The hours were a fiction, a pretext for the council to issue parking tickets. Building industry hours are 7.00 a.m. to 4.30 p.m. and the only remaining evidence of construction vehicles was a powdery sludge in the gutter, the hose-down water from long-departed concrete trucks. A pink slip nestled beneath the Merc’s windscreen wiper.
Spider Webb was nowhere in sight. I wondered exactly where he was. If he was lurking about, I doubted he would try anything smart with Eastlake present.
Not that Eastlake’s presence was apparent. The building site was deserted. Through a chain-mesh gate in the hoarding, all I could see was a maze of scaffolding, piles of sand, stacks of breeze bricks, the silvery worm- casings of air-conditioning ducting. I rattled the padlock and peered inside, finding only shadows and silence.
Down a side alley was a smaller gate. An open padlock dangled from its bolt. It led directly into an access walkway, a two-metre-wide tunnel of whitewashed plywood extending into the interior of the site, its walls streaked and pitted from the casual buffeting of loaded wheelbarrows and the elbows of apprentice plumbers. Safety Helmet Area, said a sign. No Ticket, No Start.
I didn’t have a ticket, at least not one from the Building Workers Industrial Union, but I started anyway. I headed along the unlit passageway, breathing plaster dust and the smell of polymer adhesives, hearing nothing but my own footsteps, hoping I was headed in the right direction. Forty metres in, the tunnel doglegged sharply, ramped upwards and opened onto a broad balcony of raw concrete.
An immense atrium extended before me, as vast as the interior of a cathedral. Muted sunlight filtered through a glass ceiling high overhead. A series of galleries lined the sides, ascending three storeys above me. From the floor, two storeys below, a forest of scaffolding sprouted upwards, clinging to the edges of the jutting balconies and wrapping itself around the row of columns that marched down the centre of the great space. The whole place was the colour of ashes.
Lloyd Eastlake was sitting on a pallet-load of ceramic tiles at the edge of the balcony, staring out into the void. One hand was resting on the metal piping of a temporary guard rail. The other was supporting his chin in the manner of Rodin’s Thinker. Whether this disconsolate pose was deliberate or not, I couldn’t tell. But it spoke volumes. Here was a man who had heard the news.
He turned at my approach and slowly rose to meet me. His arm swept wide in a grand, operatic gesture. ‘Welcome to the Karlcraft Galleria,’ he declared, his voice larded with irony, his words instantly swallowed up in the empty vastness of the place. ‘Come. Admire.’
We stood together at the guard rail and gazed at the vista spread before us as if it was some marvel of nature, some wondrous subterranean grotto. ‘Over forty thousand square metres of retail space. Nearly a hundred fashion boutiques and specialty stores. Five bars, three restaurants, a cinema.’ Eastlake spoke as though offering me dominion over the cities of the world. ‘Above us, twenty-eight floors of prime commercial office space. Below us, parking for a thousand cars.’
I remained silent, not knowing how to respond. Eastlake was inviting me to share the loss of his dream. I could hardly tell him that parking for a thousand had never been one of my visions.
‘Even as a hole in the ground it was impressive,’ he went on, wistful now. ‘Sometimes I’d come here and just look for hours on end. Watching it take shape. Imagining what it would be like finished.’
That, at a guess, was about three months away. The finishing-off was well under way. All the essential structure was there. The escalators sat ready to roll, sheathed in protective cardboard. Stacks of plaster sheeting, pallet-loads of tile and marble, plate glass, rolls of electrical conduit lay everywhere, giving the place an air of having been abandoned in haste.
It was not entirely abandoned, though. Across the concrete canyon, on the level below, something flickered at the periphery of my vision. I leaned forward and squinted, trying to penetrate the shadows. All I could see was the doorway of an embryonic boutique, the pitched angle of a sheet of plate glass. Nothing moved. A play of the light, perhaps.
Eastlake was wearing the same Mickey Mouse tie as when I had first met him. He’d pulled it down a little and undone the top button of his shirt. Close up, his eyes were distracted, a little wild. His skin was the colour of putty. His forehead glowed with the slightest patina of perspiration. It was the closest to dishevelled I could imagine him.
‘I heard about Karlin,’ I said. By that time, it could hardly have been a secret.
‘The bastard,’ said Eastlake, flat and expressionless, almost without rancour. ‘ “No hard feelings.” That’s what he told me. “No hard feelings. It’s just business.” Can you believe that?’
Karlin was right, I thought. Concentrate on the basics. I wasn’t there to console Eastlake. I had problems of my own. ‘What does this mean for Obelisk?’ I said. ‘For the funds Agnelli invested last Friday?’
Eastlake seemed not to have heard me. He was leaning out over the edge of the guard rail, looking straight down. ‘See that?’ he said.
Immediately below us, a drop of two storeys, was a section of mosaic flooring. The newly laid tiles were bright in the half-darkness. The pattern was a cornucopia spilling forth the fruits of abundance. ‘Public art,’ he said. ‘As a major investor, I was able to insist on the inclusion of murals, sculptures…’
His voice trailed off. He turned and picked up a terracotta tile from the pallet behind him. Casually, he tossed it over the balcony. Twenty-five metres below, it hit the horn of plenty and exploded like a grenade. ‘So Angelo wants his money back, does he? Well, you tell him that he’s not alone. I want my money, too. And I’ve lost a damn sight more than he has.’
Eastlake threw another tile, then another, flinging them out into the void. Four, five, six he hurled, rapid fire, grunting with the venomous exertion of it. They bounced off scaffolding, struck columns, ricocheted downwards. The harsh clashing of hollow metal and the shattering sound of breaking glass filled the air. Across the reverberating emptiness, well out of range, one part of the shadows seemed lighter. A shape like a man stood immobile, watching.
As abruptly as it began, Eastlake’s cathartic rage halted. Taking a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, he placidly wiped his hands. ‘Obelisk is finished. As Karlcraft’s principal unsecured creditor, it will be lucky to get ten cents in the dollar.’ Despite his pretence at composure, he was wound tighter than a spring. ‘Obelisk customers, I’m afraid, have done their dough. All thanks to Max Karlin’s cave-in to the banks.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘And to think that only yesterday I was concerned about maintaining the value of his art collection.’
We had moved to the reason for our meeting. ‘Giles Aubrey died of a fall,’ I said. ‘Or that’s what we’re supposed to think. Personally, I have my doubts.’
Eastlake smiled thinly, continuing to wipe his hands. ‘And this is why you insisted we meet? Face-to-face, as you put it. So you could share your doubts?’ He put his handkerchief away, did up the top button of his shirt, straightened his neck and slid the knot of his tie into place. The obscure inferences of a nut-case were the last thing Lloyd Eastlake needed at a time like this. This meeting, a pit stop in the journey of life, was now at an end. He turned to go.
I could see his point. Time to start getting down to detail. ‘I intend to share my suspicions with the police. And, unfortunately, you are involved.’
That stopped him in his tracks. ‘Me? How?’
‘Because of your ownership of a company called Austral Fine Art,’ I said. ‘And because of the political implications arising from its dealings.’
‘What’s Austral got to do with Giles Aubrey? What political implications?’
It was a long story and I had to begin somewhere. ‘This afternoon,’ I said, ‘purely by chance, I discovered that one of the paintings in the Combined Unions Superannuation Scheme art collection is a forgery. A painting supplied by Austral Fine Art. It is quite likely that other works sold by Austral are fakes. Further, I suspect that the person who organised the fraud was responsible for the deaths of both Marcus Taylor and Giles Aubrey. We both know who I’m talking about.’ I leaned back against the guard rail and let the implications of my words sink in. ‘Don’t we?’
Eastlake stared at me with frank amazement. He tilted his head and searched my eyes, as though attempting to discern my motives. He appeared to conclude that I was stark raving mad.
It was a perfectly understandable reaction. Not only had he just suffered a reversal of his financial fortunes. Now he was being told that the woman he loved had been taking advantage of him, and that she was suspected of murder.
‘These are remarkable allegations,’ he said at last. ‘Can you prove them?’
