The waiter was back. He had a crystal ashtray on his salver.
‘I’ll put this here, sir,’ he said, drawing a thin-legged table closer to us and placing the ashtray. Then he offered more champagne.
‘Nice drop,’ I said.
‘Roederer, sir. The Kristal.’
We lightened his tray. Another bow-tied man arrived with a silver tray of hamburgers, on sticks, exquisite miniatures, each the size of a small stack of twenty-cent coins, to be eaten at a bite.
Cundall twisted his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Smoked salmon’s not good enough any more,’ he said, ‘too common.’ He put one hamburger in his mouth, took a second. When he’d finished both, his mouth turned down. ‘Instant indigestion these days.’
‘How’s Cannon Ridge going?’ I said.
‘That’s my son,’ said Cundall. ‘My son and assorted rich boys. Sydney rich boys. The fucking dot com brigade. New economy.’ He put down most of the champagne in a swig, held up his glass like an Olympic torch. ‘Still, Cannon Ridge’s old economy. Real asset, real business, combines leisure and gambling. Boys got a fantastic bargain.’
The waiter arrived. Cundall finished his glass, took another. ‘Get me a whisky, will you?’ he said to the youth. ‘Something drinkable. With Evian. Just a bit.’ He looked at me. ‘Whisky, Jack?’
‘That would be nice.’
‘Decent shots,’ said Cundall, blinking.
‘Sir.’
‘Good lad.’
‘I see there’s some unhappiness about the handling of the tenders,’ I said.
‘Politics of business,’ said Cundall, slurring slightly. ‘WRG wants to build a whole fucking town on the Gippsland Lakes. Get the new government in some shit over Cannon, good chance they won’t get knocked back on that.’
He eyed me. ‘Good practice, anyhow,’ he said. ‘Always takes a while to sort out a new lot, find out who to pay, who to play.’
‘Jack, darling, you haven’t met Ros Cundall.’ Mrs Purbrick was holding the arm of a tall, dark-haired woman, once beautiful, now merely good-looking.
We shook hands.
‘I’m very taken with this room,’ said Ros Cundall. ‘I’ve always wanted a library. Do you think your Mr Taub would build one for me?’
‘At least you can be sure it’ll hold its value,’ said Mike Cundall. ‘Unlike that cocaine palace.’
Ros Cundall didn’t look at her husband, made a wry face. ‘Mike built a Las Vegas wing onto our house,’ she said. ‘All it lacks is the bedrooms for the harlots.’
‘I thought you could go on using the house for that,’ said Mike Cundall.
Mrs Purbrick laughed, an unconvincing trill. ‘Oh, you two,’ she said, ‘so wicked.’ She was watching David talking to one of the waiters.
Our whiskies arrived. We made small talk. Then, all at once, everyone was leaving, much brushing of lips on cheeks. Ros Cundall asked me for a card. So did two other people. Charlie might be building libraries full-time in future.
Near the front door, Xavier Doyle came up behind me.
‘Jack,’ he said. ‘Mind I see you down the pub now.’
‘Count on it.’
‘That Robbie, you find out anythin more about the lad?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘He’s a mystery.’
17
Sandra Tollman had become Sandra Edmonds but was now Sandra Tollman again. She looked up from a tray of seedlings as I came down the greenhouse aisle. I’d found her easily, through her father, who still worked for the forestry department in New South Wales.
‘Sandra?’
‘Yes.’ She was tall, with dark, curly hair cut short, wearing green work clothes.
‘I’m Jack Irish.’
She took off a rubber glove and we shook hands. A long, slim hand, strong. I’d spoken to her on the phone at home the night before. She lived outside Colac and worked for a commercial tree nursery.
‘I’ll take my break,’ she said. ‘We can talk in the kitchen. The bosses are in town.’
I followed her out of the greenhouse and down a gravel path to a weatherboard building. We went in the back door, into a kitchen with a wooden table.
‘Sit down. Tea or coffee?’
‘Tea, please.’ I sat where I could look out of the window, at a green hill with mist hanging on it.
She switched on the kettle, put teabags in mugs, got a carton of milk out of the fridge, stood waiting for the kettle to boil.
‘Nice place to work,’ I said.
‘It is. I’m lucky. Nice bosses too, easygoing, no problems about starting times, that sort of thing. My little girl spends the afternoons here with me.’
‘Rare thing, a nice boss.’
She nodded. ‘I’ve had a few shits.’
The kettle boiled. She poured water into the mugs and sat at the end of the table.
‘Robbie hasn’t crossed my mind for years,’ she said. ‘What’s this about?’
I hadn’t told her on the phone. ‘I’m afraid he’s dead,’ I said. ‘Died of a drug overdose.’
She put a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. ‘Jesus.’
‘I’m trying to piece together his history,’ I said. ‘No-one seems to know much about him.’
‘Well.’ She scratched her head, bemused look. ‘Well, I haven’t seen him since, it must have been 1994. I had a terrific crush on him at school, I thought he was just the most divine thing, it ruined my school work…anyway, yes, 1994.’
‘Where was that?’
Two birds were on the windowsill, looking around calmly, lorikeets, their colours startling in the grey day.
‘In Sydney, in Paddington, bumped into him. He was with a woman at least ten years older, more maybe, you can’t tell with some women.’
‘A friend?’
She had dark eyes, clean whites, no guile in her eyes. ‘I was walking behind them and the woman put her hand in the back pocket of Robbie’s jeans.’
‘Not looking for something, you’d say?’
‘No.’
‘And then you talked?’
‘Just for a minute. In the street. The woman walked away, looked in windows.’
‘What did Robbie say?’
‘Small talk. Said he’d dropped out of uni. But I knew that, someone else told me, a girl in our class.’
I put a teaspoonful of sugar in my tea, stirred. ‘Janice Eller.’
Surprise. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Terry Baine told me about her.’
‘Terry Baine. The fat shit.’
‘Sim’s still carrying a torch for you,’ I said.
She smiled, dropped her head, covered her eyes with a hand. ‘God, you know everything,’ she said. ‘I cringe at the memory. Me walking around behind Robbie like a puppy, Sim sending his mates to give me messages. Really dumb messages.’
‘I’m sure it was an extremely serious matter at the time,’ I said. ‘No other contact with Robbie?’
‘No.’
I took out the still photograph I’d had printed from the video, the best shot of Robbie Colburne, almost full face, held it between thumb and forefinger. ‘This is the person we’re talking about?’
Sandra Tollman looked at the picture, looked at me, shocked.
I’d known. In the unfathomable way of knowing, I’d known since I watched the video clips, since D.J. Olivier told me that there was no record of Robbie returning to Australia.
‘No,’ she said. ‘This is Marco.’
‘Marco?’
‘Robbie’s friend.’
‘Marco who?’
‘Marco Lucia. Does this mean Robbie isn’t dead?’
‘You’re sure this is Marco?’
She took the photograph. ‘It’s Marco. He doesn’t even look much older. When was this taken?’
‘Recently.’
‘Why did you think it was Robbie?’
‘He was calling himself Robert Colburne. He had a driver’s licence in the name.’
‘So Marco’s dead and Robbie’s not?’
‘Marco’s dead. I don’t know about Robbie. Possibly alive.’ I didn’t think that. ‘Tell me about Marco.’
‘I loved the name. Marco Lucia. He came up from Sydney in the holidays after year eleven to stay with Robbie, second most divine boy I’d ever met. Everyone in Walkley was just so Anglo-Irish. Blaines and Smailes and O’Reillys and McGregors. Marco could’ve been Robbie’s brother, both pale, this black, black hair. Janice thought it was the second coming.’