That was a good enough reason. But I wanted it to be a fair planning decision. And the department was divided about it. So I ended up going along with the senior man, a bloke called Malcolm Bleek, who reckoned it was a good thing. And come the election, some of the directors of the company, in their individual capacities mark you, came over with big contributions to the party.’
‘Could be just sound business practice,’ I said.
‘Bullshit. But listen to this. Peterslee was always a marginal seat. Held it because people trusted me, bugger my party. But it only took about three hundred pricks to cross over and I’m gone. And in this business you don’t come back. Ten days before the election, ColdRoads Australia announces it’s putting its new plant in my electorate. Jobs in construction, a whole lot of new permanent jobs. Like a marginal MP’s wet dream, eh?’
I said, ‘You’re saying Pitman believed you’d delivered the goods.’
‘I don’t think he was sure. But he came in to see me again after the election. Before he could open his mouth, I said to him, “You slimy little shit, if you ever mention the name of a project to me again, that project is dead in the water. I don’t care what it is, can be the landing strip for the second coming, it is fucking stone dead.” He never said a word, just turned and walked.’
Pixley stared into his glass. ‘Like I said, Jack, your timing’s good. Three months ago, I’d have told you to fuck off. I took the view that I couldn’t get Pitman without hurting the party. And I couldn’t do that. Party’s been my whole life. Been everything to me. Cost me two marriages, kids who don’t want to know me, but that was my choice.’
He finished his drink. ‘One for the road,’ he said and set to work again.
I drained my beer and waited for him in silence. When he’d put the glass in front of me, he said, ‘Mortality, that’s what changed my mind. I was lying in the Epworth waiting for the knife and I thought about dying and fucking Lance Pitman coming to my funeral. I thought, fuck me, if I come out of this and a chance comes up, I’ll shaft the fucker. It’ll hurt the party, but in the long run not shafting him will hurt it more.’
‘Is there likely to be any kind of evidence against him?’
‘You and Ms Hillier are going to have to find that out. Let me tell you the rest of the story.’
Pixley seemed to have gone down a gear. His eyelids were drooping. He shook himself alert. ‘About a year after Baygate, the same senior man in my department talked me into chucking out a planning decision against a company called Hexiod Holdings. Big shopping mall in Apsley. Millions involved. I also had the local MP camping in my office and a man called Massey, Dix Massey. Know of him?’
‘Owns racehorses.’
‘And other things. He’s Charis Corp’s chief cocksucker and standover man. Well, a couple of months later the same man in my department, Bleek, comes to see me. He’s sweating blood. He says there are things he wants to tell me but he wants indemnity first.’
Pixley drank deeply. ‘I said, “Tell me what it’s about, I’ll think about the indemnity.” He won’t. The bastard wants forgiveness before confession. We went on like this for a while, I told him to go away and think about it, come back tomorrow. He comes back the next day, says he had a brainstorm, he was talking rubbish on medication. Stress. Overwork. He’s taking sick leave. Please forget about the matter. Never came back. Early retirement. Never set foot in the building again. He’s dead now. Killed himself about six months later.’
‘You’re saying this was connected with Pitman?’
Pixley shrugged. ‘You can make your own connections. You know the name of the company that had the foresight to buy Hoagland?’
‘Yes. Hexiod Holdings.’
He nodded. ‘That’s the company. Sold it to Charis Corporation the other day, I see.’
‘Can I get this straight?’ I asked. ‘You’re saying that Pitman closed down Hoagland so that Hexiod could buy the site and turn it over to Charis?’
‘Draw your own fucking conclusions.’ He leaned forward. ‘What do you reckon’s the company that ended up building Baygate?’
‘Charis?’
‘Fast learner. That’s right. Came from nothing to be one of the biggest developers in the state in about ten years. Bloody miraculous. And now Pitman’s in the Planning chair again, old Joe Kwitny’s two boys can get seriously rich. Charles and bloody Andrew really can’t miss now. Next thing the Kwitnys are going to want their pederast pal Father fucking Gorman in Parliament.’
Father Gorman’s fulsome tribute to Joseph Kwitny came back to me. ‘Close to the Father, are they?’ I asked.
‘Old Joe’s the biggest donor to that shonky foundation of his. And I think Dix Massey’s one of the directors or whatever they call them.’
Pixley had another coughing fit. When it stopped, he pushed his glass away. He looked utterly worn out. ‘I’ve said enough, Jack. Time for some lettuce and my nap.’
I stood up. ‘Just one last thing,’ I said. ‘The death of Anne Jeppeson.’
‘Spot of luck for Mr Lucky Pitman, eh? Or do people make their own luck? See yourself out, Jack. Come again.’
I said thanks again. On the way out, I saw Jackie Pixley looking out at the bay. I said goodbye and she said something without turning.
22
We were sitting in front of a fire in the house Anne Jeppeson grew up in, drinking tea out of bone china cups with little roses on them. The room was comfortable: good furniture scuffed by life. Outside, it was raining on the big garden, the usual thin Melbourne drizzle that dampened the heart more than anything else.
‘I’m sorry to ask you to talk about something so painful,’ I said. I meant it. There’s a special kind of dread you don’t know about until you have children.
Mrs Jeppeson shook her head. ‘Nothing can make it any worse than it is,’ she said. She was in her sixties, a thin and pretty woman with short hair and a faraway look. She was dressed for outdoor work: trousers, shirt, sleeveless jacket and short boots. ‘Sometimes I’m glad to talk to someone about it. My husband can’t bring himself to. But Anne’s death lies there all the time.’
‘Did you see much of her?’
‘Not as much as we wanted to. She was always busy and she had her own friends. But she came for most Sunday lunches, well, perhaps every second Sunday here and at the sea. We have a place at Portsea. She was there with us for a few days that summer. Our son and his family were here too. They were living in Hong Kong then. He’s in banking, like his father.’
She looked out of the window. Some bedraggled sparrows were pecking the terrace. ‘Do you find the winters depressing?’
‘Yes. Except for the football.’
‘Anne liked football. Richmond. The Tigers. No-one else in the family has any interest in it. My husband pretends to be interested when we’re with people who are. I don’t know why. It’s a male thing, I suppose. I spend as much time outside as possible in winter. I try to ignore the weather.’
‘Does that help?’
‘I’m not sure. I’d have to stop to find out. Why is Anne’s death of interest now?’
‘There’s a possibility that the person convicted of knocking her down didn’t do it.’
She didn’t react. ‘More tea? I think I’ll have some.’
‘Thank you. It’s very good.’
She poured. ‘Have another biscuit. They’re homemade. Not by me. I bought them at the church fete. I can’t bring myself to go to church any more so I go to all the fundraising efforts and buy things that never get eaten.’
I took another biscuit. ‘Perhaps you can tell me something about the days before…’
‘Her death. We hadn’t seen her for a fortnight. She phoned on the Sunday to say she couldn’t come to lunch. That Housing Commission business was on the go, so we saw her on television all the time. My husband was secretly quite proud of her, I think. Although you’d never have known it from the fights they had over those squats in people’s houses she used to organise.’
‘So you never had the chance to talk about the Hoagland protests?’
