said. ‘If Scullin fixed up Danny for killing her, Garth Bruce must be part of the whole thing. He was setting us up.’
Cam was lying on a sofa, long legs over the arm, head propped up by cushions, drinking Cascade out of the bottle.
‘So Bruce’s got the motor’s number,’ he said. He’d had no trouble grasping my explanation of what was going on. It didn’t seem to surprise him either.
‘I suppose that was dumb,’ I said, ‘but you don’t expect the Minister for Police to try to kill you.
‘It’s just possible he’s not involved,’ Linda said. She was dressed for business in a suit, cream silk blouse, black stockings and high heels. Overexcited though I was, the sight aroused a frisson of lust.
‘I don’t think we should operate on that assumption, I said. ‘What can we do about the car?’ It was now in the girlfriend’s garage on the ground floor.
Cam swung his legs to the floor. ‘It can stay where it is. I’ll get my mate to report it stolen, give me another one.’ He stood up and walked off down the long room in the direction of the kitchen.
Linda’s eyes followed him. ‘What does he do for a living?’
‘He’s a gambler,’ I said. ‘He shot a midget firing a sub-machine gun off a motorbike this morning. That’s how I’m here.’
She nodded. ‘I can believe that,’ she said. ‘What do we do now?’
‘Think. Think about evidence. Evidence is the only thing that can help us now.’
‘Did you tell me once,’ Linda said, chin on her palms. ‘Did you tell me that Danny’s wife said there was evidence he didn’t do it?’
I thought back to the night, in the family room Danny built. Yes. She said a woman phoned Danny. The woman said her husband had died.’
But she didn’t give Danny the evidence?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t suppose it follows that if it’s evidence that proves Danny didn’t do it, it’s evidence of who did’, Linda said.
‘It might be.’ I was thinking. ‘What kind of person would have the evidence? It would have to be a cop, wouldn’t it?’
‘Could be someone connected with Charis Corp.’
I sighed. ‘That’s right. This is a dead-end.’
Linda got up and crossed to a huge steel-framed window. Her high heels went tock on the polished concrete floor. She had to stand on tiptoe to look out. Her calf muscles tensed deliciously. At any other time I would have been seized with an impulse to rush her from the rear.
‘Let’s say it’s a cop. Was a cop,’ she said. ‘What then?’
‘Died some time before Danny was shot. At least a month.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I’m assuming the woman got in touch with Danny soon after her husband’s death. That’s when she rang. About a month before Danny was killed.’
Linda turned around. ‘What date was that?’
I told her.
‘Where’s the phone?’ she said.
‘Coming up.’ Cam was coming back, carrying a cordless phone. ‘I’m taking a stroll to pick up some other wheels. I’ll come back, see if you need anything.’
Linda took the phone from him. ‘Phone book?’
‘In the kitchen. On the fridge.’ He gave me a wave.
When she came back, Linda took a notebook out of her bag, sat down and punched a number.
‘Hello, Police Association? Can I speak to the secretary? Right. Who could I speak to about membership records? Oh, you’ve got a membership secretary. Denise Walters. I’d like to, yes.’
Linda waited, looking at me. ‘Denise, hi,’ she said. ‘My name’s Colleen Farrell. Dr Colleen Farrell. From Monash University Medical School. Denise, I wonder if you can help me. We’re doing a study on police mortality in Australia. Do you know about that? No? It’s at the early stages, but we think it’ll help the police case for a stress loading on salaries.’
Pause. ‘Yes. Abnormally high levels, we think, Denise. We’ve run into a little problem you might be able to help us with. We don’t have any data for Victoria for the last two months.’
Pause. ‘Yes, that’s right. We got the other data directly from the Commissioner’s office but the person there has gone on leave and I’d like to get up to date before I go on leave.’
Pause. ‘That would be terrific, Denise. I’ll wait on.’
We sat in silence looking at each other. Linda reached down, took the hem of her skirt and began to work it up, slowly, one thigh at a time, flexing her thigh muscles and moving her bottom from side to side. I could see the dark at the fork of her legs when she said, ‘Still here. Right. No serving members so far this year. Good. What about non-serving?’
Pause. ‘Two in January. None in Feb. One in March. One in April. Okay. Now, Denise, I’ll need the names to check against our register.’
Pause. ‘H. J. Mullins. T. R. Conroy. M. E. F. Davis. P. K. Vane. That’s V-A-N-E, is it? Terrific. I see we’ve got them all except Vane. You wouldn’t have any biographical data there, would you, Denise?’
Pause. ‘Just service dates. Um. ’63 to ’88. Special Branch 1978 to ’84. Look, Denise, you’ve been a great help. Thanks very much. Much appreciated.’
Linda put the phone down and pulled her skirt back to respectability. ‘I can’t bear to see a man salivate,’ she said. ‘The only possibility is P. K. Vane. He was in the Special Branch when Anne was killed, though.’
‘I’d say that lets him out. They spent all their time hanging around anarchist meetings. Six people and a collie dog and two Special Branch. Our bloke would probably be in Drugs, one of Scullin’s mates.’
There was a sound in the hallway. I felt my shoulders tense. Cam came in.
‘All fixed up,’ he said. ‘Listen, I’m shooting through. You want me, press auto and 8 on the phone. It’ll page me.’ He opened his jacket and showed the pager on his belt.
‘I’m in your debt, mate,’ I said.
Cam said, ‘Saturday, that’s the day we pay off debts. There’s plenty of food here.’ He eyed Linda appraisingly. ‘Try the cupboards in the big bedroom for clothes. You’re not far apart in size. Jack, there’s men’s clothes in the other bedroom. One of her exes. Biggish fella, I gather. Nice line in shirts. Help yourself.’
I went with him to the front door. He was outside when he said, ‘That little case of mine, that’s in the kitchen now. Under the sink. I wouldn’t open this door to anyone if I were you.’
I detoured to the bathroom on my way back, looking for aspirin. Pumping adrenalin leaves you feeling dull and headachey. I was studying the contents of the medicine cabinet when it came to me out of nowhere.
I can remember her saying she could go anywhere in safety because the Special Branch were always lurking somewhere.
Anne Jeppeson’s mother. That was what she had said.
30
The Law Department at Melbourne University looks the way universities should. It has courtyards and cloisters and ivy.
I loitered downstairs, near where a girl had set fire to herself during the Vietnam War. Nobody paid any attention to me. The whole campus was full of people in ex-army overcoats wearing beanies. I was just older than most of them. By about thirty years.
My man came out ahead of his students, striding briskly, looking the way lecturers usually look after a lecture: happy and smug. His name was Barry Chilvers and he taught constitutional law. He was also a civil liberties activist and knew more about the Special Branch than most people.
‘Barry,’ I said when he was level with me.
He jerked his head up at me, eyes startled behind the big glasses.
I took the beanie off.
‘Jesus Christ, Jack,’ he said, exasperated, ‘where’d you get that coat? And the beanie, for Christ sakes. It’s a
