‘The idea, as I understand it, and I may be utterly wrong here, is that you can take this thing where utes fear to go. Reach the parts ordinary utes cannot reach. Then you haul it back and wham! It’s on board.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Haul it back? How much cable is there going to be?’
‘Brilliant idea or scrapmetal in the making,’ I said, ‘the man doesn’t blink at the bill, writes out the cheque right here in front of me, very neat and legible hand, and the bank doesn’t blink either. Which is a lot more that can be said for many of our clients.’
‘Which is why I’m glad I don’t have to send out my own bills anymore.’
‘Not gladder than I am,’ I said. ‘Listen, this extensive training of yours equip you to make a knife blade?’
‘You don’t have to be a Rhodes scholar,’ she said, ‘to make a blade. All you have to do is take pains.’
I put up my gloved hand. ‘Point taken, to the hilt. I’m weeks behind with the knives. Fit it in? I’ll show you what’s needed.’
‘Let’s look at the diary,’ she said. ‘Has to be time this week.’
I was fitting the wheels when Frank Cullen and Jim Caswell arrived, today in full squatter’s uniform. Jim took his seat on the bench, Frank came over to inspect the work.
‘Nice wheels, Mac,’ Frank said. ‘Where’d you get ’em?’
‘Place in town sells bearings,’ I said. ‘Cost a fair bit.’
‘Quality,’ Frank said. ‘Remembered when price is forgotten.’
‘Very true,’ I said. ‘Motto of this workshop.’
‘Now these tracks,’ Frank said. ‘Bin givin ’em some thought, woke up this mornin with the answer.’ He took a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and carefully opened it. ‘This diagram shows what I’ve come up with.’
I looked at it. The tracks now had angled projections at each end.
‘Beauty of it,’ Frank said, ‘is these top bits. They slide into these housings you bolt to the tray. What d’ya think?’
‘Like all the best ideas,’ I said, ‘you wonder why you didn’t think of it earlier.’
Frank took a seat, lit a cigarette, had a good cough.
‘Don’t know how you can do it,’ Jim said, shaking his head.
‘Do what?’ Frank said.
‘Smoke. You know what the doctor said.’
‘Bloody doctors,’ Frank said. ‘What do they know? Know buggerall, that’s why they blame the fags. Could be somethin else entirely. Could be-could be bloody potatoes kills ya. Carrots. I read where everybody in China smokes, from babies upwards, they don’t bloody die any more than anyone else. Look at that Mao Tsebloodytung, used to smoke in his sleep, couldn’t get him to die. Same with the other bloke, whatsisname, thingummy, shot them students, eighty fags a day, still runnin the place at ninety, whatever.’
‘The Veenes,’ I said. ‘What do you know about the Veenes?’
‘Veenes,’ Frank said. ‘Don’t talk to me about Veenes. I know Veenes. Worked for bloody old Clarrie Veene, the most miserable bastard ever to walk God’s earth, bar none. Used to look at you like you were a sick dog he wouldn’t waste a bullet on, kill it with a spade. Little bastard used to come up to me, didn’t reach my top button, course I was six-three then…’
‘You were never six-three,’ Jim said.
‘You bloody dwarf, what would you know? You couldn’t see that high. Come up to me, the old bastard, wasn’t all that old then either, come right up to me, under me nose, say something like, whining bloody voice, “Cullen, when you going to do something about that slate you’re running over at Meagher’s?” Coulda killed him right there, one blow.’
‘A Veene had some land near Milstead,’ I said. ‘Pine forest now.’
‘That was Ernest’s,’ Frank said. ‘Clarrie’s brother. Another miserable bastard. Went to his son. Donald.’
‘Some Melbourne company owns it now,’ I said.
‘Rick Veene’s got a share in the company,’ Frank said. ‘Heard that. He’s Donald’s boy. Looks a lot like Ernest. Rick’s tied up with that Stefanidis from over near Daylesford. RSPCA went there, heard he was shooting pigeons. Bloke behind a wall throws ’em in the air, Greek shoots ’em with a twelve bore from about four yards. Sticks it up their arses practically. Couldn’t prove it. Not a feather to be found.’
‘What’s on the land apart from trees?’
‘Old house. Bluestone place. Solid. Never lived in I don’t think after Donald moved to town.’
‘When was that?’
‘Oh, donkey’s. Died about twenty years ago.’
Just before noon, I finished the contraption. We fitted the housings to Frank’s ute, attached the tracks and ran the tray up them, not without difficulty.
‘Good work,’ Frank said. ‘Excellent work. Craftsmanship of the highest order.’
We went over to the pub for a sandwich. I had a beer. Jim had a glass of milk. Frank had three brandies.
The phone was ringing as we came up the lane. I ran for it.
Irene Barbie.
‘Mac,’ she said, ‘I’ve had a call from my daughter. From London. She’s just got back from Italy and Greece and she found a letter from Ian waiting for her. It’s been to about five of her previous addresses.’
I was still panting.
‘Are you all right, Mac?’
‘Fine. Been running. Go on.’
‘Well, I think it puts Ian’s suicide beyond doubt. Alice was in tears and the letter sounds a bit disjointed, but Ian says he’s leaving a note explaining everything and apologises for the pain he’s caused.’
‘Leaving a note where?’
‘He doesn’t say.’
‘Police ever mention a note to you?’
‘No. Well, they asked me if I knew of any note Ian might have left. They didn’t know of one.’
Ian’s wristwatch. Brendan Burrows on the station platform.
Could they have taken anything else?
‘It’ll probably turn up. Thanks for telling me, Irene.’
‘About Ian and pethidine…’
‘Yes.’
‘You were right. Andrew Stephens told me. I never knew. Must have been blind.’
‘Most of us are blind some of the time,’ I said. ‘Some of us most of the time. There wasn’t anything you could have done.’
‘No, well, I suppose not. Thanks, Mac.’
I went out to see Frank and Jim off. Frank said: ‘Gettin the winch tomorrow. Big bugger. More pull than a scoutmaster. I’ll come round, you can bolt it on for me, we’ll settle up.’
Frank and Jim had to wait at the entrance to the lane to let another vehicle in. A silver Holden. I stood where I was outside the smithy and Detective Sergeant Shea drove the car to within twenty-five centimetres of my kneecaps.
Detective Shea was alone, the lovable Cotter presumably engaged in bringing cheer elsewhere. He got out of the car, looked at me, looked around, not approving. ‘Bloody freezing as usual,’ he said.
‘I’m stuck here,’ I said. ‘You on the other hand are free to leave for warmer parts any time you like.’
‘Don’t take it personal,’ he said. ‘Talk inside?’
We went into the office. It wasn’t much warmer there. I sat behind the desk, Shea looked at the kitchen chair disdainfully and sat on the filing cabinet.
‘Suppose you thought we weren’t doin anything,’ he said.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Thought you weren’t achieving anything.’
He smiled his bleak smile. ‘Takes time,’ he said. ‘You’d know. That complaint you told me about. One Ned
