Dead Point

45

‘A drink,’ said Susan Ayliss. ‘We need a drink. Malt, that’s what we need. Double single malts.’ She went to the long kitchen counter, where bottles stood on a tray.

Marco walked over, tall, slim, colour on his cheekbones from the cold, wearing a polo-neck sweater. He looked a little older in the flesh.

‘You’ve been looking for me,’ he said, smiling, putting out his right hand.

I shook it. His handshake made no attempt to impress.

‘Not looking for you,’ I said. ‘It never occurred to me until yesterday that you might not be dead. I’ve been trying to find out who killed you and who had Colin Loder’s album.’

‘Drink,’ said Susan Ayliss. She had three glasses on a tray, a bottle in her hand. Marco took the bottle and half-filled the glasses.

I took a glass, put it to my lips, welcomed the smell of campfire clothes, the dark taste.

‘Let’s sit,’ said Susan. She put the tray on the coffee table, switched on two table lamps.

We sat, Susan and Marco on the sofa, not people at ease. I drank some more whisky.

‘I’d like to know a few things,’ I said.

‘I don’t have the album,’ said Marco. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Where is it?’

‘The person I took it for, he’s got it.’ He had a gravelly voice, a man with a cold.

I didn’t say anything. We sat in silence. A wind was coming up, gusting, rattling the iron roof. Marco put a hand on Susan’s knee, a gesture of comfort.

‘I don’t know what you know,’ said Marco. He tasted the whisky. ‘Xavier Doyle. At The Green Hill?’

I nodded.

‘Doyle’s got it. They’re in deep with this drug thing the judge’s hearing. You know…’

‘Yes.’

‘The guys who brought the stuff in, they were told they’d walk, some technicality I don’t understand. Anyway, the pictures, that’s insurance, concentrate the judge’s mind.’

‘Doyle and who are in deep?’

‘And Cundall. They’re both in financial shit. Cundall went to South Africa and met this importer. The guy brings it in by the container. So he came back and worked out this wonderful scheme with Doyle.’

‘The judge,’ I said. ‘You knew he had pictures?’

Marco blinked, twice. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Doyle knew.’ He drank some malt.

‘How would he know that?’

‘Knows everything, the X.’

‘X arranged for Loder to be in the Snug?’

Marco’s fingers went over his hair. He looked at Susan, a long look, his eyes came back to me.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I let him blow me. Closed my eyes and thought of England.’ He smiled, an open smile, careless of anyone’s opinions.

‘What brought you to Melbourne?’ I said. ‘The weather?’

Marco didn’t hesitate. ‘Weather’s okay. I like it, very noir. Actually, I came to make a fuckflick with Susan.’ He looked at her and smiled, a slow smile. ‘Worst gig of my life.’

Susan took his sleeve, punched his arm.

She was in love.

‘Who hired you?’

‘A bloke called Naismith. In Sydney. And I wouldn’t call it hire. I didn’t have any choice. People were trying to kill me.’

‘Where does Alan Bergh come in?’

‘He got on to Naismith, asked him for someone.’

‘Who hired Bergh?’

‘Doyle. Well, Sam Cundall through Doyle.’

I looked at Susan. She was tense, didn’t want to meet my eyes. I said, ‘Susan, Cannon Ridge. Can we go over that again?’

She looked into her glass, sniffed it, a delicate indrawing of nostrils, drank. ‘I lied to you,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘I passed on WRG’s tender to Anaxan. I’m not brave. The thought of the video getting out terrified me.’

Between them, Susan and Gavin Legge had convinced me that WRG were the naughty ones. Legge was going to pay a heavy price for his part.

‘I don’t understand quite how you got from blackmail to this state of affairs,’ I said.

Susan put out a hand and touched Marco’s hair. He took her hand, kissed her fingers. Victim and blackmailer, now as one.

‘Marco came around to apologise,’ she said. ‘He does that rather well.’

‘I fell in love,’ said Marco. ‘I didn’t expect that to happen.’

‘Didn’t stop the blackmail though.’

He shook his head. ‘No, it didn’t. I couldn’t stop that, Jack. We’re all victims some of the time.’

‘The dead person? The person with your wallet in your car? He’d be a real victim.’

‘He was dead already,’ said Marco. ‘A druggie. They found him dead. Overdosed in an alley.’

‘They? This is Mick Olsen we’re talking about?’

Marco blinked. ‘Yeah, someone in the cops found him for Mick. One of his mates.’

I thought about the homemade notice in the Lebanese shop, the face of a missing young man. It wasn’t hard to find a body in the city. I drank some whisky, remembered I hadn’t eaten since the croissant with nothing. When was that? What day?

‘Why did Olsen do this?’ I said.

‘Didn’t want anyone looking for Robbie. Robbie does Susan and the judge, then the book’s closed on Robbie.’ He laughed, cut it short, pained face.

‘Someone tried to kill me this morning,’ I said.

‘Oh shit.’ Marco looked down, ran both hands through his hair. ‘Fucking Doyle, he’s totally paranoid. Mad.’

I stood up. I didn’t ask who had murdered Alan Bergh, what the fate of the real Robbie Colburne had been, I didn’t want to know. Already I knew more than I wanted to know, much, much more.

‘What made you come here?’ said Susan. ‘How did you find out about us?’

‘I didn’t. I found the camera in Ros Cundall’s apartment. I knew Marco had some connection with the building and you’d told me about a digital camera. So I associated it with the blackmail attempt. When I saw the picture of the beach and the Land Cruiser, I assumed Marco had taken it. But whose vehicle? I had a look under the name of your company and found an ’82 Cruiser.’

‘And this place? No-one knows I own it.’

‘Someone told me you had a plane. I found your flight plans for Sale. With passenger. Then there was the date the picture was taken. It was after Anaxan won the tender. And you’d flown to Sale the day before with a passenger. That’s when I began to think that Marco might not be dead. Hearing that Mick Olsen ID’d Robbie’s body put the seal on it.’

She was frowning. ‘I still don’t see how you found this place.’

‘The shire council was kind enough to look you up in the rates register.’

‘Sounds simple,’ said Susan, tight smile.

‘Effortless,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the drink. I’ve got a long drive.’

Marco didn’t look up, didn’t get up. ‘What now?’ he said. ‘What happens?’

‘I’m going to ask Doyle for the album. And to behave properly. Apart from that, I’ve lost interest.’

Susan rose, strain on her face, her age showing. ‘Jack,’ she said, ‘I know, I know I can’t ask you…’

‘I don’t care who runs ski resorts and casinos,’ I said. ‘I don’t care who you told what. The matter’s closed.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. She took my left hand in both of hers for a moment. ‘Thank you.’

They followed me out, into a clear night, cold, a fast-rising full moon. At the car, I said, ‘I wouldn’t like Doyle to know I’m coming around for the album.’

Marco had his arm around Susan. He shook his head. ‘Never heard of any Doyle. Count on that.’

I didn’t say goodbye, swung the Stud in a wide reverse turn, gunned it. I could be home by midnight.

I could be home by midnight.

I was over the crest of the hill, where the road forked, when I heard the helicopter, saw its lights over to my right, heard the menacing chop and whine.