Perverse Consequences

by Robert Blain

  ‘Have this,’ she said as she reappeared a short time later, handing Schlakier a business card. ‘If you really think you can help him, use it.’

  10

  =====

  THE JINX

  It’s widely believed that I’m responsible for the disappearance of my wife, Justina Doble. That I am responsible for her death. The fact is that I was cleared in an Australian court of law of any wrongdoing in her disappearance. I was acquitted and allowed to walk out of court a free man. And yet people still insist that I murdered my wife. The media still says it. People say it behind my back. That I got off the charge with a bunch of legal trickery by the best legal team that money can buy. It’s true that my wealth afforded me top-shelf representation. But that doesn’t make me a murderer. Even my brother, I think, believes I’m guilty. He’s scared of me too. I can’t say I know why.

  I was found not guilty by a jury of twelve men and women.

  It’s true that in the final years of my marriage to Justina – and especially in the final months – things were rocky. But that wasn’t how it started out. Our early years together were happy ones. Starting the bookshop together – at least in the early days – was also a good time for us.

  But then things began to sour. Heated arguments began. Things even got violent a few times, I admit it. It’s been like that my whole life. Good things never stay good for long. I’m jinxed. That’s why I disagreed when Justina said she wanted to have a baby How could someone like me take care of a baby? I’m jinxed. Our children would have been jinxed as well, no matter how much goodness was in Justina. So the arguments continued. Justina would say ‘let’s have a baby’ and I’d say ‘no let’s not’.

  Eventually, she gave up on the idea. But things didn’t get better; they got worse. She started her course. The MBA. Something else I didn’t want her to do. But she went ahead and did it anyway.

  Just like Sarah when she started pushing things. We had been friends since university and I had always helped our whenever I could, including financially. She knew I would always help her. I was happy to. But then she started pushing things. She painted me into a corner with things she said. Or threatened to say.

  When will people realise that there are consequences of their actions?

  11

  =====

  SPANAKOPITA

  ‘So what do you call this again?’ said Peter Michael.

  He was sitting with Schlakier at a corner table at the back of Effie’s Café on Smith Street. They had just each been served steaming-hot spanakopitas by the proprietress-cum-waitress – a stern but friendly Greek lady in her fifties. The eponymous Effie.

  ‘Spanakopita.’

  ‘Wog food,’ said Michael.

  He lifted the base of the rectangle of flat, crispy pastry with his knife and took a peek underneath.

  ‘So what’s in it?’ he said dubiously.

  ‘Cheese and spinach,’ said Schlakier. ‘People come from miles around to try Effie’s famous Greek savouries.’

  ‘They need their head read.’

  Schlakier had taken a gamble and insisted on meeting the State Corporate Affairs man in person before proceeding too far with the case. He had been reluctant but finally agreed to a short lunch meeting.

  A big man, muscle turning to fat, Michael was dressed in a blue suit, pale orange shirt and violet tie. He was red faced, with a head of cropped blonde-orange hair.

  As Michael tucked into his lunch with gusto – despite his stated reservations – he revealed that he had recently hung up the boots on an amateur footy career.

  ‘I played in the ammos for Heidelberg,’ said Michael, through a mouthful of the cheesy pastry.

  ‘My position was centre-half forward. I could take a grab and kick a long bomb. But I couldn’t run very quick. We won the flag the year I retired. I should’ve kept playing – now I’d be lucky to keep up with my nephews. I don’t drink any more than I did but I sure put on more weight,’ he said, patting his stomach.

  ‘So how’s the private investigation game treating you?’ said Michael.

  ‘It’s good being my own boss. But I sure miss a steady wage. This contract from your people will help things along – if it all goes to plan.’

  ‘My people,’ scoffed Michael. ‘Bunch of bloody drongos. These government types wouldn’t know their arses from their elbows. Still, it pays the bills.’

  Schlakier was keen to get down to business but Michael seemed more interested in talking about anything but.

  ‘You reckon we’re bad,’ continued Michael. ‘I’ve got a brother works in the New South Wales state government. What a clusterfuck that is.’

  ‘Corruption?’ ventured Schlakier.

  Michael shook his head slowly. ‘You don’t want to know.’

  He pushed his plate to one side. He’d finished his lunch in short order – Schlakier was barely halfway through his.

  ‘So why don’t you change jobs?’ said Schlakier. ‘You don’t seem the public-servant type.

  ‘Public servant? Don’t make me laugh. I’m anything but. But they need me to take on the fun jobs none of the gutless wonders will take on themselves. Like keeping an eye on you.’

  Michael fixed Schlakier with a steady gaze. He leaned in slightly. ‘So how’s it going with the Hohl case – anything to report?’

  ‘Slowly,’ said Schlakier. ‘It takes a while to chase up cold leads on a ten-year-old case.’

  ‘I’m not expecting you to break the case open overnight but keep chipping away. But be warned. State Corporate Affairs are a pack of cunts. They will want results. Don’t disappoint them.’

  Schlakier felt a worm of unease in guts and wondered anew what he’d let himself in for.

  ‘I had a pretty productive meeting with Sarah Chisholm last week,’ offered Schlakier.

  Michael shot him a look. He seemed a little stunned.

  ‘You remember,’ continued Schlakier. ‘The old flame from Hohl’s student days. Well actually I think they were just–’

  ‘I know who Sarah Chisholm is,’ said Michael flatly.

  Schlakier was puzzled by Michael’s sudden change of mood.

  ‘That’s one of the things I want to talk to you about,’ said Michael.

  He leaned back in his chair as Effie arrived at the table to clear away the plates. She favoured the two men with a thin smile and left.

  Michael leaned in again and lowered his voice. ‘Things have just gone up a notch in the Hohl case. We’re prepared to double your bonus if you help with a successful conviction.’

  Now it was Schlakier’s turn to be stunned.

  ‘Thought that’d cheer you up,’ said Michael. ‘I’ll change the contract and shoot you an email just as soon as I get back to the office.’

  Schlakier tried to absorb this new development. He was going to need more time with Michael.

  ‘Have you got time for a coffee?’ said Schlakier. ‘They do a pretty good cappuccino here.’

  ‘You know what?’ said Michael. ‘I noticed that there’s a pub over the road. I could go a beer. How about it?’

  The pair settled the bill and headed across the street to Grumpy Greens. Despite its close proximity to his office, it was Schlakier’s first visit to the establishment. He’d heard live music emanating from the venue a few times – brassy and percussive – which to his untrained ear sounded like New Orleans jazz.

  Michael stopped at the entrance and eyed the chalkboard lunch specials.

  ‘Ten bucks for a parma and a pot,’ he speculated. ‘I could go that. That spanner-wotsit didn’t really fill me up.’

  But in the end, they decided liquid refreshment would suffice. The furniture in the place was shabby – scarred, chunky wooden tables and stools that to Schlakier looked second- or even third-hand. Or was possibly recycled. They took a seat at the far end of the bar. A hippie-sounding Australian band was being piped through the place. It sounded like something you would hear on Triple J.

  A barman approached �
�� a young man with long hair held back with a ponytail and a neatly trimmed goatee beard. They each ordered a pot of Carlton Draught. Both took a deep drink.

  ‘That hit the spot,’ said Michael. ‘I could go a cigarette.’

  Schlakier shrugged. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Better not. I’m supposed to be quitting. For the umpteenth time.’

  On a mid-week afternoon, the place was sparsely populated with what looked like university students, or possibly backpackers, scattered around the dilapidated seating. Schlakier noticed the stage on the other side of the pub, empty except for a solitary mic stand, sans microphone. The air smelt vaguely of stale beer. A bitter-sweet memory for Schlakier. Sweet for his misspent youth in pubs like this and bitter for all the drinking in such places he’d done since Zoe had left him.

  Michael downed the rest of his pot in one gulp and got the barman’s attention by holding up two fingers.

  ‘Feeling a bit thirsty mate,’ said Schlakier.

  ‘Always good to get the first one in,’ said Michael with a surprisingly delicate belch.

  ‘So,’ he continued. ‘You said you had a productive meeting with Sarah Chisholm. What’s she like?’

  Schlakier waited for the barman to place two fresh pots of beer in front of them and leave.

  ‘Smart. Outgoing. Attractive. She would have been a real looker in her university days when she made Christopher Hohl’s acquaintance. But she’s on the wrong side of forty now and she knows it.

  ‘Is she still practising?’

  ‘Nah. She’s chucked in her lot as a lawyer. She seems to have been scarred by the whole gangster thing.’

  ‘So what’s she doing these days?’ asked Michael.

  ‘She’s taken to writing scripts. Legal thrillers. Wants to be the next John Grisham or something.’

  ‘Well she’s certainly got the background for that. Did you get talking about Hohl?’

  ‘A bit, yeah.’

  ‘What does she make of his shady past? The disappearing wife?’

  ‘She said he’s innocent. She spoke very highly of him, actually. Affectionately even. You’d reckon she was still in love with him.’

  ‘In love with his money, more like.’

  ‘Funny you should say that. She’s living in a swish house down Brighton way. But I get the impression she’s hard up. She said one interesting thing, though. She told me the cops are going to visit her next week. She wouldn’t say exactly but she thought it was probably about Hohl. She seemed a bit spooked by it. Apparently she wasn’t questioned at the time of Justina Doble’s disappearance.’

  ‘Strange.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. One more thing. She gave me one of Hohl’s business cards. I tried the phone. It was disconnected. But she reckons the email should still be live.’

  Michael sat up in his chair. ‘That’s encouraging. Have you tried it?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m trying to work out the best way to approach him.’

  ‘Be careful. He’s a smart fucker. You could also try talking to his family connections. See if they know where he is.’

  ‘It’s next on the list.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Michael drained his pot.

  ‘Two more?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Schlakier spent a few fruitless minutes asking Michael about his role at State Corporate Affairs and who else he had on the Hohl case but the government man remained tight lipped, so eventually he gave up. As was often the case in pubs in Melbourne after a few bevies were consumed, the conversation turned to football.

  Michael was only to keen to elaborate on his grand final heroics in the ammos.

  ‘So we were three points down in the last quarter and I took a grab on the boundary line about forty metres out. The opposition defender gave me a whack on the ear for my troubles. Prick. Anyway, I let fly with a torp and got it flush – it got picked up by the breeze and sailed through the goals, post high,’ said Michael. At least that was how he recounted it.

  ‘That was the last goal of the game. We won by three points. There were some celebrations that night I can tell you.’

  Michael chuckled to himself at the memory.

  ‘Do you miss it?’ said Schlakier.

  ‘The playing? Nah. The actual game’s OK but then next day I can hardly move. I’m sore all over. It takes most of the bloody week to recover. It’s not worth it.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Who do you barrack for in the AFL?’ said Michael.

  ‘St Kilda.’

  ‘One of the long-suffering Saints fans. Commiserations mate. Reckon they’ll win a flag in your lifetime?’

  ‘Fuck knows.’

  ‘Just teasing mate. I’m a Carlton man myself. We’re even more bloody useless. At least your mob have been playing grand finals recently. You were bloody stiff in that drawn match against Collingwood. I thought you had it won when Goddard took that big mark in the goal square.’

  Schlakier shrugged. ‘Yeah well, what you gonna do.’

  ‘Footy eh? Almost as bad as bloody women.’

  The two men shared a laugh.

  ‘I better make this my last,’ said Schlakier. ‘I’ve got to get back to it.’

  As he downed the remains of his pot, Michael has his eyes trained on him.

  ‘I’m not supposed to tell you this,’ he said. ‘But I might as well. You’ll find out soon enough anyway. It’ll be in the press any day now.’

  Schlakier looked up from the remaining suds in his glass.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I’m glad you got the information from Sarah Chisholm when you did,’ said Michael. ‘She wouldn’t be much use to you now.’

  Schlakier’s beer buzz was gone. He suddenly felt chillingly sober.

  ‘She was found shot dead at her home last Friday night.’

  12

  =====

  FAMILY AFFAIR

  Schlakier boarded the city-bound number 86 tram outside the Grace Darling pub. It would have been quicker to drive the car but parking in the CBD was an ever-worsening nightmare. He had an appointment with the lawyer for Land Lease Corp at the company’s head office at the so-called Paris end of Collins Street. He wanted to meet the property developer’s CEO, Russell Hohl, but had been politely though firmly corralled to its in-house counsel, David Fried. It was a forlorn hope, but Schlakier thought that someone from the family might be able to shed some light on the whereabouts of Christopher Hohl.

  The tram was packed with a combination of students, people going for job interviews and oddballs. The usual mix. Unless it was a winter weekend, when it was full of optimistic footy supporters, decked out in scarves and beanies in team colours on their way to the big game at Docklands.

  But on this early spring morning it was all business. It was a windy day, with a rapid-fire combination of sunshine and drenching showers. Ah Melbourne, thought Schlakier. Perfect one minute, God knows what the next. Schlakier found a window seat, one as far from the smelly, red-eyed guy cradling a bottle of something indeterminate in a brown paper bag – which he occasionally took a swig from – as possible. Schlakier’s old cop radar kicked him as he sized the guy up: not dangerous, merely best avoided.

  As the tram set in motion along Smith Street, a sudden rain squall lashed the tram window. Schlakier looked out to see pedestrians running for cover, sans umbrellas, in the unexpected deluge. He suddenly pictured Sarah Chisholm’s dogs, Oscar and Leo, yapping at his heels. He realised he didn’t know which one was which. Not that it mattered now. They were both dead. As was their owner. Peter Michael was right. It hadn’t taken long for the bombshell of a well-to-do woman from one of Melbourne’s wealthiest suburbs whose brains had been splashed all over her living wall to be splashed all over the city’s major newspapers. The woman opposite Schlakier on the tram had her nose in the Herald Sun, with lurid front-page headlines leaping out of the violent murder of a former lawyer with gangland connections.

  A single bullet to
the back of the head tended to attract that kind of attention.

  The guy along the tram with the bottle in the bag had stopped swigging from it but had begun muttering under his breath.

  Schlakier’s eye was drawn to the woman’s newspaper:

  Gangland lawyer victim of foul play

  Police are investigating the brutal murder of a Brighton woman in her own home on Friday night. Former lawyer Sarah Chisholm was fatally wounded when she was shot in the head at point-blank range with what is believed to

  be a handgun.

  Chisholm rose to notoriety while providing legal counsel to known

  gangland kingpins and was eventually disbarred after being found guilty of collusion in their criminal activities. Police are still trying to establish a motive for the killing. There was no sign of forced entry.

  In an apparently senseless and cruel act, Chisholm’s two pet dogs were also both found shot dead at the scene…

  No mystery there, thought Schlakier. The murderer would have shot the terriers to silence them. They would have undoubtedly been in a frenzy once their master had been shot. But the motive? There was no sign of forced entry so Sarah Chisholm probably knew her assassin. Schlakier scanned most of the story before the woman opposite folded the paper and took out a pen out of her bag to do the crossword. Schlakier hadn’t read a single mention of Christopher Hohl. What was it that Sarah Chisholm had told him during their meeting? ‘Something always turns up,’ she had said. And ‘Christopher is always there for me.’ He knew she was hard up for cash. He knew she was about to be interviewed by police. Was it just possible she had leant on Christopher Hohl with blackmail? Threatening to incriminate him with what she knew about Justina Doble’s disappearance unless he sweetened the deal. A deadly error of judgement? Or could it have been her old gangland associates nursing an old, or possibly fresh, grievance? These guys had long memories, Schlakier knew, from his time on the force.