The hotel where Kevin Taggart had arranged to meet Dorin Chisca dated back to the fifties and smelt of stale yeast and fried food. It was an ugly, red brick building, located on a corner. A chalkboard out the front advertised two steaks for the price of one on Tuesday nights.
Kevin sat on a barstool. He had one foot on the timber rung, the other on the floor. He gulped down a mouthful of beer and raised his eyes to the wide, flat screen television above the bar. Australia was playing Sri Lanka at the Adelaide Oval. The Australians were batting and there was an occasional roar from the crowd when a batsman scored a run.
The early lunchtime crowd looked like they had been here since breakfast – pokie-playing pensioners, most of them.
‘You reckon Sri Lanka’s gonna win this match?’ one of the drinkers called out.
Kevin turned around to face him. ‘Not a bloody chance, mate.’
Dorin Chisca was fifteen minutes late according to the clock on the far wall. Kevin was hungry. He’d overslept this morning and had missed his breakfast. He studied the blackboard menu and tried to decide between the nachos or the steak sandwich with fat chips.
‘What’ll it be today then, lovey?’
‘Hello, Sheryl.’
The barmaid’s fleshy mouth twitched. ‘The Thai fish cakes are nice if you can’t make up your mind.’
Kevin leaned forward on the stool and drummed the bar with his knuckles. ‘Make it the usual. I can’t go past your steak sandwich.’ Sheryl mumbled something under her breath on her way back to the kitchen.
‘Mr Taggart?’
Kevin spun around. The man placed his hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t get up, no need. My name is Nicolae Vladu. I am associate of Mr Chisca. He has asked me to meet you because he has other business.’
The bartender walked up to them. ‘What can I get you, mate?’ He wiped the bar without making eye contact.
Vladu ordered an orange juice.
Kevin pointed to the blackboard. ‘They do a great steak sandwich and chips if you’re hungry.’
‘It is too early to eat.’ Vladu looked around the bar. ‘This place is good. I can see everyone is minding their business.’
‘How long you been in Australia then, Nicolae?’ Kevin swallowed the last of his beer and put his glass on the counter cloth.
‘We are not here to socialise. We have business to discuss.’
Kevin cleared his throat. ‘Well, down to business it is. So, then, Mr Chisca wants to buy North Coast Summers, does he?’
‘Yes and here is what you will do. Tell the Dunworth Gallery you wish to withdraw the painting from sale. Mr Chisca will pay you good price, cash, without middleman. Everyone will be winners.’
‘Winners. I like the sound of that.’ Kevin rubbed his hands together and thought of the hefty commission he would save by not selling his painting through the Dunworth.
Kevin’s meal arrived. He walked to the end of the bar and picked up a large plastic tomato sauce bottle from a long table. He returned to his bar stool and oozed the thick sauce over the chips. ‘I’ll speak to them at the gallery. I’ll make up some excuse.’ He licked up a drip of sauce from the side of his hand.
‘Good, it is agreed then. Mr Chisca has a warehouse in Chatswood. I will meet you there when you have the painting.’ Nicolae looked over at the remainder of Kevin’s meal and winced.
‘And the other matter?’ Kevin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Vladu reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a small package. ‘With Mr Chisca’s compliments, a sign of good faith, you understand.’
Kevin took the package and tucked it into his trouser pocket. He was trying to think up a suitable biblical quotation, but there wasn’t much reference to drugs in the bible.
‘Sure you wouldn’t like a chip, Nicolae?’
Vladu looked at the spot of tomato sauce on Kevin’s chin and left.
Jill hadn’t slept well; she had tossed and turned most of the night. Col Morrissey’s revelation about her father had shocked her. She thought back to when her father was still alive. There was nothing about his behaviour that had been odd or surprising but she realised it was unlikely she would have known if anything had been troubling him. Mickey Brennan never discussed his work with her, except if something amusing had happened at the station, or if there was a moral lesson to be learnt from one of the cases he was working on.
She tapped her computer keyboard and checked her emails. She was expecting the shipment of Byron Willis paintings to arrive early this morning but the transport company had phoned to say they were running behind schedule. Their van wouldn’t arrive until around eleven-thirty. Bea had given her a list of names for the invitations and she still had to go through and check the addresses.
Before starting on the list, Jill removed the SIM card from her phone and replaced it with the card she’d found in Freddie’s office. She entered the names from Freddie’s contact list onto a spreadsheet. After almost five minutes of typing, she came across a name she recognised. Kevin Taggart. She bit down on her lip. With Freddie missing, she wondered if Rimis was right about him, but she dismissed the idea. Kevin Taggart a murderer? Ridiculous.
She ran her eye down the list. There was Calida, her sister, listed under C, Dorin Chisca, under D, and the usual personal services – her hairdresser, dentist, doctor. Peter Watkins was there under W. She remembered meeting him at the Archibald. He was the director of a gallery in Mosman and they had talked for some time about post-impressionism techniques. None of the other names meant anything to her.
The removalist van finally arrived and she took delivery of the paintings without incident. She grabbed a bottle of spring water from the kitchen fridge and typed Freddie’s address into her phone. She was about to lock up when Kevin pulled up outside the gallery. She watched him park his small, yellow Nissan sedan neatly by the kerb. He walked in without saying a word.
‘I’ve been phoning you, Kevin. Didn’t you get my messages?’
‘I’ve been busy. What did you want? You haven’t sold North Coast Summers have you?’
‘No, it’s not about your painting.’
He looked at her. ‘Well, what did you want to talk to me about?’
‘I wanted to know if you’ve seen Freddie Winfred?’
‘Freddie? I haven’t seen or heard from her since I met her at the Archibald. I’ve rung her a few times, but all I got was her answering machine. She told me she knew some people who were interested in buying my paintings. I even went around to her gallery, but she wasn’t there.’
Jill stared past him and looked out at the traffic on the street.
‘Why are you asking?’
‘I wanted to speak to her about the exhibition she’s got coming up – nothing important.’
Kevin cleared his throat. ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you.’
‘What is it?’
‘North Coast Summers. I want to keep it for sentimental reasons. I don’t want to sell it.’
‘You sure? I had a cashed up buyer looking at it this morning and I think he’s going to buy it.’
‘It’s not for sale at any price. I’ve made up my mind.’
‘I’ll have to check with Bea.’ Jill walked to her office and closed the door behind her. A few minutes later, she walked back into the exhibition room.
‘Do you want me to bubble wrap it for you?’
Jill stood and watched Kevin drive off and wondered why he had changed his mind about selling the painting. Sentimental reasons? Not likely.