the Carsons. On the family. Life and times and empire. I cannot tell you what I had to do to get that project shelved. Things that make me shudder now, in the clear light of day. And I am not a shudderer. And the reason was Mark. All we need is the media getting onto the story of the family fucking idiot and his loony deals and his scummy associates. Not to mention his totally crazed wife.’
‘It’s his daughter I’m worried about.’
Breath expelled loudly. ‘Obviously. We have to do whatever we can to get Anne back. But essentially we are waiting for instructions on how to ransom her. Not so?’
Two people were coming down the brick path beside the cutting garden, a tall woman and a man, shoulder- height to her. They were smiling at each other.
‘Tom’s wife,’ I said. ‘Is she around?’
‘Carol? Sometimes. She travels a lot. Shopping trips. Why?’
‘There’s a woman in the garden with a much younger man. Tall blonde woman.’
‘That’s her. He’s probably the latest plaything.’
‘She’d be concerned about her granddaughter.’
‘Carol’s not exactly your doting grandmother. I gather she can’t stand Anne. About Mark…’ ‘Yes.’ Outside, Carol Carson raised her right hand and brushed her fingertips across the young man’s full mouth.
‘Poking around Mark’s life, that’s not going to help. All you’ll do is create a danger of someone tipping off the media that the Carsons are paying an ex-cop to dig into Mark’s life. Frank, we can’t run that risk. Not now. Are you with me?’
I said I was. Carol Carson and her friend were walking back the way they had come, close together, touching. Clearly, the man had no fear of meeting an angry spouse.
I went to the kitchen to make a pot of tea, had to choose from five teas, imported from France. France? What did the French know about tea? I chose one at random, looked out of the window while I waited for the kettle to boil. The day had turned fine, weak lemon sunlight bathing the garden, turning the rain lying on the evergreen leaves into drops of mercury.
Compassionate Mark, Mark drooling over violent porn films. Incompatible emotions? Perhaps not. Humans were dealt all the cards. Life and a bit of choice decided which ones they’d play.
Mark’s wife had said something, something about him being the sick one. But not a reliable informant was Christine.
I made a pot of tea, in a bone china pot, kept in a cupboard with teacups thin as parchment, and left it to draw.
Mark would have been a volunteer at the Altona Community Legal Centre around 1988. I rang inquiries, got the number, was put through to the centre’s solicitor, told her a lie.
‘In 1988? Wow. I’ve only been here since 1998. Hold on, I’ll ask someone.’
She was gone only a minute or two.
‘That was easy,’ she said. ‘Our secretary had a stint here from ’85 to ’90 but she’s gone out for a bit. I looked up the records, the solicitor then was Jeremy Fisher. He’s a big-deal corporate lawyer now. I think he’s with Stone, Boyle, Carides-they’re takeover specialists, takeovers, mergers, company stuff like that. He’d know your person. I don’t think they had many volunteer solicitors then, too far from the bright lights.’
I poured a cup of tea through a silver strainer, squeezed in a drop of lemon juice. Excellent French tea. Was this what your Bordeaux vigneron drank after a hard morning’s work doctoring the fermented grape juice with battery acid and Algerian plonk?
I got the number and rang Stone, Boyle, Carides.
It was easy to get to Jeremy Fisher’s second secretary. Then I moved on to a full secretary. They were both bright-voiced, both infected with the superiority of working for a first-tier law firm. They wanted to know my business and not in vague terms. I didn’t want to tell them my business even in non-vague terms. At length, I was put on to someone who was apparently an actual solicitor, not Jeremy Fisher but someone I imagined as a work- experience person operating out of the basement carpark.
‘Jeremy’s tremendously busy,’ he said, another cheerful person. ‘Can’t I help you?’
‘Listen, son,’ I said, ‘I’ve had it with the runaround. I represent Carson Corporation. I’m going to give you my number. I expect Jeremy to ring me inside five minutes.’
‘I’ll take that number,’ the man said. ‘And get back to you soonest. ASAP.’
The phone rang inside the limit.
‘Mr Calder, Jeremy Fisher. Forgive me, my people should’ve put you straight through. Bit over-protective, I’m afraid.’
It was a smooth voice, a competent voice, an unflappable voice that would be balm to a troubled corporate ear. It said:
‘I understand you represent Carson Corporation,’ Jeremy said. ‘We obviously haven’t met. In what capacity would you be representing the company?’
I was getting a feeling, not a good feeling. ‘Not Carson Corporation, the family. Check that with Graham Noyce, if you like, he’s the in-house counsel. Would you like the number?’
‘No. I talk to Graham quite enough as it is. The float’s taken its toll of both of us. How can I help you?’
Like companies going public? Like CarsonCorp?
My instinct was to make an excuse and leave.
But.
If Graham was scared that bad publicity could harm the float, the leak that brought the publicity certainly wasn’t going to come from the law firm handling it.
So, what the hell.
‘In the strictest confidence,’ I said, ‘and without giving any reasons, I’d like to ask you a few questions about the time when you were the solicitor at the Altona Legal Centre and Mark Carson was a volunteer.’
‘Yes?’
He said
‘It was about that time that Mark left Ross, Archer amp; Stegley.
I wondered if you knew anything about the circumstances of his leaving the firm?’
‘The circumstances?’ A musing tone. ‘As far as I can remember, Mark was with Ross’s all the time that he was helping out at Altona. So that must have been later. But I really can’t say, it’s so long ago.’
Pause. A pause for thought.
‘Mr Calder, I’ve got an overseas call on the line,’ he said. ‘I’ll get back to you soonest. Sorry about this, these people won’t wait. Talk to you again.’
Not in this life, I thought. I didn’t know why, but I knew. I took my time finishing the very fine French tea, held the cup to the light, extended a finger behind it. Through the pale, translucent, expensive shell, I could see its shape, like a boat’s shadow on the seabed.
The phone rang.
‘What the fuck is this about?’ Graham Noyce, equal stress on each word, not the affable, careworn, reasonable Graham Noyce. ‘Frank, exactly what the fucking hell is this about?’
I didn’t have the remotest idea what it was about. And every hour that passed left me more ignorant.
Mid-week. It was mid-week.
28
Corin McCall answered her phone from what sounded like a building site, brute machines roaring in the background.
