THE VICTORIAN CLUB where I was invited to lunch by Hewitt was forty-one stories above the city in the Rialto on Collins Street. It had a dizzying three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of Melbourne. There was a sweeping panorama of cranes atop glass and steel mountains. Looking down into the canyons you could see the fast dwindling number of old structures, such as stately St Paul’s Cathedral, and the rust-yellow, semi-baroque Flinders Street Station. The green gardens of South Yarra in the background gave a lift to the brown-grey river as it wound its way through ugly brown railway yards and development sites towards Port Phillip Bay.
The Club had changed its location in 1980 from a much less exalted building in Queens Street where the majority of its members were bookies. Some time ago, on a settlement night, the Club in Queens Street had been robbed of a huge day’s takings and the event became the subject of a TV drama, ‘The Great Bookie Robbery’. Many millions were stolen at gunpoint and it was the beginning of the end of the Club as it was then. Lawyers, stockbrokers, accountants and money managers with racing links then took the show upmarket and secured the lofty spot at the Rialto.
Hewitt seemed bemused by my approach. Apart from our meeting at the reunion, we couldn’t recall seeing each other since school days. Years ago when Hewitt had just a fledgling law firm, Benepharm lawyers under my direction had given him lower-echelon work that they were too busy to handle. There was once a problem with the registration of a drug in Germany, and another time a patent difficulty in France, and he was sent abroad to help out. But even that indirect contact had been a long time ago.
Hewitt could have been a wealthy undertaker in his dark grey suit, light tie and matching pocket handkerchief. He had a greying, full head of styled hair and the only facial concession to the years were fuller jowls. His expression was alert and his eyes darted and twinkled. He liked his life as a lawyer and knew everything about anyone who was somebody in the town.
We chatted about business, football, politics and the twenty years that had slipped away so fast. While I was anxious to engage him over my problem, I didn’t push it. In the course of our talk, Hewitt let drop the names of important clients, including big-name construction and mining companies.
‘I’m told you are the best criminal lawyer in town,’ I eventually said. ‘I’m interested in hiring you on what could be a criminal matter.’ That launched him into a recitation of drug runners and murderers he’d represented. He spoke now out of the corner of his mouth, the lifelong habit of a habitual punter used to receiving race tips from trainers and information on crims from informants.
‘You remember Jack Graham Hall?’ Hewitt said, working the corner overtime.
‘Yes,’ I said, as casually as possible, ‘the old school’s only convicted killer.’
‘Right. I represent him. He did thirteen years breaking rocks at Coburg High and now he’s a sales rep. He changed his name to Jim George Hilton.’ Hewitt giggled. ‘Kept the same initials so he wouldn’t have to throw out his monogrammed shirts and briefcase.’
‘What’s Coburg High?’ I asked.
‘Her Majesty’s Prison, Pentridge,’ Hewitt said, surprised I didn’t know.
I sat rigidly in my armchair in front of the ceiling-to-floor window, the only thing between me and the abyss below. For a long second I felt my nerve falter. What if Freddie May had murdered Martine? Even if there was one chance in a hundred I was being set up for that, it worried me. I hadn’t been able to reach Freddie by phone again and that bothered me too.
‘What do you know about Freddie May?’ I said.
‘What?!’ Hewitt said, ‘don’t talk to me about Freddie!’
‘Why?’
‘Didn’t you know?’
‘Know what?’
‘Freddie got mixed up in arms smuggling a few years back. I represented him. Got him off.’ Hewitt leaned forward. ‘He was guilty, but I found a technicality to do with exports from a company set up offshore. It was the only thing that saved him from three to five.’
‘So he’s not straight?’
‘Nar. He hasn’t got any business with you, has he?’
‘Not exactly.’ I told him my story. Like Ted Bayes, he listened without asking any questions.
‘Not a big deal,’ was his only comment. Then to my surprise he said with a boyish grin, ‘You were the one who put Condy’s Crystals in the St Cath’s pool, weren’t you?’
The incident had occurred more than two decades ago. My stunned expression caused Hewitt to laugh like a hyena, before he added, ‘They reckon the water changed colour so much that they had to drain the pool.’
I relaxed.
‘A kid named Tait was caned for it, I think,’ I said.
‘I remember there was a rumour that you’d done it, and that Tait had been set up,’ Hewitt said, ‘but I never believed it.’ He paused and then asked disarmingly, ‘You didn’t bump this French bird off, did you?’
‘No!’
‘It’s not something you’re going to confess to later?’ My blood pressure was rising.
‘No!’
Hewitt stared at me, his eyes darting.
‘Why do you ask?’ I said.
Hewitt drew breath and took a swig of his beer.
‘It’s useful to know the truth,’ he said, ‘but even if you’d done it I would represent you.’