I ate at Donelli’s in Smith Street, Collingwood, whenever possible because I could write on the bill: To be deducted from legal costs owing to the undersigned. Then I signed and wrote in capitals, JOHN IRISH, BARRISTER & SOLICITOR.
The great man himself, Patrick Donelly, an Italian trapped in the body, the corpulent body, of an Irishman, brought the menus. His eyes lit up when he saw my guest.
‘Good evenin to you, Mr Greer,’ he said. ‘Twice in a week, Irish. That outrageous bill of yours will be meltin away like the snows of Friuli in the springtime.’
‘Oh, the snow’s still thick and crisp and even in this frosty corner of Friuli, Donelly. Spring is some time away. What’s the special?’
‘In your fortunate position, Irish, I’d be havin the risotto moulds with tomato and red pepper sauce, followed by the lamb shanks, simmerin away since the early afternoon.’
‘So be it. Two glasses of the Albrissi, please. And a compatible red of your choosing, maestro.’
When Patrick had swept off, Andrew Greer eased his long body down in the chair, said, ‘Offhand, how much older would you expect Tony Ulasewicz to get?’
‘Actuarial tables may not be a good guide here.’
‘No. What makes the prick think it’s better to owe Brendan a hundred and sixty grand than the Armits?’
‘Armits weren’t planning to kill him. Not soon, anyway.’
‘I can follow that reasoning. How’s Linda?’
I didn’t say anything.
‘That bad?’ The long face didn’t convey any sympathy.
A small explosion of happy sounds. Donelly had come out of the kitchen to greet a mixed group of six. He said things in Irish-Italian and put his big pink hands on some of them. The anointed shivered with delight, touched his arms, huge starched white linen sausages.
‘Rosa says Linda’s been seen to be kissed on the ear by Rod Pringle,’ I said.
The glasses of white arrived. Drew took a tentative sip, screwed up his eyes, nodded approvingly. ‘Surprised Donelly doesn’t try to poison you,’ he said. ‘The ear. That’s bad. The mouth is better than the ear. Your aunt can kiss you on the mouth.’
‘Also she hasn’t been back in six weeks. Urgent weekend work.’
‘You could go up.’
‘Urgent out-of-town work.’
Drew had another sip, sighed. ‘Well, if I was a sheila, I’d cover your hand with mine and pull that sympathetic face.’
‘Fuck off.’
Drew looked thoughtful. ‘Bren O’Grady owes you,’ he said. ‘Bet he doesn’t even watch Rod Pringle. Wouldn’t mind if there was no Rod Pringle. See my drift?’
I drank half my glass. ‘This is marvellously helpful, Andrew. You could advertise this advice service in the Law Institute Journal.’
‘Just trying to cheer you up. I remember how you picked me up when Helen fucked off. Two handicap and a twelve-inch dick, I think you said the bastard had. Certainly wasn’t the other way round.’
‘Sometimes it helps to put a number on things,’ I said. ‘Listen, discussion of personal inadequacies aside for the moment, I’m trying to help an old bloke who worked with my dad.’
I told him the story.
‘Why doesn’t Des report Gary missing?’
‘At present, he’s not missing, he’s just not home. The old bloke doesn’t see him from year to year. Gary may do this kind of thing all the time.’
The first course arrived, followed shortly by a tall wine waiter with a swimmer’s build. She pulled the cork expertly, put it in a silver bowl for inspection, poured half a glass for judgment. I passed the vessel under my nose and nodded. She filled us up. We ate.
‘You wouldn’t swap sex for this risotto,’ Drew said, ‘although it would be a close-run thing.’ He wiped his mouth with a starched napkin. ‘But you don’t think Gary’s popped down the corner for smokes.’
‘No. Too many funny signs.’ I listed them.
Drew took a mouthful, savoured it, studied the ceiling. ‘For a lawyer,’ he said, ‘you’ve acquired some unusual powers of observation.’
‘There’s more.’ I told him about Gary being followed by a man, Gary meeting Jellicoe, Jellicoe’s murder.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘How do you manage to get involved in this kind of shit? What does Gary do for a quid? Apart from borrowing it?’
‘According to his tax return, he’s a security consultant.’
‘His tax return. You’ve seen his tax return?’
‘Yes.’
‘At the flat?’
‘No.’
He closed his eyes. ‘Forget the question.’
‘I’ve had someone look at his clients. Private companies overseas, about a dozen of them. Companies owned by other companies. Registered in one place, owners registered somewhere else-Cook Islands, Cayman Islands, Luxembourg, British Virgin Islands. Andorra.’
I took out the two-page report from Simone Bendsten and passed it over. The waiter took our plates away.
‘Nice names,’ Drew said. ‘Klostermann Gardier, Viscacha Ltd, Scazon, Proconsul No 1. Some kind of tax dodge?’
‘Not by Gary. Declared an income of $345,000, paid tax on about $185,000. The tax people audited him, okayed all his deductions. Mostly business travel expenses, documented by American Express statements.’
‘So?’
‘Gary was a cop for five years. Drummed out, his ex-wife says. On the take. Then it’s a job in security for TransQuik. Cop fallback position, generally not the beginning of a glittering career. Wrong. Last year, he declares three hundred and fifty grand as a global security adviser. And there’s still a TransQuik connection. Worth $55,000.’
Drew read on, came to Simone’s link-up of Aviation SF with Fincham Air and the director of TransQuik.
‘Connection?’ he said. ‘The term tenuous was invented for describing connections like this.’
‘I rang TransQuik. Four people say, sorry, never heard of Gary Connors. Then a man calls from Sydney, says all the company knows about Gary Connors is that he worked for them as a security officer and left of his own volition a long time ago.’
‘Yes?’
‘I took a chance. I asked how come an associated company was paying Gary large sums of money. Man said he didn’t know what I was talking about. End of conversation.’
Drew was wearing his watchful courtroom expression.
‘But not for long,’ I said. ‘An hour later, I get a call from a lawyer with Apsley Kerr Woodward in Sydney. She says she is instructed to tell me that TransQuik has no connection with Gary Connors or with Aviation SF.’
Drew raised his eyebrows.
‘I never mentioned Aviation SF. Somebody at TransQuik knows Aviation SF paid Gary.’
‘Ah,’ said Drew. ‘Well, maybe a little thicker than tenuous. But still. You want to walk carefully with TransQuik. Big end of town. All the towns. I take it you saw Linda tangling with Mr Steven Levesque the other night?’
Steven Levesque. The handsome man with the wayward hair and the genuine laugh. I nodded. ‘What’s he got to do with it?’
Drew sighed, shook his head. ‘Levesque is TransQuik. Was, anyway. Levesque and the Killer Bees. Carson and Rupert and McColl. You should talk to my mate Tony Rinaldi. Remember Rinaldi? The fat bloke who used to sing?’
‘Yes. Quit the DPP’s office last year.’
‘Well, you don’t miss everything.’
