White Dog

14

I was in the bath on Sunday morning, drinking tea, soaking away the aches and pains that an afternoon at the football can cause, when the cordless phone rang.

‘Youth Club survive the excitement?’ said Linda.

‘It was they who supported me from the arena,’ I said. ‘One under each arm, one prodding me from behind. How do you know anyway?’

‘I am in the communication hub of the world,’ she said. ‘We know everything, even the results of football matches at the far end of one of our spokes. Lesser spokes.’

‘You can’t have lesser spokes. All spokes are equal.’

‘Believe me, we have lesser spokes. And lesser spokespeople.’

‘We is it? Five minutes and it’s we. Attack dog to corgi. What took you so long to call?’

‘Things to do,’ said Linda. ‘Settle into my Thames-side apartment, stock up at Harrods, testdrive a few rentboys, that sort of thing. I’ve missed you a bit.’

‘You too have been in my thoughts whenever I get behind the wheel of your car. Don’t hurry back. How long is this nonsense going to last anyhow?’

I was turning the hot water tap with a big toe. It gushed.

‘What’s that sound?’ said Linda.

‘Just a friend in the shower. Came by needing a shower.’

‘You bastard. Hold on a sec. Nigel, open another bottle, darling.’

‘So. How long?’

‘It’s going well,’ she said. ‘As far as I can tell. Management’s happy, they say they’re happy. Full board of callers. Hard work though. Umpteen bloody papers to read, magazines, trying to crack the code. There’s too much fucking nuance in this country, I can tell you.’

‘The men like to be spanked, the women are happy to oblige. They both like uniforms. How hard can that be to grasp?’

Linda laughed. ‘Maybe you could come over and produce me.’

‘Come over and do something for you. I’m not too hot at production.’

We talked, the autumn sunlight moved across the room, it was almost midnight in London when we said goodbye. I dressed and made breakfast but even Angel Cardoso’s sublime jambon from Geelong and thoughts of the Saints’ seven-goal last quarter couldn’t cancel the sense of loss. I walked to Gorb’s and bought the papers, read them sitting on a bench in the park, starting with the sports section.

SAINTS OVERPOWER CARLTON. That made me feel better. It was a beginning, a clean start to the season.

At home, a message from my sister on the machine. I rang.

‘Jesus,’ said Rosa. ‘What’s happening? Is this a time warp? The response time just shortened by twelve days.’

‘We are constantly tuning our operating procedures,’ I said.

I crossed the Yarra in Linda’s Alfa and we ate in a place that was uncertain whether it wanted to be a restaurant or a house party that charged. Then we toured the art galleries of South Yarra, the soft-shirted owners treating Rosa the way casinos treat highrollers. In the last one, I left her talking to the smooth young art pimp and wandered around. The smallest chamber was given over to four large canvases dotted with crude animals and symbols that appeared to be lifted directly from the art of the Nupe in northern Nigeria.

Rosa and the gallerista came up behind me.

‘Excellent investments,’ said the man. ‘I’m afraid Gary’s got a terminal smack habit. This’s the work of two years. Could be the last.’

I looked at a signature. Gary Webber. I thought of the walk at Macedon. Sir Colin had spat the name. People the Long-mores touched didn’t seem to lead lucky lives.

Peter Temple

White Dog (Jack Irish Thriller 4)

‘Well,’ said Cyril Wootton, ‘that’s not very good, is it? Have to do better than that, won’t you? Clients on premium rates expect premium results, don’t they?’

Replete after the long-awaited breakfast of soft-poached eggs with the lot at Enzio’s, I was sitting in a client’s chair in Wootton’s office, a chamber appointed like the Writing Room on the first-class deck of a P amp; O liner. Cyril was behind his large desk, small, plump hands folded on the leather inlay, his head cocked, very much the bank manager with a defaulting borrower, say, a farmer whose livestock, crops and homestead had been destroyed by a freak hailstorm.

‘Cyril,’ I said, ‘I suggest you go easy on the terminal interrogative phrases.’

‘What?’ he said, coming upright in his chair, alarm in his eyes, eyebrows risen. ‘What’s that mean?’

‘Interrogatives again,’ I said. ‘To business. The person’s phone calls for a month or so.’

Wootton sat back, adjusted his tie, smoothed his oiled hair, sniffed. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘I think you forget who is employer and whom is employed.’

‘Always uppermost in my mind, Cyril,’ I said. ‘That and grammar.’

‘It’ll take a day or two,’ he said. ‘It’s become more difficult. Apparently every Tom, Dick and Harry wants this sensitive information now.’

‘It is annoying when the agencies of law enforcement jump the queue,’ I said. ‘Speaking of which, is that records clerk dog of yours still in place?’

Wootton had suborned a civilian in the police force, a grudge-bearer of some kind, the public service was full of them — evolutionary losers in the Darwinian in-fights, political suck-ups beached a mile inland by the tsunamis of change in government, ordinary incompetents embittered by being ignored for promotion. These people needed little encouragement to defame their superiors. A few long lunches, a day at the races, dinner with a prepaid harlot or two, and they were groomed and ready for service.

‘I assume so,’ said Wootton.

I reached across for one of his pads and wrote the name Janene Ballich.

Cyril put on his new glasses, round and gold-rimmed. ‘What’s this?’ he said.

‘Some connection with the deceased. She may be in the jacks’ database.’

Cyril gave me his banker’s look again. ‘One conserves one’s resources for the truly important,’ he said. ‘One begins with the newspaper files.’

I’d had enough prudent bank manager. ‘Really? One could also easily find oneself bereft of one’s only employee remotely capable of dealing with one’s titled clientele. With me, sunshine?’

‘I’ll make the request,’ he said, not happy.

‘An answer today would be nice.’

‘That is not within my control.’

‘Pull on the chokechain,’ I said. ‘What’s the point of having dogs if you can’t command them?’

A knock on the door.

‘Enter,’ said Cyril.

I turned. It was Mrs Davenport, Wootton’s receptionist. In the innocent pre-AIDS days, she had been the front-of-house person for a specialist in social complaints who ministered to the big end of town. It was perfect training for her job with Cyril. Through his parlour too passed people burdened with painful and embarrassing afflictions which they did not wish to become common knowledge. Mrs Davenport treated these clients as she had her earlier ones — with an air of frigid disdain.

‘Your next appointee will be here in fifteen minutes, Mr Wootton,’ she said. ‘As you know, the person does not wish to be kept waiting.’

‘Thank you,’ said Wootton.

She withdrew.

‘If I get anything, I’ll send it around,’ said Wootton. ‘To which of the places you flit among?’

‘Between, Cyril. I flit between. It’s thieves I’m among.’

His eyebrows rose again.

‘Charlie’s,’ I said. ‘Put it in the box at Charlie’s.’

In the reception room, I said goodbye to Mrs Davenport. ‘I can’t promise when I’ll be back,’ I said. ‘Can you endure that uncertainty?’

She gazed at me, unblinking, no emotion disturbing her white marble countenance. I longed to reach out and touch her hair, disturb its frozen waves like an icebreaker piercing the Arctic sea.

‘In future, please ring before seeking to see Mr Wootton,’ she said.

‘But it’s really you, you, you I want to see.’

‘Good-day, Mr Irish.’

At the door, I turned and said, ‘Mrs Davenport, have you any idea of the effect your icy demeanour has on men?’

She didn’t look at me. ‘I understand there are telephone counselling services for those unable to seek professional help in the normal way,’ she said. ‘Good-day again.’

‘God,’ I said, ‘you just keep tightening the screw, don’t you?’

I went down to the street with birdsong in my heart.

Peter Temple

White Dog (Jack Irish Thriller 4)

‘In your hands, Mr Irish,’ he said, a plump face under slick hair, a brisk voice. I knew him, he’d delivered before.

I said thank you. There was no signing for envelopes from D. J. Olivier. I went back to my table and opened this one with a sharpened bicycle spoke I’d found in the alley and sterilised. A wad of A4 sheets of paper, some photographs, laser-printed. A sticky yellow square was attached to the first page. One handwritten sentence: ‘Care might be in order.’

A stranger to care, I returned to my chair behind the tailor’s table. I read:

MICHAEL RAIMOND FRANKLIN

Born 1962, Brisbane. Father Gianfranco Francesca, labourer, mother Alessandra Francesca, nee Cometti, household duties. Only child. St Patrick’s College, graduated 1979. Engineering University of Queensland 1980-81. First-class honours, passes all subjects.

Passport information: First use, 1982. Stamps, in sequence, for United Kingdom, France, Spain, Italy, France, Italy, Switzerland, Austria, Switzerland, Italy, France, United Kingdom, Australia, September 1986.

Registered as employee of Casterton Construction, Brisbane [see below for Casterton] in December 1986. Position: supervisor.

I skimmed pages about apartment rentals, two property purchases, car leases, a boat purchase, air travel, hotel and restaurant bills, traffic fines.

Employed by MassiBild, Melbourne, 1989–1995. Occupation given as ‘executive’.

Tax details followed. Mickey had done well in Brisbane; Melbourne was also good to him. D. J. Olivier had seen the tax returns Alexander Marti Partners of Brisbane filed for Mickey.

Married Corin Grace Sleeman 1996. Sleeman is an architect whose firm, French, Marconi amp; Kinane, has worked on many MassiBild projects. She was photographed with Steven Massiani

at the Melbourne Cup in 1995.

Director Yardlive Pty Ltd, registered 1992. Other director is Bernard Karl Paech [see below]. Six properties registered in company name. Yardlive, trading as Joinville Developments, has put up two medium-size apartment blocks, one built by MassiBild, and been engaged in a number of inner-city redevelopment projects.

Credit card and customs information followed, six pages. I was too weak to read it.

Nothing else known. Subject mentioned in document leaked to Sydney Morning Herald in July 1999 but not published. Source unknown, possibly National Crime Authority. (Part of document attached.) The document refers to Casterton Construction as a company with links to Anthony Kendall Haig and gives details about Haig.

RELEVANT PART OF LEAKED DOCUMENT

Anthony Kendall Haig. Born 1952, Sydney. Mother Felicity Lorraine Kendall Haig, no father recorded. Haig has married twice. Divorced Catherine Jean Kelly, 1989, son by her lives in US. Seeks company of much younger women.

First income tax paid in 1985-86, occupation given as ‘investor’. Gross income $78,472, taxable $32,863. Return filed by Alexander Marti Partners, Brisbane, filed all subsequent returns. [For Marti, see AI/674/87 continuing.] Huge income growth since, presented as commissions and trading in commercial and residential property. For 2000, gross of Saint Charles Holdings was $17,783,000.

Audited by Tax in 1996, 1998. No action. File note 1998 says: ‘Transactions continue to be complex in the extreme and, as repeatedly noted, worthy of full-scale investigation.’ (This officer, shifted from Audit in August 1998, will not co-operate.)

Subject’s company Saint Charles involved in hundreds of property dealings, usually arranger of loan finance but often buyer and seller. Deals with dozens of developers, construction companies and private companies all over country. Finance generally offshore. Frequent provider is First Crusader Finance, Monaco. This entity run by Charles Robert Hartfield, once partner in Melbourne solicitors Alan Duchard, Gaitelband, legal advisor to property developer Tendram, part owned by Hartfield’s wife’s cousin, Selwyn Howard Cornell. Tendram into receivership in 1990, debts of $260 million. Estimate is upwards $30 million sent offshore in 18 months before collapse. Hartfield now has Polish passport, resident of Monaco. [Wife, now of Noosa, is attempting to sue Hartfield.] Haig is close to Hartfield and spends time in Monaco. [See Attachment 3B.]

Subject’s connections make action difficult. He is a donor to both parties through Saint Charles. Large circle of associates includes former federal cabinet minister Michael Londregan, now in business as investment advisor in Sydney.

Two investigations discontinued under pressure. February 1995, death of employee James Gavin Medlicott, 36, found to be suicide. Medlicott twice arrested for sex offences, charges dropped. Present offsider Bernard Karl Paech, 44, accountant, worked for Massiani family company MassiBild 1991-97. [For Paech, see AI/857/86/89/94-98 continuing. For Massianis see AI/992/83-4/92-6 continuing.]

MassiBild and associated companies involved in many deals with Saint Charles. Paech operates from office in Little Collins Street, Melbourne. Michael Raimond Franklin, mentioned earlier, worked for Casterton Construction of Brisbane (a company with links to Haig and Paech) from 1986 before moving to MassiBild in Melbourne in 1989. Informant W3 identifies Franklin as key player until he left Massiani in 1995 to start property development firm Joinville Development. Paech was for a time co-director of the parent company, Yardlive. [See Attachment 3A.]

That was the end of the fragment. The report said more would follow. I looked at the photographs. Two men on a city street, the blurred foreground suggesting that the photographer was across the road. 3A was written in a corner. The taller man was Mickey Franklin looking sideways at his companion, questioning, two fingers holding his dark glasses up on his forehead.

The other man was broad, pudgy, balding, round glasses, scratching his head. Was this Bernie Paech?

The second photograph, labelled 3B, showed the deck of what was probably a big motor yacht seen through a thicket of masts and rigging. A man in a T-shirt was talking to a young woman in a bikini, a girl with short wet-looking blonde hair. Anthony Haig?

Seeks company of much younger women.

When did he start doing that? How old did you have to be to be accused of this offence?

Another woman had her naked back to the camera. To her right, a fat man with a shaven head, dark glasses, was looking into the camera, pointing. He had a cigarette in his mouth.

This would then be Charles Hartfield, solicitor, once of Melbourne, now of Monaco. He didn’t look too happy at the instant of being snapped but he would probably look content on other occasions. But perhaps not. Pinching $30 million, dumping the wife and kids, becoming a Pole, that could carry a price. In the long run, it might have been easier to do honest work in William Street, drive home to Kew or Glen Iris in the BMW, go to the place at the beach in the Merc wagon on weekends.

I looked at the first photograph again, Mickey Franklin and Bernie Paech in the street. Now I saw that Bernie wasn’t scratching his head, he was on the phone. Mickey was wearing a well-cut piece of cloth — it lay on him like oil on a dead penguin.

Too late to ease my way out of this? It was a job for a team and a team might not get anywhere either. Mickey had no doubt done naughty things, that was the norm in his line of work. But you didn’t get knocked for it. Apart from which, he’d been on his own for years, a corner-shop operator, no threat to the Massianis or any other giant. Sarah Longmore might or might not have killed Mickey but I was highly unlikely to find any other firm suspects.

An involuntary groan, a sound born of impotence and anxiety. It was followed by thoughts of coffee. I set out for Brunswick Street. The street was abuzz, teeming with people talking on their mobiles about their fantastic new jobs/projects/relationships. Until recently, I would have had a quick browse in the bookshop where the gun shop used to be, but it too was gone. A business called Twicks in its place, and, in due course, Twicks, a purveyor of tastefully arranged homewares made by slave labour somewhere, would be another stratum in the ghostly midden of departed businesses.

Enzio’s was having a successful opening day. It too was trilling with mobiles and alive with the sound of happy banter. I found a seat against the wall for the second time that day and spotted a few Meaker’s regulars who’d transferred: the pharmacist who’d quit pill-dispensing to write terrible plays; the publisher with the drinking problem who’d once stuck her tongue into the tight cleavage of a cabinet minister’s wife at a book launch; the haggard maker of documentary films known to have tried to fake his own kidnapping to extort money from his rich father.

I thought about Mickey Franklin. He was starting to look like someone with a fair bit of unexposed form. A key player, said the document leaked from somewhere, no doubt a government agency. Player in what?

Olivier’s fragment didn’t have the sound of yet another investigation into rigged tenders, union pay-offs, cash and kind bribes, safety trade-offs, sweeteners for inspectors, over-invoicing, under-invoicing, insurance rip-offs, off-site beatings, severe discomfort caused by poisoned fast food, tragic accidents in freeway traffic put down to the inexplicable failure of vital bits of brakes and steerings. It had the ring of crime intelligence-gathering, the sort of stuff passed around meetings in Canberra.

This stuff wasn’t going to help me. I had a name, that was the way to go. My coffee arrived. The taste of it improved my mood greatly.

After lunch, I went around to Charlie’s and spent the afternoon assembling drawers, each one subjected to rigorous quality inspection.

‘I can do this, you know,’ I said after a while. ‘It doesn’t require a twelve-year apprenticeship under a sadistic Tischlermeister.’

‘Just looking,’ said Charlie.

Wootton rang while we were cleaning up. ‘That name,’ he said. ‘I’ve tracked down the mother.’