We went downstairs and like a well brought up young person he took his coffee mug with him and rinsed it. I gave him the stuff I’d taken off the Net about Homebush and the material Smith had left. He wasn’t impressed. ‘I’m sure I could come up with more than this.’
‘Later. Here’s a key to the house and the number here and at the office and of the mobile. You can leave messages on all three so stay in touch.’
‘You’re sure you’re not fobbing me off with some bullshit job while you do the real work?’
‘No. And keep an eye out for Megan French.’
‘How’ll I know her?’
‘She’s tall and dark, bit beaky-nosed and she can do a four-metre long-jump in hiking boots.’
‘Your daughter in other words.’
‘Your sister, maybe. And don’t mention me, of course.’
15
I located Dr Macleod’s number in the phone book, rang him and got a male secretary. I stated my business in very general terms and secured an appointment to see the good doctor at 3 pm. That gave me some time to fill in so I took my Smith amp; Wesson. 38 apart and cleaned and oiled it. I hadn’t fired it in a long time and wasn’t anxious to again, but Talbot, a drug-user and violence-prone, sounded dangerous and I had a feeling I was getting closer to him. The. 38’s not a heavy gun, and it sat snugly in a lightweight holster under my left armpit, easily concealed by any kind of loose fitting jacket. I’ve found though, that I tend to move differently when wearing a gun, stand, sit and walk differently, so I strapped it on and kept it there to get used to the feeling while I ate a sandwich and a couple of bananas and drank a cup of caffeinated coffee.
It didn’t surprise me to find my friend and medical adviser, Dr Ian Sangster, smoking and drinking black coffee in his break from surgery at 1 pm. What did surprise me was that he was smoking a filter cigarette and the coffee packet beside his percolator had the word ‘decaffeinated’ printed on it. Sangster was noted for his complete refusal to follow what he called ‘medical correctness’. He ate fast food, smoked, drank a lot, imbibed a dozen cups of coffee every day and didn’t exercise. He looked permanently exhausted but had boundless energy. I tapped the packet.
‘What’s this, Ian? My faith in you is in danger of shattering.’
He took a deep drag on the cigarette and butted it. ‘Don’t worry. It’s only for six months. I’m giving medical correctness a trial. I’ll go in for tests and see if there’s any bloody difference in anything. You’d have been more astonished if you’d seen me at six this morning.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Walking. For half an hour.’
‘Mm. I think medical correctness’d advise cutting out the fags altogether. What about the grog?’
‘White wine only.’
‘How much?’
‘Stuff you. To what do I owe the pleasure?’ He lit another filter and made a face as he tasted the smoke. ‘I’ve got a clinic in half an hour, less if they’re scratching at the door.’
This would be the free-as-air session Ian lays on for the indigent of Glebe, of whom, despite the rents, rates and mortgages, there are still quite a few tucked away here and there. I poured myself a cup of coffee and tasted it. It wasn’t bad and it reminded me that I hadn’t said anything about food to Geoff. No doubt he’d make his own arrangements.
‘I’m interested in a colleague of yours, Ian. Dr Bruce Macleod. In Flemington. Know anything about him?’
One of Ian’s activities, along with drinking, smoking and eating like Elvis Presley, is his membership of innumerable medical bodies – discussion groups, tribunals, policy framing committees. Network should be his middle name. He shook his head and sucked in more smoke which came out in little gusts as he spoke. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells. Can you leave it with me?’
‘Not for long. I’ve got an appointment with him in a couple of hours.’
‘I’ll make some calls and get you on your mobile if anything turns up.’
I strolled back home wondering if Geoff had left yet. When I’d gone off to see Ian he’d been still at the computer fiddling with something I didn’t bother asking about, figuring I wouldn’t understand it anyway. I caught him as he was getting into his car.
‘Just going,’ he said.
‘Need petrol money or anything like that?’
He shook his head and drove off.
To Melburnians Flemington signifies racehorses, to Sydneysiders it means a fruit and vegetable market. It’s about the only example I can think of where Melbourne sounds more exciting than Sydney. I was struck by the proximity of Flemington to Homebush, the basic area of operations in this case. What had I told Geoff? That I had a feeling there was a connection of some kind at work here. But experience has taught me not to trust intuition any more than halfway. This could be sheer coincidence.
I was early and I sat in the car waiting for a call from Ian. It came, breaking in on a fantasy I was having about what might follow if Megan French was my daughter. I saw us on Maroubra beach where I’d spent nine-tenths of my time when I was young.
‘Ian?’
‘You’re anxious and I have to be quick. How this bloke’s kept his licence to practise is a tribute to the incompetence of the legal system. Talk about negligence suits. Someone should write to Evan Whitton about it.’
‘Dodgy?’
‘Decidedly. A slave to the health funds, a collaborator with plastic surgeons, a pill pusher, a quack for hire. Doesn’t do much hands-on doctoring and what he does he botches. What’s he up to now?’
‘I’m after a low-life who’s got a problem with a crippled leg, impotence and at a guess psychotic tendencies. Plus a history of drug use and violence.’
‘Just exactly Macleod’s sort of patient. He’s probably supplying him with heroin and helping him with his worker’s compensation or welfare fiddle in return for a cut.’
‘So he’s unlikely to supply me with information about one of his patients?’
‘Not at all. It’d depend on how much you were willing to pay him.’
‘And what sort of a bloke is Macleod himself? Tough?’
‘No. Obese, I’m told. A butterball. But he’s got some nasty types on the payroll, according to my source. Watch yourself, Cliff. You can only break certain bones in the human body so many times.’
It was my day for visiting clinics. Dr Macleod’s setup went under the name of the Macleod Medical Clinic, according to the brass plate on the gate that gave pedestrian access. This was beside a driveway, also gated, and set into a high brick fence surrounding a half-acre block that commanded a good view across to the vast sprawl of Rookwood cemetery. The brass plate also listed Dr Macleod’s various degrees and diplomas. It was hard to guess from some of the initials exactly what medical fields they covered – and the institutions that had awarded them weren’t mentioned.
For me, I was dressed formally. Not the suit, but I’d exchanged my usual casual jacket for a blazer, my jeans for a pair of charcoal slacks and I had on a clean blue button-down shirt and black slip-ons. No tie. I fancied I looked the part of an energetic semi-professional pursuing his lawful occupation. The gun under my arm was licensed after all, even if the one held on a clip under the dashboard of the Falcon wasn’t and the lock picks attached to my key ring would cause any alert policeman to take them from me, put me behind some bars and see how I got on from there.
The wall was two metres high with a strand or two of razor wire on top. Top security. Maybe the doctor collected Old Masters. I pressed the intercom buzzer beside the gate, got a recorded message and stated my business. There was a humming noise and the gate clicked open. Inside I noted grass and cement in about equal amounts; a well-tended native garden with seats and benches. It looked as if the doc liked his patients to sit in the sunshine while they waited for him – or while they wrote out their cheques afterwards. I realised that I was making judgements on the basis of Ian Sangster’s information. Why not?