had bought, always as presents for me. The leather sofa and armchairs we’d bought together at the Old Colonists’ Club auction. It was my home, the only place that had ever meant anything to me since leaving my first home at the age of ten. It was my history, my link with Isabel. If Cam could have taken me directly to the person responsible for destroying it, I would have committed murder.
After a while, Cam said, ‘Where to?’
My first thought was my office. Then it sunk in. I couldn’t go near my office or Taub’s. People were trying to kill me. They’d been prepared to kill Cam this morning. They would kill Charlie if he got in their way. They probably intended to kill Linda.
Now I felt fear, a knot in my stomach.
‘I’ve got to make a call,’ I said. ‘Talk to someone.’
Cam turned into Gertrude Street and parked next to the Housing Commission flats. Three men in overcoats, all bearded, were sitting on a scuffed knoll, passing around the silver bladder of a wine cask.
I took the mobile and got out. In my wallet, I found the number Garth Bruce had given me. I’d transferred it to the back of a business card. About to press the first button, I hesitated. How could I trust Bruce? Linda didn’t. Drew didn’t. Then I remembered the awkward way we’d stood together, two men struggling to come to terms with their grief, and his words: I think you’ve had enough pain with this Milovich.
I punched the number. It was answered on the second ring. A woman. I said John English wanted to speak to the Minister.
‘Please hold on,’ she said.
I leaned against the car. The sun had come out, making the day seem colder. One of the bearded men on the knoll was trying to strangle the last drop of wine out of the bladder.
‘Yes.’ It was Bruce.
‘Someone’s trying to kill me,’ I said. ‘Twice today.’
He said nothing for a moment. I could hear him breathing.
‘God,’ he said. ‘You all right?’
I said yes.
Another pause. ‘Where are you?’
‘In the street.’
‘Jack,’ he said, ‘this is getting out of hand.’ His speech was measured. ‘I think I’ve underestimated Pixley’s old mates. We’ll have to put you somewhere safe till we can shake some sense into them. The Hillier woman too. Can you get in touch with her?’
‘Yes. She’s being followed.’
‘That so? Be the same people. Okay, listen, we’ve got to do this carefully. Yarra Bend. There’s a park up there, near the golf course. Know it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Get hold of Hillier and get up there, park as far away from those public toilets as possible. What are you driving? What’s the rego?’
I walked around the back of the car and read out the number. ‘Ford Granada,’ I said. ‘Blue.’
‘Right. Let’s make it in an hour’s time. The two blokes from last time will pick you up, get you somewhere safe.’ He paused. ‘Now this is important. Don’t talk to anyone except Hillier. And don’t say a word about this arrangement to her on the phone. She’s probably tapped.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘An hour from now.’ The lead ball of fear in my stomach was dissolving.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘You’ll be fine. Just take it easy. We can fix this up in a day or so. I’ll see you tonight.’
I rang Linda’s number. She answered straight away.
‘I want you to make sure you’re alone and get a cab to the place where we ate. The first time, remember?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Something very serious. I’ll tell you when I see you. Get the cab to park as close to the place as possible. Wait in the cab until you see me.’
‘Jack, what’s going on?’ she said.
‘Half an hour from now. Okay?’
‘Yes. Okay.’
‘See you then. Love.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Love.’
29
I got back into the Granada. Cam was reading the paper, smoking a Gitane.
‘I’ll get off your back in an hour’s time,’ I said. ‘I won’t take up that offer of yours. Need to disappear for a day or so.
Cam gave me a long look. ‘I’ll miss the excitement,’ he said.
I was looking in my wallet to see how much money I had. There was a piece of cardboard in the note section. I took it out: I rembered somthing else about what you was asking about. See me at my house. B. Curran, 15 Morton Street, Clifton Hill.
Clifton Hill was as safe a place as any to pass the half-hour until it was time to pick up Linda.
‘Can we take a little drive around to Clifton Hill?’ I said.
The man was wearing the same outfit as before: dirty blue nylon anorak, black tracksuit pants. There was every chance that it hadn’t come off since our previous meeting.
‘Wondered when you’d come,’ he said.
‘You remembered something else about Ronnie Bishop,’ I said.
He looked at me, said nothing.
I took out my wallet and offered him a twenty.
He took it. ‘Had to walk round to your place,’ he said. ‘Bloody long way. Had to take a cab back. Me legs is bad.’
I found a ten and gave it to him.
‘Wait,’ he said. He shuffled down the dark passage and came back a minute later, folded newspaper in his hand. ‘’Member I said cops come around next door couple times?’
I nodded.
He coughed and spat past my right shoulder. ‘One’s a cunt called Scullin.’
‘You told me that.’
He sniffed. ‘Didn’t know who the other was. Do now.’
‘Yes? Who?’
He unfolded the paper. It was the Herald Sun. He looked at the front page. ‘This bastard,’ he said.
He turned the newspaper to face me. There was a large colour photograph of a man sitting in front of microphones. He was flanked by two high-ranking policemen in uniform.
‘Which cop?’ I said, studying the policemen.
‘Not the cops. The cunt in the middle. The fucking Minister. That’s him.’
I was about to put the phone down when the woman answered.
‘I need to get in touch with Vin McKillop,’ I said.
She started coughing, a loose, emphysemic sound. I waited. When she stopped, I said again, ‘Vin McKillop, I need—’
‘Vin’s dead,’ she said. ‘Overdose.’
I didn’t ask her any questions.
I went into the sitting room. Linda was standing in front of the huge fireplace in the centre of Cam’s absent girlfriend’s place off Crombie Lane in the heart of the city. Her apartment occupied the top floor of an old six-storey warehouse. She was an artist. Paintings were everywhere, mostly landscapes at different stages of completion.
‘Vin McKillop’s dead,’ I said. ‘Pixley’s dead, Vin’s dead. It’s like a battlefield.’
‘Oh, Jesus,’ Linda said. ‘Oh, Jesus.’
‘Garth Bruce visited Ronnie Bishop with Scullin more than once around the time of Anne Jeppeson’s death,’ I
