4

IN THE morning, I quickly heaved the suitcase out from under my bed. I dragged it down the stairs and shoved it in the boot of the Mazda. Rather than drive to work, I went to the arse-end of West Footscray. There, in a self-storage place I’d googled the previous night, I chose a package offering two years’ access to what was really an oversized locker. I anointed a machine with my plastic card and picked up the key. The locker was a good fit for the case — a sign, I told myself, that the universe took a benign view of my doings — and I secured the lock. If some strange Loretta person was going to be staying with me and snooping around in my stuff, I could hardly leave the fund lying around.

With my sense of accomplishment set to ‘high’ and the storage key added to my bunch of house, car, and work keys, I strolled into WORMS at fifteen minutes past my usual time of ‘running late’.

Around midmorning, an alert I’d set up on my computer told me I had a meeting to go to. I shifted my status from ‘In’ to ‘Out’ on the staff activity board and made a note: Mtg with puke.

The board was a Fatima initiative, allowing her to keep track of her staff’s whereabouts. Mine, mainly. My previous boss had taken a laissez-faire attitude to my laissez-faire attitude to working hours. Not Fatima. She thought such things mattered, and I’d had to adjust my habits. So far, it wasn’t working. I’d actually received a written warning from her, which I’d filed under ‘F’ for folly. My wings would not be clipped.

Besides, my methods got results. On occasion. In a profession that could be a fruitless battle against the tide of human nature and imperfection, and in the knowledge that people often didn’t act in their own best interests (case in point: moi), any win should be regarded as a massive victory.

Marcus Pugh, minister for justice, and the state member of the Legislative Assembly for a safe seat in the leafy conservative east, waved at me as I entered Jar Jar Drinks, a café in Camberwell, at the appointed time. He was also glaring at me like I’d done something wrong.

‘Nice to see you too, Pukus.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Look, if you don’t like me,’ I said, ‘why did you want me to be on your team?’

‘Hardy, just because you offend and disappoint me on a regular basis, doesn’t mean that I don’t need your particular skill set from time to time.’

‘What skill set, exactly?’

He sighed in a formal register, a difficult feat. I imagined he must have practised it. ‘Well, you know people, that’s one thing. You have an ability to get into other people’s business, that’s another.’ He paused, there was something more to say, but he didn’t want to say it.

I grinned. ‘And …’

‘And … you seem not to care for your personal safety.’

I wasn’t expecting that. I thought he’d say I was an intrepid seeker of the truth, willing to stand up to bullies, whether they be bikies or men of means and influence. That I was an excellent investigator, who attacked complex networks of corruption head-on. But I supposed, in a roundabout way, he was saying that I was brave, so I let it stand.

‘Well, isn’t this a nice little love-in. Should we hug?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Be nice. You need my skill set.’ I picked up a menu. Eggs Benedict in a jar, noodle salad in a jar, trifle in a jar.

Marcus Pugh waved at the waiter, who arrived bearing two glasses of water. ‘Cappuccino and two of those friands. Hardy?’

‘Black tea, please.’

The waiter nodded and departed.

I smiled pleasantly and waited.

Pugh fiddled with his napkin. He pulled out his phone and put it facedown on the table. He sipped some water. ‘The inspection team will visit every Victorian prison and assess the way each operates — open access, nothing to be hidden. They will then report back to the department with recommendations.’

‘Who else is on the team?’

‘Topnotch people. Respected people. Retired lawyers, mates of mine. The right people for the job, you know.’

‘Right.’

‘Bloody prison activists have their blood pressure up. I’ve had to include social-justice propagandists, throw a little bone for the social-media jackals.’

‘It must be so trying, appeasing so many interest groups.’ Sympathy. I could fake it when necessary.

‘You have no idea. Anyway, as I mentioned to your esteemed new boss, I’m nominating you to join the delegation.’

‘Because of my skill set.’

‘Yes. And because …’ He looked about the café. One other man, a few tables over, was reading the paper. The radio played. He leaned across the table. ‘It will give you opportunities.’

‘Right.’

‘As you go about in your capacity as observer … you might … look into things.’

‘Things?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know, I’m not qualified for this kind of thing. Prison certification, or whatever, it’s a highly-specialised occupation. How am I going to assess it with no knowledge of what constitutes best practice?’

‘Who cares? You’re a bolshy do-gooder with a track record of stirring up trouble. You’ll fit right in.’

‘No one will suspect me of being your stooge.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ He mopped his sweaty forehead with the serviette.

‘Relax. You can trust me. I’m on board. This is about the death of Joe Phelan, isn’t it?’

He reared back, wobbling the table.

‘It’s on the news, Marcus. It’s not a secret.’

He recovered himself. ‘I know it’s not a secret …’ He glared at me. A new thought fluttered his eyelashes. ‘I need to know I can trust you. What I’m about to ask you … Well, this is all highly confidential, of course.’

‘Of course.’

He licked his lips. ‘Alright. The fact is, there’s been rumours about Athol Goldwater for some time. My office is concerned that some off-the-books enterprise — unauthorised, freelance, call it what you will, a side-line pecuniary activity — has been going on under the radar.’

‘Unregulated free-market capitalism gone astray? Say it isn’t so.’

‘Hardy, you really are the most dire of human tragedies. Making a profit from activities other than those set out in the prison contract contravenes the terms of the contract.’

‘Your department’s job, I would have thought — oversight of the contractor.’

‘Yes, yes. And we do. There is. We are. But that incident has added a layer of complexity to managing those concerns. Even though the matter, in and of itself, is a minor complication.’

‘Yes, his mother thinks it’s a minor complication, too.’

He ignored that. ‘Your brother is in there, am I correct?’

‘All going well, he gets out at the end of the year.’

He frowned. ‘Dangerous, is he?’

‘It’s minimum security, Marcus.’

‘Quite. And if you asked him to be discreet, would he be?’

The waiter brought over a cappuccino in a cup, and the fruity friands on a plate. And for me, apparently, a jar of hot water accompanied by a teabag, still in its paper envelope.

I unwrapped the teabag and jiggled it in the water. ‘I don’t know about being discreet, but Ben would be amenable. Especially if there was some kind of reward in it for him.’

Pugh grunted. No reward then.

‘Come on, Marcus old boy. What are they up to at Athol Goldwater?’

I watched his sad fat face fall even further as he dunked a friand in his coffee.

Poor old Puke. It pained him to talk about such things. Privatisation was the gold standard of neo-liberal ideology. It was meant to rain benefits down on us all. And instead, well. Secret rain fell on some, while others, the taxpayers in the state of Victoria for instance, were left with appalling contractual obligations and not a drop of rain.

I used a serviette as a pot-holder, raised the scalding jar to my lips, and sipped.

‘It’s a silly little fiddle, actually. One of the employees. We don’t know who.’ He frowned and ate the second friand. ‘If we go through our usual investigative channels, sooner or later, public will hear of it.’

‘And there’s an election coming.’

Pursed lips, dusted with sugar. ‘Indeed. What about a discreet word with your brother?’

‘Can’t do hints, he’s a nitwit.’

‘Look, just ask him if he knows of any prison employee taking extravagant holidays, or turning up with a new car, splashing extra cash, that sort of thing.’

‘Okey-dokey, how’s Friday?’ I’d checked my appointments, and Friday was the earliest I could get away from work.

He stared at me. ‘Well, that is excellent, Hardy. I must say I didn’t expect you to be so cooperative.’

‘I’m great at cooperating.’ And at finding ways to do annoying family business under the guise of work.

His phone vibrated, and he snatched it up. ‘Those fucking incompetent morons,’ he muttered and started tapping out a message with a single index finger. It was painful to watch. No wonder the young despised the older generation.

‘Have to go, Hardy. My office will be in touch before Friday with the paperwork. Think in terms of sudden windfall, living beyond one’s means. You get my meaning.’

He flung down a twenty, lurched himself upright, ricocheted between the tables, and went out.