Dead Point Part 35

'Bring a torch,' he said.

In the unlovable depths of Coolaroo, Cam was waiting for me at the gate of a car wrecker's yard. In the dark, in spotting rain, we walked down an avenue of car bodies. Hundreds of them, piled two and three high.

'Artie lives down the back,' said Cam. He was in biker gear: leather jacket, jeans, boots.

'Where is he?'

'Handcuffed to a Lada Niva. Hasn't been helpful.'

We went around a large shed that served as an office and set off down another pa.s.sage between wrecked vehicles.

'Don't they have dogs guarding these places?' I said.

'Should be halfway to Albury by now, the dog.'

I didn't ask what he meant.

'How'd you find Artie?'

'Lizard. Big help, Lizard. Given up the wood business. Just today. Gone home to New Zealand. Wouldn't know this shack was here.' He went through a gap in the wall of old twisted metal. In a clearing stood an ancient weatherboard cottage, sagging everywhere as if dropped from the air onto the site. On its verandah stood two bench seats from cars. Pieces of motorcycle covered the rest of the s.p.a.ce.

'In the Lizards together, Artie and Almeida and Lizard,' said Cam. 'Lizard reckons Artie's topped three people. Gets carried away.'

'That Lada strong enough?'

'Artie's tired. Engine block fell on his leg.'

'Don't tell me any more. I'm a respected suburban solicitor.'

Cam led the way through the front door of the house. We were a.s.sailed by the smell of burnt cooking oil and cat urine with a strong underlay of blocked toilet.

'Well,' said Cam, 'where'd you reckon he'd keep it? Tried all the usual places.'

'Appliances?'

'Only got a beer fridge.'

'With money, they're scared of fire.'

I went from room to disgusting room, shining my new truckstop torch over everything, unwilling to touch anything. The kitchen was the worst, cats lived there, dozens of them.

We went out the back door. Off the porch was a washhouse, the bottom of its door rotted away leaving jagged wooden teeth.

'Looked in there?' I said.

'Yup.'

The door was jammed. Cam opened it with a kick.

It was the cleanest room in the place, just an old concrete laundry sink, a boiler the size of a 400-pound bomb, and grey dust and cobwebs.

I shone the torch on the boiler, tentatively tried the fire door. It opened with a screech, ashes spilling out.

'Course it could be out there somewhere in a wreck,' said Cam. 'Probably is. Boot of some sc.r.a.p iron.'

I was looking at the boiler's fluepipe. The ceiling collar had come loose, tilted.

'Hold this.' I gave Cam the torch.

The top of the boiler was at shoulder height. I put both hands around the fluepipe just above where it entered the boiler and twisted.

It turned easily.

I lifted.

The fluepipe went up into the roof, its bottom end came out of the boiler.

I pushed it to one side, let it hang from the ceiling, stuck a hand into the hole in the boiler, found something to grip with my fingers, lifted.

The top of the boiler came off.

I dropped it into the sink, put my arm down the boiler, touched something wet, recoiled.

'What?' said Cam.

'Don't know.'

I reached in again, touched the thing.

Plastic, something plastic. Rain had come down the pipe.

I took hold, pulled. It was heavy. I got some of it out. Cam put the torch down, helped pull the rest out.

A heavy-duty garbage bag, grey, closed with a plastic tie.

Cam opened it. I held the torch.

'Sweet Jesus,' said Cam. 'My sweet lord.'

On the way out, down the dark avenue of dead machine bodies, Cam carrying the bag, he said, 'Artie's storin chemicals down the back. Thought I came for em.'

'As in?'

'Amphie cook.'

'That's punishable by law.'

'Law doesn't know. The big man says drop in for a drink. Good day's racin.'

We pa.s.sed through the gate. Cam put the bag in the boot of the streets.l.u.t. I read my notebook by torchlight, found the number.

Cam lounged against his vehicle, looking at me.

A woman answered, no name. I gave her mine. Barry Tregear came on.

'What now?' he said.

'Arranging your promotion,' I said. I gave him the directions. 'The shed on the back boundary,' I said. 'That's where the fun stuff is.'

'Never thought you'd end up my dog.'

'Also there's a bloke chained to a Lada Niva.'

'Cruel and unusual,' said Barry. 'Chained to an old Ford Prefect's bad enough.'

'Help's on the way,' I said to Cam.

I drove to Harry Strang's house in Parkville, got there just after Cam. Lyn Strang let us in, robustly s.e.xy as always, flesh an alluring shade of pink. She left us in the study, standing by the fire. Only the table lamps were on and I could see the flames reflected in the gla.s.s doors of the lower bookshelves. Charlie Taub bookshelves, made long before my time.

Harry came in, freshly shaved, hair oiled, brushed, a herringbone sports coat over a fine-checked shirt.

'Jack, Cam,' he said. 'On the little mudeater, Jack?'

'Handsomely,' I said. 'My creditors send their thanks.'

'Pleasure. Element of risk there. Bollie's in order, I reckon.'

Harry was looking at the canvas bag on the floor next to Cam.

'Brought your swag, I see,' he said. 'Always welcome to stay. Plenty of room.'

Cam picked up the bag and put it on the desk. He gestured to me to open it, long fingers, puffy tonight, the knuckles puffy.

I shook my head.

Cam unzipped the bag, opened it.

'Stuff,' he said.

Harry stepped over, looked. He put his hand in and took out a bundle of notes, fifties, put it back, eyes on Cam.

'Ours,' said Cam. 'And the Hales'.'

A smile grew on Harry's face. He looked like a teenager, a naughty teenager, discoverer of s.e.x.

'Well, b.u.g.g.e.r me,' he said, eyes going back and forth. 'Chance maybe I thought, coupla bright fellas like yerselves.'

He went to the door, opened it, turned back to look at us, left the room.

'Darlin,' we heard him shout, 'forget the Bollie, coupla bottles of the Krug.'

An inaudible response.

'And an emergency one,' shouted Harry. 'No knowin.'

He came back, closed the door. 'Violence,' he said. 'That wouldn't be involved.'

Cam looked at me, looked at Harry, brushed fingers across his lips. 'Not that you'd notice,' he said.

Krug singing in the veins, all fatigue and guilt banished by the tiny silver bubbles, I parked outside the boot factory.

Lights on upstairs. A moment of fright.

Linda's car parked in the shadows. She had a key. As my breath went out, my carefree mood returned.

She was on the sofa, lengthwise, watching television, drinking what was probably Campari and soda.

'This is what it comes to,' she said. 'The little woman at home, washing socks and waiting for the man to come home from drinking pots and pots of beer with the blokes at the pub.'

I took off my coat. 'Did that for a while. Went on to drinking Krug with a s.e.xy woman in a little black dress.'

'You b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Come closer.'

I came closer, stood over her.

She put out a hand, ran it over me. 'Just as I thought,' she said. 'You're still excited.'

I leaned down and undid the top b.u.t.ton of her shirt. 'No,' I said. 'This is a new excitement. I am capable of several excitements in the same evening.'

'Better d.a.m.n be,' she said as she pulled me down. 'I've got a newsagent waiting.'

'Butchers are meatier,' I said as I sank.

When the l.u.s.t was spent, we warmed the duck pies Linda had brought, sent them down with a Mill Hill shiraz. Mid-pie, Linda looked at her watch, found the remote control.

'News, got to have the news,' she said. 'News is my life.'

I said, 'I was taught it was rude to have s.e.x wearing your watch.'

'Not if it's on your wrist.' She blipped through channels, found what she wanted, a dollwoman speaking.

Six people have been found dead at a remote house on the Gippsland lakes. One of them is Susan Ayliss, a member of the panel that decided the multimillion-dollar Cannon Ridge ski resort and casino tender.

I saw Dead Point from above. Then the television helicopter went in low. I didn't want to watch.