this matter resumes. Choosing it will be in keeping with your well-deserved reputation as a defender of the citizen against improper conduct by government agencies. Therefore I am sure Your Honour will see fit to use your discretion to exclude evidence relating to importation, from which it follows that the accused must be acquitted, since without this evidence the prosecution must fail.
In passing, may I say how sad it was to hear of Robbie’s death. The album of photographs you lent him, so touching in their intimacy, will be returned to you at the appropriate time. You will not, of course, wish to recuse yourself or to find some other reason for not hearing this matter. Such actions will have the unfortunate consequence of your reputation being damaged beyond salvation.
Naturally there was no signature. I folded the page, put it on the desk, looked into the judge’s brown eyes, eyes the colour of strong tea, the bag left too long in the mug.
‘Appropriate is a bad word,’ I said. ‘What’s the cocaine jackets?’
‘Cocaine concealed in ski jackets. Two men charged. It’s what’s called a controlled importation. The Federal Police ran the thing using an undercover agent, an informer. I don’t think it would be unjudicial of me to describe the operation as a massive cock-up.’
‘The demand. Lawyers wouldn’t be stupid enough?’
‘No. Not even lawyers are that stupid. They wouldn’t know about this. This is from people associated with the accused. Trying to make sure it goes their way.’
‘What kinds of people are the accused?’
‘They’re not Mr Bigs, these two, they’re mules, really. But they’re all the Feds could lay their hands on. Desperation stuff after spending huge amounts of money.’
‘Why wouldn’t the people higher up simply let them go down?’
He turned his mouth down, raised his hands. ‘Don’t know. They may know something. And should they get long gaol terms they might agree to co-operate with the police. Could be other reasons. Family, who knows?’
‘Distinct legal tone to the letter. Lawyer in there somewhere. The finding it suggests, could you make it?’
‘Are you familiar with Ridgeway?’
‘Familiar’s probably not the right word.’ It was the landmark High Court decision on police entrapment.
‘Well, that’s what they’ll be arguing. And yes, it’s a possible finding, depends on what happens when we resume.’
‘When’s that?’
‘Next Thursday.’ He sighed, made a resigned face. ‘I suppose I should call the police in now, issue a statement to the media. This’ll kill my father.’
‘You could ignore the letter. See what happens. It may be bluff, they may just go away.’
The judge shook his head. He’d aged years in a few hours. ‘No, Jack. Any finding I reach would be tainted by this. The well’s poisoned.’
‘Give me a few days.’
His chin sank a little. ‘Any point?’
‘We have to assume that Robbie took the album with this or something like this in mind. If I can find out what happened to him, it’s possible I’ll know who the blackmailer is.’
Another sigh.
‘I won’t keep you in suspense,’ I said. ‘If I’m not getting anywhere by Tuesday, I’ll pack it in.’
Silence for a while. The sounds of the city didn’t reach the room.
‘I’ll give you a mobile number,’ he said. ‘It’s not in my name. I’ve borrowed it.’ He took out a notebook, flipped through it, wrote down a number on a desk pad, tore off the page and gave it to me. ‘I feel as if I’ve entered the underworld myself.’
I stood up. ‘Can I get a transcript of the proceedings?’
The judge stood up too, went to a wooden filing cabinet and found a yellow folder, gave it to me. He walked me to the door. We shook hands.
‘We could get lucky,’ I said. ‘Chin up.’
He smiled. ‘Thanks, mate. Thanks for everything.’
‘Don’t say thanks till you’ve seen Wootton’s bill.’
The thin man was waiting outside to escort me to the side entrance. On the way to Fitzroy, stuck in Little Lonsdale, I picked up the cheap eats guide, flicked through to the index.
There it was, on the first page I scanned.
27
La Contessa, assetnoC aL in reverse, was a narrow place in Bridge Road, Richmond, that looked as if it had been there longer than those on either side in what was now a smart strip.
Although it was cold and too early for the after-work crowd, the half-dozen tables outside were taken. Inside, there were only a few customers. I found a seat near the kitchen. The man operating the coffee machine was not of the new generation of cafe people; he had the pained expression of someone too long standing to perform a repetitive task: the assembly-line worker’s look.
A young man, possibly the son, came out of the kitchen. He was wearing the apron in the picture, a long black apron with La Contessa printed on it. I asked for a short black. When it came, I had the picture out, facing him.
‘That’s probably you,’ I said, tapping on the reflected apron.
He was intrigued, had a good look. ‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘Who’s that?’ I said, my finger on the fleshy man.
‘Alan Bergh,’ he said, suspicion starting. ‘What’s this, what’s this about?’
‘I’m a lawyer.’
This statement often has the effect of briefly paralysing the brain of the hearer.
‘Right.’ Uncertain. ‘What do you-’
‘I’d like to get in touch with Alan.’
‘Yeah, well, he’s away.’
‘Away from where?’
‘Where? His office.’
‘Where’s that?’
He indicated with a thumb. ‘Vietcong supermarket. Upstairs.’
He’d learned that from his father. The war in Indochina was not over. The battle for the hearts and minds of the invaders had still to be won.
I didn’t pursue the matter. The waiter left, went outside.
The coffee was terrible, sour, third-rate beans, old, probably black market.
‘Come again,’ said the father, giving me my change.
‘Can’t wait to.’
I walked in the direction indicated by the son’s thumb. Halfway down the block was a business that satisfied his description. Beyond it, a heavyweight door with a mail slot carried the
names of two businesses on the first floor: VICACHIN BUSINESS AGENCY and CORESECURE.
The door was locked. I pressed the buzzer on the wall.
‘Yes,’ said a woman’s voice, hissing through holes in a slim stainless-steel box beside the door.
‘Client of Coresecure,’ I said. ‘Here to see Alan.’
‘Mr Bergh not here,’ said the voice, staccato.
‘When’s he coming back?’
‘Don’t know.’
I accepted that, wrote down Vicachin’s phone number. Coresecure didn’t have one on the door. Then I went home, a slow journey in failing light in the company of irritable people.
Coresecure wasn’t in the White Pages. Nor was it in the Yellow Pages in any category I could think of. I
