White Dog

26

I sat in the gloom, my mind wandering around in the tall maze that was the whole business. I didn’t intend to. I didn’t want to think about it at all, but that wasn’t possible. I had to accept that I couldn’t leave it alone.

Janene Ballich, table dancer. Why had the man in the car given me her name that night? Who was he? What part did Janene Ballich play in the story of Mickey Franklin? I’d been to Gippsland, I’d talked to Popeye Costello, all I got were more names: Wayne Dilthey, Katelyn Feehan aka Mandy Randy, Donna Filipovic. Janene was missing, probably dead. Wayne was definitely dead, shot in some country town. Where was Katelyn?

Time for a beer. No Charlie tonight, he was playing bowls, handing out another thrashing to the youngsters in Brunswick.

It couldn’t be coincidence that I’d hear Donna’s name in Popeye’s office and then find that she was the witness against Sarah who could place her near the scene of the crime. I remembered Popeye’s whistle when he saw Katelyn Feehan in the photograph with Wayne Dilthey.

The cunt. Pinched her off me. Probably snaffled fucking Donna… Snaffled Donna from table dancing and giving personals? To join Wayne’s pleasure-service business? Donna, who just happened to be spending three weeks in a corporate apartment owned by a company in Monaco when she saw Sarah. Where had she been living when she first saw Sarah, during the altercation with the parking-space thief?

Was Donna lying, prepared to commit perjury in a murder trial? What could induce her to do that? How could she know about the argument with the driver unless she’d seen it?

I got up, stretched, put on my overcoat. I was at the front door when I remembered. That was the night Sarah said she’d met Anthony Haig. She was on her way to dinner with Mickey and Anthony Haig on the night of the parking fight.

You’d talk about something like that. You left your car standing in the street and held a driver captive in his own car. You’d still be full of adrenalin and indignation when you arrived at your destination, the story would spill out, it would be remarkable if it didn’t.

So Donna could have been given the story by someone Sarah had told it to. Or by someone who heard it from that person. Sarah might have told the story to dozens of people. She would certainly have told it to Sophie, and Sophie… make that hundreds of people.

Monaco? A company in Monaco. I went back to the table, found my file, the stuff from D. J. Olivier, skimmed down the pages.

Subject’s company Saint Charles involved in hundreds of property dealings. 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…

The Melbourne address of the company that owned the apartment Donna stayed in was Alan Duchard, Gaitelband, barristers and solicitors of Prahran.

I rang Telstra inquiries, was rejected as incomprehensible by the voice recognition software, gave the name Saint Charles to a grumpy human, got a number, declined the exorbitantly priced direct connection.

It was picked up on the third ring. ‘Saint Charles.’ A man.

‘I’d like to speak to Anthony Haig.’

‘I can try to raise him. Your name?’

‘Jack Irish. I’m a solicitor.’

‘Hold on.’

Silence. I held, looking at the bare walls, just the framed professional certificates. A painting or two would be nice. Why had I never done that? Why had I kept this place looking like the abode of a lawyer monk?

‘Mr Irish. Tony Haig.’ A rough voice.

‘Mr Haig, I’d like to talk to you about matters concerning Mickey Franklin,’ I said. ‘Is that possible?’

‘Of course,’ he said, no hesitation. ‘I’m edge-to-fucking-edge this week though… listen, why don’t you come around to my place tomorrow night, evening, it’s early, a little gathering, we’ll go off and have a chat? How does that fit?’

‘Fine,’ I said, not showing my surprise.

‘It’s a building called Marengo in…’

‘I know it.’ Everyone knew the Marengo, designed by an architect with popstar status.

‘Around six, they’ll have your name at the desk. See you.’

I drove to the Prince, squeezed the Stud into a half-occupied loading zone. The men were at battle stations, bickering.

‘Well, you’re a bloody stranger,’ said Norm O’Neill. ‘Put us into these Sainters, bloody poisoned chalice, then we never see hide nor hair of ya.’

‘I was thinking we might go on Sunday,’ I said. ‘Carlton again, at Docklands.’

‘The tent,’ said Eric Tanner. ‘Bloody disgrace a great outdoor game now gets played in a circus tent.’

‘Tell you what,’ said Norm O’Neill, ‘no shortage of clowns in the tent when the Saints play. Young and old, the big fella can’t clap hands, misses. Needs a damn good lookin over by the eye, feet and hand specialist.’

‘Eye, feet and hand?’ said Wilbur. ‘What kind of specialist is that?’

‘Jesus, I don’t know,’ said Norm. ‘Ever heard of coordination? Sometimes I wonder about the ignorance in the world.’