She was gone only a minute or two.
‘That was easy,’ she said. ‘Our secretary had a stint here from ’85 to ’90 but she’s gone out for a bit. I looked up the records, the solicitor then was Jeremy Fisher. He’s a big-deal corporate lawyer now. I think he’s with Stone, Boyle, Carides-they’re takeover specialists, takeovers, mergers, company stuff like that. He’d know your person. I don’t think they had many volunteer solicitors then, too far from the bright lights.’
I poured a cup of tea through a silver strainer, squeezed in a drop of lemon juice. Excellent French tea. Was this what your Bordeaux vigneron drank after a hard morning’s work doctoring the fermented grape juice with battery acid and Algerian plonk?
I got the number and rang Stone, Boyle, Carides.
It was easy to get to Jeremy Fisher’s second secretary. Then I moved on to a full secretary. They were both bright-voiced, both infected with the superiority of working for a first-tier law firm. They wanted to know my business and not in vague terms. I didn’t want to tell them my business even in non-vague terms. At length, I was put on to someone who was apparently an actual solicitor, not Jeremy Fisher but someone I imagined as a work-experience person operating out of the basement carpark.
‘Jeremy’s tremendously busy,’ he said, another cheerful person. ‘Can’t I help you?’
‘Listen, son,’ I said, ‘I’ve had it with the runaround. I represent Carson Corporation. I’m going to give you my number. I expect Jeremy to ring me inside five minutes.’
‘I’ll take that number,’ the man said. ‘And get back to you soonest. ASAP.’
The phone rang inside the limit.
‘Mr Calder, Jeremy Fisher. Forgive me, my people should’ve put you straight through. Bit over-protective, I’m afraid.’
It was a smooth voice, a competent voice, an unflappable voice that would be balm to a troubled corporate ear. It said: You are in good hands.
‘I understand you represent Carson Corporation,’ Jeremy said. ‘We obviously haven’t met. In what capacity would you be representing the company?’
I was getting a feeling, not a good feeling. ‘Not Carson Corporation, the family. Check that with Graham Noyce, if you like, he’s the in-house counsel. Would you like the number?’
‘No. I talk to Graham quite enough as it is. The float’s taken its toll of both of us. How can I help you?’
Takeovers, mergers, company stuff like that.
Like companies going public? Like CarsonCorp?
My instinct was to make an excuse and leave.
But.
If Graham was scared that bad publicity could harm the float, the leak that brought the publicity certainly wasn’t going to come from the law firm handling it.
So, what the hell.
‘In the strictest confidence,’ I said, ‘and without giving any reasons, I’d like to ask you a few questions about the time when you were the solicitor at the Altona Legal Centre and Mark Carson was a volunteer.’
‘Yes?’
He said Yeees? An intonation conveying extreme caution. The kidnappers’ electronic device could convey that intonation. I was beginning to see that it might be a technical achievement.
‘It was about that time that Mark left Ross, Archer amp; Stegley.
I wondered if you knew anything about the circumstances of his leaving the firm?’
‘The circumstances?’ A musing tone. ‘As far as I can remember, Mark was with Ross’s all the time that he was helping out at Altona. So that must have been later. But I really can’t say, it’s so long ago.’
Pause. A pause for thought.
‘Mr Calder, I’ve got an overseas call on the line,’ he said. ‘I’ll get back to you soonest. Sorry about this, these people won’t wait. Talk to you again.’
Not in this life, I thought. I didn’t know why, but I knew. I took my time finishing the very fine French tea, held the cup to the light, extended a finger behind it. Through the pale, translucent, expensive shell, I could see its shape, like a boat’s shadow on the seabed.
The phone rang.
‘What the fuck is this about?’ Graham Noyce, equal stress on each word, not the affable, careworn, reasonable Graham Noyce. ‘Frank, exactly what the fucking hell is this about?’
I didn’t have the remotest idea what it was about. And every hour that passed left me more ignorant.
Mid-week. It was mid-week.
28
Corin McCall answered her phone from what sounded like a building site, brute machines roaring in the background.
‘Back from the bush, yes,’ she said. ‘Came back last night, had to. My earthmoving man found he had a day free, you don’t let that get away.’
‘That’s him in the background?’
‘Rearranging nature. Socrates Kyriakos. No one can play an earthmover like Soc.’
‘The earth moves for him.’
A laugh, not big, but a laugh. The laugh when I’d called off our date, that hadn’t been a laugh.
‘I’m in a bad position,’ I said. ‘Sort of a twenty-four-hour-a-day job, open-ended, no end in sight.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘thanks for calling. Anyway.’
‘No,’ I said, nervous. ‘Lunch. What about lunch? Eat lunch?’
‘Eat my sandwiches. My sandwich.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In Hampton. My client’s flattened two houses and he wants to get the landscaping done before he builds some appalling structure.’
‘I can get to Hampton in fifteen, twenty minutes, we can have lunch in Hampton. Many good places to have lunch, I’m sure.’
She thought about this incredibly appealing proposal for a long time.
‘I’ll give you the address, but I’m not dressed for eating out,’ she said. ‘Bring your own sandwich. We’ll eat in my vehicle.’ Pause.
‘Buggered old Land Cruiser with bags of compost in the back.
How’s that suit your style?’
‘To perfection. How do you like your coffee?’
Another pause. ‘Black. Long black.’
‘The address?’
I took a Carson car, an Audi, the high life coming easily to me now, stopped at a smart coffee place, ordered bagels with smoked salmon and other exotic ingredients, long black coffees.
At the address, the Land Cruiser was parked in what would once have been the driveway of a house. Twenty metres away, a small earthmover was triumphant on a heap of sandy earth. On the street frontage of the two suburban quarter-acre blocks, a large rectangle had been pegged out where the building would go.
Corin McCall got out of the Land Cruiser as I parked. She was dressed like a workman: check shirt, sleeveless oilskin jerkin with many pockets, jeans, lace-up boots. I’d never seen her in work gear, only in lecturing gear, which was suits and high-collared blouses. It was hard to say which outfit made the more favourable impression on me.
We met on the pavement, dishwater sky, the wind off the bay blowing right through me. She put out her right hand and we shook.
‘Welcome to the glamorous world of landscape design,’ she said, running her left hand through her short dark hair.
‘What’s happened to Socrates?’
‘Soc’s got another job going in Sandringham. He’s gone over to check on Soc junior in his lunch hour, get on the machine and redo everything the boy’s done today.’
‘Ah, the family firm,’ I said. ‘I’m learning about the family firm.’
‘In your twenty-four-hour-a-day, open-ended job?’
I nodded. ‘I’ll get the supplies.’ I went back to the car and got out the box with the bagels and coffee.
‘I hope this vehicle doesn’t smell of manure,’ Corin said. ‘I’m beyond being able to detect it.’
The Land Cruiser didn’t smell of manure, it smelled of nothing except a suspicion of perfume, such as might come to you in a memory.
‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘Like an urban picnic.’
I opened the box, offered her a bagel. ‘I thought you could save your sandwich for afternoon tea.’
She looked at me, eyes narrowed. ‘How did you know I’d prefer smoked salmon and cream cheese on a bagel to Vegemite on last week’s bread?’