The answering machine: Mrs Davenport. Four times.
Then Linda. Breath-stopping no more. Perhaps just a small breath stopped. Linda, with drink taken.
Jack Irish. Speaking to the machine of. Linda. How often do you say your own name? Remember Linda? I have difficulty remembering Linda. Never saw myself as a Linda, anyway. I told you that. Between the sheets.
Pause.
Anyway. Hard to catch you. Well, the catch was reasonably easy. Sorry. It wasn’t a catch. It was, I suppose. I came to your place…No, that’s you catching me. Listen, you won’t care, why should you? I’m giving this job the shove. Or it me. It me is probably right. What did that journo on the Mirror say? Never pee in your own handbag. That always puzzled me. A male journo. Dead.
Pause.
Yes. Handbags. I suppose it’s a version of the doorstep. Why couldn’t I see that before? I feel like a handbag. Shove any old thing into it. Open the catch, shove it in. It’s there, it’s available. Whichever, I’m out of here. Shover, shovee, it’s shove. Just the money to be sorted out. The man wants me off the premises. He’s moved on, finds it awkward having me around.
Pause.
Sorry. I’m a bit pissed. I’ll try again.
Pause.
Or you could try. No. I’ll…Goodnight. Jack. Goodnight, Jack Irish. Goodnight.
What did I feel? Sadness, that’s all. Sadness on top of weariness. What night was that message recorded? The machine didn’t have a time stamp. I sat back in the chair, swung my legs onto the tailor’s table, stared at nothing, thought about finding the man in the water tank, Dean Canetti, father of Princess Charlotte, a man executed from above, his shattered face now dissolving. And the men in the car, the smell.
In what order had they died? Killed by one person? With help maybe, Dave said. The outside enemies of Black Tide? Did that mean Levesque?
Tired, nodding off.
Knock at the door.
I sat up, startled. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Simone Bendsten.’
She was dressed for going out, high-collar coat, open, underneath a black velvety-looking number, low in the north, high in the south. It suggested, possibly by optical illusion, that Ms Bendsten was two-thirds leg. Was that a peculiarly Scandinavian configuration? In the genes? Only empirical research could answer that question.
‘I was going to put it under the door,’ she said, holding up a yellow A4 envelope.
Very svelte in velvet. Svelvety. I was tired.
Simone came over and put the envelope on the desk.
‘I followed up the Secure International reference in the European databases. That’s Major-General Gordon Ibell. And I found a mention in this Swedish source of a company called Eagle Exprexxo they say was involved in transporting arms to Angola. The American side in Angola. To Unita. Jonas Savimbi.’
Jonas Savimbi. Where was he now? Tired. Long days and athletic sex. A balanced life, that was what was required. Short days and unathletic sex. ‘You followed up Secure International. And you got to Eagle?’
‘Twice, actually. There’s also a mention in the International Herald Tribune about a case still before the French courts. About missiles, small missiles, I don’t quite understand missiles. They were found in a semi after a freeway accident. The semi owner says he was hired by a company called Redan. Redan says it got the job from an agency, a freight agency. The agency says it understood the hirer to be Eagle Exprexxo but has nothing on paper.’
‘That’s good work,’ I said. I hadn’t registered much.
‘More,’ she said. ‘I found a piece in an American magazine.’
‘An American magazine.’
She had a concerned look, concerned about me, not a look I wanted to encourage in women.
‘You’re tired, Jack. If this is useful, we can follow it up.’
I blinked a few times. ‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘I’ll read the report, give it some thought.’
‘A good night’s sleep,’ she said. ‘Does wonders.’
I saw her to the door. Across the street, the McCoy studio was dark but within a piano was tinkling. The hirsute charlatan was presumably doing something to music, something that did not require illumination.
I closed the front door, put Simone’s envelope into my safe, the hinged false bottom I’d added to the tailor’s table, headed for home. A call to Lyall, soup, then bed.
An old Volkswagen blocked my driveway, the student from across the road. I cursed him, turned left at the corner, parked in my landlady’s driveway. She was in Queensland, taking the sun with all the other Melbourne landlords and landladies. I took the short cut up her drive and across her dark backyard to the wall.
Hand on the high wooden gate leading to my stable, I paused, scalp tightening, some atavistic instinct awakened.
I put my eye to the widest gap between the boards.
Looking to the left, I could make out my front doorway, a darker shape in the gloomy bluestone facade, see the window to the left of the doorway, to the right, the open-fronted wood shelter with its sentry-box roof.
Nothing to be seen. I relaxed, took my eye from the crack, grasped the gate handle.
A light came on upstairs in the double-storeyed house next door.
I looked up. Opaque glass: a bathroom.
Something made me put my eye to the crack again.
I saw him instantly, leaning against the wall beside the wood shelter, faint light from the upstairs window now falling on his face.
His head was cocked. Listening?
A bony face. Bony head. Short hair.
The man in the grey suit outside Parliament in Canberra. The man bringing dark glasses up to his face. And then finding them uncomfortable, stopping to adjust the fit, looking down.
He was waiting for me, dressed in black. Perhaps someone else nearby.
Waiting to kill me?
Dave’s voice in my head.
The worry is the other side gets nervous about you now, decides to do something.
I backed away slowly from the gate, turned and walked carefully across the dark courtyard, down the driveway.
39
Find Gary. The only way to save my life, according to Dave at our meeting on the windy night.
Talk to Des.
Talk to Des about what?
If we find him, it’ll be because he’s somewhere he feels safe. That’s going to come from way back.
I drove to Northcote, not taking my usual route, going up St George’s Road, watching the rear-view mirror, eyeing the cars at intersections. I crossed the railway line, parked in High Street, waited, watched, did a U-turn, parked on the other side. Saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Des showed no surprise at seeing me.
‘Come in,’ he said. ‘Watchin this nonsense on telly, eatin a bit of chocolate. The girls give it to me. Never buy chocolate. Seen the price of chocolate?’
We sat down on the brown cut-velvet armchairs with wooden arms in the dim room, photographs on the mantelpiece, wedding pictures, pictures of two couples, two women, each with a baby, two men next to a car, a couple and a fair-haired boy.
‘Have some.’ He offered the bar of chocolate.
‘No thanks.’
‘What about a beer? I could use a beer.’
