Dead Point

32

At the office, the answering machine held three messages: my sister, curt but with a hint of forgiveness, Cam, equally brief but with no hint of anything, and one that said:

Re your accommodation inquiry, please ring at your convenience.

The D.J. Olivier code.

I went to the window. McCoy was at home, lights on in the alleged studio. I crossed the street and knocked. He came to the door wearing a knitted blanket with a hole for his head. Beneath it, his massive legs were bare save for their covering of beard-like hair and his feet looked like parcels badly wrapped with lengths of horse harness.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Don’t think I didn’t see you spying on me yesterday.’

‘Watching that innocent young thing enter this house of horrors,’ I said, ‘I considered calling the police. I need your phone.’

‘She wanted to learn from a master’s hand,’ he said, leading the way into the studio.

‘No chance of that here.’

I stopped at an unfinished canvas of monumental size and awfulness. ‘What an inspired way to recycle fowl manure and horse hair,’ I said.

‘That’ll fetch ten grand,’ said McCoy. ‘Gissa name for it.’

‘Stick some chicken bones on it and call it Century of Bones.’

‘Century of Bones,’ said the hulking fraud approvingly. ‘Gotta ring to that. Century of Bones. You can have the call on the house.’

‘Calls plus ten per cent,’ I said.

The telephone reposed on a tree stump in the far corner of the former sewing sweatshop. I dialled and got D.J. Olivier himself.

‘You’re a busy lad,’ he said. ‘This bloke’s ex-army, got two convictions for fraud and he ran a building company that took customers for plenty. Now he’s tied up with Geddan Associates. Know them?’

‘No.’ We were talking about a man called Warren Naismith, someone Alan Bergh had phoned regularly.

‘Strategic consultants. That’s PR, with violence if required. Do the lot.’

‘The lot?’

‘Fix. Here, New Zealand, Pacific islands. Office in Canada. Rumour says they blackmailed a cabinet minister in Queensland on behalf of a client. Developer client.’

‘I didn’t know that was necessary in Queensland,’ I said. ‘Sounds like overkill. And this person, what would he do for them?’

‘Low level, a postman, fetch and carry, that sort of thing. Not welcome around the office, that’s for sure.’

I said thanks, rang Cam’s latest number. He was a long time answering. I told him about Jean Hale’s names.

‘This bloke Almeida,’ he said. ‘I’ve got him.’

I needed a second to place the name. Too many names. Yes. The dealer on the motorbike Marie pointed out to us in Elizabeth Street was called Glenn Almeida.

‘At that address?’ My inquiry had provided a vehicle registry address in Coburg for Almeida.

‘Long gone. New one from the landlords’ revenge file, my real-estate shonk looked him up. He’s out there in the hills.’

A rubbing noise, a towelling sound.

‘I found this milk bar lady in Coburg,’ said Cam. ‘Round the corner from Glenn’s old address. She knows the boy, knows Artie too. Her kid, he’s naughty, studyin at this new place, the Port Phillip college, new slammer, the boy told her Glenn and Artie had the holiday together.’

I tried to think about this. I was heavy with information, underweight on thought. ‘We still don’t have Artie.’

Cam said, ‘Maybe Artie’s just the hammer. Maybe Glenn’s the man.’

‘I don’t think so.’ I didn’t know that I didn’t think so until I said it. ‘Jean Hale’s trouble. How’s that fit?’

‘Dunno. Might have a look up there in the foothills tomorrow. Free?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘tomorrow’s bad.’ I felt guilty.

‘Come round on my way back. Sawin or lawin?’

‘Lawin,’ I said. ‘What passes for lawin.’

Receiver replaced, I stood for a moment, no energy in me, no wish to do anything except sleep. Then I sucked in some air and began my exit.

McCoy was staring at his canvas, standing well back, hands on where hips would be if pillar boxes had hips. As I approached, he said, ‘Century of Bones. What about a skull in the middle there?’

‘I don’t think you should kill humans for your art,’ I said. ‘Unless it’s yourself. In which case, just mark the spot and I’ll be happy to stick it on for you. For your estate.’

‘Animal,’ he said, distant, deep in whatever process took place behind the opaque eyes. ‘Rabbit. Sheep. Maybe dog.’

It was as if I had woken from a dream of toothache to find myself pain free.

‘Dog,’ I said. ‘Dog. I have the perfect dog.’