into the hands of the people to whom they sold drugs in bulk.
A full-service company.
And Brent Rupert, often visibly weary, sipping something colourless from a small glass, had total recall. He named the names, put dates and places to everything. Names high and names low. Including Gary’s name, as the go-between, the carrier of messages, the arranger, TransQuik’s Mercury.
It was dark outside, raining, the city a smear of lights, when Lyall woke up, came to the door of the study and stood with her hands in her hair, pushing it back.
‘I didn’t know where I was,’ she said.
On the television screen, the 6 p.m. news was ending with shaky footage of Steven Levesque shot from outside a moving car. He was seated between two large men, averting his head.
She came over and stood behind me, put her hands on my shoulders. ‘What’s the time?’ she asked.
‘Bollinger time,’ I said.
51
On a cold, clear Wednesday, high and pale winter sky, whiplash wind, we went to Moonee Valley racecourse.
Wootton was leaning on the mounting yard rail, looking like an advertisement for what upper-middle-class men should wear to the mid-week races. Not far away from him, I recognised Cynthia, his head commissioner. She’d had her hair cut short since I’d last seen her and she was looking inconspicuous in an off-white trenchcoat and a drab scarf.
Lyall and I watched the horses being walked. Vision Splendid came along, accompanied by Karen Devine’s jagged-haired strapper. The big grey looked good, unfussed by the crowd, tight as a proper bullboar sausage, but with bandages on all legs.
‘The grey,’ I said. ‘Vision Splendid. That’s the one we’re here to see.’
‘What’s wrong with its legs?’
‘Nothing. That’s why they’re bandaged.’
She gave me a look. ‘Can I ask you again? What exactly do you do for a living?’
I looked back, looked her over, took my time. She was worthy of study: colour in her face from the cold, hair tied back loosely, big tweed jacket, man’s white cotton shirt, corduroy pants. ‘Suburban solicitor, with all the breadth of cultural and other interests that the term conveys,’ I said.
‘And we are talking broad.’ She took the Age out of my hand. It was open at the form.
Cam came down the rail, dark-grey suit and black polo-neck, elegant and insolent-eyed as ever. He joined Wootton for long enough to say a few words, light a cigarette with a match from a paper matchbook, blow smoke over the man’s head and tuck the matchbook behind the triangle of red handkerchief in his top pocket. Marching orders delivered. Harry never handed them over until the last minute.
Wootton closed his race book and glanced around, a worried expression, the look of someone trying to decide whether to go to the toilet now or chance it. He fished the matchbook out of his pocket and stared at it. Cynthia appeared at his side. I couldn’t see him pass it over, but she didn’t linger any longer than Cam had.
‘It says here,’ said Lyall, ‘that Vision Splendid is an unremarkable veteran who failed miserably at a comeback attempt in Ballarat.’
‘Who says that?’ I took the paper and looked. ‘Bart Grantley. Shrewd judge of equine performance. Got any money?’
‘I am carrying a sum of money, yes.’
I told her what to do.
She said, without expression, ‘Do I understand you to be disputing Mr Grantley’s expert opinion?’
‘No. He’s right. Spring in there and do it.’
By the time we got out on the stand, the caller was saying, ‘…load of money for the ultra-veteran Vision Splendid, number six, Tommy Wicks up, trainer, K. Devine. Not exactly an unknown quantity this horse, form goes back to when some of the jockey’s riding in this race were getting their second lot of teeth.’
‘He’s being sarcastic about my fifty bucks,’ Lyall said.
‘They’re like that. Lots of cruel people in racing.’
We found a good spot. Looking down, I could see the McCurdie family. They’d formed a defensive circle, warily eyeing the city folk around them, alert for pickpockets, handbag-snatchers and perverts.
The caller went on: ‘Sizeable plunge, the bookmakers have hauled it in from 40-1 to tens very smartly. No, it’s down to eights, there’s money for it interstate, some money, fair bit for this time of the year. World’s full of optimists. Either that or they’re clever people, visionaries. Well, ladies and gentlemen, Tommy Wicks carries the hopes of the Viagra generation here today. They shall fall to rise again. At the barrier for the fourth, sixteen hundred metres, field of eleven, well-mannered lot, I think they’re letting the elderly horse go in first. Seriously, they’re going in nicely, five or six to come…’
I could feel Lyall looking at me. I was taking the menacing post-Gulf War camera out of its case.
‘Suburban solicitor,’ she said in a musing and mildly questioning tone. ‘I wonder what big city solicitors are like? I’d like to know one. They’d be involved in serious stuff, wouldn’t they? Wars and famines, bribing presidents and kings, laying waste to whole fucking continents, that sort of thing?’
I put the technology to my eye, wandered around, found the gate, obeyed the digital instruction. Then I could dwell on Tommy Wicks’s nose and look at one of Vision’s liquid and stoic eyes. ‘No,’ I said. ‘They only do the boring stuff.’
On my thigh, long fingers fell, casually as a leaf dropping, no purpose, no intent, simply an open hand come to rest.
‘Away in a clean line,’ said the caller. ‘Melanie’s Child the best, leads The Gallery, January One on the inside, Vision Splendid’s handy on the outside, dropping back quickly, replaced by Honey Dew, then comes Fatbat, Kilberry Lad, Shebeen, out wide is Drumlanrig improving quickly and bringing up the rear Count Waldersee and Pericard.’
With twelve hundred to go, the field had divided into two. Vision Splendid was the backmarker in the bunched front group of five, a length clear of the sixth horse.
‘Not a lot of pace on here,’ said the caller. ‘Might be out of respect for the senior citizen now lying fifth behind Drumlanrig, Shebeen, January One and in front The Gallery looking strong. At the thousand metres, Drumlanrig hanging out. Shebeen’s gone up to January One and Vision Splendid’s almost level pegging with Drumlanrig. In the back group…’
‘What’s happening?’ Lyall asked.
‘Looking good,’ I said. I had clear sight of Tommy Wicks as they came down the straight towards North Hill. He was riding a patient race, tucked in behind the three leaders, waiting for his chance to take the gap between Drumlanrig and Shebeen.
At the five hundred, beginning the turn into the run for home, I could see Tommy beginning to ease Vision forward. ‘Now,’ I said. ‘Go for it, Thomas.’
The caller said, ‘At the five hundred, the pace is on now, the veteran Vision Splendid’s staying with them, he’s going forward, oh dear, January One’s shifted out, he’s bumped Shebeen, nasty knock, Drumlanrig’s checked, lurched sideways, that’s knocked Vision almost onto the rail, stewards won’t like this one bit…’
In the confusion, I lost sight of Tommy for a second, found him, saw the snarl on his face, could almost hear the foul words he was shouting at Drumlanrig’s teenage jockey.
Swearing wasn’t going to help.
I looked down. McCurdie was pulling his hat down, trying to get it over his eyes, shut out the awful day.
‘Three-fifty to go,’ said the caller, ‘The Gallery’s in the clear, going for the doctor, confusion sorted out behind but too late for the plunge horse and the rest…’
I found Tommy Wicks again.
Tommy didn’t believe it was too late.
He put Vision Splendid into a space the width of its head between January One and the rail, appeared to make
