Shooting Star

17

Angela Cairncross was an in-between person: between clothing styles, between ages, possibly even between genders. She pushed over a set of photographs. ‘That’s me,’ she said.

I looked through them. She was good. A bag lady on a bench, a plump man walking two small dogs, a tired-looking nurse going home, a man in overalls next to vans with Telstra and Optus written on the sides.

‘Don’t get a chance to go out anymore, the business’s got so big,’ said Angela. ‘Once it was just Bert, my late husband, and Harry Chalmers and me. Now it’s ten full-timers, thirty temps on call, part-timers, they do a shift. Works well, you never see the same person, same vehicle, twice. Variety, that’s the key. Variety. The police have trouble getting that part right.’

I didn’t demur. The jacks didn’t get lots of things right. I’d tried very hard to point some of them out. In a manner that was held to be extreme. Murderous in fact.

‘Yes,’ said Angela. ‘You can’t run a business like this on trade union lines. Flexibility, that’s what you need.’

We were in the cheerful offices of Cairncross amp; Associates above a printery off York Street in South Melbourne. There were prints and posters on the yellow walls, flowers on the desks. Down below, the presses were running: you could feel the vibrations in the soles of your feet, coming up your chair legs.

‘Pat’s a rich kid, may be out of his depth,’ I said. ‘Bad company, gambling, that kind of thing. We’re worried he might be doing something stupid.’

Angela scratched an eyebrow, just a pale line, with a middle finger. ‘Stupid? Illegal?’

‘Might be involved in a kidnapping.’

She turned down her lips and nodded. ‘That is stupid. Reported, is it?’

‘No. Not yet. We need twenty-four hours on him, more if anything shows. You’ll understand, there’s a fear the victim will be in danger if they get even a wrong feeling.’

‘It’s more than him?’

‘There would have to be. A courier’s on the way with a photograph of Pat and a rego number but that’s it.’

‘Anvil Square. I know it.’ Angela looked at the ceiling. ‘All new buildings that area, apartments. It’ll be hard. There’s no street life. Got a budget in mind?’

‘If you need an airship, hire one.’

‘So that will be stills and video.’ She wrote on the form, looked up.

‘We don’t do interceptions, bugs, without a warrant, you know that? We can get some sound. Outside, public places. Not guaranteed, of course.’

‘It has to start soonest.’

‘Starts as soon as the picture gets here. I’ve got two people free, can bring in others. Is Pat one of those Carsons?’

There wasn’t any point in telling lies. Her business was lies. ‘Yes. They’re not keen on publicity.’

‘Won’t get any out of this office. We’ve done all kinds of people, I can tell you. And that’s all I’ll tell you. Bert used to say we live or die by confidentiality. Any sensitivity about where the bill goes?’

‘No.’ I gave her Graham Noyce’s address and my mobile number. ‘How do you report?’

‘Office is staffed twenty-four hours. In a case like this, operatives call in every hour or whenever something happens.’ She wrote a number on a card and handed it over. ‘I’ve written the case number there. You can ring this office at any time for an update. Just give the case number. It’s like your PIN. Any important development, we’ll be in touch with you immediately.’

I got up. ‘This sounds businesslike, Angela.’

She smiled, pleased. ‘We’re in the business of service, Mr Calder. That’s what Bert used to say. The McDonald’s of the industry, I like to think. Many of our competitors are more like fish and chip shops.’

Orlovsky was leaning on the car, talking on the mobile. He finished as I approached, eyed me, half-smiling.

‘Could have the vehicle. A youngish bloke and an older one, driving an old stationwagon. Paid cash. Sounds like the two in Revesdale Street, beard on the younger one.’

‘Jesus. Show ID?’

‘No. The seller didn’t ask.’

I closed my eyes, sagged. ‘Station wagon rego?’

‘No.’

‘Then we have exactly fuck all.’