He looked at me, sat back, crossed his legs at the ankles. He was dressed for golf; I could see a burr on a dark cotton sock, a burr from Royal Melbourne, perfectly at home on a twenty-five-dollar sock.
‘For two days, nothing happened,’ he said. ‘Then the police said they needed public help, the media had to be told. We went along with that. The story was on television that night, radio, front-page news the next day. At about 10 a.m., we got a phone call. All the voice said was: “Didn’t listen, rich bastards. Now she dies.” The next day, Alice turned up at a house in the Dandenongs. The kidnappers had taken her into the forest to kill her but she got away.’
I knew nothing about the Carson kidnapping. But then, in 1990, I was in hospital with multiple fractures, a ruptured spleen and a punctured lung. End of career number one.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know. I was somewhere else then.
What happened today?’
Noyce coughed. ‘Anne lives here,’ he said. ‘She goes to school with the daughter of Lauren Geary, the estate manager. To Moorfield. They’re the same age. The head driver takes them to school, drops them and picks them up. Inside the school grounds. He’s not supposed to stop anywhere-going or coming. Turns out he’s been coming home via Armadale, letting them go into a record shop for fifteen minutes. Nobody knew that. He’s supposed to be a professional.’
‘Like the person who hired him,’ said Tom Carson, gruff voice, smoker’s voice, but quiet. I could imagine that in his life he had only to move his lips for people to fall silent. ‘Professional fucking something.’
Noyce’s expression didn’t change but a breath drew in his nostrils, clenched them like buttocks.
Pat coughed, a come-to-order sound.
‘Today was sport, late pick-up,’ Noyce said. ‘Carmen says she stayed in the front part of the store, Anne went down the back. There’s another entrance at that end. To Gawler Street. It was crowded and when Carmen looked for her, she was gone.’
‘What time?’ I said.
‘Carmen came back to the car at 4.50.’
‘Kidnapped. What says that?’
‘Someone phoned my office,’ Tom Carson said. ‘Just three sentences, repeated several times. Sounded like an American voice, the girl says, a strange voice.’
‘Saying what?’
‘We have the girl. Do nothing or she will be killed. Wait till you are contacted.’
‘There’s a recording?’
‘No.’
‘Number displayed?’
Tom turned his gaze on Noyce.
‘Callbox in St Kilda,’ Noyce said. ‘Only unvandalised callbox in Fitzroy Street.’
I said, ‘You got that from where?’
Noyce shrugged. ‘We have these people. Jahn, Cullinan, security people.’
‘You’ve got Jahn, Cullinan,’ I said. I looked at Pat Carson and the Carson boys and at Graham Noyce and they all registered that I was looking at them. ‘You’ve got Jahn, Cullinan and you give me a call?’
‘Don’t trust em,’ Pat said.
‘Mr Carson, they protect presidents, kings. Marcos, Shah of Iran.’
‘Most of those dead too,’ Pat said. ‘Don’t trust em.’ He shook his head dismissively.
‘Jahn do the corporate work,’ Noyce said. ‘Family security is handled in-house.’
‘Or not fucking handled,’ Tom said.
Noyce swallowed and his face pinkened. He wasn’t happy being Tom’s scapegoat.
‘What time was the call?’ I said.
‘Just after five,’ said Noyce.
‘That’s at least two people,’ I said. ‘Probably three, maybe more.’
‘How’s that?’ said Barry. He’d been far away, looking at his hands, flexing his fingers. Something to do with golf, perhaps, thinking about the shot he was about to make when the mobile rang with the bad news.
‘Can’t get to Fitzroy Street from Armadale in ten minutes in peak hour. Two to get the girl, one waiting in St Kilda for a signal to make the call. Three at least, probably more.’
‘Why two to take the girl?’
‘I’m assuming there’s a vehicle involved. Big ask for one person to force a fifteen-year-old out of a crowded store, get her into a vehicle, maybe have to go around to get into the driver’s seat.’
‘It doesn’t matter how many,’ said Pat. ‘Three, thirty-bloody-three, doesn’t matter.’
I leaned forward and looked into Pat’s eyes. ‘It matters,’ I said, speaking softly. ‘That’s why you need the police. Put plainclothes cops into the area. All low-key. Someone would have seen two people and a girl in the store, getting into a vehicle in Gawler Street. Get descriptions, might even get a number, bit of a number. Maybe someone saw the person make the call in St Kilda. Person using an electronic device on a payphone. You’d notice.’
Pat raised his big hands, palms outward. ‘Frank, listen, son. Last time, that’s what happened. They did all their bloody police things. And we almost lost the child. The police didn’t save her. She saved herself. This time, we’re just payin.’
‘Give the cops another chance,’ I said.
Pat shook his head. ‘No. No. They had their chance last time. Afterwards, nothin. They got nowhere. What they ask now, we’re payin. It’s only money, it’s nothin. The child safe. That’s what we want. That’s all.’
I didn’t want any part of this and Pat Carson saw it in my face. Perhaps he saw other things in me, too, the way I had learned to see things in people, to read their bodies and faces, know their eyes.
‘And what you ask, we pay too,’ Pat said. ‘Your rate, forget your rate. When the child’s back, tell Graham the fee. No argument from anyone. Cash, bank cheque, any way you bloody want it.’
He’d read me. He knew I’d hear the rustle of the money in the packet, salivate over the prospect of its chewy, salty, crispy taste. He’d looked at me and he’d read me.
But I didn’t want to be readable. Better to spend more time in Footscray fighting with men in plastic neckbraces than be read by rich people.
‘For doing what?’ I said. ‘When they tell you what they want, give it to them. What happens after that is anybody’s guess.’
I looked at Noyce. His eyes were on Pat. I met Pat’s eyes.
‘Graham can give it to them, Mr Carson,’ I said. ‘A cab driver can give it to them. Send the girls’ driver. The man’s got an interest in getting it right.’
The room was silent. I’d said no. Time to excuse myself. Hope it goes well. I could go, but I couldn’t say that. I couldn’t say anyone can do it and then use the word hope. Although hope was what it would come down to.
‘Thanks for comin, Frank,’ Pat said. His lips moved, not a smile, some outward sign of a reflection on life, on himself perhaps. ‘Usually, the money talks. Not for you. I respect that in a man. Particularly a man who’s been a policeman. Goodnight. Graham will see you’re paid for your time.’
I sat. Pat and I looked at each other. His eyes were the colour of first light in a dry country.
‘If it goes wrong,’ I said, ‘it’ll somehow be my fault. And I’ll blame myself too. For not having the brains to walk out now.’
Pat’s right hand went to his throat. ‘All you have to do is give them what they want. No police stuff, nothing. What could go wrong? A cab driver could do it, not so? And blame? Yes. We’ll blame ourselves, blame you, blame the bloody stars above. Graham will give you ten thousand dollars tonight. Cash. An advance on your fee.’
He looked at Noyce. Noyce looked at Tom, still languid before the fireplace. Something passed between them. Tom’s consent? Did Graham need Tom’s permission to follow Pat’s instructions?
‘Of course,’ Noyce said. ‘It’ll take an hour or so, Frank.’
In my mind, I sighed a deep sigh. ‘A few things first,’ I said. ‘I want to talk to the driver. I’m not even being the bagman here unless I’m happy about him.’
They all looked to Pat. He nodded.