. I got up to take it from her.
‘Cheers,’ she said and went back to get hers, lit a cigarette, offered me the pack. I shook my head. She sat down on the yellow leather couch. It sighed.
‘A lawyer,’ she said. ‘Didn’t get the other bit.’
‘I’m acting for someone in a criminal matter. Janene’s name came up as a possible witness. I found out she was a missing person, so I rang all the Ballichs in the book.’
‘Witness?’
‘She might know something that would help our client.’
‘Can’t help if she’s missin, can she?’
‘No. But we might be able to help look for her. That would be up to you.’
‘Well, the cops done fuck-all. Not interested, don’t give a shit.’
‘You reported her missing in January 1995,’ I said. ‘That’s a long time ago.’
‘Yeah. Look around, another bloody year’s gone.’
‘How did you know she was missing?’
‘Didn’t answer the phone. Got a bit toey. Then I get a call from the real estate agency, they reckon she’s done a runner, left all her stuff behind.’
I tried the wine, wet my lips with it. Sweet, a strong smell of acetone. ‘Runner from what?’
‘This unit in St Kilda. We went up to Melbin, got the stuff.’
‘Janene was in touch regularly?’
‘Well, nah. I used to ring her. Sometimes ya need a talk.’ She inhaled deeply, blew smoke out of the corner of her small mouth. ‘Sometimes ya need a few bucks too. What’s the good of bloody kids they can’t help ya out, that’s what I say. Things I bloody went through for em, you don’t want to know. Don’t want to know.’
‘Janene had a job?’
‘Model,’ she said. ‘She was a model.’ She drank half her glass of sweet yellow wine. ‘There’s a photo over there.’ She pointed.
I crossed to the back wall, to two photographs hanging between the curtains.
‘Top one,’ said Mary. ‘That’s her. Other one’s Marie, my little one.’
They were both studio portraits, full length. I could see nothing of Mary Ballich in either of them. At about eighteen, Janene Ballich had a waif look, long fair hair, big eyes, long legs made longer in a little black dress by the photographer’s upward angle. Her sister was about fifteen when the picture was taken, dark, big-mouthed, a look in her eyes that said she would only be a certain kind of teacher’s pet.
I went back to my chair. ‘Tough business, modelling,’ I said, looking at Mary.
She looked back, pulled a face. Deep lines appeared between her eyes. ‘Yeah, well, she done a bit of escort on the side. Like between modellin jobs, y’know.’ She finished her wine and got up for more. ‘How’s ya glass?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
She filled hers to the brim, spilled a little on the carpet, drank some before journeying back to the sighing couch.
‘So, did she have an agency for bookings?’ I said.
‘Nah, Wayne done that. He was like her agent.’
‘Wayne?’
‘Wayne Dilthey. He come here with her once. Stuck on her, I reckon, the cuntstruck look, pardon me. They come in his Porsche. Grey one. Whole fucking street come out.’
I took out my notebook and guessed at the spelling, there wasn’t any point in asking. ‘Any idea of when you last spoke to Janene?’
Mary had a sip, blinked at me. Now I noticed the marks on either side of her nose. She was short-sighted and she didn’t want to be seen in glasses. ‘November,’ she said. ‘My birthday’s the twelfth of November. I was really pissed off, no fucking prezzie, not even a call. I give her a ring, get the message fucking thing. Next morning she rings, all sorry, sorry, sorry. Some crap about her friend in hospital, always a bullshit story to give you, Jan. From when she was little. Jay Bailey, she used to call herself. Didn’t like her name.’
‘November 13, 1994, that’s the last time she was on the phone?’
‘To me. The other time, I was at the pub with my fren. The bloke livin here, he was here, pissed half off his brain as per usual, she give him a message.’
‘Saying what?’
‘Fuck knows,’ she said. ‘The turkey tole me the next day, he can’t remember nothin. Reckons she was upset, that’s all, the fucking spagbrain.’
The smoke was getting to my throat. I had some wine — alcohol, sugar, acetone — the stuff could knock out any complaint. ‘Any idea when that was?’
‘Yeah. December 4.’
My throat felt better. The stomach would be the next problem. ‘You remember that?’
‘Nah. The cop said.’
‘What cop was that?’
‘Cop come here. He had the calls she made.’
‘That was after you reported Janene missing?’
She was lighting another cigarette. ‘Nah. Just before Christmas. Didn’t know she was missin then, thought she was just bein her usual mongrel. He come about her mobile, reckoned someone pinched it, he was checkin the calls.’
Her glass was empty. She showed it to me, I shook my head. She got a refill, spilled more from the tap this time, spilled some on her front when she sat down. It was going to be a short day indoors. Short out and much shorter in.
‘Married?’ she said.
‘I’ve been married.’
‘Kids?’
‘One.’
She looked at me, nodding.
‘Give you his name, the cop?’ I said.
She frowned, waved her cigarette. ‘Well, it’s gone. Ugly bloke, tell you that, the dark glasses, these big bumps over his eyes. How’s ya drink?’
I finished my glass. ‘Driving,’ I said. ‘Can’t take a chance.’
She gave me a good stare, blinking, pulled at her top between the breasts with her cigarette hand, pulled it away from her body. ‘Could stay over,’ she said. ‘Get an early start in the mornin.’
‘That’s tempting,’ I said. ‘Would you have a picture of Janene I could borrow? I’ll copy it, send it back.’
‘Got a photo of Jan and Wayne and the other little bitch,’ she said. ‘The time they come here. In the Porsche.’
She got up and left the room, not unsteady in her walk on the long legs she’d passed on to Janene. She was back in seconds, stood beside me, touched my arm with a hip, held the photograph for me to see, bent over, head close to mine, leaning on me.
‘Lovely girl,’ she said.
Janene was thinner in this picture, even more like a starveling now, but she looked groomed, expensive short haircut, well-cut pants, a silver bracelet wristwatch. She also had bigger breasts, hard-looking, pushing against a tight shirt. She was posing against a grey car. Beside her, an arm draped over her, was a big man, bony face, short dark hair, black glasses, a bodybuilder. He had two rings on the visible hand: pinky and index fingers, one ring bigger than the other. His other arm was around a small, dark young woman, also well dressed, scarf, dark aviator glasses. She could have been a rich Year 12 student at the polo.
‘The other one’s Katelyn Feehan,’ said Mary, unasked. ‘Up herself little bitch.’
‘Also a model?’
‘Yeah, that kinda thing.’
I stood. It was
not easy, I feared that I would unbalance Mary Ballich, dislodge her. But she was not without experience in remaining on her feet.
‘I’d like to copy this picture,’ I said.
‘Got the neg,’ she said. ‘Give you that.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You should keep the neg, that’s precious. I’ll take this one and I’ll pay for you to get copies made for yourself.’
‘Yeah, okay,’ she said, had some wine. ‘Jack’s a nice name. Sure you’re a lawyer? More like a human.’
I got out my wallet, put two fifties on the table. Mary picked them up.
‘Settle down, mate,’ she said. ‘Only a photo.’ She offered them back to me.
‘It’s also for your time,’ I said. ‘In my business, you charge for your time and you pay for other people’s time.’
‘Bit like escortin then,’ she said and she smiled, the small mouth, it had its own erotic charm. I realised I had not seen her teeth.
‘I’ll probably have to call you again,’ I said. ‘Ask more questions.’
‘You can call any time,’ she said. ‘Jack.’
At the front door, I said thank you and put out a hand.
She took it, raised it and gently bit the flesh behind the thumb. ‘Any time,’ she said.
17
‘Dilthey,’ said Cameron Delray. ‘Never heard of him. Where are you?’
‘Drouin,’ I said.
‘That voluntary?’
‘A tidy town. I’m passing through.’
‘Give me a bit.’
I was approaching Dandenong before he rang back. I pulled over, watching a storm sky building over Melbourne, coming from the west, blue-black rolling clouds.
‘Got him,’ he said. ‘Want to do something today?’
‘Might as well.’
‘King Street. It’s called the Officers’ Club.’
I groaned.
‘You’ll fit in with the public-service crowd. Crack a fat on the way to the station, twenty bucks. Juices em up for the wife in Camberwell, they come in holdin the briefcase in front.’
‘What those women have to endure. After a long day driving the kids. Where in King Street?’
He told me how to find the place.
‘Tell em Mr Costello’s expectin you. Popeye. He’s a nice bloke, could’ve been a judge, just got off on the wrong foot.’
‘And who am I?’
‘Say Cam rang.’
In the city, the storm broke as I was leaving the parking garage in Little Collins. I retreated and watched the deluge. It lightened after a few minutes and I set off. In time for the sleet and then the hailstones, small marbles skittering in the street, bouncing off the cars, just too small to dent.
The man ahead of me at the Officers’ Club counter was wearing a fawn raincoat and carrying an umbrella and a briefcase. He put his change in a side pocket, didn’t bother about his wallet.
‘Mr Costello’s expecting me,’ I said to the receptionist.
She might have been Mr Costello’s mother, still helping at the school canteen after all these years. The man leaning against the wall could have been the school bully, still waiting to take half or more of whatever you bought.
‘And it’s who?’ said Popeye Costello’s mum, friendly.
‘The person Cam rang about,’ I said.
She picked up a telephone, pressed a button. ‘The person Cam rang about,’ she said.
‘Yes, right.’
‘He’s got someone with him,’ she said. ‘Through the portrait room and into the club room. You’ll see a door in the right corner, it’s got two green lights over it. Have a seat outside. Michael won’t keep you waiting.’
I passed through the portrait room, a characterful chamber, panelled, lit by brass picture lights above paintings of several centuries of British soldiers, mostly in dress uniform. The frames were gilt, broad, carved. Everything was fake.
The club room was large, dim, a bar on the left, not busy. The officers, not many of them, were standing around two small podiums upon which women were performing. The women were fully dressed and their behaviour suggested that they were uncomfortable in their garments. There was tugging, rubbing and long-nailed groin-scratching of a languorous heat-affected kind.
The officers, all in civilian dress, were offering helpful suggestions.
‘Show us yer pussy,’ said one.
The woman pulled up her skirt. Beneath it she was naked and shaven. The officers made approving noises.
As I crossed the room, I had a view through a door into a corridor lined with booths curtained with semi-transparent material. A young man came out of one, followed by a big-breasted pale woman in a bikini and high heels. She was adjusting the top. The man looked as a first-time parachutist might upon landing.
I took a seat on a slippery banquette in the corner. The door with the green lights opened and a long-haired man in a leather jacket came out. His face was mostly nose, spread over it like a frog.
‘He’s only fucking human, Pop,’ he said over his shoulder.
The man in the fine-striped shirt and stockbroker braces behind him said, ‘Nobody’s proved that to my fucking satisfaction. Just do it.’ He came into the doorway. ‘Cam’s mate? Come in.’
He waited for me to go in and closed the door, went around a glass-topped table covered in papers, some in piles clamped by bulldog clips. Two three-drawer filing cabinets stood together against a wall with four small security monitors on them. That was it for furnishings.
‘So what’s your name?’ he said.
‘Jack Irish. I’m a solicitor.’
Popeye Costello had a round face and round glasses and a big grey-flecked moustache. He scratched it, scratched his bald head. ‘You the one knocked that fucking Marty Scullin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Goodonya. The cunt. You could’ve sold tickets, got a full fucking house at the MCG. What can I tell you about the Dill.’
‘The Dill?’
‘Wayne Dilthey.’
‘I’m interested in a woman called Janene Ballich. His name came up.’
‘She worked here a coupla months. JJ she called herself. Nice kid, country kid, bit raw, the punters like that. Bit thin too. Not the needle though. Show one fucking track here, they get the arse, that’s what I call human resources management, i.e. junkies are more trouble than they’re fucking worth.’
‘And Dilthey?’
‘Yeah, the Dill. Worked for me, ’92–93. Came from Brisbane, bloke I know up there gave me a ring.’
You never know what you can ask. ‘What was his job?’
Costello shrugged, held up big hands. ‘This and that, y’know.’
I waited but I knew there wasn’t any point. ‘Janene disappeared in 1994,’ I said.
Costello tapped his fingernails on the glass tabletop. ‘Didn’t know that,’ he said, ‘but they do, they do. The kid was no Einfuckingstein, that can be a major risk factor. They get taken in by these cunts, the talkers.’
‘Like Wayne?’
‘As a for example?’
‘Her mother says Wayne was Janene’s agent, so to speak.’
Costello laughed, a good laugh, showed his lower gold fillings, you wanted to laugh with him. ‘So to fucking speak,’ he said. ‘The prick.’
I had to feel my way here. ‘Taken in and they disappear?’
He tapped nails again, still amused, but I was on borrowed time. ‘Well, disappear,’ he said, ‘what’s that mean?’
‘Possibly dead,’ I said.
More tapping. ‘Or possibly just fucked off. Check Kalgoorlie, check Darwin, check fucking Port Hedland. Thousands of fucking disappeared kids, mate, can’t all be dead.’
His telephone rang. He listened, grunted, found a remote. Out of the corner of my left eye, I registered the monitors come on. I looked: reception, bar, overheads of the big room, two people on the floor, a woman, flashes of naked flesh.
‘Fuck,’ said Costello, weary. ‘Another fucking idiot. I shouldn’t have to d
o this anymore. Excuse me.’
He got up, not hurried, left the room. I watched the grey murky screen. A man was on top of the woman, the officers didn’t seem to be coming to her aid. Then someone appeared and kicked the man in the head, it jerked him sideways. It was Costello. He kicked the man again, grabbed him by the collar and the seat of his pants, lifted him bodily, ran him headfirst into the bar counter, stepped back, did it again, carried him off-screen.
A minute or two went by, watching the screens. The wrestler wasn’t leaving by the front entrance, nothing happened there, just the tuckshop lady talking to someone in uniform, a security guard. No, it was a cop. Not urgent talk, the cop was laughing. She gave him something. It looked like a Freddo. It was. He opened it and ate it.
Costello came through the door. ‘Shit,’ he said, on his way back to his chair. ‘Always when the fucking gymrat’s on his smoko. Doesn’t fucking smoke either. Naturally.’
I said, ‘I don’t want to waste any more of your time. Wayne and Janene.’
He was pulling at his cuffs, getting comfortable again, not a sign of exertion or unease on the round face, a man in round glasses who had just kicked another man in the head twice, lifted him clear of the victim, run him into the bar twice. Then he had possibly taken him down a fire escape and thrown him into the alley.
Costello was pensive. ‘The Dill,’ he said, ‘he had this idea, he thought he could run a high-class catering business.’
‘Not just a pimp?’ I said.
Costello was looking at the screens. Nothing was happening, the place was almost empty, most of the officers had gone on to do their duty in Camberwell, the cop downstairs was gone, gone to patrol the lawless mid-afternoon streets, the taste of a free Freddo chocolate frog in his teeth.
‘The cunt thought aiming high was the ticket,’ he said. ‘Looking for the geese with the golden eggs.’
‘Aiming high?’
‘Ambition’s not a bad thing in a young bloke,’ said Costello, not looking at me. ‘But the Dill, he had no fucking idea. He wanted everything at once, like the world owed it to him. Brisbane, can’t take it out of them. You can put a Buck’s suit on the pricks but they’re always fucking Brissie, big time’s the Breakfast Creek Hotel, have steak and beer for every meal.’