by Peter Temple
Flannery put his foot flat.
There was sound like a hard doorknock on the back window, followed by a smack on the roof above the rearview mirror.
I ducked, looked at the window: neat bullet hole, spider-web of cracks around it.
‘Fuck,’ said Flannery. ‘Couldn’t they just give you a ticket?’
I breathed heavily for a while, got my breath back. ‘One tail light out,’ I said. ‘Attracts the death penalty. They coming?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Reversed over, attacked by dog, probably think, shit, let him off this time.’
I got out the mobile phone Berglin had insisted on leaving with me, found the number he’d written on a blank card, punched it in. Berglin answered immediately.
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘that loop you were talking about.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Count me in. Two blokes in cop uniforms just tried to kill me. Told me Bobby said to say goodbye.’
‘Bobby? That’s our Bobby, is it?’
‘I only know one Bobby.’
‘Yeah. One Bobby’s enough. Bears thinking about this. Good timing though. We’ve found the lady in question. Today. This afternoon.’
‘Far?’
‘From you? Five, five and a half hours.’
‘Let’s have it.’
When I’d put the phone away, Flannery said, ‘What was it you said you did before you took up the metal?’
You couldn’t lie to a man who would reverse over a policeman for you.
‘I didn’t say. Federal cop. Drug cop.’
‘That’s was, is it?’
‘Very was. But there’s stuff left over, unfinished stuff. Some stuff’s never finished. Glad you came along then. Thanks.’
‘Done it for a blind bloke,’ Flannery said. ‘What now?’
Home wasn’t safe anymore. The only real home I’d ever had. My father’s house, his workshop, his forge, his tools. The only place he’d ever felt settled, his demons banished. For a while at least. And bit by bit, over the years I’d lived there, I’d banished my demons too. Found a life that wasn’t based on watching and lying and plotting, on using people, laying traps, practising deceit. But I’d brought a virus with me, carried it like a refugee from some plague city, a carrier of a disease, hiding symptoms, hoping against hope they would go away. And for a time they had. And I was happy.
But that life was over. Men in police uniforms came to execute you on the roadside beside dark potato fields. That was a definite sign the new life was over.
‘Reckon you could drive me and Lew over to Stan’s? I want him to stay there. We can pick up the Land Rover on the way back?’
‘If I get a drink after that.’
‘For you, Flannery,’ I said, ‘it’s a possibility. I’m considering rewarding you with a few bottles of Boag’s. Tasmania’s finest.’
‘Foreign piss,’ Flannery said.
I didn’t go into the house until I’d stood in the dark and watched Lew moving around, making supper, normal behaviour. Then I went in and made the arrangements.
Beachport in winter would be a hard thing to sell: dirty grey sky, icy wind off whitecapped Rivoli Bay whipping the tall pines, seven cars, two dogs, and a man on a bicycle in half an hour. But no-one had to sell the little boomerang-shaped town to Darren Bianchi’s widow. She chose it.
I slept in a motel in Penola, little place out on the flats, vine country, turning on the too-soft mattress, half-awake, feeling the gun behind my ear, hearing the man say Bobby said to say goodbye.
I got up early, feeling as if I’d never been to bed, put on a suit and tie, ate eggs and fatty bacon at a truck stop, got to Beachport in time to see the former Cindy Taylor, former Mrs Cindy Bianchi, present Marie Lachlan, open her hairdressing salon. It was called Hair Today and it was a one-person show.
Marie was dressed for the climate: red ski pants, boots, big red top with a hood. I gave her twenty minutes to settle in, walked across the road, opened the door.
It was warm inside, clean-smelling, hint of coffee. Marie was in a sort of uniform now, pale pink, talking on the phone, back to me, didn’t seem to hear me come in. She put the phone down, half turned and caught sight of me in the mirror. Her head jerked around. She was in her late thirties, short dark hair, pretty in a catlike way, little too much make-up.
Her eyes said Oh shit.
‘G’day,’ I said. ‘Do men’s haircuts? Got a meeting in Adelaide this afternoon, looking pretty scruffy.’
She was going to say no but she hesitated, changed her mind. ‘Sure do,’ she said. ‘Come and sit down at the basin.’
I went over and sat in a low chair, back to a basin.
‘You’re out early,’ she said.
‘Too early. Drove from Geelong yesterday, stayed over in Mount Gambier. Thought I’d come down, have a look at the coast along here. First time I’ve been this way.’
‘Pretty ordinary in winter,’ she said. ‘Lean your head back.’
She wet my hair with warm water, began to shampoo it, a kind of scalp massage with fingertips, soothing.
‘Mind you,’ she said, ‘it’s pretty ordinary in summer too.’
She was relaxing. I could hear it in her voice. People who come to kill you don’t take time out for you to give them a shampoo and haircut first.
‘So what do you do?’ she said.
‘Liquor rep,’ I said. ‘Well, wine rep these days. Mostly wine. Like wine?’
‘Don’t mind a few wines,’ she said, fingers working in my hair. ‘Like champagne. You carry champagne?’
‘We’re agents for Thierry Boussain, French. Terrific drop. No-one’s ever heard of it, small firm. All people know is the Moet, Bollinger, that stuff, produce it in the millions of bottles. Thierry’s exclusive, few thousand cases.’
‘Never heard of it,’ she said. ‘Might try it one day.’
She dried my hair with a towel. ‘Cutting time. Sit in the first chair. Warmest place.’
I changed chairs.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘how do you want it?’
‘Actually,’ I said, looking at her in the mirror, ‘I think I’ll give the cutting part a miss, Cindy.’
Cindy froze. Terror in her eyes, tiny step backwards.
‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m not bad news. Bad news doesn’t have a shampoo first, anyone can come in, see me in the chair, get a good look at me.’
‘Who are you?’ she said, voice controlled, scared but under control.
‘A friend,’ I said. ‘Someone who wants you to stay alive. We want to talk to you about Darren. You talked to the police, I know. This is different.’
‘How different?’ She wasn’t looking at me, looking towards the door, possibly calculating her chances of reaching it.
‘Cindy,’ I said. ‘Look at me, look at me. Don’t be a dork, think you can run out the door, that’ll save you. Nothing to fear from me. I’m your best chance of staying alive. Forget witness protection, that number they gave you to ring. Rang it now, you’d be saved, would you? Batman, out of the sky, saves you?’
She swallowed. ‘That’s Superman. Batman comes in the Batmobile.’
‘Superheroes. Can’t get my superheroes straight. Darren had a big trust in cops, did he? Did he?’
‘No,’ she said, meeting my eyes in the mirror. ‘Didn’t trust anyone. Specially not cops.’
‘Wise man,’ I said. ‘Wisdom of an ex-cop.’
‘So wise he’s dead.’
‘No-one’s wise enough. Unfortunately.’
Cindy hugged herself. ‘What more can I tell?’
‘Things you didn’t tell the cops, right?’
‘Maybe. Some. I don’t know?’
‘Darren ever talk about someone called Algie?’
‘Algie? Didn’t say it like that.’
‘Didn’t say it like what?
‘Algie. Said it like El G.’
‘El G?’
‘Yeah, y’know, like El Torro?’
‘I get it. El G. Dar
ren talk about El G?’
She shrugged. ‘Well, after the burg…’
‘What burg’s that?’
‘More like a hurricane than a burg,’ she said.
‘Place destroyed. Fifteen grand’s worth of damage.’
‘Darren said what?’
‘I dunno, El G. He said, fucking El G.’
‘He said, fucking El G. Like El G did it? You tell the cops that?’
‘No.’
‘What else didn’t you tell them?’
She hesitated.
Two cars went by in quick succession. Rush hour in Beachport.
‘Cindy,’ I said, ‘they’ve done the show. This is the tell.’
‘He said-Darren said-don’t worry, what they want, the lawyer’s got.’
‘The lawyer. Who’s the lawyer?’
‘In Melbourne. Fielding something, they used to write. I don’t know. I was out the house so quick. Fielding, three names. You want some coffee?’
‘Coffee would be nice, Cindy,’ I said. ‘Black.’
‘Sugar?’
‘Just the one. Thank you.’
There was a glass percolator on a warmer at the back of the room. She came back with coffee in glass cups.
‘Want to move?’ she said.
‘This is comfortable. Nice chair. You happy standing?’
‘Stand all day.’
We drank coffee. ‘Good, this,’ I said.
‘Real coffee,’ Cindy said. ‘Miss coffee places. Nescafe, that’s what they give you around here.’
‘Darren ever talk about someone called Lefroy?’
She didn’t hesitate. ‘Yeah. Saw him killed. Throat cut.’
My skin seemed to shrink, pull tight around my mouth, eyes. ‘Darren saw him killed?’ I said.
Cindy had a sip of coffee. ‘Video. This bloke showed them a video. Girl killed too.’
Never change your tone. Berglin’s rule. Start with it, stay with it. Want another tone, get someone else. ‘What bloke is this?’
‘El G. Took them to this place, big house, with like a little cinema.’
‘Who’s they?’
‘I dunno. Darren and his mates, I dunno. Cops. We stayed in a hotel after the burg, Darren got so pissed, just talked. I didn’t ask questions. Didn’t know about that part of his life.’
‘So they saw a video of a man called Lefroy and a woman being killed? That’s what you’re saying?’
‘Yeah. Darren told me that. Said it made him sick. The man laughed.’
‘El G?’
‘Yeah. El G laughed. Showed it twice, Darren said. Funny name that. Stuck in my mind.’
‘El G?’
‘No. Lefroy. Spell it how?’
‘Wouldn’t have a clue,’ I said.
A customer came in the door, elderly lady, head wrapped in a woollen scarf.
‘Not late am I, Marie?’ she said. ‘Lovely and warm in here.’
‘Have a seat, Gwen,’ Cindy said. ‘Won’t be a moment.’
‘On the night,’ I said, ‘Darren went out to the boat, never came back. That’s it?’
‘Where’d you hear that?’ Astonishment. ‘Cop said it must’ve gone on for an hour, more. Cut his ears off, burnt his hair off, don’t you know that?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Just testing. The lawyers-Fielding, Something, Something?’
‘Yes.’
She picked up a comb and combed my hair. ‘Nice hair.’
‘My father’s hair,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t give him anything back.’
I had plenty of time to think on the trip back. El G, Scully, Hill and Bianchi watching a video of the killing of Howard Lefroy and Carlie Mance. A quick video, home movie really. Made while I was telling Mackie there wasn’t any point in tailing Howard’s brother when he left. El G enjoying it, laughing, showing it again. Did it show the moment of Carlie’s execution? The man in rut behind her, between her legs, her head pulled back, blood squirting up the tiles?
One to do the killing, one to film it. Was that the way it had worked? Was the killer the driver, the man made up to look like Dennis Lefroy? Or was it the man who must have been in the boot when Dennis drove into the garage? Perhaps there were two men in the boot?
Years later, Bianchi burgled, then tortured and killed. Tortured for what? Pleasure? Something else?
Don’t worry, what they want, the lawyer’s got.
The killers Bobby sent had come up behind me on a country road. How could they know where I’d be?
I had a hamburger at a McDonald’s on the outskirts of Geelong, read the Age I’d bought in Hamilton, rang inquiries for the Law Institute of Victoria on Berglin’s mobile. An obliging woman took about two minutes to find the only three-name law firm in Melbourne beginning with Fielding: Fielding, Perez, Radomsky. She gave me an address in Rathdowne Street, Carlton.
I found a park across the street, outside a bookshop. As I crossed, the sun came out, took the edge off the wind. The gang of three had a shopfront office, two women behind a little counter. I said I’d like to see one of the lawyers. A five-minute wait produced a man who looked like the young Groucho Marx.
‘Alan Perez,’ he said, hand outstretched. ‘Come into my office.’
It was a very basic office, desk, computer, two client chairs, degree certificate.
‘Now. How may I help you?’ he said. ‘Mr…?’
‘Bianchi,’ I said, ‘Craig Bianchi. I’m helping my sister-in-law tie up the loose ends of her husband’s estate. He was a client of your firm.’
‘Who was that?’ he said, furry black eyebrows coming together.
‘Darren Bianchi.’
‘Not a client of mine. I’ll just look him up. Spell it how?’
He swivelled his chair, did some computer tapping, peering at the screen. He needed glasses. ‘Bianchi. Yes. Client of Geoff Radomsky’s.’ He swivelled back to look at me. ‘Deceased, did you say?’
‘Dead, yes.’
‘Well, both of them.’
‘Both of them?’
‘Geoff’s dead too. Here, in his office.’
‘Heart?’ I said. But I knew what was coming.
‘No. Abducted at his house, just around the corner, Drummond Street. Parking his car, garage’s off the lane. They, well, no-one knows, could be one person, brought him here, made him open the safe. Shot him. In the eye.’
Melanie Pavitt, lying there in her bath, gaping wound where her eye had been.
‘Nothing of value in the safe,’ Perez said. ‘Druggies, they think. Thought we kept money here.’
‘Things taken from the safe?’
Uncomfortable, pulling at a ring on the little finger of his left hand. ‘Don’t think so. Safe’s register of contents wasn’t up to date. Oversight, happens in a busy office. Everything thrown around, of course.’
‘When was this?’
‘More than a year ago now.’
‘And you wouldn’t know if there was anything concerning Darren in the safe. Right?’
Perez gave me a reassuring smile. ‘We can check that. I’ll get Mr Bianchi’s file.’
He went away. I got up and looked out the window. Two men, both balding and bearded, expensive clothes, were leaning on cars, BMW, Saab, parked next to each other on the median strip. They were talking across the gleaming metal, lots of gestures.
Alan Perez came back with a folder, sat down, went through it, eyebrows again trying to merge. There were only two pages as far as I could see.
‘Yes,’ he said, eyes down. ‘That’s unfortunate.’
‘What?’
‘File’s confidential, obviously, but there is a record here of a tape, audio tape, left with Geoff for safekeeping.’
‘Where would that be kept?’
‘Well, in the safe I imagine. In the absence of other instructions.’
‘Are there other instructions?’
Perez drew his furry upper lip down. ‘No. So that’s where it would have been put. I’m sure.’
‘Still there?’
‘I’ll check,’ he said, left again.
He was back inside a minute.
‘No. Not there. No tapes.’
‘So it could have been taken?’
Eyebrows again, black slugs trying to mate. ‘If it was in the safe. Where we would expect it to have been. But we don’t know. Yes. It could have been.’
I tried him on. ‘My sister-in-law says my brother left clear instructions with you about something. That would be about the tape, would it?’
He wasn’t happy. ‘Client’s instructions are confidential, we can’t…’
‘Client’s dead,’ I said. ‘And you don’t know what you had in your safe. Followed his instructions, have you? I’m happy to have the Law Institute take this up.’
I got up.
Perez said, ‘Mr Bianchi, you’ll appreciate our problem here. With Geoff dead, no-one was aware of his client’s instructions. We could hardly go through all his files to see…’
‘He’s my brother,’ I said. ‘All I want to know is what he wanted you to do. There’s something says you can’t tell me that?’
Pause. Perez shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose not. He wanted the tape handed over to the Director of Public Prosecutions. With copies to the media.’
‘In the event of what? When was this to be done?’
He couldn’t back off now.
‘In the event of his death from other than natural causes.’
‘He’s dead. Of unnatural causes.’
‘We didn’t know that. Unfortunately.’
‘Followed the instructions?’
He shrugged, crossed his legs. ‘You’ll understand our position, Mr Bianchi. The circumstances are such that we find ourselves…it would be unreasonable…we didn’t even know he was dead.’
‘Okay, I’ll accept that. Is there a Mrs Radomsky?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d like to talk to her. He may have said something to her about the tape.’
‘Very unlikely. And I’m not sure that she…’
‘Alan,’ I said, ‘you owe this to Darren’s widow. You were negligent in your handling of a client’s affairs. You did not have procedures for ensuring that a client’s instructions were followed and…’
‘I’ll ring her,’ he said. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’
I went out and sat in the waiting area for a few minutes. Perez came out and beckoned me back into his office.