When I turned back, he was perching on front of his desk, pinching the crease at his knee so the action of sitting down did not abrade the fabric of his trousers. ‘The minister was satisfied with this morning’s little show and tell, do you think?’
‘A polished performance,’ I admitted. ‘It will be interesting to see the impact of Angelo’s plans for a comprehensive organisational restructure.’
Veale acknowledged my little drollery with a sigh of resignation. Another minister, another restructure. At the briefing, he had been genial but proper. No ironic inflections, no knowing asides. A man with a finely honed sense of the correct demeanour. Now, pressing his fingertips together, he assumed an attitude of hesitation, as if pondering the most tactful approach to a ticklish issue. He let me share his equivocation for a moment. ‘A word of advice,’ he began, feeling his way. ‘If I may be permitted?’
Sure, I indicated. Fire away.
‘As a relative newcomer to the administration of the Arts, you, no doubt, will be learning the ropes for some time. And you will, I fully understand, be keen to cultivate diverse sources of information. In doing this, it would be wise to keep in mind just how small and incestuous the arts world can be. Egos are involved, many of them remarkably fragile. Hidden agendas abound. Insinuation and gossip proliferate.’
So far, he wasn’t telling me anything I couldn’t reasonably be expected to know already. I wondered where this little chat of ours was going.
Veale got to the point. ‘Giles Aubrey rang me on Saturday. He told me that you had approached him seeking information of a confidential and sensitive nature. He enquired as to your official status. I told him that you were a member of the Arts Minister’s staff.’ One of several, the inflection suggested. Not necessarily an important one.
He paused, expecting that I might want to explain myself. Instead, I had a question. ‘Did he tell you what I wanted to talk to him about?’
A chastising tone entered Veale’s voice. ‘As I told you, Giles and I knew each other quite well, at one time. But it’s been some time since we’ve spoken and I, for my part, had no wish to encourage further conversation. Frankly, I found it hard to understand what you hoped to gain by subjecting yourself to the gossip and insinuation of anyone as notoriously self-serving as Giles Aubrey.’
Ah so. I should have realised that Aubrey would check my credentials before talking to me. That explained the phone call. Unfortunately, by the sound of it, he also used the opportunity to re-open an old wound of some kind. Veale now had me on the back foot, and for no good reason.
It was my turn to sound miffed. ‘I can assure you,’ I said. ‘I approached Giles Aubrey on an entirely professional basis, to consult him regarding the valuation of a painting. If he suggested otherwise, he was misleading you. In any case, my contact with him was brief. He died yesterday. A fall, apparently.’
That took the starch out of Veale’s shirt. ‘Oh,’ he said.
A contemplative muse brushed her wings across his features. His thoughts began to turn inwards. Sensing the private nature of his reflections, I made some vague bridge-repairing noises about appreciating his point and quietly withdrew. The sound of crunching eggshells rose from underfoot.
It was past 10.30. The boys were beginning to tire of massacring aliens on Trish’s computer. Casting a quick eye over my telephone message slips, I reached for my jacket, ready to go. Just then, reception buzzed to say that I had a visitor, a Mr Micaelis. Assuming him to be an early-bird hoping for an unscheduled appointment, I went out to tell him he was out of luck.
Micaelis was somewhere in his mid-twenties, dark-suited and smelling of Brut 33. He had the slightly put- upon look of the second son of a migrant family. His older brother drove the family truck. His younger brother was studying medicine or architecture. The big plans for him had run as far as accountancy or town planning. Accountancy, judging by the tie. He didn’t seem the arty type.
‘How ya going?’ he said cheerfully. ‘Reckon you could spare us a minute?’ He handed me his card. It was embossed with a little blue star and a French motto. Tenez le Droit. Detective Senior Constable Chris Micaelis, the lettering said. Victoria Police. Well, well. ’Ello, ’ello, ’ello.
We went through the door marked Minister and into my office. Trish shot me a knowing glance as we passed. She hadn’t lost any of her street smarts. She still knew a debt collector when she saw one.
Micaelis declined my offer of a refreshing beverage and parked his carcass into the furniture indicated. ‘S’pose you know what this is about,’ he said.
‘S’pose you tell me,’ I said.
‘This death thing at the weekend.’ The cop’s studied casualness, we both knew, wasn’t fooling anyone. ‘Understand you were there when the body was recovered.’
For the briefest moment I wasn’t sure if he meant Taylor or Aubrey. Micaelis registered the flicker of hesitation. ‘Ms Fleet gave us your name,’ he said. Let there be no false delicacy here, he meant. We know that you and the girlfriend were together.
I would share my full concerns with the police in due course, when Red was safe from Spider Webb’s threats. In the meantime, I would play it straight, answer any questions put to me and find out what I could. ‘That’s correct,’ I said. ‘Salina and I were, uh, strolling in the gardens. We saw the hubbub at the moat and went over. Just as we arrived, they were wheeling the body into the back of an ambulance.’
Sherlock the Greek nodded encouragement. ‘Knew Taylor then, did you?’
‘Never met him. First time I ever saw him was on Friday evening at an exhibition at the Centre for Modern Art. He was drunk and made a bit of a spectacle of himself, as you’re probably aware. I saw him again about 9.30. He was walking alone down Domain Road, even drunker by the look of it. Next time I saw him he was dead.’
Micaelis nodded non-committally. ‘And Salina Fleet? Know her well, do you?’
‘Not really. I met her for the first time on Friday afternoon here-she’s on one of our advisory panels. She was at the exhibition at the Centre for Modern Art-the same one that Taylor was at. I went to the Botanical Hotel afterwards to eat and ran into her again. The pub closed about one and she and I went for a long walk in the gardens. We saw the activity at the moat and went over. She was shocked and upset and that’s when you blokes came on the scene.’
Micaelis studied the back of his hand as though consulting his notes. ‘So between 1 a.m. and 3 a.m. she was with you. Strolling in the park?’
It was clear what he thought that meant. He was almost right. ‘It was a hot night,’ I told him, deadpan.
‘Seen her since?’ he wondered.
‘I saw her early yesterday afternoon,’ I told him. ‘I dropped in briefly to her place in the city to see how she was feeling.’
‘Mmm,’ he said, as though I had merely confirmed a known fact. ‘And how was she?’
‘Naturally she was upset at Taylor’s death. She seemed to prefer to be alone.’
Micaelis gave this some consideration, getting up and going over to the window, his hands plunged into his pockets. He rocked on his heels and jiggled a ring of keys deep in the recesses of his pants. ‘You don’t happen to know where we might find her just at the moment, do you? She didn’t come home last night.’
‘Perhaps she’s staying with a friend,’ I suggested.
‘Any idea who?’ he said pointedly.
‘I don’t know her that well. Have you tried her work?’
Micaelis didn’t need me to tell him how to do his job. ‘ Veneer magazine? Not what you’d call a full-time job. They’re between issues and haven’t seen her for several weeks.’
Nothing in the cop’s attitude suggested concerns about Salina’s safety. This reaffirmed my decision not to mention Spider’s appearance at the Aldershot Building. I went fishing. ‘We’ve been getting mixed signals up here about the cause of death,’ I said. ‘Do you know yet if it was suicide or an accident?’
‘The exact cause hasn’t yet been determined,’ said the detective senior constable. ‘You know the police.’ He shrugged absently, as though referring to a slightly eccentric mutual acquaintance. ‘Like to have all the facts before making up their minds.’
‘But there’s something in particular about this situation?’ I persisted, pushing it. ‘Some reason you want to talk to Salina?’
‘Routine procedure, that’s all,’ he said. ‘You’ll let us know if Ms Fleet does contact you, won’t you?’
The boys were hovering outside my glass door, angling for my attention. No doubt they were bored and keen to make tracks. Micaelis looked at them, then at me. In certain matters, the Mediterranean male mind is an open
