‘A favour. Did he say what kind of favour?’
‘No. I was surprised he said anything. Mr Massiani didn’t often often say anything that wasn’t strictly business. Practical stuff. Housekeeping.’
‘Your impression then was that Mr Londregan had secured this outcome for MassiBild?’
‘Oh yes, definitely. It had been chucked out so many times.’
Pie time. I was in the kitchen taking it out when my mobile rang.
‘Jack? Sophie Longmore.’
‘Good evening.’ I felt awkward.
‘Jack, I know this doesn’t concern you anymore but something odd came by courier today.’
‘Odd how?’
‘It’s a bill and a card and keys from something called Galvin Security Storage in Tullamarine. The bill’s for six months’ advance payment on a storage unit. Whatever that is.’
‘Haven’t rented any storage?’
‘No, never. But the letter’s addressed to me. I had to sign for it. It says that to ensure maximum security the locks have just been changed.’
Something flitted through my mind. ‘I might have a look,’ I said. ‘Can you drop off the keys?’
‘I’ve got them with me,’ she said. ‘I’m in the car, on Punt Road, I’m going to Macedon. My father’s complaining about his health.’
‘You’ll pass close by. I’ll meet you.’
I gave her directions, looking at the pie with lust. I put it back in the switched-off oven, watched sad Barry for a few more minutes. He was interviewing the federal industrial relations minister, until recently a big undisciplined dog easily teased into outbursts of barking. Now he’d been to obedience school, bribed media turncoats had drilled him, and he uttered the same affable low-key bark over and over.
I went downstairs, jacketless, to the corner, stood in the light and shivered. A car came down the street inside thirty seconds, the driver waved, so precise was my estimate of the time it would take to drive from Punt Road to Linda’s corner.
The car pulled up in front of me. I went to the driver’s side.
‘It’s a bit spooky,’ said Sophie. She gave me an envelope. ‘It’s been hired in my name for six months.’
‘I’ll have a look and give you a ring.’
‘Thanks, Jack. I didn’t know who else to tell.’
I went back to Linda’s apartment and opened the envelope. Galvin Security Storage, 112 Rigoni Street, Tullamarine. A swipe card, two keys, and a PIN number for unit 164, entrance J, an account for $300 for six months’ rental.
I put my head back against the sofa, closed my eyes. Tomorrow. In the morning, early.
I was running out of tomorrow mornings. I groaned, rose and found keys, left without thinking about a coat.
38
Tullamarine was no lovelier by night, high fences, ugly buildings, glaring security lights, oil rainbows lying in the pitted streets.
Galvin’s sign said the premises were guarded by twenty-four-hour video-monitored security. The swipe card got me through the boom gate, into a floodlit compound with a huge, low,
windowless single-storeyed building of cinderblocks. Roll-up garage doors A, B and C faced us. I went right, foolishly, had to drive around the building to get to door J.
I got out, cold, moist air, shivered in my shirt, and approached the door. An electronic keypad was under a light to the right. I put in the card, tapped in the PIN and the door rose, a low
clanking noise, dark inside except for the glow of a small console with a single fat button. The instruction said: PRESS FOR 20 MINUTES LIGHT. DOOR WILL CLOSE IN TWO MINUTES.
I pressed. Tube lights flickered, stabilised, showing a corridor, roll-up doors on both sides, big numbers spray-painted on them. I walked down the internal road under the white lights and, before I reached storage unit 164, the entry door behind me clanked down.
J 164 was on the right, halfway to the end. Another light button. A key unlocked the door, you had to raise it by hand.
A cinderblock box, a bit bigger than a single-car garage. In the middle stood a red Maserati, from the 1960s, I thought. Framed artworks leaning against the walls, perhaps a dozen, a few pieces of furniture at the back.
I looked at the works along the nearest wall. All the artists were dead except for one and he was a day-to- day proposition: blue-chip art, investment art. Was this Mickey’s small cashable stash, put here in Sophie’s name in case he went under because of Seaton Square and people wanted to seize his assets?
I walked to the back of the chamber. A glazed colonial bookcase, it would buy two Mercedes. A commode, Egyptian Revival, if genuine worth a bit. A small desk, Georgian.
I looked in the car, opened the glovebox: a manual and a logbook. The boot opened — empty. I checked the bookcase, the desk drawers.
Cabinetmakers of old often amused themselves with their work, Charlie taught me that, and I always groped fancy antique furniture, even in public places.
I removed the four top desk drawers and felt around above them, stuck my arm in and felt the back, looked in a few other places. I studied the commode, touched the ram’s broad head on the right, ran my fingers down its sides, feeling the smooth curled horns, finding the small buttons at their centres.
I pressed one. It didn’t yield. Neither did the other. I pressed them simultaneously and they went in. My pulse quickened. I pulled at the ram’s head.
It slid forward.
A secret drawer, narrow and deep. In it a notebook, long and slim, two videotapes. I flipped the notebook: names, dates, amounts, page upon page. I looked at the tapes. One had no label,
the other said COPY.
I pushed the ram’s head back and tried the one on the left. No luck. He didn’t repeat himself, your ancient craftsman.
I took the items and left the building, the enclosure, drove back along the tollway-avoidance route. It was busy, the city never seemed to quieten, people’s nightlife now began when it used to end. In Linda’s parking bay, I sat for a moment, feeling the tiredness of too much sitting.
Time to watch a video.
My door opened.
‘Get out, cunt.’
A body, an arm. A knife pointing at my throat, a wide blade, held on its side.
I dropped a video and the notebook between the seats, got out with the other tape.
He was standing back, squat and pale, football head, a leather jacket. ‘Walk,’ he said.
I walked out to the street.
‘Stop.’
A dark vehicle pulled forward, a stationwagon, the man’s hand gripped my belt, pulled me back into the knife. It pressed against me at a point beside my spine where a thrust would penetrate some vital organ quietly pulsing in the body’s inner dark.
‘Hands back or die, cunt.’
I obeyed, felt the handcuffs. The back door opened. He walked me across the pavement, into the car, powerful hands inside dragged me, pushed me down, down, between the seats, my face down, something thrown over me, a foot on my neck, the vehicle moving.
The chicken pie in the cool oven. It would be wasted.
I thought of that, how irrational is the mind.
