More listening to tapping. Outside, a police car pulled up and a cop got out and went out of view. He came back holding a scruffy, emaciated teenager by the arm, shoved him in the back seat. Was I witnessing your actual drug bust? A Mr Big removed from circulation?
‘Jack. Two directors. James Martin Toxteth, Colin Leigh Blackiston.’
‘Mean anything to you?’
‘No. I’ll look around. Ring you?’
I gave her the mobile number.
At the office, in the captain’s chair, in a patch of sunlight, I looked at the pictures again. Drowsy. Up too early. Too much exercise. The doomed dog had not fronted today. Scared? Somehow cognisant of my murderous instincts? Aware of my total lack of ruth?
People filming Marco or filming the fleshy man or filming the woman in the car?
They were filming Marco. He wasn’t the bit player, he was the star.
A fuck star.
Milan and Steve both showed real pleasure at the news of Marco’s death. Death of a fuck star.
A star.
An evil star.
And grapples with his evil star.
The sight of my grandfather, my mother’s father, came to me, the lean figure sitting in his buttoned chair, quoting Tennyson, every word a universe of meaning.
The old man was referring to my father’s evil star. In my childhood, no week went by when the old man did not find an opportunity to speak ill of the dead man. He made it clear that there was something in me of my father that he had a duty to exorcise. I was well into my teens before it dawned on me that the sum total of my father’s evils appeared to be beer, the odd punch-up, and fully paid-up membership of the working class and the Communist Party. The last two vices my grandfather found particularly heinous.
I’d had the old man in mind on my first visit to the Prince of Prussia, empty that autumn afternoon, light from the western windows lying on the scuffed floor, on the dented and cigarette-burnt bar, dust motes and my cigarette smoke hanging in the weak sunlight.
Morris had put down my beer that day, eyes fixed on me. ‘In mind of Bill Irish when I look at you,’ he said. ‘Funny.’
‘My father,’ I said.
Morris studied me for at least thirty seconds, then he said, head on one side, indignant, ‘Where the hell’ve you bin?’
The mobile jerked me out of my reverie. Simone Bendsten. ‘Jack. Those directors. James Martin Toxteth is a former merchant banker. Colin Leigh Blackiston was an investment fund manager. They’re in business together in a Sydney venture-capital company called Toxteth Blackiston Private Equity. That’s about it.’
No illumination there.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Send me the bill.’
‘You’re in credit here. Buy me a glass of wine one day.’
‘That’ll be for pleasure. This is work, someone’s paying. I’ll use my credit another time.’
Back to drowsing. Should I be brave, ring Drew, find out the identity of the love object? It couldn’t be Rosa. He’d stood her up. But nobody stood Rosa up. She’d simply have driven around to his office, fronted up to him. Rich, spoilt people were like that. The phone.
‘Jack, the other day, you wanted a snap.’
Detective Sergeant Warren Bowman, he of the telegraphic eyebrows.
‘I’m grateful,’ I said.
‘Sorry I’ve been so long, mate. No luck, can’t be done. Cheers.’ Click.
After a while, I put the phone back in the cradle.
The two men in the new red Alfa. The one who gave me the video cassette was young, a mole beside his mouth, wearing a collarless black leather jacket.
Not the messengers of Warren Bowman.
I rested my forehead on the tailor’s table.
23
The rest of the day I spent on the half-dozen files I had open: a few letters of demand, a complaint about harassment by a landlord, a protest against an unjust parking fine. Then I did my hours and expenses for Cyril Wootton and faxed them to him.
Driving home in the early dusk, I put on the radio, caught the wheedling tones of a drive-time host called Barry Moran, a seminary flop who had joined the legion of other faith-challenged but inordinately sensitive people on radio. Barry was sensitive to the concerns of the young, the old, ordinary people, extraordinary people, the poor, the rich, the short, the tall, the middling, all religious beliefs, and the legitimate concerns of both sides in every dispute. He strove to be fair to everyone but had a tendency to be snappish with people who disagreed with his reasonable views. Unless they were powerful people, in which case his views quickly came to encompass theirs. He was saying:
… The Development Minister Tony DiAmato joins me now. Thanks for coming on the programme, Minister. Last week you washed your hands of the Cannon Ridge controversy because the previous government awarded the tender. It’s done, it’s history, you said. Now this is a tricky one, I know, Minister, but if the tender process was corrupted, don’t you have a duty to declare the tender void and hold an inquiry?
I thought about the library-warming, my attempts to make conversation with Mike Cundall. ‘Politics of business,’ he’d said. ‘WRG wants to build a whole fucking town on the Gippsland Lakes. Get the new government in some shit over Cannon, good chance they won’t get knocked back on that.’ Now the Minister cleared his throat.
Barry, we’re talking about allegations here. We’ve had a pretty good look at the documents and we can’t find any evidence of corruption.
Barry, ever the unctuous ex-seminarian, said: That’s a reasonable approach. Now Minister, I’d like to put a tricky one to you. WRG Resorts says a member of the tender evaluation panel was quote placed under duress unquote. Now I wouldn’t dream of saying the name but every media person in town has heard it. Do you know who the alleged person is?
The Minister sighed, tired at the end of the day.
No, I don’t. And Barry, I’m surprised at a person like you not recognising that WRG’s on a fishing expedition. They say they’ve got evidence. Where is it? They’ve yet to approach me with it.
Barry, nimble as ever: Of course, it might well be a fishing expedition, Minister, as you point out. We might take a call. It’s Steven from Doncaster.
A confident voice said: Hi Barry, love your show. About this Cannon Ridge business, everybody knows that in opposition this government put up a pissweak resistance to the sale of Cannon Ridge. Pissweak. They let the previous government sell off part of our heritage. Why’d you reckon? Because they’re in the Cundalls’ pockets like everyone else in this town.
Barry: Minister?
DiAmato, weary: Well, for a start, Anaxan has five major shareholders…
Caller: And one’s a Cundall. One’s all it takes. You know that…
It went on this way. I parked beneath the trees outside the boot factory, listened for a while, went upstairs and switched on the radio in the kitchen, tuned to Linda’s station.
… breaking up is hard to do. That’s what the old song says. But do men take it harder than women? Yes, says writer Phil Kashow in her new book, published today. It’s called Healing Your Broken Bits. I want your views on the subject. The author’s on the line from Sydney. Hello, Phil…
I stood in the room listening to the exchange, Linda’s mildly amused tone in dealing with the publicity-hungry woman. Then, without thought, I went into the sitting room and dialled the talkback number, pressed the redial
