When Tony Pascoe called Lightning Resources using the number listed in the White Pages, he got a surprise when Tremain took the call himself. The man’s voice was wary, and his breathing was audible. He sounded a little drunk, at two in the afternoon. Pascoe didn’t know anything about Tremain or his company, although Mark Hurley’s description was there in Tremain’s mouth-breathing and shaky voice. Pascoe didn’t waste any time. Without introducing himself, he told Tremain that he could help ‘with his problem’. Did Tremain want to meet in person?
There was a long silence. Finally, Tremain’s fear got the better of him. ‘If this is from Page or Gooch, I don’t need to be tested. I just need more time.’
Pascoe laughed. He’d soaked himself with oxygen. His voice was clear and firm. ‘No, mate. Page and Gooch are scum. They’re the problem, and I’m the solution. Now, do you want to meet?’
Tremain wanted to meet. At his office. Soon as possible.
Pascoe couldn’t wear the white overalls. Sarani led him into the room she shared with Sat Prakash. Pascoe didn’t know why he expected otherwise, but it was clean and uncluttered, all bare wood and white-painted surfaces, flowers on the dresser. Sarani didn’t want him to leave the house after his morning’s near miss, but he didn’t have a choice. She showed him the clothes in their cupboard, took out a white dinner jacket and put it against him. Pascoe shook his head and she laughed, passed him a clean white shirt and a light grey suit. Sat Prakash was tall and thin, like Pascoe, and the suit wouldn’t look too baggy on his old bones.
Pascoe checked his face in the rear-view a final time. There was no blood on his lips but he could taste it in his mouth. He climbed out of the van and slipped into the jacket, looked down at his polished boots. He wasn’t kidding anybody, but the clothes fitted well.
Tremain’s Subiaco office was on the ground floor, indicated by a cardboard insert in the postboxes by the entrance. Pascoe went inside and found the room at the end of a dingy corridor, knocked twice and entered. Again, he expected a secretary but there was only Tremain, who looked exactly like Pascoe remembered him, berated by Page and Gooch at Page’s restaurant those nights ago – short and nervy, hoops of sweat under his armpits, the room smelling of breath mints and cheap deodorant.
Pascoe braced himself for Tremain’s once-over. He’d put on his most assertive voice on the phone, and he carried it now in his posture, the look in his eyes. Tremain didn’t need to know that minutes ago Pascoe was sucking on an oxygen bottle, coughing into a tissue.
The office was a one-room affair with a window onto a brick-paved courtyard full of dead pot plants and cigarette butts. The furniture was cheap and mismatched. Tremain didn’t offer him a chair and so Pascoe continued his act, taking one for himself and carefully crossing his feet at the ankles, shooting his cuffs.
‘I’m glad that you could see me. I’m here to help.’
Tremain ran a hand across his scalp. ‘Did Frank Swann send you?’
The name was a jolt, knocked Pascoe off balance, but he showed nothing, instead gave Tremain the prison stare. ‘Yes. Is that a problem?’
Tremain gulped, fluttered his hands. ‘No, not at all. Of course not. I asked him to help, as you know. Are you an ex-copper?’
Pascoe smiled, kept the stare. ‘Yes.’
‘Then you know about Gooch. I’m assuming that –’
‘I know what Gooch is. That’s why I’m here. To brass tacks, then.’
‘Yes, of course. Of course.’
Pascoe leaned forward, lowered his voice. ‘I know all about your problem. I observed you at Page’s restaurant, the other night. Laying the groundwork, if you like. I have another client who’s being strongarmed by Page. So I’m going to make you an offer. An offer that works for you, me, and my other client. I’ll take care of Page, permanently, if you pay my client’s debt. It’s a significant debt, so I don’t expect an answer right away. Although, as you’ll appreciate …’
Pascoe leaned back in his chair, put up his hands.
Tremain looked stricken. ‘Permanently? What do you –’
Pascoe shook his head, eyes hard. ‘It’s a yes or no offer.’
‘How much is the debt?’
‘Near to two hundred K.’
Tremain put his head in his hands, thought better of it, reached into his pockets for his cigarettes.
‘Please don’t smoke.’
Pascoe’s voice belying the politeness of his words. Tremain pocketed the smokes, kept one in his fingers, unlit.
‘What about Gooch?’
‘Leave Gooch to me.’
Tremain’s eyes started watering, but it wasn’t tears. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. He blinked rapidly, put his face on his sleeve, a moment of respite from the bright day. ‘I expect you want cash.’
‘Yes. When the job is done.’
‘Do I give it to you, or Swann?’
‘Keep Swann out of this. Arms-length, you understand.’
‘Of course, of course.’
Tremain’s voice was very quiet. ‘Can I give it to you, in gold?’
Pascoe didn’t see that coming, had no ready answer. Gold was no good to him, or Mark Hurley, but he mightn’t have a choice. ‘If you can convince the man you’ll be paying, then I don’t care how you pay him.’
‘I’m not paying you?’
‘Arms-length.’
Tremain was in the bag, and both of them knew it. ‘You take half the money, or its substitute to the equal value, to Gus Riley, president of The Nongs Motorcycle Club. Clubhouse is in Bayswater. Say it’s a down payment on what Mark Hurley owes. You do that, I get to work.’
Tremain put the cigarette in his mouth, wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. ‘How do I get in contact with you?’
‘You don’t. Do you have a better number?’
Tremain laughed, but it was bitter, pointed to the cupboard. ‘My bed’s in there, rolled up. This is my best number.’
Pascoe felt a flush of nausea in his belly, the first stirring of his lungs. He stood, put out his hand. His peripheral vision began to blur as the oxygen leached from his blood, making his feet unsteady. If it happened now, it was all for nothing.
‘I’ll call you. Be ready. See myself out.’
Pascoe turned to the door, heard the hiss of a lighter. He reached the front garden when the convulsion hit, doubling him over. His lungs wrung themselves out, squeezing his heart. He coughed and spat and struggled to breathe, staggering to the van and the waiting bottle.