‘I was sick that day. My mother wrote a note. Name and number?’
17
Angela Cairncross was an in-between person: between clothing styles, between ages, possibly even between genders. She pushed over a set of photographs. ‘That’s me,’ she said.
I looked through them. She was good. A bag lady on a bench, a plump man walking two small dogs, a tired- looking nurse going home, a man in overalls next to vans with Telstra and Optus written on the sides.
‘Don’t get a chance to go out anymore, the business’s got so big,’ said Angela. ‘Once it was just Bert, my late husband, and Harry Chalmers and me. Now it’s ten full-timers, thirty temps on call, part-timers, they do a shift. Works well, you never see the same person, same vehicle, twice. Variety, that’s the key. Variety. The police have trouble getting that part right.’
I didn’t demur. The jacks didn’t get lots of things right. I’d tried very hard to point some of them out. In a manner that was held to be extreme. Murderous in fact.
‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘You can’t run a business like this on trade union lines. Flexibility, that’s what you need.’
We were in the cheerful offices of Cairncross amp; Associates above a printery off York Street in South Melbourne. There were prints and posters on the yellow walls, flowers on the desks. Down below, the presses were running: you could feel the vibrations in the soles of your feet, coming up your chair legs.
‘Pat’s a rich kid, may be out of his depth,’ I said. ‘Bad company, gambling, that kind of thing. We’re worried he might be doing something stupid.’
Angela scratched an eyebrow, just a pale line, with a middle finger. ‘Stupid? Illegal?’
‘Might be involved in a kidnapping.’
She turned down her lips and nodded. ‘That is stupid. Reported, is it?’
‘No. Not yet. We need twenty-four hours on him, more if anything shows. You’ll understand, there’s a fear the victim will be in danger if they get even a wrong feeling.’
‘It’s more than him?’
‘There would have to be. A courier’s on the way with a photograph of Pat and a rego number but that’s it.’
‘Anvil Square. I know it.’ Angela looked at the ceiling. ‘All new buildings that area, apartments. It’ll be hard. There’s no street life. Got a budget in mind?’
‘If you need an airship, hire one.’
‘So that will be stills and video.’ She wrote on the form, looked up.
‘We don’t do interceptions, bugs, without a warrant, you know that? We can get some sound. Outside, public places. Not guaranteed, of course.’
‘It has to start soonest.’
‘Starts as soon as the picture gets here. I’ve got two people free, can bring in others. Is Pat one of those Carsons?’
There wasn’t any point in telling lies. Her business was lies. ‘Yes. They’re not keen on publicity.’
‘Won’t get any out of this office. We’ve done all kinds of people, I can tell you. And that’s all I’ll tell you. Bert used to say we live or die by confidentiality. Any sensitivity about where the bill goes?’
‘No.’ I gave her Graham Noyce’s address and my mobile number. ‘How do you report?’
‘Office is staffed twenty-four hours. In a case like this, operatives call in every hour or whenever something happens.’ She wrote a number on a card and handed it over. ‘I’ve written the case number there. You can ring this office at any time for an update. Just give the case number. It’s like your PIN. Any important development, we’ll be in touch with you immediately.’
I got up. ‘This sounds businesslike, Angela.’
She smiled, pleased. ‘We’re in the business of service, Mr Calder. That’s what Bert used to say. The McDonald’s of the industry, I like to think. Many of our competitors are more like fish and chip shops.’
Orlovsky was leaning on the car, talking on the mobile. He finished as I approached, eyed me, half- smiling.
‘Could have the vehicle. A youngish bloke and an older one, driving an old stationwagon. Paid cash. Sounds like the two in Revesdale Street, beard on the younger one.’
‘Jesus. Show ID?’
‘No. The seller didn’t ask.’
I closed my eyes, sagged. ‘Station wagon rego?’
‘No.’
‘Then we have exactly fuck all.’
18
I was asleep in the Garden House, in a big bed in the middle of a large room, dreaming a dream of childhood, when the call came. My unconscious tried to work the mad-bird sound into its story but quickly gave up, let the noise wake me.
‘Mr Calder?’ A woman.
‘Yes.’ I was sitting upright, swung my legs out of the bed, put my feet on the floor, the warm floor, heated from inside.
‘It’s 12.14 a.m. The subject left the dwelling a few minutes ago, alone, in his vehicle.’
‘The casino.’
‘No. Travelling south-west on Sturt Street. The operative has him in view but the traffic isn’t heavy so there is some risk. Not great. We have two vehicles. Do you wish them to continue?’
‘Yes. Can I speak directly to your people?’
‘Certainly. I’ll instruct them to call you direct.’
I took the phone into the bathroom, wet my face, brushed my teeth, admired the stained-marble appearance of the whites of my eyes. Then I went back to the bedroom, opened a curtain and stood in the dark looking across the garden, misty rain around dozens of concealed ground lights. No lights showed in the main house, but, above the walls of what I thought was Pat Carson’s study courtyard, a faint glow coloured the wet air. A security light or perhaps Pat was sitting there, drinking the single malt and thinking the dark thoughts. Thoughts of Anne, of little Alice, who saved herself from slaughter but could not be healed; of Christine, who loved him like a father and heard voices, slashed her wrists, her throat, plunged sharp objects into her concave belly; of Jonty Chadwick, who must once have looked like an ornament to the family and ended up as Dr Happy, running a shooting gallery.
The dark thoughts. And those were only the ones I knew about.
There was a lot of darkness inside this family.
Mad-bird ring.
‘Calder.’
‘Mr Calder, time’s 12.36 a.m., subject’s driven into premises in Port Melbourne, a converted factory, the old Bonza Toys factory on Conrad Street.’ A male voice, hoarse, the voice of someone who sat in parked cars smoking cigarettes, breathing shallowly. ‘Opened roller doors from the vehicle. Either that or someone inside opened them. Door to the house in back righthand corner. There’s another vehicle in the garage.’
I was still looking at the main house, the glow where the old man might be sitting.
Please God, a people-mover, a Tarago.
‘Any idea what kind of vehicle?’
‘Guessing. New. Squarish back, I’d say Alfa Romeo, maybe Honda. Red, so maybe Alfa.’
‘The building, what can you see?’
‘The renovated part of the factory’s on the corner of Conrad and Castle, front door’s on Castle. There’s three
