Gracie was all ears, galvanised by her mother’s response to my evasiveness. When I thrust the stamp album towards her, she went all shy and refused to take it back. I put it on her little desk instead.
‘I will,’ I told Claire. I put my hands lightly on her upper arms, a conciliatory gesture. She shrugged them away. ‘I promise. Just as soon as I find out myself. In the meantime, do you think you can put that picture back together the way it was?’
‘Aren’t you going to tell your friends?’
‘Tell them what? “You know your Drysdale? Well guess what? It’s not really a Drysdale at all. And here are the bits and pieces to prove it.” I’ve taken it without their knowledge or permission, don’t forget. Right now, the only option is to stick to the original plan and get it back where it belongs before they notice it’s gone. That way, I’ll have enough breathing room to figure out how to break it to them, or have them discover the truth themselves.’
She was, I could see, far from persuaded. But she was also curious enough to put her better judgment temporarily on hold. ‘Phone’s on the counter,’ she said.
I went out into the shop and dialled the Police Minister’s office and asked for Ken Sproule. ‘Is that criminal intelligence?’ I said. ‘What’s this I hear on the news about Taylor’s death being down to suspicious circumstances?’
The methodical whoomph of a pneumatic stapler came from the workroom.
‘I’m as much in the dark as you are,’ claimed Sproule. ‘Now that it’s become a police operational matter, it’s strictly arm’s length from us here in the minister’s office.’
‘Come off it. You must have some idea. What’s this about the girlfriend shooting through?’
Sproule’s ears pricked up audibly. ‘How’d you hear about that?’
‘So you do know something, then?’
Ken got fatherly. ‘A word to the wise, Murray. Don’t go dipping your bib in here. The cops are notoriously sensitive to any suggestion of political interference in the operational side of things. Do yourself a favour and keep well clear.’
‘Since when does asking a question constitute political interference? Don’t be a prick. Tell me what’s going on.’
‘What’s going on is a routine police inquiry into a sudden death,’ said Sproule in tones that brooked no contradiction. ‘Tell you what,’ he softened slightly. ‘If I hear anything relevant I’ll let you know. Can’t say fairer than that, okay?’ Okay as in end of issue. Okay as in never.
‘Well I certainly wouldn’t want to do anything that might jeopardise an ongoing investigation, Ken.’
Sproule, for some reason, thought I was being facetious. ‘Don’t get your wig in an uproar, Murray…’
But I was already hanging up. The stapler had finished its whoomphing and Claire had appeared in the archway, attentive. ‘I never did ask about your job,’ she said. ‘What exactly is it you do?’
It was time I came clean, told her the truth. ‘It’s hard to explain,’ I said. ‘I assist the minister.’
The parodic Drysdale was in its new frame, indistinguishable from its pre-accident condition. ‘Brilliant,’ I said, wrapping it in the beach towel. It was 1.35. Every minute’s delay increased the chance of the picture’s absence being discovered. And now there was potentially a great deal more at stake than a bit of embarrassment over some accidental damage. ‘How much do I owe you?’
This went down like an Elvis impersonator at La Scala. ‘You owe me an explanation, for a start.’
‘You’ll get one, I promise.’ I started for the door. ‘Soon as I can.’
Soft soap didn’t cut any ice around here. Claire blocked my way, hands on hips. ‘How soon will that be?’
‘I want to see you again. Soon and a lot. But I can’t do it today. I’ve got to get back to work, then I have to take Red to the airport. I won’t see him again for a couple of months and I want to spend a little time with him, just him and me, this evening. Let me take you to lunch tomorrow. I promise I’ll tell you everything then.’
The curtain was closed, Gracie not in sight. I put my hand on the back of Claire’s head. She didn’t resist but she wasn’t so enthusiastic any more. I gave her a big wet one and bolted out the door, feeling like a fool.
With a good run of green lights, I was back at the Trades Hall in six minutes and at the open door of the exhibition room in another two. My towel-wrapped package was under my arm. Bob Allroy was up his ladder, back turned, his hand in the etched-glass mantle of a reproduction light-fitting. Bob was one of the few men still in regular employment capable of making a day’s work out of changing a light globe. I crept across the room and slipped the picture back in place.
‘No touching,’ Bob growled from above. ‘It’s moran my job’s worth if anything happens to them pictures.’
Returning Dry Gully to the collection was one thing, finding out how it got there in the first place was another. That was a question for Bernice Kaufman.
The receptionist was still out to lunch, so I went straight through to Bernice’s office. It, too, was empty, as was that of the neighbouring Industrial Officer. But the big fat suspension file labelled Combined Unions Superannuation Scheme was still sitting there, right where Bernice had left it. Lowering myself into the inflatable ring cushion on her chair, I began thumbing.
For all her ferocious efficiency, Bernice was unlikely to win any Institute of Management awards for the neatness of her record-keeping. The CUSS file contained everything but the kitchen sink-minutes of sub-committees, auditors’ reports, back copies of the members’ newsletter-all of an unedifyingly general nature.
Naturally enough, there was a lot of accounting stuff, including a collection of monthly statements from Obelisk Trust. As of the thirtieth of the previous, CUSS had a balance of slightly more than $6 million in its Obelisk account, half equity linked, half property trust, the first yielding 19.2 per cent, the second 22.8 per cent. Even to a man unschooled in the finer points of finance, these seemed like passably tolerable rates of return. But it wasn’t where CUSS kept its cash reserves that interested me so much as where it got its art.
I hit that particular jackpot when I opened a well-stuffed manilla folder and found a sheet of paper bearing the elegantly understated letterhead of Austral Fine Art, Pty Ltd. It was the cover page of a document, dated five months earlier, confirming a number of purchases made by Austral on behalf of the Combined Unions Superannuation Scheme and listing the price of each work. Austral’s address was a postoffice box in South Yarra and Drysdale’s Dry Gully, at $60,000, was its single most expensive acquisition on CUSS’s behalf.
Bulldog-clipped to the letter was a swatch of pages, also on Austral letterhead, each headed Provenance and Certificate of Authenticity, and consisting of a simple one-paragraph statement, signed at the bottom. The one I wanted read:
Sir Russell Drysdale: Dry Gully (1946)
This painting is the work of the late Sir Russell Drysdale and is from his estate. Austral Fine Art unconditionally guarantees the authenticity of the above named work.
The signature on both the letter and the certificates was an ornate arabesque, executed in fountain pen and utterly illegible. But the name and title typed below it were decipherable at a glance.
Fiona Lambert, it read, Managing Director.
‘Interesting?’ Bernice Kaufman loomed in the doorway, her voice dripping sarcasm.
‘Ah!’ I jumped to my feet, beaming. ‘You’re back.’ I gestured towards the unattended reception area. ‘Hope you don’t mind me waiting for you in here.’
Bernice’s proprietary eyes raked every file, folder and item of correspondence for evidence of unauthorised tampering. ‘Forget something?’
I hastened around the desk, relinquishing the Assistant Secretary’s throne to its rightful owner. ‘I’ve got an angle for Angelo’s speech I’d like to run past you. Get your input.’ I tumbled my hands around each other, meshing my fingers like gears. ‘How about he emphasises collaboration between the arts industry and union movement?’
‘If you were qualified in any way at all for your job,’ she advised me primly, ‘you would know that the union movement enjoys extensive links with the cultural sector. The Operative Painters and Decorators have, for a number of years, been at the forefront of raising artists’ awareness of health and safety issues. Many unions have engaged artists to create works in collaboration with their members. The Building Workers’ Union had a poet-in- residence last year.’
A concrete poet, presumably. ‘Good points,’ I said eagerly. ‘Exactly the sort of thing Angelo’s speech should mention. What about those consultants you mentioned, Australasian Fine Art, do they have union affiliations?’
Another silly question. ‘It’s Austral, Murray, Austral. And a CUSS board member with extensive links to the
