Wootton took out his mobile phone and got out of the car. ‘What’s the address?’ he asked. He punched in a number and spoke to someone in cryptic terms, giving the address and the introduction. ‘It’s urgent,’ he said.
The commissioner was waiting for us in the lounge, a pinkish chamber, full of angular chrome and plastic furniture. I didn’t know there were people who’d place your bets for a commission who didn’t look like Eddie Dollery or like market gardeners in town for the day.
Wootton did the introductions. He introduced me as Ray and Cam as Barry. The Commissioner was called Cynthia. She was in her late thirties or early forties, grey suit, tall and slim, an intelligent face of sharp planes relieved by a lower lip as plump as an oyster. Her shoulder-length dark hair slipped silkily around her head.
She was business-like. Harry would approve.
‘How big?’ she said.
‘As possible,’ Cam replied.
‘They’re gun-shy these days,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to spread it around.’
Cam nodded. ‘This is the drill,’ he said. ‘You wait for the second call. We expect the price to drift. Then we want as many fair-sized hits as we can get without collapsing the price. Then send in the troops, like they’ve heard the late mail. Take it all the way to the floor.’
She smiled a cautious smile, cocked her head. ‘Some organising here. Small army. There’s not that many reliables around.’
I thought I caught a hint of working-class Tasmania in her voice, perhaps one of those bone-hard timber towns, full of red-faced men with pale eyes and bad breath, the girls with one pretty summer before the babies and the cigs and the mid-morning start on the wine cask. Cynthia would have got out early, escaped to the mainland.
‘We’re told you can do it. But if you can’t…’ said Cam.
She crossed her legs. In my trained observer way, I registered that they were exceptionally long legs. Part of me couldn’t believe that I was sitting in this garish place looking at legs and listening to talk about backing horses when people had recently been trying to kill me.
‘I can do it,’ she said. ‘What happens interstate?’
‘You get first go,’ Cam said. ‘We’ll take what we can get elsewhere.’
‘The TAB?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said.
‘When do I know?’
Cam lit a Gitane and blew smoke out sideways. ‘Cyril will tell you where to be,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to be ready to push the button, go straight off.’
‘Not even the race number?’
Cam shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Makes it hard if it’s going to be the eighth.’
‘Life’s hard,’ Cam said. ‘Cyril says we don’t have to worry about collecting. Is that right? We hate worrying.’
Cynthia gestured with her hands, palms upward. ‘You don’t have to worry,’ she said. ‘I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got three teenagers to look after.’
‘I know that,’ said Cam. ‘Think about them. We’ll need a full accounting. Every bit of paper. Anything else I can tell you?’
She shook her head and stood up. ‘Nice to do business with you,’ she said.
‘We hope so,’ Cam said. ‘We hope so.’
We were waiting at the St George’s Road lights when the ambulance came through and did a screeching right turn.
‘Just live for speed,’ said Cam.
I saw the smoke before we turned into my street, a dark plume against the cigarette-smoke sky. When we turned, we saw the street was blocked by three police cars. People were everywhere. Further down, a fire engine was paralleled to the pavement. Its ladders were up and firemen on them were spraying water into a huge hole in the building’s roof.
It was my building.
The huge hole was in my roof.
My home was burning.
Cam pulled up and looked at me. ‘Your place, right?’ he said.
I could only nod.
‘Better wait,’ he said, opening his door.
I slumped against the door pillar. I could recognise at least a dozen people standing around. Neighbours. The man from the corner shop.
Can was back inside five minutes. He didn’t say anything, did a slow U-turn. We were heading down Brunswick Street when he spoke.
‘Cop reckons the bloke turned the key and the whole place went up. He might live. Door could have saved him.’
‘It was supposed to be me,’ I said. Cam didn’t need telling. I needed to say it. I wasn’t feeling scared. All I could think about was the flat. It contained everything I valued. My books. My music. The paintings and prints Isabel had bought, always as presents for me. The leather sofa and armchairs we’d bought together at the Old Colonists’ Club auction. It was my home, the only place that had ever meant anything to me since leaving my first home at the age of ten. It was my history, my link with Isabel. If Cam could have taken me directly to the person responsible for destroying it, I would have committed murder.
After a while, Cam said, ‘Where to?’
My first thought was my office. Then it sunk in. I couldn’t go near my office or Taub’s. People were trying to kill me. They’d been prepared to kill Cam this morning. They would kill Charlie if he got in their way. They probably intended to kill Linda.
Now I felt fear, a knot in my stomach.
‘I’ve got to make a call,’ I said. ‘Talk to someone.’
Cam turned into Gertrude Street and parked next to the Housing Commission flats. Three men in overcoats, all bearded, were sitting on a scuffed knoll, passing around the silver bladder of a wine cask.
I took the mobile and got out. In my wallet, I found the number Garth Bruce had given me. I’d transferred it to the back of a business card. About to press the first button, I hesitated. How could I trust Bruce? Linda didn’t. Drew didn’t. Then I remembered the awkward way we’d stood together, two men struggling to come to terms with their grief, and his words: I think you’ve had enough pain with this Milovich.
I punched the number. It was answered on the second ring. A woman. I said John English wanted to speak to the Minister.
‘Please hold on,’ she said.
I leaned against the car. The sun had come out, making the day seem colder. One of the bearded men on the knoll was trying to strangle the last drop of wine out of the bladder.
‘Yes.’ It was Bruce.
‘Someone’s trying to kill me,’ I said. ‘Twice today.’
He said nothing for a moment. I could hear him breathing.
‘God,’ he said. ‘You all right?’
I said yes.
Another pause. ‘Where are you?’
‘In the street.’
‘Jack,’ he said, ‘this is getting out of hand.’ His speech was measured. ‘I think I’ve underestimated Pixley’s old mates. We’ll have to put you somewhere safe till we can shake some sense into them. The Hillier woman too. Can you get in touch with her?’
‘Yes. She’s being followed.’
‘That so? Be the same people. Okay, listen, we’ve got to do this carefully. Yarra Bend. There’s a park up there, near the golf course. Know it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Get hold of Hillier and get up there, park as far away from those public toilets as possible. What are you driving? What’s the rego?’
I walked around the back of the car and read out the number. ‘Ford Granada,’ I said. ‘Blue.’
‘Right. Let’s make it in an hour’s time. The two blokes from last time will pick you up, get you somewhere safe.’ He paused. ‘Now this is important. Don’t talk to anyone except Hillier. And don’t say a word about this arrangement to her on the phone. She’s probably tapped.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘An hour from now.’ The lead ball of fear in my stomach was dissolving.