The heavy metal door sighed shut behind them. Maria felt a tightening in her chest. Confined spaces did that to her. This grey metal box certainly qualified, the only sound the muted hum of air conditioning recycling stale air. It did little or nothing to moderate the stifling atmosphere.
Elizabeth Wilson had offered a firm handshake as they exchanged names outside the lift. She held on to her hand and her gaze, until Maria removed her hand and Ms Wilson looked away. After the invitation to call her Liz, nothing was said in the lift by her Australian contact, unless you count body language. Liz seemed unnecessarily close and Maria might have thought this an invasion of her space if Liz was not such a shrimp. Maria was used to her male colleagues accidentally on purpose pressing against her in the office and the lift. This was new. Short-person syndrome? Dyke?
Maria was in no mood to be nice, but she needed to get a read on a colleague who was going to be professionally close. What could a detective detect? Was the husky voice the sign of a throat condition, maybe from smoking or drinking, or was she economical with unnecessary niceties? Maria guessed in her late-thirties, maybe forty-something, it was hard to tell. A whippet of a woman short on chat, but that could be because she did not get a positive response. Short was the go. She had short black hair that might be dyed. She wore a short black jacket and, okay, long black trousers, white shirttail showing, solid but elevated black heels, minimum make-up, no rings, no earrings. If Maria had to describe her, she would say her small nose and small eyes were pretty enough, her small line of mouth was resolute, opening bat or netball midfielder.
Liz Wilson held out the remote and the wall in front of them slid open.
‘After you,’ she said, as Maria took in a wall of flickering monitors and the sound of busy fans inside computer boxes and overhead vents failing to recondition the recycled air. Her chest stayed tight. Yonks since she had an asthma attack. Great time to have one. Hand over mouth, suck in as much breath as possible, hold, let out slowly.
A figure was crouched over a grey desk that spanned the width of the room. It had to be all of 10 metres, and the space above hosted wall-to-wall monitors. The door whispered shut behind her, leaving her no choice but to advance into Mission Control at Houston, except that was chock full of engineers, scientists and military overseers.
‘Sarnie?’
‘Uh,’ the figure grunted. He was typing vigorously at a computer keyboard. The Dalek image on the back of his white T-shirt quivered, ready to act on the bubble message, ‘Exterminate Dr Who’. Maria never voluntarily engaged with sci-fi, preferring science fact, but it had been hard to avoid when her sister banged on through secondary school about science fiction being the cutting edge of literature.
‘Craig!’
The shoulders paused. The figure swivelled on his chair. A pasty-faced youth pushed a lock of blond hair off his face, blinking to refocus through Coke bottle lens that enlarged his already bulging eyeballs. Blood-red long shorts, matching red thongs, the only splash of colour in a room of unrelieved grey under bright strip lighting.
‘What?’
‘Craig Pottinger, meet our Kiwi colleague Maria Pick-o-why – if I’ve got that right.’
Craig continued to stare, as if they were the aquarium fish, and not him.
Maria took the initiative, stepping forward and holding out her hand. Craig frowned but offered a limp shake.
‘Hi,’ Maria said. ‘These the surveillance monitors for the hotel, right?’
Craig stared at her. Dumb question. What else would they be?
‘Craig is our techie.’
‘CCTV director.’
He speaks. His voice sounded like that of another four-eyed Pom, Michael Caine, so Cockney would be her guess.
‘Acronym for closed-circuit television,’ Liz explained. ‘Yes, Craig’s ironing out a few bugs. It’s a new system being trialled in some English town. Craig will tell you its name.’
Maria didn’t need names, she needed to know what the system was capable of. ‘Could you show us how it works?’
Craig sat up straight and possibly looked pleased. ‘Sure,’ he said, waving at two chairs in the corner. ‘Grab a seat.’
A buzzer sounded.
‘On the dot,’ Liz Wilson said, checking her only extravagance, a slender watch with gold hands and matching gold strap. ‘Our American observer.’
Craig’s hands in mid-air, a pianist poised to begin the concerto, as Ms Wilson disappeared through the sliding door. She returned, preceded by an excessively upright middle-aged man of middle height with a blocky build de-emphasised by a well-cut blue business suit. Add the way he puffed his chest out as you would to show off campaign medals and he had to be a serving soldier out of uniform, iron-grey hair cropped closer than a crew cut. No, an officer, Maria corrected herself.
‘Detective Sergeant Maria Pick-o-why,’ Liz Wilson said. ‘I’m sorry, I am not sure of your rank, Malone, ah …’
‘Malone’s dandy,’ he said, offering Maria a hand that crushed hers. An officer, perhaps, but not a gentleman. His face was blank as he extended his hand to Craig, who had picked up on his bully greeting and offered a few fingers and withdrew them as Malone clamped.
‘Okay,’ Malone said, accepting one out of two ain’t bad, nodding at the screens. ‘We got ‘em in colour now.’
‘Excuse me,’ Maria said, fed up already with his one-up games. ‘My sister is concerned about her friend missing.’
‘Is that my concern?’
She looked straight back at eyes with the same kind of blank, colourless glitter of the missing man her sister was worried about. The intense but empty macho stare. In her peripheral vision Ms Wilson was shifting towards her.
‘My sister has a witness to two men taking her friend forcibly. She thinks they were American.’
‘What’s your sister’s name?’
‘Mrs Pick-o-why,’ Liz said quickly. ‘This is not the time or place …’
‘It never is,’ Maria said. ‘My sister is Alice Delaney. Does that help?’
The glitter intensified, boring into her. ‘Uh huh,’ he said. ‘Could you excuse me.’
He wheeled about, snatching the remote from a startled Ms Wilson’s hand. ‘Be right back,’ he said, as the door shut.
‘Craig,’ she said. ‘Show us where he’s gone.’
Craig sprang at the keyboard, wiggled a small joystick while pointing at the far-left monitor, where the grey shape of Malone was striding away. Craig redirected at the lift as Malone entered, then followed its blinking light up to ground floor reception. Malone marched out in a beeline for the desk, a quick conversation then a parade-ground swivel towards two soldiers in uniform. Maria peered closer.
‘Oh God no!’ Liz Wilson gasped. ‘He’s not supposed to bring his goons with him.’
Military Police. Maria recognised them from the sentries at the American Embassy and the USIS office. Marines, not in dress uniform, not wearing those absurd white caps could accommodate several kilos of stone fruit, but the insignia on the khaki shirts, blue trousers with the red stripe, and the huge, holstered guns on the hip. They were undoing the holster flaps as they followed Malone to the lift. NSA would be her guess where Malone was employed. Not CIA, certainly not FBI, not conventional army, so most likely National Security.
Wilson leaned across her techie and lifted the mobile and punched in numbers. Maria was curious who she was ringing: police, military or the Australian internal security service ASIO? Wilson was turned away as she spoke in an urgent whisper. Maria’s guess was ASIO.
‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘Craig. Secure the doors.’
The techie got busy on his keyboard. Maria stepped closer to join Liz Wilson watching Malone jabbing at the remote. After the lift doors failed to open, he hurled the remote down the corridor and confronted his policemen.
‘Pity we don’t have sound,’ Liz said.
‘Give us a few more days,’ Craig suggested.
They watched Malone and his men leave the building on one monitor, as a tall man leaned into the monitor covering the lift, his bald patch gleaming, his face not visible from the overhead camera. He had a hand outstretched making a thumb’s-up gesture. Liz Wilson told Craig to release the doors.
‘You stay,’ she said to Maria. ‘You’ve caused enough trouble for one day.’
‘The American started it.’
Liz Wilson paused, without turning.
‘Kidnapping on Australian sovereign territory. That should give you some leverage.’
Liz did turn. ‘Craig will get you acquainted with the system. Leave the Americans to us. As you rightly observe, it is our territory.’
The door closed on her. ‘Okay, Craig. Can we see the conference room where my political boss is meeting his counterpart?’
‘No wuckin furries.’
He’d picked up on Aussie slang. She wanted to pick up on his background. It could be useful if things got frisky and she needed his cooperation. ‘Can I ask you a personal question?’
He shrugged. ‘Depends, dunnit?’
‘Why did she call you Sarnie? And what does it mean?’
‘Means a sandwich, yeah. I’m from Sandwich.’
‘You’re a Cockney, then?’
He grinned, revealing crooked teeth, sign of a childhood deprived of wire braces.
‘It’s a few country miles from the Bow Bells and way different dialect. You Kiwis wouldn’t want to be called Aussies, yeah?’
He was still grinning. She was warming to him. ‘Sorry, geography wasn’t my strong suit at school.’
‘No wuckers. A tech course at a poly was my ticket out of the dead lands of Kent. What’s your excuse?’
Maria’s turn to shrug. ‘My sister’s the brain box in our family. I did sport, until it did me. Sort of drifted into … public service.’
‘Sure you did. Want to do the vid tour?’
‘You bet,’ she said, pulling her chair closer. ‘Press my buttons – ah, your buttons. I like Sarnie.’
‘Groovy,’ he said, bending over his keyboard.
It was like watching a magician at work. He did his
prestidigitation on the keyboard and jiggled his joystick, bringing a screen image into close-up, in this case two cleaning ladies pushing a trolley loaded with vacuum cleaner, bucket, mops, dusters and rags and bottles of cleaning fluid. He zoomed in on the bottles, no doubt to show that he could, and she recognised Ajax, from the ‘No mess, Charlie’ ad. He went back to long shot of the cleaners moving down a corridor, pausing outside a door, then a segue to them entering a room, another camera behind them as they entered a bedroom. He was a kid with a hot new toy, like some of the guys with that video game of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
‘We don’t have every unit covered,’ he said. ‘Just the VIP ones, I suppose. They don’t tell me.’
‘It’s going to make our job a lot easier,’ Maria said, watching the image track out of the bedroom and shift to the view of the sitting room.
‘The Filth love it,’ he said. ‘Bournemouth is the first. They want CCTV in every town centre and trouble spot.’
‘It would have been useful here a few years ago.’
‘You mean the bomb set off outside the hotel? I must’ve been told about that a dozen times since I’ve been here. Like it’s a badge of terrorist honour. A cop and some hotel workers killed, right? You worried about a repeat?’ Sarnie leaned towards her. She didn’t react, he didn’t seem the pervy sort. ‘I’ve heard,’ he confided in a lowered voice, ‘the rumour it was this lot organised it.’
‘You mean ASIO? That was not proven in a court of law. They also fancied those chanting monks Ananda Marga for it, but that too was not proven. It’s not easy. Sometimes it is copycat, like a virus that spreads everywhere. We had our own bomber in little old New Zild. We still haven’t found who left the suitcase bomb killed a caretaker in Wellington last March. It’s thought to be politically motivated.’
‘Loony lefties, eh?’
‘Bombing a trade union office? More likely whacky right-wingers. Reckon television surveillance would have helped.’
‘We aim to please. Any requests, just ask.’
The desk phone rang. He picked up, waggled the handpiece. ‘Speaking of Wellington, you have a call.’ He put his hand over the speaker. ‘Sounds official. You can take it in the booth down the end.’ He pointed the mobile. ‘I’ll pop the latch. Totally secure. I couldn’t listen in if I wanted to.’
Maria walked around the curve of the room as a door clicked. She pulled the handle and discreet light flickered on in a cubicle the size of the Dr Who phone booth. She took a heaving breath and tried to forget the extra level of confinement. She sat down at the small desk and picked up the phone.
‘Pikowai?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, sitting up straight. Superintendent Grogan sounded if anything more severe than his usual stroppy self.
‘I am assured we can talk freely. Just as well our Mr Lange has taken a shine to you, or you’d be on the next plane – to Naseby.’
‘Naseby?’ she managed.
‘The epicentre of Central Otago. Apricots and abandoned gold mines. Lots of time to enjoy the sunsets.’
‘Sir, I can explain.’
‘I’ve seen the newspapers, Detective-Sergeant. Very becoming – if you are on a secluded nudist beach. Small mercy your face is not revealed. Let’s hope the damned Aussie media don’t match your, er, rear end to your face, at least not for a few days. Once our leader has his powwow with Hawke and they are out of Sydney, the media can do what they like. Meantime, you stay with your parents.’
‘Just a tick, sir, I …’
‘I want you in that hotel day and night until Mr Lange arrives. You will not gallivant around accusing Americans or anybody else of detaining your sister’s boyfriend. That is not your business. Am I clear?’
‘Yes, sir. What about my parents?’
‘Miss Wilson has spoken to them. They have been told that you are on assignment. They don’t need to know any details. They have been reminded they are still bound by the Official Secrets Act oath they swore when they joined the police. You stay with them, you do not confide in them, you do not leave the hotel, and above all else make damn sure the person you are sworn to protect comes to no harm. Do that and your Naseby reassignment can move to the No Action Required file.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I hope I can respond in kind.’
He hung up. Heavy in many ways, in body, in sarcasm, in career threats, and he parted his grease-flattened hair in the middle. She didn’t take it personally. His bark had proved worse than his bite, or there would have been consequences for what she regarded as showing initiative. It was helpful she was a woman and the new Lange Government’s Minister of Police was a woman and a match for the male hierarchy of the police, or she would probably have already been consigned to Naseby. If it had been up to the neanderthal Grogan, she would never have been hired, or any other female of the species. She might not necessarily obey the letter of his law. If the outcome was successful, she should be safe from reassignment.
First up, she wanted to know what the hell Malone was planning to do, how far he would go, and was it him who spirited away her sister’s egregious friend? The Americans might feel free to behave like this with their fascist regime buddies in South and Central America, but this was a Commonwealth country that owed allegiance to the Queen, not the American president.
She left the booth. Sarnie was back in his professional crouch. She told him she wanted his and Liz Wilson’s contact numbers.
‘Room 201,’ he said. ‘Second floor. I am here for the foreseeable. Pay’s good, one of those neat little room fridges full of all the piss – er, beer I care to drink. Reception will put you through to me. Your Aussie sheila I have no idea. She comes and goes without informing me. Thought you would know. I’m just a hired hand – two of them.’
He held up his hands, long fingers, what looked like a ruby or red glass ring on the left pinkie, the cuticle of that finger painted in triangles of red, green, and yellow. He saw her looking.
‘No significance. Just a bit of fun, right?’
He gave her a smirky look. She didn’t have to reciprocate with her bit of fun, the tattoo of a snake straddling her lower back. It was the result of a pub crawl up Cuba Street and a dare from her male drinking companions. Unfortunate, in hindsight. Sarnie along with most newspaper readers in Sydney and probably beyond were now familiar with the decoration she never expected to be a media sidebar. It was a wonder Grogan had not told her to get it removed.
Maria and Craig swung round as the door opened and the tall, stooped man from the reception monitor entered. Maria noted the natural tonsure reflecting the discreet overhead lighting. He was grey on the monitor, in person his baggy suit was beige, open white shirt. His beady, recessed eyes under a continuous line of black eyebrows, the only black hair he had left, were assessing them. The slow way he tracked from her to Craig was unsettling, the long, sharp nose adding to the effect of a bird of prey deciding where to strike.
‘Wilson,’ he said. ‘Could you see that our English colleague returns to his room. Mrs Pikowai, a pleasure to meet you. My name is Downing.’
She accepted his large, soft hand, grateful he was not gripping like the American Malone. He got another tick for being the first Aussie to pronounce her name correctly, and maybe the last, she was overdue to revert to Delaney.
‘Pleased to meet you, sir.’
‘Ted is fine,’ he said. ‘We Ockers are not big on formality. Let me introduce Perry Potz, my deputy and our in-house technophile.’
‘Sounds like the Point, spelled with a “z”,’ the deputy said sniffily, giving her hand a brief encounter.
‘German?’
‘No,’ he snapped. ‘Australian.’
‘Sorry,’ she said, regretting she had asked, swallowing the suggestion that his first name could be ‘like in Mason’. He was clearly not the joking type. She had assumed the same culture of banter among the Aussie cousins and she would have to adjust. Lots of foreigners in Australia. Land of immigrants. And no doubt a few Nazi types among them. He was a fit with short, blond hair, thin blond moustache, conservative charcoal grey suit and tie chevroned in the national sporting colours of green and yellow. She didn’t care for moustaches, spivvy ones least of all. Behind rimless oval lens his enlarged eyes had a bug-like intensity.
She tried a neutral question about whether he had worked with these cameras.
‘A breeze.’
‘And this,’ his boss said, ‘is our military liaison officer, Major John Coleman.’
‘Ex-major,’ he said, his khaki suit vaguely military. ‘Had to flag the rank when I joined the, um, civilian service.’ She was relieved his grip was gentle, he had the shoulders of a long-distance swimmer.
‘Last but not least our UK connection, Brian Portillo, whom you might know.’
‘My sister mentioned you,’ she said, trying not to look surprised.
‘Favourably, I trust,’ he drawled.
Did Ali know he was a spook masquerading as a journalist? While she was pondering this, men were wheeling in and manoeuvring chairs and several small desks.
‘Perry,’ Downing said. ‘Spread them in a semi-circle over by the secure room, would you. Facing me, yes?’
Potz directed the furniture carriers with brisk expertise. He obviously had his uses, though he came across as gay as a row of scout tents. Maria chided herself for being homophobic, even if there was a great deal of it about this town. Despite the famous gay parade, she thought it very much a male dominated culture, compared anyway to Wellington, where women were making their voices heard in the corridors of power. But Brian Portillo?
He was being attentive, holding out a chair for her. They assembled facing Downing in the tallest chair and leaning across the biggest little desk. He had tortoise shell half-moons for leafing through the contents of a manila folder Perry had extracted out of a slim, tan leather briefcase.
Removing the half-moons, Downing slowly surveyed his subjects. ‘We have decided to set up down here for the obvious reason. Minus for now any US representative, while we sort out boundaries. Perry, show us what you can do to find Miss Wilson and the Pongolian whizz kid.’
Perry fired his chair on castors across the grey linoleum. No carpet hairs to clog up the computers, Maria figured.
Pointing at the near right monitor, Perry zoomed in on Liz Wilson shutting the door of 201. She looked up at the camera and winked. So she did do jokey.
‘Well done, Potz. Yes, as you know, we are here to ensure the hotel hosts our two VIPs – WITHOUT A HITCH. Brian?’
Portillo lowered a half-raised hand. ‘This electronic gear from the mother country -- to prevent another CHOGM snafu?’
‘Regional CHOGM,’ Downing corrected, putting this Pom back in his place. ‘There were just the dozen Commonwealth leaders attended. But, yes, if we’d had CCTV at the time, we would have spotted who planted the explosive devices and it wouldn’t remain a cold case. This time we are taping every hour of the day and night for the next 48 hours and Perry will have a team monitoring and reviewing continuously the video cassettes. I trust that meets with your approval, Mr Portillo.’
‘Very efficient,’ Brian said insincerely in his best Pommie public school posh.
‘Potz!’ Downing snapped. ‘Bring up the conference room.’ Brian was now tapping a finger on his wristwatch. Winding Ted up, Maria thought, laughing at her pun.
‘Ah yes, the will reading,’ Downing said. ‘It may be of interest to you too, Mrs Pikowai, with your family involved. This can wait if you wish to attend.’
Maria wondered how much he knew about her family, and Portillo too. Probably everything. She winced at the thought of Ali being there and of how she might view her sister flirting so openly with her man, and Portillo too as her pretend colleague. Except she was not bloody flirting. Fuck all spooks. But she would have to face her sister eventually, and at least a law office was neutral ground. She should have an opportunity on the way there to fire a few questions at the devious Mr Portillo.
The opportunity did not arise. Portillo flung his noisy little sports car around the park and up on to Oxford Street like he was taking part in a street race. Having the hood down intensified the tooting of indignant drivers. Where was a traffic cop when required?
‘Not too late,’ he said, as he flicked his car into an impossibly small space between delivery trucks. He ignored the cursing of a trolley man balancing a washing machine as he swivelled into the narrowed egress caused by the sudden arrival of the sports car. Maria followed Portillo. If he was not worried about what could happen when the truck backed out, then why should she?
He took the narrow stairs beside a kebab house. Maria’s mouth gushed at the delirious aroma and moist sight of the beehive-sized glistening meat slab rotating slowly on the upright rotisserie wheel. A pita pocket full of lamb and hummus and peppers and shredded lettuce washed down with a jug of ice-cold Reschs Pilsener was the one advisory from her male colleagues she had promised herself. She powered up the stairs.
She left behind the street clamour, the angry tooting, the revving and the smell of diesel exhausts and the rich rot emanating from bins spilling discarded vegetables and fruit. They reached the light-deprived landing, Portillo silhouetted as he carefully opened a heavy door. She glanced at the gold-lettered panel, ‘Murray and Associates: Wills, Trusts and Estates’, before she joined him inside a small reception area whose dark varnished walls had seen better days. Behind a heavy oak desk was a large, stern-looking woman with grey hair pulled back in a bun giving them the once-over through thick lenses. Maria’s eyes were drawn to the unexpectedly frivolous butterfly frames reflecting red and blue from the glow of a tarnished banker’s lamp set beside an upright typewriter. Madame Butterfly put a finger to her lips and nodded at the door to one side.
Portillo was carefully opening it and Maria could hear the drone of a male voice. There was the same calm, quiet ambience of the little wooden chapel of Old St Pauls, popular for trendy Wellington funerals. Instead of pews there was a line of solid chairs so heavily stained with varnish and perhaps grime it was impossible to determine if they were mahogany or perhaps oak or even an Australian hardwood. Not exactly the most salubrious law office she had encountered.
The voice ceased as chairs creaked and scraped, the congregation turning to inspect the latecomers. Portillo was apologising to her parents, Matt and Mira, Michelle and Marty, a porky cleric patting at his neck with a stained handkerchief. In a tight three to the left two bald bruisers sandwiched a flashy little silver-haired cockatoo wearing baggy yellow silk threads. No sign of her sister, which was a relief but a puzzle too. What kept Ali from the will reading? She had to be at least as interested as the rest of them.
‘I was informing the assembly of the ground rules of a New South Wales will reading.’
Maria couldn’t see who was speaking in a nasal, excessively enthusiastic voice until a head appeared round the inside muscle man. He had the large eyes, wide mouth and slicked-down hair of the creepy ventriloquist’s dummy Maria had never forgotten in one of those tiresome British shorts that used to be inflicted on cinema patrons before the intermission. The main difference from the cinema dummy was that he was not white, not what they called then a ‘darkie’ for a Negro or perhaps here an Aboriginal, but Mediterranean dark. Was this some kind of variety performance?
Portillo was carrying two chairs into position beside the front row.
‘If I may begin again for the late arrivals’ benefit,’ the dummy gurgled. ‘I am Mr Arthur Murray’s associate, Mateo Mavros, solicitor. I have the valid will of the deceased, duly notorised by myself on behalf of Murray and Associates.’
‘Hey!’ the cockatoo yelled. ‘What about my lien or whatever it’s called? Don’t that take precedence?’
‘No, no, no, Mr O’Toole. I did tell you before I attempted to begin this formal reading that you must provide proof of a legal name-change.’
‘Fuck that, sport. I know my farkin rights. Frankuvich owes me big time.’
A large, bony tabby with one weeping eye had leapt on to the desk next to the solicitor and was hissing and growling in the cockatoo’s direction. The lawyer stroked the moggie’s battered head several times until it calmed down. A watch cat? It subsided into a curled and almost inert object on the desk.
‘My sole concern,’ Mateo Mavros insisted, his voice drying up. He paused and poured water from a glass jug on the desk. O’Toole was cursing and threatening in a muttered fashion that made it unclear what he was saying. Perhaps he did not want to provoke the alley cat.
Maria took in the filthy old sash window and lace curtains hosting old cobwebs and in dire need of a bleach wash. There was enough light to see that there were piles of briefs tipping over on the desk and many more in several carboard boxes to the side, next to a bookcase full of parched and dusty leather tomes. Either the firm was hopelessly disorganised and behind on its briefs or they had more clients than they could cope with.
‘My sole concern,’ Mavros repeated, ‘is to read the legal will I have before me and discharge my duty. Any person who is unhappy with this is free to leave.’
He waited. O’Toole growled for him to get on with it. The cat silently rose on all four legs, its silence more menacing than its growl as it stared at O’Toole. ‘Dickens,’ Mavros murmured, patting its head. Dickens stretched and arched its body, then folded itself back into an oval ornament.
‘I will now read the legal will of Ante Vukovich, of 65 Austin Terrace, Surry Hills, his last known address. I, Ante Vukovich, do solemnly swear in the presence of Mateo Matthias Mavros, solicitor, that I am in sound mind.
There was a crash of a chair hitting the wooden floor, O’Toole shouting ‘Fuck Ante Vukovich!’. Mira was being consoled by her husband and Maria’s parents and the priest were leaning towards her with words of sympathy, all eclipsed by the hissing, snarling hurricane that launched itself at O’Toole. It raked his face with its claws as he shrieked and flapped and got in the way of his bodyguards attempting to grab the cat. They collided and all three tumbled to the floor, the cat switching to savaging one of O’Toole’s ankles, blood already staining a lemon-coloured sock.
Mavros ended the mêlée by hauling Dickens off by his neck, asking to be excused as he exited the room. They could hear him giving instructions to his secretary. When he returned O’Toole was pushing away one of his minions dabbing at his ankle with a handkerchief, wagging his finger at Mavros and warning him in a voice thick with pain and outrage that there would be consequences, including a large rent rise.
As he limped out the door, his bodyguards were doing another round with the canine spitfire, the secretary squealing.
‘My apologies,’ Mavros said, shutting the door on the commotion of cursing and thumping retreating down the stairs. ‘My mother should be used to our street cat, but alas, she is not. She can handle tricky visitors, but not Dickens, not when he takes a set against somebody.’
The reading of the will proceeded with only one further interruption, the exclamations of astonishment when Michelle Miranda Chanel inherited Ante Vukovich’s half-share of his family’s New Zealand vineyard. Mira sagged against her husband, who looked thunderous. Her parents seemed as surprised as Maria was. The priest looked like he had swallowed a dead rat. Mavros was no doubt well used to frustrated relations at will readings, though a disappointed priest could not be typical. Priests, at least on paper, took a vow of poverty along with chastity and obedience. What a life.
Mavros calmly said he had received Ms Chanel’s birth certificate duly notorised. It was all legal and above board, he insisted. However, it was entirely up to Ms Chanel whether she made her birth certificate available for the scrutiny of others, given that it had been sequestered by the state until she reached, um, her majority. Excluding the beneficiary, the only upbeat audience were Marty Webber beaming and congratulating his smiling fiancée, and Brian Portillo chuckling.
Maria told him it was not really cause for amusement. He shrugged and pointed at the pudgy priest, who seemed distressed to the point of collapse. He explained between spluttering that the poor fellow was Father Benedict Larkin of St Brigid’s parish. St Brigid’s, he said, had expectations of inheriting the Frankuvich fortune, only to learn like O’Toole that this will was null and void as there was no such legal entity as Francis Xavier Frankuvich. Portillo said he could not help but note that the Catholic Church had no compunction about inheriting money generated by exploiting the abject misery of others. Maria picked him for C of E.
Matt leading a slumped Mira led the exodus. Her mother followed briskly after her, before Maria could hail her.
‘They’ll come round,’ her father said, his arm encircling her shoulders. ‘When they know the full story. Best leave it for now.’
Maria allowed herself to rest against her father’s embrace. ‘Thanks, dad,’ she managed, not trusting herself to say more. He squeezed her shoulder, said he had best get after them. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Thanks again.’
‘Always,’ he said, leaving.
‘I could have a word.’
She looked at Portillo, trying to gauge whether it was his generic cynicism, or the specific outcomes of the will and the vignette of thugs terrorised by the cat, he found so amusing.
‘It’s all been too much for your family,’ he said, hands out as if he really cared.
Marty was beside them, saying Michelle had paperwork with her lawyer.
‘You knew, didn’t you?’ Maria accused him.
He nodded. ‘No secrets with Michelle. She is amazing.’ Maria realised she was out of order accusing him. Michelle’s personal life was none of her business.
‘You should have seen the will,’ Marty said. ‘He left everything to Michelle until I came on the scene. He once propositioned my lovely, and in the most offensive way, the filthy bastard. Then he learned she was engaged to a kike – his word. He told her if she was going to marry a filthy Jew, she would get nothing from him. You would know better than me he inherited his Jew-hating fascism.’
‘I guess he got confused at the end,’ Brian Portillo said. ‘Am I Vukovich or Frankuvich?’
‘Didn’t know if he was Arthur or Martha,’ Marty said cheerily, then roared with laughter. ‘Not like me, eh?’ he said when he had recovered.
‘Too true, blue,’ Portillo said. ‘You know your Michelle from your average kosher slapper.’
Marty roared again, belting Portillo on the back. ‘You’re killing me,’ he spluttered.
When Marty excused himself to get back to his born-again heiress, Brian leaned close and said there was a development with Ali’s friend. Maria glared at him. ‘I only just heard before our Intel briefing,’ he protested, again the disingenuous open-palms and wide-eyes of the misunderstood innocent. ‘And then it was expedient to get you to the will reading, yes?’
He’d taken her sister for a sucker. Did he think he was also going to pull the wool over her eyes? ‘Go on then. What’s the breakthrough?’
‘The old actress who witnessed the abduction. We arranged an identikit. We think it’s those two gargoyles that are supposed to protect O’Toole.’
‘Against cats.’
‘You saw the hasty haircuts, emphasis on the cuts. We superimposed the American Marine coiffure. She was pretty sure. She is getting on a bit, but she is observant. Goes with the job. Or did when she had any work.’
‘What are you waiting for, then? Bring them in.’
‘Whoa! Whoa!’ He had his hands up. ‘Local procedures. They have to produce a warrant. The police handle these things here, unfortunately. It takes time.’
‘God help you if their brass are anything like our lot.’
‘I suspect they are a whole lot worse.’
She caught something in his voice. Not jokey anymore, that was for sure. ‘Is there something I’m missing?’
‘Hmm, maybe, maybe not. We – well, not me, but Ted organised surveillance on this O’Toole and his gorillas. There is some informal contact with certain elements in the police.’
Maria groaned. She knew from the files she had read about the New South Wales police, a thread of corruption which surfaced in the bombing of the Hilton. ‘I get it. Downing has to use police for the arrest. O’Toole could be tipped off by those coming to get him.’
He nodded. ‘You’ve reminded me of something. I’ll get you back to base.’
His rally driving reminded her of her boss. David Lange loved to drive fast and had entered races, once they managed to shoehorn his bulk into those skeletal racing cockpits. Both loved speed and risk-taking. She had no objection to either herself.
With the roof down there was no chance of conversation. Just as well. Her brain was as much in overdrive as Portillo’s car, flinging scenarios round as freely as Portillo hurtled his little sportscar into corners.
She didn’t believe much if anything Brian Portillo told her. She did not trust him as far as she could throw him. For all she knew he returned the compliment. She was not sure why he and Ted Downing wanted her at the will reading, apart from getting her out of the way, but not so far that he could not keep an eye on her. If they thought she cared about who inherited half the vineyard, they could think again. It was a minor matter compared to what lay ahead for her professionally. It was getting more complicated by the minute, and minutes would soon be all they had left if – and this was a problematic if -- her dear and glorious boss kept his appointment with Hawke.
Brian had a mad Toad of Toad Hall smile as he squealed the car around a bewildering sequence of concrete ramps. He jerked to a stop outside reception. Time to prepare for the worst, as her Police College lecturer advised.
Who could she trust? Nobody she worked with. Maybe Sarnie? He was okay, but she hardly knew him. He was a techie. He would not be into politics. There was only one person within range she could think of. Her father. He might be preoccupied with the family dilemma, but she was sure he would listen to her. Grogan need never know what she said to him. Her father was totally discreet, and he had worked for decades in the shadow world of spying and counter-spying. She needed his help. She couldn’t do this on her own.
It was impossible to think straight in this oven of a city. The air was absent, except for the wave of stale, chilly air conditioning that hit her on entering the Hilton. She tried to ignore the tightening in her chest as she pressed the lift button.