lights in that, one’s a bathroom, toilet. The garage entrance is on Conrad. I’ve given the office the address, they’ll give you some ratepayers’ info pretty quick.’
‘Any way to get a look?’
‘There’s a building going up across the road, four floors, might be vision from there. We risk trespass.’
‘Risk it.’
‘I’ll have to have that authorised, I’m afraid. Be back to you.’
The waiting. You have to learn how to wait, how to let time drift by without nagging at it. I sat in the chair beside the window, steepled my fingers in front of my chin, closed my eyes. No Tarago in the garage. Why should it be there? How did the voice of hate on the phone fit in? Scripted?
The phone.
‘Mr Calder, the address in Port Melbourne, it’s in the name of a company, Tragopan Nominees. I have the directors’ names. Mr and Mrs E. J. Lamond of 27 Kandara Crescent, Rockhampton. Mrs Cairncross asks me to say that she has authorised the request from our operative on the understanding that the financial liability is yours. Are you agreeable to that?’
Call waiting pips.
‘Yes. Thank you.’
I ended the call and the mad bird warbled.
‘Calder.’
‘We have vision of two windows.’ Urgent voice. ‘Subject’s gone into curtained room with female. She appears to be handcuffed or hands tied behind back with something metallic.’
My heart filled my chest cavity, I felt the thumping pulse in my head, my arms. ‘Description?’
‘Blonde, shortish hair, youngish, he says.’
‘On my way. Where in Conrad Street?’
‘Park in Otway between Conrad and Jessup. I’m in a Yellow Cab just before Conrad.’
I got dressed, dark clothes, went across the hall to Orlovsky’s room, opened the door.
‘What?’ said Orlovsky, wide awake.
‘I think we’ve got her. Dark clothes, quick.’
19
The agent was a large, balding man in his fifties called Andrew. His cab smelt faintly of fish and chips. Angela Cairncross would not be pleased. McDonald’s yes, fish and chips no.
‘Young fella’s up the building,’ he said. ‘Call me if he sees anything more.’
I was in the front, looking at the quiet street, not a light on. Volvos, Saabs, BMWs, hard to believe that dock workers once lived here. The light from a street lamp came dimly to us.
‘We need to go in,’ I said. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘Place’s like a jail,’ Andrew said. ‘They left all the factory bars on the windows, front door’s solid as a brick shithouse. That’s on Deacon Place.’
‘How many entrances?’
‘Just the front door and through the garage. They bricked in the big door on Castle Street.’
‘We could just wait,’ said Orlovsky from the back seat, speaking in his voice of reason. ‘Nail him when he opens the garage door.’
‘The thought occurred to me,’ I said. ‘Could open it in three or four days’ time. I’d prefer a speedier end to this shit.’
Andrew pointed to the gloomy two-storey brick building across the intersection. ‘That one, the other bit of the factory, that’s empty. Haven’t tarted that up yet. Knock it down, probably. Might be able to get from that into the back. Dunno what you do then.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘We might just drive by, have a look. Andrew, hang around, could want you keeping an eye on the place for a while.’
‘Can’t go beyond surveillance. Policy.’ He held my gaze, telling me something.
‘Of course.’
In his car, Orlovsky said, ‘Drive by?’
I nodded. ‘Take it slow.’
We drove around the corner. The old double-storeyed toy factory occupied the width of the block on our right, built on the boundary line. Once it was in two parts, probably a yard in between where a double garage now stood. Over its roof I could see the two upstairs lights.
‘Park in the garage,’ I said. ‘Reverse park.’
‘In the garage?’
‘This thing’s built like a tank.’
Orlovsky looked at me. ‘Jesus, you’re subtle. Hang on.’
We went up Conrad Street, beyond the garage doors, a good fifty metres beyond, slowed, stopped for a second, and then went backwards in a sweeping curve, not fast. At the last second, Orlovsky put his foot down.
We hit the electronic roll-up garage door full on, maximum bumper contact, knocked the door out of its tracks, went in under it so that it lay on us like a crumpled tin blanket. There was a small impact as we touched a parked car.
I was out, ran around the front of our car. Orlovsky was already trying the door into the house.
‘Locked,’ he said, stood back.
I kept running, hit the door with my left shoulder, painful impact against the torsion-box door, cheap but strong, splintered the lock out of the jamb, was in a short passage, kept going, two strides to open the door at the end.
Kitchen, light from the street shining off stainless steel countertops, huge copper rangehood.
Double doors, to the right, open.
Into a huge room, a sitting and dining room, stairs to the right, the original broad staircase, a landing halfway up, dim light coming from the floor above.
We ran up the stairs abreast, Orlovsky on my right, reached the landing, looked up.
Nothing.
Up the stairs. At the top a broad corridor, ahead a door open, light on tiles, mirrors, a bathroom. Door to the left, another one to the right, against the back wall, window in the centre of the wall.
Perhaps twenty seconds since we’d smashed open the garage door.
Orlovsky reached the door first, turned the handle.
Locked. Heavy four-panel door, break your shoulder first.
I looked around. A copper bowl was standing on a low table, thick crude top, stout turned legs, a stool not a table, a piece of poor farm furniture migrated to an ultra-smart house in the city.
I picked it up by a leg, bowl hitting the polished wooden boards with a hollow gong-like sound, tossed it to Orlovsky.
He caught a leg in each hand.
‘Panel above the handle,’ I said without needing to, he was already swinging.
The panel was solid oak, raised, hard as iron, resisted the first blow, the second. Orlovsky changed hands, swung a corner of the stool at the bottom righthand corner of the panel, knocked the whole thing out, sent it flying into the bedroom, dimly-lit room.
I reached through the opening, found a double-bolt deadlock, opened it, turned the knob, butted the door open with my sore left shoulder.
The light in the large room was from two brass lamps with heavy shades standing on tables on either side of a massive four-poster bed, a modern version of a four-poster, designed to be curtained, made of heavy-gauge black steel with brass fittings.
Pat Carson junior was between us and the bed, walking backwards, naked except for a broad leather belt. He
