The clincher was Master’s fingerprints on one of the plastic bags containing the dope. O’Connor argued that these could have post-dated the discovery of the bags but two customs officials swore that Master hadn’t touched the bags. O’Connor tried the Mandy Rice-Davies argument-’Well, they would say that, wouldn’t they?’-but it didn’t work. An election wasn’t far off and law and order toughness was the watchword. Justice Mary Pappas wasn’t looking to get her sentences reviewed for softness and she hit Stewie with twelve big ones.
As far as I could judge, Bryce O’Connor QC had performed adequately under extreme difficulties. The surprise was the inept contribution from Master himself. For a silver-tongued conman with an imposing physical presence he came across as limp and unconvincing, insisting that the heroin had been planted. After the report on the sentence there was no further mention of Master. All this had happened nearly six weeks before and I scribbled a couple of questions as I finished the last article and the scotch simultaneously. Why no appeal? And why the quickness of the trial-a few weeks only after the arrest?
My eyes were hurting. I logged off and went downstairs to scramble some eggs and drink some wine. In a moment of weakness I’d bought a case of cheap chardonnay advertised by leaflet in the letterbox. The wine was okay but the offers kept coming by snail mail and email until I was sick of the sight of them. Also, having a whole case of wine ready to hand didn’t help my periodic attempts at moderation.
As I ate, I thought about prisons. I’d been briefly on remand in Long Bay many years before and had visited people there, but not recently. I’d served a short sentence at Berrima for obstructing the course of justice a while back and that was about it for personal experience. I’d heard that things had changed in the prison system but I didn’t know anything about the changes and nothing about Avonlea. Another web search.
I rinsed the saucepan, plate, knife and fork and glass, ate an apple and brewed a pot of coffee. I sorted through the mail I’d brought in and dumped most of it in the bin. I poured the coffee and was about to go up for another computer session when the door bell rang. I wandered down the passage with the mug in my hand and opened the door without turning on the porch light. Didn’t want to look too welcoming. A large figure loomed up and shoved me aside as it bullocked its way inside.
‘Hey!’ I yelped, partly from surprise and partly because hot coffee had hit my hand.
I spun around. My intruder had taken a few strides inside and was leaning against the wall, panting hard.
‘What does she want?’ he shouted.
I don’t take to being brushed aside and scalded. I put the mug down, kicked the door shut, and moved up on him prepared to pay him back. He was a surprise packet. He levered himself off the wall and came at me swinging. I caught a strong smell of alcohol and sweat as his punch missed and his suit jacket swung open. I dropped my shoulder and hit him hard in the sternum. I felt it bend. His flailing hands fell away and I caught him with a solid left to the ribs. All the breath went out of him and he sagged back against the wall, knees buckled. He was a sitting duck and I didn’t have the heart to hit him again. Besides, he was very drunk and I didn’t want him throwing up on me.
He was wobbling, close to tears. He wore a dark suit, blue shirt and red tie like a banker or a politician, except that the tie knot had slipped down below where I’d hit him. I grabbed a handful of shirt and tie and eased him along to the stairs. He didn’t resist and I dumped him on the third bottom stair the way you handle a bag of clothes destined for St Vinnie’s. He reached for the banister and winced. A good rib shot hurts. He was pale and having trouble catching his breath.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘You fucking should be. Hang on. I’ll get you some water.’
I recovered the mug and swilled down the remainder of the coffee. In the kitchen I filled a big glass with water and took a quick swig of scotch.
‘Here you go.’
No response.
I reached the stairs and found that he’d stretched out with his legs splayed forward and his top half resting comfortably. He was out cold.
I wasn’t copping that. I took careful aim and splashed the water in his face. His eyes opened, he coughed and spluttered and tried to go back to sleep. He was as tall as me and heavier by ten kilos. Younger by at least ten years. Heavy. I hauled him up and dragged him into the kitchen. His head bounced off the doorjamb but just hard enough to trigger some adrenaline, not to knock him out. I placed him so that his head hung over the sink. The first retch started around his ankles and shook him like a dog coming out of water. He vomited hard, drew in a laboured wheezing breath and did it again. And a third time. The kitchen smelled as if I’d dropped a bottle of whisky on the tiled floor, a thing I’d never do. I wet a tea towel and put it in his twitching hand. Still bending over, he wiped his face, dry-retched a couple of times and turned slowly around to face me.
The light in the passage and over the stairs is dim, the kitchen light is a harsh fluorescent. It bleached him and gave him a greenish tinge. Dark stubble showed through the pale, stretched skin; his eyes were bloodshot and pouchy. Some vomit had splashed up onto his shirt. The paper towel dispenser had busted long ago, but I keep a roll in the same spot. I tore off a couple of sheets.
‘Clean yourself up and then you’re going to tell me what this’s all about.’
He nodded and turned on the tap. When he’d finished he ran water in the sink until it was cleanish. Good manners. The coffee sat in a beaker on a hotplate. I poured a mug for myself and held the beaker up enquiringly. He shuddered and shook his head. I handed him a glass and he filled it with water and drank.
‘You better keep that down,’ I said.
‘I will.’
‘How’s the chest and ribs?’
‘Sore.’
‘Good. Who are you and what’re you doing here?’
‘My name’s Tony Spears. I’m Lorrie’s… Lorraine’s husband.’
‘Her husband’s in gaol.’
He managed a thin smile, then thought better of it and set his mouth against his rising gorge. He gulped and his Adam’s apple moved in his thick neck. ‘That bastard’s her third husband,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m her first.’
3
Tony Spears told me that he’d been married to Lorraine Van Hewlen, as she was, for two years seven years ago.
‘I met her at university,’ he said. ‘We were both doing economics and I was a year ahead. I helped her because she was struggling. I did pretty well and got a job in an investment firm. We got married at the beginning of her final year. I drilled her hard and she did brilliantly, topped everything. She got a job in a merchant bank and dropped me the next day. Two years, but it was more like a tutorship than a marriage, except that… except that I was in love with her and I still am.’
Poor bastard, I thought. ‘What about husband number two?’
‘Bloke in the bank. Fat, bald, rich as shit. She took him for a packet. She’d made all sorts of connections under his wing and she set up on her own. She’s flying high.’
‘But married to a career crim.’
‘Doesn’t seem to have done her any harm, professionally’ He’d regained some colour and was pulling himself together. He asked to use the toilet and when he came back he’d spruced himself up a bit and accepted a mug of black coffee. He sipped the brew and gave a despairing sigh.
‘I don’t understand it. A man like Master. Okay, she used me and Lance Robbins, but him…’
‘Some women go for men like that. They marry them in gaol. Want to have their babies, smuggle out sperm. Look at that woman with the helicopter.’
‘Is Lorrie trying to help Master escape?’
I laughed. ‘Do I look like an idiot to you?’
‘No, I do. What’s she up to?’
‘I can’t tell you. And what’s it to you anyway?’
