Dead Point

43

I walked around the corner to a place I’d noticed called Cafe Bonbon, just two seated customers and a person getting a takeaway. I ordered a short black and a cold croissant from the coffee-maker, a saturnine youth in a chef’s white top.

There was a used copy of the Herald Sun on top of the unwanted newspaper dump. I took it to a seat, sat down carefully, the day so violently begun taking its toll on my back, my neck, on everything that supported my unworthy skull.

My eyes had been on the front-page headline for a while before the small active section of my brain registered the big words on the page.

DRUGS BUNGLE LINK TO KILLING

The opening paragraphs said:

Police sources last night linked the murder of a man at Melbourne Airport to the disappearance of cocaine worth more than $2 million in a bungled Federal Police operation.

The dead man, Alan Bergh, 47, of Toorak, is believed to have been involved in a ‘controlled importation’ of cocaine from South Africa that went badly wrong and allowed smugglers to get away with cocaine worth more than $2 million.

Victorian Police believe that the Federal Police operation was compromised from within. The Federal Police have declined to comment. Sources say the importation was financed by a Melbourne group looking for new drug sources. ‘There are well-known identities involved,’ a source said. ‘They’re trying to break away from their usual suppliers. The Federal Police had a golden chance to nail some dealers to the big end of town and they stuffed it up.’

The story went on to list other strange goings-on in the local drug squad. Bergh’s was the only name given. It was all speculation based on information from unnamed sources, but it had the unmistakable feel of a story planted by the cops and dressed up by a journalist.

I looked at the street for a while, something at the edge of thought, then I got up and asked if I could use the phone next to the coffee machine.

Cam answered at the second ring.

‘That pilot with the cap,’ I said. Harry and Cam used a pilot who wore a baseball cap backwards.

‘Yeah.’

‘I’ve got a name. I need to find out if it filed flight plans recently. Local airports.’

A silence lasting just long enough to express wonder.

‘What’s the name?’

I gave it to him.

‘Call you on what?’

‘Hold on.’

I found a $5 note, put it on the counter. ‘Can someone ring me here?’

‘Sure,’ said the coffee-maker pushing the money away. ‘Twenty-five cents goin out, comin in’s free. What’s your name?’

I told him, read the number to Cam and went back to my seat, drank my coffee and ate the croissant without tasting either.

I didn’t hear the phone but the coffee-maker shouted my name.

‘What’s that hissing noise?’ said Cam.

‘Snakes,’ I said. ‘I’m in the jungle.’

‘That’d be right. The name flew from Moorabbin this morning. Filed a flight plan for Sale. One passenger.’

‘Any other flights to Sale?’ Sale was near the sea. Beaches.

‘June 4 there’s one. With passenger.’

The picture of the beach was taken on June 5. There was something very wrong here, something I should have considered earlier. I paid my bill and left. As I rounded the corner, cold rain blew into my face and ran down my neck and under my collar.

At the office, a message on the answering machine. Barry Tregear didn’t identify himself: The query. ID was by the bloke we were talking about. The dangerous one.

I closed my eyes, let my head fall forward.

Mick Olsen had identified Robbie Colburne’s body. Mick Olsen, drug cop, the commissioner’s suppository, receiver of messages from Alan Bergh, now the late Alan Bergh.

This was even wronger than I’d thought.

I rang inquiries, asked for the Shire of Sale. One last stab. But not in complete darkness.