‘What’s this, Ian? My faith in you is in danger of shattering.’
He took a deep drag on the cigarette and butted it. ‘Don’t worry. It’s only for six months. I’m giving medical correctness a trial. I’ll go in for tests and see if there’s any bloody difference in anything. You’d have been more astonished if you’d seen me at six this morning.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Walking. For half an hour.’
‘Mm. I think medical correctness’d advise cutting out the fags altogether. What about the grog?’
‘White wine only.’
‘How much?’
‘Stuff you. To what do I owe the pleasure?’ He lit another filter and made a face as he tasted the smoke. ‘I’ve got a clinic in half an hour, less if they’re scratching at the door.’
This would be the free-as-air session Ian lays on for the indigent of Glebe, of whom, despite the rents, rates and mortgages, there are still quite a few tucked away here and there. I poured myself a cup of coffee and tasted it. It wasn’t bad and it reminded me that I hadn’t said anything about food to Geoff. No doubt he’d make his own arrangements.
‘I’m interested in a colleague of yours, Ian. Dr Bruce Macleod. In Flemington. Know anything about him?’
One of Ian’s activities, along with drinking, smoking and eating like Elvis Presley, is his membership of innumerable medical bodies – discussion groups, tribunals, policy framing committees. Network should be his middle name. He shook his head and sucked in more smoke which came out in little gusts as he spoke. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells. Can you leave it with me?’
‘Not for long. I’ve got an appointment with him in a couple of hours.’
‘I’ll make some calls and get you on your mobile if anything turns up.’
I strolled back home wondering if Geoff had left yet. When I’d gone off to see Ian he’d been still at the computer fiddling with something I didn’t bother asking about, figuring I wouldn’t understand it anyway. I caught him as he was getting into his car.
‘Just going,’ he said.
‘Need petrol money or anything like that?’
He shook his head and drove off.
To Melburnians Flemington signifies racehorses, to Sydneysiders it means a fruit and vegetable market. It’s about the only example I can think of where Melbourne sounds more exciting than Sydney. I was struck by the proximity of Flemington to Homebush, the basic area of operations in this case. What had I told Geoff? That I had a feeling there was a connection of some kind at work here. But experience has taught me not to trust intuition any more than halfway. This could be sheer coincidence.
I was early and I sat in the car waiting for a call from Ian. It came, breaking in on a fantasy I was having about what might follow if Megan French was my daughter. I saw us on Maroubra beach where I’d spent nine- tenths of my time when I was young.
‘Ian?’
‘You’re anxious and I have to be quick. How this bloke’s kept his licence to practise is a tribute to the incompetence of the legal system. Talk about negligence suits. Someone should write to Evan Whitton about it.’
‘Dodgy?’
‘Decidedly. A slave to the health funds, a collaborator with plastic surgeons, a pill pusher, a quack for hire. Doesn’t do much hands-on doctoring and what he does he botches. What’s he up to now?’
‘I’m after a low-life who’s got a problem with a crippled leg, impotence and at a guess psychotic tendencies. Plus a history of drug use and violence.’
‘Just exactly Macleod’s sort of patient. He’s probably supplying him with heroin and helping him with his worker’s compensation or welfare fiddle in return for a cut.’
‘So he’s unlikely to supply me with information about one of his patients?’
‘Not at all. It’d depend on how much you were willing to pay him.’
‘And what sort of a bloke is Macleod himself? Tough?’
‘No. Obese, I’m told. A butterball. But he’s got some nasty types on the payroll, according to my source. Watch yourself, Cliff. You can only break certain bones in the human body so many times.’
It was my day for visiting clinics. Dr Macleod’s setup went under the name of the Macleod Medical Clinic, according to the brass plate on the gate that gave pedestrian access. This was beside a driveway, also gated, and set into a high brick fence surrounding a half-acre block that commanded a good view across to the vast sprawl of Rookwood cemetery. The brass plate also listed Dr Macleod’s various degrees and diplomas. It was hard to guess from some of the initials exactly what medical fields they covered – and the institutions that had awarded them weren’t mentioned.
For me, I was dressed formally. Not the suit, but I’d exchanged my usual casual jacket for a blazer, my jeans for a pair of charcoal slacks and I had on a clean blue button-down shirt and black slip-ons. No tie. I fancied I looked the part of an energetic semi-professional pursuing his lawful occupation. The gun under my arm was licensed after all, even if the one held on a clip under the dashboard of the Falcon wasn’t and the lock picks attached to my key ring would cause any alert policeman to take them from me, put me behind some bars and see how I got on from there.
The wall was two metres high with a strand or two of razor wire on top. Top security. Maybe the doctor collected Old Masters. I pressed the intercom buzzer beside the gate, got a recorded message and stated my business. There was a humming noise and the gate clicked open. Inside I noted grass and cement in about equal amounts; a well-tended native garden with seats and benches. It looked as if the doc liked his patients to sit in the sunshine while they waited for him – or while they wrote out their cheques afterwards. I realised that I was making judgements on the basis of Ian Sangster’s information. Why not?
The main building was a long, low piece of colonial architecture, much modified over about a hundred years. A series of signs directed deliveries to the back, patients to one verandah entrance, business callers to another. My visit to the other clinic had filled me with confidence about my robust health; I was here on business.
I responded to a ‘Please Open’ sign on a door and found myself in a waiting room that resembled something you’d see in an accountant’s office. Leather armchairs, low table, business magazines. A disembodied voice said, ‘Please make yourself comfortable. Dr Macleod will be with you in a moment. Please avail yourself of the refreshment facilities.’ This meant a coffee machine and a fresh juice dispenser. I made a cup of coffee and sat down. The seat hissed under me the way well-upholstered vinyl pretending to be leather will and I felt better. The coffee was lousy.
A second door opened and a huge man entered the room. He was over 190 centimetres and built like Sydney Greenstreet; chalk him down for 140 kilos. I began to get up but he moved quickly and had to bend down slightly to offer me his hand.
‘Mr Hardy,’ he said in a strong Scots accent, rolling the Rs. ‘I’m Bruce Macleod.’
The hand was soft from the heel pad to the fingertips. Shaking hands with him was like mixing dough.
‘Afternoon, doctor. Good of you to see me.’
He wore a double-breasted business suit, grey with a muted pinstripe, a white shirt and burgundy silk tie. His appearance said, ‘I’m wealthy and successful.’ I wondered what sort of patients responded to that. He bent at the knees to support his weight and lowered himself into a chair.
‘Not a medical matter, I believe.’
‘It is and it isn’t. I’m a private detective as I told your…’
‘Secretary. Yes.’
‘Right and I’m looking for information about one of your patients.’
‘Damien Talbot. Most unfortunate. I’ve heard of the trouble he’s in.’
‘It seems he’s seldom been out of trouble. I’m working for the mother of the young woman who’s with him. Naturally, she’s concerned about her daughter. I want to find Talbot and get the girl away from him.’
‘Anticipating the police, I take it?’
He was probing. It suggested that the police hadn’t yet made the connection to him. A marginal advantage to me, possibly. ‘That wouldn’t hurt.’
