‘Where’s the other one?’
Grant looked at Jo. ‘Raging,’ she said.
Grant ushered me into his study. I sat down in an old armchair I remembered from his Sydney house, and he rubbed his hands.
‘Great to see you, mate. What’ll it be? Got some great reds.’
He looked as if he’d been sampling them more than in the old days. Grant always had a weight problem and it looked as if he’d given up the struggle. His belt was out a few more notches than it used to be, and flesh had wadded itself in comfortably around his neck and chin. He’d lost some more hair and seemed to move more slowly than I remembered, but he looked a lot happier than he had in Sydney, when he’d been trying to keep his figure neat and his hands clean.
‘Give me a belt of something rough first,’ I said. ‘I need it. Then I’ll sample your best Wimmera white.’
‘Peasant.’ He opened a small fridge, took out a bottle, pulled the cork out with his fingers and poured me a generous slug in a pottery mug. ‘What’s the job?’
I put the wine down my throat without tasting it while he used a corkscrew on another bottle. This time he filled a glass and pushed it across to me. I filled my mouth, tipped my head back and gargled.
‘Jesus,’ Grant said, ‘would you like to mix it with dry ginger?’
‘Wouldn’t mind. What is it?’
‘The best. Never mind. What is it that’s got you looking so haunted?’
‘Haunted? Do I look haunted? God, I don’t know, it’s a weird one. I wish I was out of it.’
‘That’s a change.’ He sat down opposite me on a divan and sipped his red wine. I gave him the whole thing in outline; he raised his eyebrows when I got to the part about finding the body and slipping off without reporting it, but that was his only reaction. I finished my wine and accepted another. Sleep wasn’t going to be a problem.
‘Your focus seems to be shifting,’ he said.
‘How d’you mean?’
‘You started out looking for Reeves’ car, then you seemed to get more interested in finding this writer bloke; the way you wound up it sounds as if you’re more interested in the car angle again.’
‘Maybe that’s just because it’s your field of expertise.’
‘Mm, don’t think so. I’m an expert on shits, too, and this Mountain sounds like a prize example.’
‘He probably is. His girlfriend’s a good kid, though. Maybe I’m obliging her. D’you know anything about a racket like this? Cars going off in numbers?’
‘No. Be hard to get far with that kind of thing in Victoria. Very tight at Motor Registration they tell me. Wasn’t always of course.’ He rolled some wine in his mouth, and let his cop’s mind run. ‘Insurance boys are on their toes; spray shops and spares outlets get a pretty good looking-at; stolen cars go straight on the computer and that’s working smoothly. The print-outs get around real fast, even up the bush. You’d need new plates within hours.’
‘Just a thought. It’s bloody well-organised and must’ve cost a bundle to set up. Somebody must be finding it worthwhile somewhere.’
Grant drank some more red, and I enjoyed watching his enjoyment. Then he frowned in a way I’d seen before, usually when what I was doing was grossly unpolicemanly. ‘This is tricky, Cliff. I don’t know how much there is in it, but I did hear that things aren’t as tight as they might be in the west.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You can do a bit of good with hot cars if you’ve got the right ones in the right places. In Askin’s day in Sydney, they were shuffling licences and registrations like decks of cards. I saw plenty of it.’
‘I heard,’ I said. ‘Nice sideline to the gambling and the drugs.’
Grant looked pained. It was an awkward moment; I’d have bet my life that he’d never taken a dollar, but the subject never sat easily with us. Usually I joked about it, but not always. The front door slammed and I heard a young female shriek followed by the clatter of feet on the stairs. Grant’s face relaxed. He glanced at his watch.
‘Not bad,’ he said.
I lifted my glass to toast his daughter’s return. ‘The west you say? Could explain some things.’
‘Such as?’
‘I’ve had the feeling all along that some of the methods used have been a bit over the top. The guy up in Blackheath looked like a heavy number, and they’ve been breaking arms and legs. I know people do a lot for money, but if there’s bent policemen involved, needing protection, that ups the stakes.’
‘It’s a problem,’ Grant said.
‘Sounds like something for this new Federal Crimes Commission or whatever it’s called.’
Grant smiled.
‘No good, eh?’
‘How long did it take to get a standard gauge railway?’
I yawned. I was feeling the effects of the long day, and nothing Grant had said was encouraging. It sounded as if the whole case could disappear down a hole, and right then I was too tired to care. Let it, I thought. But I knew that I’d have to face up to Terry Reeves and Erica Fong, and I’d been down holes after things before.
‘You look whacked, Cliff.’
‘Yeah, I am. I’m sorry, Grant, I haven’t asked you anything about how you are-the job here and all. You look happy.’
He patted his belly. ‘I am. This’s one of the penalties I guess. Jo’s fine, the girls’re good. The job’s good. I couldn’t fix a parking ticket here if I wanted to. I like that.’
I nodded, and he grinned at me. ‘There’s things I like about this place. I miss Sydney, but I sleep better here.’
‘That’s good, Grant. You’re lucky.’
He swilled the rest of his wine. ‘You’re a hypocritical bastard, Cliff. You couldn’t bear to do the same thing twice in a week, let alone day after day.’
I had to agree with that. I drank a little more wine and did some more yawning and things between us got easier. He told me about his plan to buy some land and make wine, and I made a crack about wine and Evans. I caught him up on the latest about a few mutual friends in Sydney, like Harry Tickener who writes for the News, and Pat Kenneally who trains greyhounds. I told him a bit about Helen Broadway too.
‘Involved with a polygamist,’ he said. ‘Gawd.’
‘I’m a bit of a polygamist too.’
It was his turn to yawn. ‘Not much of a one I’ll bet. I can’t say I envy you. Anyway, I’m too old and too fat for anything but monogamy.’
It was the sort of remark you grunt at. I grunted.
‘I’ll fix you a bed, hang on.’
He heaved himself up, definitely moving more slowly, and went out to talk to his partner in monogamy. I sat back with the last of the wine-the polygamist, sleeping alone.
Grant came back with some bedding and plonked it down on the divan.
‘I won’t tuck you in.’
‘Thanks.’
‘See you in the morning.’
I slept for a few hours and then had to get up and wander about until I found the toilet. Then I lay awake and read some Morris West. Then I read the ‘Bigamists, Polygamists etc’ section of Famous Sex Lives. Eventually I put the book down and slept until I was aroused by the sounds made in the morning by people who do the same thing day after day.
Over breakfast, Grant told me he’d put an ear to the ground about the rumours on motor malpractice in the west. The older daughter Kay, the one who’d been out raging, asked Grant for money for her driving lesson, and he forked it over with an indulgent smile. Kay was the best-looking member of the family and she had the biggest smile.
‘Why don’t you teach her yourself, Grant?’ I said.
Kay laughed. ‘He gets driven everywhere, he’s such a big shot. I think he’s forgotten how to drive.’
Grant leaned back in his chair. ‘I see myself driving a tractor in a sunny vineyard.’
‘Dream on, Dad,’ Kay said.
12
Evans and his offspring went to work and school respectively. As I tidied up the bedding, I realised that I had a hangover from last night’s wine. Not a bad hangover, but not a thing to take up in a pressurised plane. I mentioned the fact to Jo and she came through with the sort of non-judgmental practical advice Grant had benefited from for twenty years.