by Nick Place
The guy in the suit was about a block ahead when Laver made it outside and he moved onto the road, jogging along the bike lane to catch up and then get ahead, hoping the guy didn’t look to his left. He didn’t. Laver picked a gap in the traffic and made it to the pavement just as the kid got to Bar Open, looked at his watch, peered through the door of the bar and then walked a few doors further up to the Brunswick Street Bookstore, and wandered inside.
Laver followed him and came around the other side of the central display to loom over the kid’s shoulder as he flicked through a book of great superhero comic covers.
‘Don’t look around,’ Laver murmured in his best ventriloquist impression, almost feeling the kid jump. ‘I’m the cop from the Soul Food Café the other day, off duty. Don’t look at me or respond in any way.’
Laver picked up a book at random, appearing to read the back cover. ‘You’re being followed,’ he said quietly, ‘but I don’t know who by. What’s your name again?’
‘Jake,’ the kid whispered, his voice high, standing frozen as though Laver had a gun to his back.
‘Okay, Jake, here’s what I want you to do: keep walking up Brunswick Street, towards the city, like you don’t have a care in the world. Do not look behind you. Check out some shop windows, free as a bird. Cross Johnston Street and walk a couple of blocks, then turn and saunter, very easy, very casual, back here, to the bookshop. Wait for me here. Don’t nod or say yes. If you understand me, just go.’
To his credit, the kid turned without a sound and headed for the door. Laver hung back and then followed, watching the guy in the suit, who’d been fascinated by the menu in the window of the restaurant next door, begin to move after him.
Laver picking up his pace and, when they got to the next side street, grabbing the man’s right elbow hard and guiding him into the off–Brunswick Street gloom.
‘Hey.’ The man pulling against Laver’s grip. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Having a chat.’
‘How dare you! I’ll call the police.’
‘I am the police.’
The man looking, wide-eyed and panting, at Laver in his T-shirt, jeans and cowboy boots. ‘Like hell you are.’
‘Off duty. If you promise not to run while I reach into my pocket, I’ll even show you a badge.’
The man nodded warily but stood there as Laver reached for his wallet and showed his police ID.
‘I’ll be filing a formal complaint,’ the man said.
‘Good for you. Why are you following that kid?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘I just watched you tail that kid, and not very well, for two blocks. Why?’
‘Nope, no idea. This is outrageous. You’ll be hearing about this.’ The man was straightening his jacket, starting to breathe again. He had nicotine-stained teeth and Laver could smell old sweat. Laver put him in his mid-fifties.
‘Fine. Let’s go get the kid. He can ID you and then he can lay charges for harassment.’
‘What harassment? That charge would never stick.’
Laver shrugged. ‘It doesn’t really matter whether it does or not. By the time it’s heard you will have spent at least one night in the cells. You been to the Remand Centre? It’s not a lot of fun.’
The man sagged. ‘Listen, it doesn’t have to come to that.’
‘I agree. Who are you? What’s going on?’
‘I’m a private investigator. I’m working for a client.’
Laver crossed his arms. ‘Okay, then it’s my turn to promise not to run while you show me some ID.’
The man dug around in his jacket and it occurred to Laver, far too late, that he might be reaching for a gun. He was losing his edge in Siberia. But the man just pulled out a thin plastic folder and handed it to Laver, who tried not to show his relief or the fact he was cursing himself for being so sloppy.
The ID said that Jack Thirsk was licensed in the state of Victoria to practise as a private investigator, operating in conjunction with the Privacy Act and under the regulations administered by the Private Agents Register.
‘Fine,’ Laver said, handing it back. ‘Why are you tailing the kid, Mr Thirsk?’
Thirsk looked almost smug. ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘Oh, give me a break. Don’t try to be Sam Fucking Spade with me, okay?’
‘I’m sorry, officer. Client confidentiality.’
Laver sighed. ‘Fine. Then I am officially telling you, as an officer of the law, that the man you are following is part of a wider Victoria Police investigation and if you are considered to be deliberately hampering that investigation or withholding potentially important evidence, your arse will be in a lot more trouble than Remand for one night.’
Thirsk was looking shifty, trying to process information on the fly, which Laver suspected was a struggle.
‘What’s the investigation?’ Thirsk asked.
‘Yeah, right. Why are you following this bloke?’
Thirsk shook his head, so Laver dug out his mobile phone. ‘Fair enough, I’ll call a wagon. Let’s hope your cellmate uses condoms.’
‘No.’ Thirsk sagged, sighed and dug around inside his coat again. The whiff of old sweat was stronger as his jacket opened. Laver felt slightly queasy. Finally, Thirsk pulled out a photo of a schoolgirl. She was pretty, with strawberry-blonde hair that was set off nicely by her green checked private-school uniform. Her hands were clasped in her lap and she was smiling. Laver had a moment of thinking she looked familiar.
‘Who’s she?’
‘My link to the man I was following. I can’t say any more than that.’
‘Not even her name?’
‘No.’
‘Who is your client?’
‘Please, officer. You know I don’t have to tell you that.’
‘Is the girl missing?’
‘No.’
‘Then what’s the issue?’
‘Really, officer …’
‘Call me Detective Laver. What’s the issue?’
Thirsk paused then said, ‘The company she might be keeping.’
‘A guy called Cig?’
‘Huh?’ said Thirsk, looking confused.
‘Never mind. Good girl goes bad, huh?’
‘Eloise isn’t necessarily bad.’
‘Eloise.’
Thirsk’s face was priceless as he mentally kicked himself.
Laver said, ‘For what it’s worth, the guy you’re following is about as dangerous as a kitten.’
‘If I could do my job, detective, I might be able to ascertain that.’
‘Don’t get sniffy, Thirsk. I’m more interested in looking after the kid than your income.’
‘Can I go now?’
Laver took a moment, thinking, then said, ‘One more question. Is your client a local?’
Thirsk looked genuinely surprised. ‘Yes. Why?’
‘No reason. Why don’t you have an early night, huh? The kid might want some privacy.’
Thirsk looked like he wanted to argue, but the Remand Centre threat was still in the air so he let Laver walk him back to Brunswick Street, headed north and kept going. Laver watched until he was sure and then wandered into the Brunswick Street Bookstore. The kid was deep in the store, behind stands of greeting cards, near the crime books, nervously sneaking glances at the doorway, but still took a moment to realise Laver was coming towards him. Laver remembered he hadn’t looked back when they’d spoken earlier.
‘Yeah, I’m the guy. My name’s Detective Tony Laver. We met at the Soul Food Café, yeah? You okay?’
The kid nodded, but unconvincingly. ‘Who was following me?’
‘Nobody you need to worry about. He’s a private detective who’s on the wrong track. We had a chat and he’s gone home.’
‘But why me?’
‘No idea. Did you say your name was Jake?’
‘Jake Murphy.’ He actually put out his hand, so Laver shook it, Jake’s hand moist with swea
t.
‘You’re having a rough few days, Jake. Might be keeping the wrong sort of company.’
‘I’m thinking the same thing myself.’
‘Who were those guys the other day? Did you find out anything?’
‘No. Lou, that girl I was with, works at Friends of the Planet, a shop on Smith Street, and one of them is her ex-boyfriend or something, from there. I don’t know anything about the other guy. When you said I was being followed, I was really scared it was one of them.’
‘Why would it be?’
Jake shook his head miserably. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You’ll be okay but keep your head down, okay? Where were you heading to tonight?’
‘Bar Open, just down the street.’
‘I’ll walk you down there. I have to be getting back.’
As they walked, Laver pulled out his wallet and gave Jake a card. ‘I’m not actually in Major Crime at the moment but the mobile number hasn’t changed. You call me if you need to. Especially if you see those two from the other day.’
‘Sure. Thanks.’ Jake was reading the card, still sweating. ‘You know, I thought I saw a couple of men in the car park at work today.’
‘The ones from the café?’
‘God, no.’
‘Then what made you notice them?’
‘I don’t know really. They were in a white car. A sedan. I wasn’t even sure they weren’t just customers. Maybe I’m jumping at shadows.’
‘Can you describe them?’
‘Big. In suits, like cops in cop shows. Just the sense that they were watching. I might be imagining the whole thing.’
‘The guy tonight was real and those two in the café were very real.’ Laver was thinking as he spoke. ‘I reckon tonight’s was a loner. Didn’t seem the sort to have a partner and if he does, the partner was nowhere tonight. You’ve got my card. If you see anything weird at work, call me, okay? Even if it seems dumb. I don’t mind.’
Jake looked very young as he said, ‘I don’t get why I’m being followed. I don’t understand any of it.’
‘Then it’s probably nothing to do with you, Jake. Come on, we’re here.’
They were at Bar Open and Laver saw the hippie chick, standing by the bar. His immediate thought was that she was way out of Jake’s league.
‘Hey Jake, one last thing before your hot date.’ A blush appeared on Jake’s neck. ‘Those two at the café. Do you know their names? I thought I heard one call the other Cig.’
Jake screwed up his face, remembering. ‘Lou’s ex said his mate was a wild man, I think. And then the big red-haired one said something when you walked in. I thought it was “Stig”.’
Stig. That’s why ‘Cig’ had been annoying him ever since, his cop instincts knowing it was not quite right.
But, really? Stig?
The hippie chick was gazing steadily at them, sizing him up, as Jake said goodbye and wandered in.
Laver got back to the Vegie Bar to find that, of course, Marcia was gone. Oh Christ, he was going to pay for that.
He called, but got her phone’s message bank, inviting him to leave a message. He did, asking her to call him back, but decided not to hold his breath.
He badly needed a drink and, now he thought about it, noise. Escape. He thought about ringing Flipper, to see if he’d talk outside work hours. But what was the point?
In a sudden moment of inspiration, Laver made another phone call instead and, leaving his car where it was, headed towards Johnston Street and then down to Wellington, to the Tote Hotel: one of the last bastions of live pub rock in Melbourne.
Nathan Funnal arrived about half an hour after Laver, as Damian’s band was setting up in the wake of a band that was a wannabe Nirvana or Oasis – Laver couldn’t decide.
Funnal bought the first beers and they found a corner where the noise from the sound check wasn’t too bad.
‘So, how’s life in the saddle?’
‘Up and down, pun intended. It’s so weird not being in Major.’
‘Do you actually turn up? Go out on the bike?’
‘Yeah, mostly. I have to sign on and off so I’d only be sitting at a desk. May as well get some fresh air. The actual bike bit isn’t too bad, it’s just the fact that the work is so … juvenile. Tourists and parking tickets, you know?’
‘Can’t imagine.’ Funnal sipped his beer. ‘Look at the bright side, you’re not involved in some of the shit going on.’
‘Like what?’
‘You know that underworld taskforce?’
‘Noble?’
‘Yep. Did you hear about the Italian connection?’
Laver felt like crying, he was so in love with having an actual non-Siberian cop talk, even if Funnal was a Soggie. He leaned in. ‘Go on.’
Funnal was trying to speak quietly but also yell over the drums being tested. ‘They had this guy in their sights for the hit on that bloke outside the gym. Remember the one in Bentleigh?’
Laver was nodding. ‘Sure. Part of the Williams–Moran thing.’
‘Yep. The Noble ones thought they had the shooter cold. They’d bugged pretty much every object in his house short of the dunny – and maybe that, too. They had him on tape saying to his girlfriend, in Italian, according to Victoria Police’s finest translators: “I shot him in the head. It was beautiful.”’
‘Nice.’
‘Off go the Noble boys to northern Italy where the alleged hitman now resides, having made the smart decision that it might be in his best interests to leave Victoria for a while. The Noble detectives have full cooperation from the local constabulary so they have a getting-to-know-you session before they head up to said alleged hitman’s remote villa. Of course, they proudly play the tape. At which point the Italian cops all start looking at each other and grinning.’
Laver waited for it. Funnal swigged his beer and leaned closer to Laver’s ear.
‘One of them says, “Who translated this?” The Noble guys say it was the Melbourne translator. “What Italian does he or she speak? Northern or southern?” Noble guy says, “Fucked if I know … he speaks Italian.” Locals laughing openly now. Turns out in the local dialect, which is what the hitman happens to speak, the tape has him saying to his girlfriend, “You give great head. That’s beautiful!”’
‘No!’
‘Yes.’
‘Halfway around the world.’
‘On taxpayers’ money.’
‘Explains why the girlfriend didn’t say much on the tape?’
‘Very much so.’
‘Oh Jesus. That’s hilarious.’ The two cops now with their shoulders quaking. ‘No wonder Flipper has been in such a foul mood.’
‘He was one degree of separation from the surveillance, lucky for him.’
Laver went and got more beers. As he sat down again, he said, ‘Spider, I’ve got a problem. Nobody will listen and I’ve spotted some potentially nasty stuff about to happen.’
Funnal looked serious. ‘Rocket, you know I can’t get involved.’
‘You’re a Soggie, Spider. You’re the guys who famously don’t give a shit.’
‘The squeaky-clean demands currently washing through the Force haven’t missed us, Rocket. You know that. You think you’re the only one being looked at? No wonder the assistant commissioners are all shitting themselves, given the number of skeletons out there – literally in some cases. This new chief has the right head for the job and he’s brave, even braver than the last one was. Rest her soul with the bushfire commission.’
‘Mate, all I want you to do—’
‘Nope. Flat no. He’s already looking at the bodies below him. Four separate shooting investigations, corruption charges looming against senior uniforms, that potential murder charge against the ex-vice bloke. It’s heads-down time. Mushroom city. Cliché of your choice that means “stay within the lines”.’
‘I get all of that, but I’m talking street level. I’m out there and I’ve seen some bad heads. New ones too, as far as I can tell.
You know my instincts … I’m sure this is noteworthy.’
Funnal shrugged. ‘I’m not doubting that. But if I lifted a finger to help you I’d be on the Malvern Star two bike racks down from yours.’
‘You can’t run some names for me?’
‘Rocket, think about it. I’m a Soggie. They point us in a direction and we break down doors. Why would I be running fucking names?’
‘You don’t know what it’s like, Spider. It’s like they’ve just cut off my balls. Like all my years of knowing who to watch and who to ignore have been wiped by that prick Strickland from the ombudsman.’
‘And Broadbent, but mate, just sit tight. All going well, it’s not permanent.’
‘But these dickheads are out there right now. They’re not waiting for the Coleman inquiry to run its bloody course. And people might get hurt.’
‘If they do, they do. You don’t have to catch them all, mate.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Deadly.’ Funnal leaned in and pointed a finger at Laver’s chest.
‘Listen, when you are saddled up where you belong, in Major Crime, you do great work, Rocket. You put nasty people behind bars. You protect the public if you want to get all holy about it. But right now, you aren’t in that chair, so relax.’
‘That’s what everybody says. Relax. Get a suntan. Fuck.’
‘So do it.’
‘Spider, I’m a cop. I’m not a bike courier. I’ve never taken my fully allotted holidays. I’ve worked the crazy hours and chased the half-arsed leads, because it’s the job. I think I’m on the brink of losing my second serious relationship because of my work. I’m a cop.’
‘Only just, Rocket. Remember that. And if you keep sticking your head up, it could be gone forever.’
‘What does that mean? Is that a threat?’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake. It’s a mate giving you advice, dickhead.’
Laver took a deep breath. ‘Sorry mate. Truly. I’m not coping well with this.’
Funnal gave him a look. ‘Gee, you think?’
Laver swigged his beer to the bottom and stalked off to get some more. When he came back Damian was on stage, wearing jeans, a green T-shirt, a full-length fur coat and a Fender Stratocaster guitar.