27
The Audi came up in an undignified way, backwards, cable round the back axle, expensive German workmanship bouncing, grinding against the chalky cliffside, doors yawning, water spilling out. Bits of rubbery seaweed, greasy-looking, clung to the door pillars, dangled from the wheel housings. Halfway up, the front windscreen, shattered, opaque, big hole towards the passenger side, fell out, chose detachment rather than dishonour, committed itself to the ocean.
The newsreader said:
No bodies were found in the vehicle. Police believe the car’s doors opened on impact and the driver and any passengers may have been dragged out by the powerful rip along the stretch of coast called The Teeth.
We saw the car close-up, being yanked over the crumbling lip of the land.
The voice-over said:
Police were called to the scene between Port Fairy and Portland early this afternoon when the pilot of a helicopter on its way to Portland saw the vehicle at the foot of the cliffs. Police rescue squad members abseiled down to attach a cable to the car.
The television helicopter went up, the view expanded: coastal downs, low vegetation, five or six vehicles beside a track, well back from collapsing cliffs. And the sea, dark blue, waves creaming against jetblack rocks. On the land, cattle, pale cattle, were grazing near the track. The cable was coming from a bulky, square vehicle, figures standing around it.
The vehicle is registered to a Melbourne company, Beconsecure International. Police have asked that anyone with information about the whereabouts of the company’s director, Mr Gary Connors, of unit 5, 23 Montcalm Avenue, Toorak, contact the Police Helpline.
For a while, I sat in the comforting leather armchair, in the low light from the television, cold takeaway Chinese on my lap. I felt like going to bed, sleeping for a week. Instead, I dialled Des Connors. It rang for a long time.
‘Hello.’ He sounded far away and weak.
‘Des, it’s Jack Irish.’
A cough, clearing of the throat. ‘Jack.’ More clearing. ‘Bit of a snooze. Front of the telly.’
‘Des, have you heard from the police?’
‘Police? No.’
‘They found Gary’s car today.’
‘What?’
‘Gary’s car. They found it between Port Fairy and Portland. In the sea. Went over the cliff. No body found.’
Silence. More throat-clearing.
I said, ‘You all right?’
‘In the sea?’
‘At the bottom of the cliff. Place called The Teeth. Track runs along the coast from there. On private land. A farm.’
‘A farm, well,’ Des said. ‘Bit of a shock. Always thought he’d come to a sticky. Good thing his mum’s not here to hear this.’
‘We don’t know that Gary was in the car, Des,’ I said. ‘Could have been stolen, dumped. Happens all the time.’
No-one stole a car in Melbourne and dumped it intact over a cliff near Portland.
Des sighed.
‘The police will want to ask you some questions about Gary. If you like, I’ll talk to them in the morning, give them your number, get them to make an appointment to see you.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. Thanks.’
‘Goodnight, Des. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’
‘Goodnight, Bill.’
I poured a glass of the open red, opened the envelope from Simone. A printout of a short item in the Capital City column of the Australian Financial Review, dated 27 July 1996.
It was headed: HANSARD LOST FOR WORDS.
Late on Wednesday, a somnambulant colleague found himself in the empty Press Gallery of the near-empty Senate chamber. The following exchange between conspiracy-fixated Independent Senator Martin Coffey and the Attorney-General, Senator Clive McColl, startled him from sleep:
Can the Honourable Senator confirm that recently a combined Federal Police and Victorian Police operation called Black Tide was closed down under pressure from the highest level of government?
Senator McColl: I take Senator Coffey’s question on notice.
Could this have the makings of a story, our scribe wondered? The next day, to check his notes, he consulted Hansard’s account of proceedings in the Senate for 24 July. That verbatim record heard Senator Coffey ask:
Can the Honourable Senator confirm that last year an important Federal Police operation was cancelled on financial grounds?
Late yesterday, Senator Coffey’s office said that the Senator had no reason to dispute Hansard’s record of proceedings and that, after discussions with Senator McColl, he considered the matter closed.
Simone had underlined the words Black Tide.
Telephone ringing.
‘Jack, we talked on Wednesday. About your Canberra trip.’
The tired man with the advice about Dean Canetti.
‘Yes.’
‘The person you were interested in. They found his car today.’
‘I saw that.’
‘He was in it when it took the dive.’
‘They didn’t say they knew that.’
‘No. Reasons for that. He was. They found the wallet. You don’t have to look for him anymore.’
‘No.’
‘Well, thought you’d want to know.’
‘Yes. Thanks.’
‘Goodnight.’
I spent a distracted evening: not reading, not thinking, not watching television. Finally, I put out the lamps, went upstairs, stood beside the side window and looked down on the narrow street, streetlight gleaming on wet parked cars. Nothing moved. I went to bed. In the strange way of these things, I fell asleep instantly, slept like an exhausted child until 7 a.m.
28
For breakfast, I had muesli. Ancient muesli. Recovered muesli. It tasted as I imagined food found beside a mummy in a pyramid would. Then I drove out to Des Connors’ house in Northcote. Not much traffic, rain weeping out of a sky the colour of the best man’s tie.
Des was up, saw me arrive and opened the front door before I got there. He was wearing a blue suit with wide lapels, a white shirt and a tie with red spots.
‘Come in, Jack,’ he said.
‘Not this time. Lightning visit. You’re looking pretty spruce.’
‘Havin lunch with the girls down the street. They don’t work Mondays. Vegetables only, she said. Dunno about that.’
‘Very healthy,’ I said. ‘I’ll be ringing the cops in about twenty minutes. When they come around, tell them you came to see me and we went around to Gary’s place, had a look to see if he might be away on a trip. That way they won’t get too excited if they decide to look for fingerprints and find ours.’
