Dead Point

36

I brooded, driving automatically, registering nothing, a danger on the roads. There was nowhere else to go in the matter of Marco/Robbie. I couldn’t help the judge. It had all been for nothing, traipsing around the country, the city.

Marco was a blackmailer’s bait, bait for all sexual persuasions. The blackmailer could be Alan Bergh, representing other interests. Why else had he been filmed? In any event, both men were dead. The attempt on brave Susan Ayliss had failed, the one on principled Colin Loder would too. Cannon Ridge was a decided matter, another judge would make the finding Colin Loder could not.

This matter was almost at an end.

And yet and yet. Marco was murdered, Alan Bergh was murdered.

I pulled up at lights.

Susan Ayliss had no doubt that the Cannon Ridge tender was the reason for the plot against her. Which side? Anaxan or WRG? The latter would have been eager to add some weight to their side of the seesaw, the other side having a Cundall, son of a man who could walk into the Premier’s office and berate him. But they didn’t get the weight, their tender failed. That could have left Bergh and Robbie as untidy bits, much too knowing.

Cathexis.

I had been looking at the building, looking at it across the intersection without seeing it. It was austere, all its materials visible, concrete and marble, bronze and glass, steel and copper — rough, smooth, shiny, dull, hard, soft materials. I could see the incised name that Marco was photographed passing.

Cathexis.

The lights changed. I went around the block, found an unlawful park, walked back to the building. A smoked-glass sliding door admitted me to an extravagant, hard-surfaced lobby, a hall that hummed the word Money. Directly ahead were two lift doors, pale timber. Nothing so crass and indiscreet as a list of tenants was in sight. I was glad I was wearing a decent suit. A recent suit, anyway.

A hotel-sized reception counter was at the right, two young women in black on duty behind it. Beyond that was a door marked Security. I couldn’t see cameras but they would be on me and the entrance.

‘How may I help? She was English, willowy, blonde, nectarine skin.

‘Gone blank. I can’t remember the agents for the building.’

‘Barwick amp; Murphy,’ she said, smiling. ‘Is it something I can help you with?’

‘Well, you might.’ I took out my notebook, thumbed. ‘Here it is. The Doyle apartment. For sale.’

‘Doyle?’ She looked at the other woman, also blonde but more mature oak than willow. ‘Do we have a Doyle?’

The woman was looking at a monitor, didn’t turn her head. ‘No.’

‘Sorry,’ said the first blonde. ‘It’s probably in another of their buildings. They handle dozens.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Thanks anyway.’

I walked away. Another hunch that failed to deliver. Near the door, I thought, what the hell, try another one. I turned and went back, notebook open.

‘I think I had the wrong page,’ I said. ‘It’s Cundall, the Cundall apartment that’s for sale. If I’ve got the right building.’

The willowy blonde frowned, turned. ‘Jean, do we have a Cundall?’

Mature-oak blonde didn’t turn. ‘What?’

‘It’s supposed to be on the market. The gentleman’s not sure whether he’s at the right building.’

Mature blonde looked around, an annoyed face, deep lines between her eyes, spent a millisecond on me, made a judgment. ‘Who says it’s on the market?’

‘B and M told this gentleman.’

Jean sniffed. ‘They told you it was Mrs Cundall’s apartment?’

‘Yes.’

‘That is quite irregular. Twelve two is owned by Dalinsor Nominees.’

‘I don’t really care who owns it,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for an apartment.’

‘They’re supposed to inform us,’ said Jean. ‘And there are no inspections without a B and M agent.’

‘I’ll be back with one,’ I said. ‘One of their top agents. Licensed to sell.’

Walking back to the car, I felt smug for a minute. A hunch that paid off. Or had it? What had I learned by finding out that Ros Cundall owned an apartment in a building Marco had gone into? Nothing. Ros Cundall probably owned apartments in every expensive block in the city.

Marco working at The Green Hill, Marco going into Cathexis, Marco from the Umbrian idyll turning up on Colin Loder’s doorstep.

I was beginning to like the Umbrian story less and less. Too romantic for my taste. And, in the light of what I now knew about Marco and Susan, implausible.

From the car, I rang Colin Loder’s borrowed mobile. He wouldn’t be in court, it was lunchtime.

‘Yes.’

‘Jack.’

‘Jack.’

‘Clarification. Umbria, the person arrives on the doorstep, later reappears.’

‘Yes?’

‘Bullshit, yes?

A pause, a sigh. ‘Well. Yes. A story.’

I waited.

‘I didn’t want it to sound like…well…’

‘A pick-up?’

‘Yes. Umbria was a fiction.’

‘Where then?’

He hesitated. ‘A place I’ve had a few drinks at. So as not to be completely removed from reality. As are most of my colleagues.’

‘The Green Hill?’

Pause. ‘How exactly did you work that out?’

‘Is that in the Snug?’

‘Yes. You know it?’

‘No. I know Xavier Doyle.’

‘Well, the Snug’s like a club, I suppose. You have to be with someone who’s persona grata.’

‘Who were you with?’

‘Ros Cundall, Mike Cundall’s wife. I’m on a gallery committee with her. She insisted I join her after a meeting. Introduced me to Xavier.’

‘Who introduced you to Marco?’

‘Ros. He was behind the bar. She said, meet Marco before he’s famous, he’s writing the great Australian novel. Words to that effect.’

This was a small city. But in the end all cities are small.

‘Any headway, Jack?’ Not a confident voice.

‘A little. Get back to you.’

‘Thanks.’

Little was the word. I drove back to Fitzroy thinking about the versatility of Marco, the number of lives he’d touched.