by Roland Perry
Four plainclothes police with rifles surrounded the limousine and in a second had put holes in its four tyres. Moments later, Benns and O’Dare got out of a car across the road and took charge as Fazmi and the three other Libyans still hadn’t moved. Benns stood near another vehicle and cupped a free hand to his mouth.
‘All-of-you,’ he yelled in a precise staccato, ‘out-of-the-vehicle! Hands-in-the-air. Now!’
As he bellowed, police surrounded the limousine and aimed their weapons. Moments later, Fazmi and the others alighted. They were searched and pushed to the side of the road.
The limousine trunk was opened and a sub-machine gun and rifles were removed. The eight Libyans were ordered into the booze bus just as a policewoman approached our car.
Farrar tried to back out of the line of vehicles.
‘Take it easy!’ I said.
The policewoman arrived at the driver’s door. Farrar lowered the window.
‘You in a bit of hurry, sir?’ she said peering in and glancing at me.
‘Didn’t want to stay round after the shootin’,’ he said with a rough grin. Police were directing the banked-up line of traffic away. The policewoman handed him a breathalyser.
‘You’re lettin’ everyone else go,’ he protested.
‘That’s right,’ she said, ‘but you were in a big rush to leave.’
I wanted a hole in the ground to swallow me up, but had to act casual.
‘It’s OK, Tony,’ I said, ‘you haven’t been drinking.’
‘Not for four hours,’ he said, blowing hard.
The policewoman examined his effort.
‘You’re right on the limit,’ she said with a frown, ‘are you going straight home?’
‘Yes,’ Farrar said. She caught my eye a few times more. I kept meeting her gaze with the most pleasant expression I could muster short of a nervous twitch.
‘Make sure you are,’ she said, and waved us on to the road.
TWENTY-FIVE
MY BROKER’S HIDEAWAY was a converted apartment on top of the Society restaurant at the Spring Street or Parliament end of Bourke Street in the city. It could only be reached by a back staircase from a narrow alley. Oliver had used the apartment, or ‘Bunker’ as he called it, when he wanted to work without interruption, or conduct one of for his after-hours dalliances. It had an office with all the usual machine accoutrements, such as Fax, computer, telex and a stock-exchange monitor. Oliver had stacked the fridge with food and drink and this would allow me to stay out of sight most of the time.
There was a bedroom and a long living room done in a modern, Japanese style with a low granite marble table and tall glass shelves. The paintings included two ‘desert-scape’ originals by Clifton Pugh. There was a dinner table to seat twelve, and a beige semi-circular sofa that stretched about ten metres. The windows gave a fine view of Bourke Street running up to the steps of the State Parliament, as grand as anything nineteenth-century Vienna could offer. I had always loved its imperial solidity, but now it had taken on a more ominous meaning as I watched the changing of its police guard.
It was the morning of my first day back and I wondered how long it would be before they were alerted to my return.
The chances of finding Martine’s killer had increased, but not enough to be able to clear me. Freddie was almost certainly dead. Maniguet definitely was. Claude Michel was number one suspect, in my view, but I didn’t have enough evidence to make a case against him, or even discover his new identity. Cochard and Danielle were probably still in Paris and I had no way of determining whether they’d been involved – even though I knew Cochard wouldn’t flinch at murder.
Of the suspects who were in Melbourne, Fazmi’s apparent honesty about Martine working for him, plus the fact that he didn’t even try to blame French Intelligence for her death, caused me to place him low on the suspect list.
That left Lloyd Vickers and the French Consul, Gerard Bonnell, as suspects, and they had to be followed up on the off chance that either one was the killer, or could give some clue to who was. There was no point in phoning Lloyd. He could receive a visit after dark at his home. The Consul was different. I rang the Consulate and pretended to be a businessman seeking to open an office in Paris. His secretary gave me an early afternoon appointment.
Oliver’s hat, gaberdine overcoat with the collar turned up, and spectacles came into service again. I drove the BMW, which had been left in a carpark accessible via the alley at the back of the Bunker, to the St Kilda Road address of the French Consulate, not too far from Homicide. It was good enough reason to keep my hat on all the way up to the fourth-floor Consulate offices.
A gum-chewing guard wearing the inevitable dark glasses and a gun hanging from his hip watched me. I smiled and walked into the offices as if I owned them.
The guard chewed harder and seemed uncertain whether to do his duty and frisk me. In the end he did.
I only took my hat off on entering the conference room, where Bonnell was waiting for me. I had been introduced as Jason Johnson, head of a drug company based in Melbourne, who I had heard was thinking of expanding to Europe.
The Consul was a tall patrician, not unlike former French President, Valery Giscard d’Estaing to look at. He was thin and had the same long forehead under a balding dome, but he was without the former French President’s charm.
Bonnell at first didn’t register who I was. The spectacles had given me a small respite.
Coffee and biscuits were served.
‘It is fortunate,’ the Consul began, his thin lips and turned-down mouth hardly moving as he spoke, ‘the trade attache is down from Canberra today. You should speak with him.’
He reached for an intercom. I raised my hand.
‘That won’t be necessary,’ I said, ‘I only wish to chat with you.’
I removed the spectacles. Bonnell’s eyes went out on stalks. He stood up.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Sit down, please,’ I said.
‘I must ask you to leave.’
I stood to face him.
‘I’ll call the police,’ he said.
‘You try that,’ I said, blocking his retreat, ‘and I’ll tell the media about your affair with Martine Villon.’
Bonnell hovered near his desk, uncertain of what to do.
‘The media will listen to me,’ I said, ‘I may be a fugitive but I have the right contacts. They’ll be interested in her Libyan connections.’
The Consul was ashen-faced as he looked away. I had touched a deeper nerve than anticipated. I sat down again.
‘Sit down, Consul,’ I said, ‘I only want a short chat.’
He was still standing, with a defiant Gallic purse to his mouth.
‘You’re not going to throwaway your career over a short chat,’ I said, ‘surely not.’
The Consul took his seat again at the conference table.
‘I know you had an affair with Martine,’ I said, ‘that’s not what I’m concerned about. I want to know who murdered her and why.’
‘It’s a security matter,’ he began, ‘I . . .’ He gagged on the next comment.
‘Security?’ I said, ‘whose security?’
‘Your . . . the Australian . . .’
‘You meant French security,’ I said. His forehead stretched and a tiny throb began in the middle of it.
‘I cannot talk about this,’ he said.
‘Why was it a French security matter?’ I said, placing my hand on the table. The Consul opened his mouth to say something but was frightened.
‘Is there an investigation?’ I asked.
The Consul nodded.
‘Into what?’ I said.
The Consul sat rigidly. He was so white I wondered if he would collapse.
‘Is it to do with Michel?’ I said, still groping in the dark. ‘You’re still investigating Michel.’
I put my hand in my coat pocket as if I had a weapon.
‘Don’t try and be a hero by calling the guard,’ I said, jerk
ing my head in the direction of the front lobby. The Consul watched my hand movement.
‘It . . . it involves Michel,’ he said.
We were interrupted by his assistant, who recognised me. Time was up. I would have liked a much bigger nibble at the Consul, but that would have to wait. I stood up and looked down into the street. There were no police.
‘Keep my visit quiet,’ I warned and left, leaving the Consul gaping after me.
The guard eyed me. I kept watching him, just in case he had been alerted.
I entered the lift. It stopped at the first floor for two young women. On instinct I got out, took the stairs to a basement carpark, and walked into a lane at the rear of the Consulate building. A minute later I was getting into my car in St Kilda Road. Two security guards had run into the street holding their handguns. A police car was coming my way. I waited until it had hurtled round the corner and up to the Consulate building steps before I pulled out and drove away.
The Consul’s words swam round in my head as I motored back to the Bunker. He had intimated that Michel was still being investigated by French security in this town. I was clear about one thing. The Consul may have had an affair with Martine, but he wasn’t her killer. He had been taken into the DGSE’s confidence, at least on the fringe. If he had been a suspect they would have sent him back to France.
I rang Rachel at work and she was very pleased to hear my voice. It was nice that someone was.
‘You must ring your kids,’ she said, ‘they don’t believe their father’s a . . .’ She couldn’t bring herself to say what.
‘They don’t?’ I said.
‘No. Al thinks it’s a sort of dangerous mystery and Sam is looking for him for guidance. He has been in three fights at school over it.’
‘Is he OK?’
‘I think so.’
I got a lump in my throat over Al’s loyalty, and dear Rachel’s too.
‘I’ll phone them tonight,’ I said, ‘promise. Now Rachel, I want you to do a little snooping.’
‘Oh? On whom?’
‘Lloyd.’
‘With pleasure.’
‘Can you get into his files?’
‘Yes, which one?’
‘His correspondence. His phone calls. Are his overseas calls itemised?’
‘All executive overseas calls are. He made the rules himself.’
‘Good old Lloyd. I just want to know about his calls to Paris. Who they were to, when they were made. Got that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you do that tonight?’
‘I can do it now.’
‘Is he out?’
‘In Sydney. He won’t be back until late afternoon. Give me three hours.’
The sharp rap on the door caused me to jump, even though Oliver had said he would be coming round. I checked the peephole and even with that distorted view, it was definitely him. He wore spectacles similar to the ones he had left for me. His distinctive fair cowlick and handsome if fleshy face and double chin were unmistakable. Oliver was a positive type, who liked the high life and flew his own light plane to prove it.
I let him in and offered him a glass of Lindeman’s 1968 Hunter Valley chablis from a dozen bottles he had left me.
‘I appreciate you stocking me up so well,’ I said as we stood at the window and watched people scurrying for trams in Bourke Street. It was rush hour.
‘That’s fine, old cock,’ he said, examining the label. ‘Let’s see, Bin number 3475 at about sixty-three dollars a bottle. It’ll go on your next brokerage fee.’
Oliver wandered over to the sofa, sat down and hooked a leg over one end.
‘I’m a bit disappointed in you, Dunc,’ he said, ‘you haven’t replied to my wedding reception invite.’
‘When is it?’
‘Tomorrow. At the Melbourne Club.’
‘Time flies when you’re having fun.’
‘You can’t make it?’
‘You’re joking.’
‘You said the spectacles saved you from being noticed by police last night.’
‘That was only because they all had their minds on ambushing Fazmi.’
‘There will only be a hundred at the reception.’
‘But everyone there will know who I am once mingle, glasses or no glasses.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Will the media be there?’
‘Not for me, but Judy, my new bride.’
‘She’s an actress, isn’t she?’
‘Duncan, don’t you ever go to the movies or watch TV?’
‘Not lately.’
‘Peggy has acted in something or other with her. Judy’s second feature film is out now. You should see it. She’s great.’
‘Not just a pretty face?’
‘Had to get it right third time round.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Twenty.’
‘Disgraceful!’
‘Duncan,’ Oliver said, unlooping his leg, ‘I do wish you could come. Everybody thinks you’re innocent.’
‘That’s just mates’ talk. A lot would believe the media reports. I’ve been told it has been running hot every day I’ve been away.’
‘You’re a celebrity, Dunc!’
‘Oh, terrific.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘I’m notorious, that’s all. And there’s the tall poppy syndrome. How nice to see me languishing in prison.’
‘Dunc, people are swinging round. You’re becoming the underdog. You know what that means in Australia.’
‘Come on, Oliver. I’m going to be on two murder charges!’
‘You said you didn’t do them.’
I was annoyed. I stood up and paced to the window.
‘Did you do them?’ Oliver said, in a tone that showed he had doubts. It was the second time he had asked.
‘What would you say if I had?’ I said.
‘I . . . I’d suppose you had a damned good reason.’
‘For drowning a sick woman in her bath?’
‘You wouldn’t . . .’
I turned round to face him.
‘What if I had? What if I had been drunk and it had been an unfortunate accident?’
‘Then we’d all forgive you.’
I stared at Oliver and shook my head. Then I laughed.
‘Nice to have friends,’ I said. Oliver beamed.
‘For the record,’ I said, punching the air for emphasis, ‘I didn’t murder Martine.’
‘And the other creep?’
I took a deep breath.
‘Swear you’ll keep it to yourself?’
‘I swear!’ Oliver said. He seemed excited. ‘I swear on my first eleven cricket box! The greatest oath of all!’ I laughed, but was unnerved by his frivolous manner. Yet this had always been Oliver’s style. Not even his staid profession had quelled his spirit. He was the kind who would enjoy himself at a funeral.
‘C’mon, tell your old mate,’ he said.
‘Perhaps it should be left to the trial.’
‘Dunc. Have I ever betrayed a secret? Think of all the deals I’ve handled for you.’
‘I was defending myself. I shot the Frenchman in the leg and shoulder, but didn’t kill him. He fell and severed his neck on some glass.’
‘Oops! Nasty!’
‘Very.’
‘The papers said you broke into an apartment In Lawson Grove and shot him.’
‘No.’
‘You must have been wild! Like the time you shirt-fronted that bloke in the match against Grammar. You remember, after he had whacked me behind play.’
‘Oliver, it didn’t happen like that.’
‘It was in the papers. They showed it on TV!’
‘What?’
‘Yeah! You were the subject of a doco. That’s why you’re a hero! I mean, this Maniguet guy is a mystery French agent or something. They said he may have been planning to get you. But you got in first.’
‘It’s not what happened!’
�
��It was on TV!’ Oliver repeated.
‘That doesn’t mean it happened that way!’ I said, standing over him to make my point. ‘He was coming to get me in that apartment. I defended myself.’
‘But the way you avoided the cops! You planned everything so meticulously.’
The media reaction was a clue to the tactics used by Benns and O’Dare. The story would have been their interpretation of events, or the interpretation they wanted me to hear of.
‘What have been the trends in the media coverage?’ I asked.
‘You’re getting a certain amount of support.’
‘But Martine’s murder is not really heroic stuff.’
‘You have been implicated but not accused. You’re wanted for questioning in relation to both murders.’
I refreshed both our glasses.
‘There’s no way I can get you to come to the wedding?’ Oliver said. ‘Judy has some absolutely delicious girlfriends.’
I shook my head.
‘I’m not John Stonehouse,’ I said.
‘Suit yourself, Dunc,’ Oliver said resignedly, ‘but you know that Cassie Morris will be there?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, yes. Judy’s older sister was at school with Cassie.’
‘It doesn’t make any difference. I can’t risk it. That’s that.’
Oliver sipped his drink.
‘About the takeover,’ Oliver said, ‘we know that there is an Australian link, and that a Paris-based pharmaceutical group is behind the whole thing.’
‘That can only be one of ten or so. We could work it out.’
‘The French company’s merchant banker is getting insider data from Benepharm.’
Oliver pulled out a folder from a briefcase and showed me the correlation between buying orders and Benepharm company reports. The Paris group had been gobbling up shares for two years at strategic moments. Now they were at the foreign limit and the Australian link was buying up more shares.
‘There will be a move to take over the company within days,’ Oliver predicted, ‘with you indisposed, the moment is propitious. Shareholders will be inclined to go for more stable generalship.’ I cursed.
‘You’ve got to jump back into Benepharm,’ Ollie said, ‘take the reins. Otherwise everything you’ve slogged for will go down the drain.’