gate when he said, ‘I’m just thinkin. Remember the bloke on the other side, Greek he was, tellin me one day he read where Ronnie dobbed in some hit-and-run bloke.’
I paused. ‘When was that?’
He spat on to the path. ‘Dunno.’
‘Was it while he was living here?’
‘Must’ve been. Bloke said he remembered Ronnie gettin in a car all smartened up. Then he read where he dobbed this other fella. That’s what the Greek said. Don’t get time to read the paper myself.’
‘That’s useful,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’
9
I went back to my office, made some black tea and sat in the client’s chair. Where was Ronnie Bishop now? Last seen tooling off in his Triumph, fresh from doing his civic duty in the matter of R. v. McKillop. And where was a policeman called Scullin, whose circle included the accused and the star witness?
Barry Tregear didn’t need to think about the name Scullin.
‘Martin Scullin. I know Scull,’ he said. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘No problem. He might be able to help me with something.’
‘You still farting around with that McKillop business?’
‘On and off.’
‘You’ve missed Scull today. By about six years. He took the package. Gone fishing.’
‘What about a number or an address?’
‘Big ask. I’ll have to talk to the man. What do you want to see him about?’
I thought for a moment. ‘Tell him it’s about an old dog of his, Danny McKillop.’
‘Where’d you get that?’ Tregear asked.
‘Widely known at the time.’
‘I’ll get back to you. Where are you?’
I gave him the number.
I gave the R. Bishops in the phone book a quick run-through. There were only two Ronalds and neither of them had ever lived in Morton Street. I rang an estate agent called Millie Vincent I’d had dealings with and asked her to check the Landlords’ database for Ronald Bishop. She rang back in twenty minutes.
‘They’ll drum me out of the trade for doing this,’ she said. ‘A Ronald Arthur Bishop rented a house in Prahran in 1984–85. Then a Perth agent ran a check on him for a property in Fremantle in late ’85.’
She gave me the name of the agent.
I got through to a man called Michael Brooke. He got the impression I was a fellow real estate agent and told me a Ronald Bishop had been the tenant of a house in Walpole Street, Fremantle. ‘Then he bought it at auction in, oh, ’86 or ’87. Paid a bit over the odds then but it’s turned out to be a smart buy. By the way, he calls himself Ronnie Burdett-Bishop now. Moved upmarket.’
R. A. Burdett-Bishop was in the Perth phonebook.
No-one answered at the first two attempts. The phone rang for a long time before a low-voiced male answered on the third try.
‘Could I speak to Ronnie, please,’ I said.
‘Who is that?’
‘An old acquaintance suggested I call him.’
There was a pause. ‘Ronnie’s in Melbourne.’
‘That’s where I’m calling from. Is there some way I can get in touch with him here?’
There was another pause. ‘Who did you say you were?’
‘My name’s Jack Irish,’ I said. ‘I’m a lawyer. You’ll find me in the Melbourne phone book.’ For some reason, this statement sometimes had a reassuring effect on people.
‘Well, I’d like to help you,’ the man said. ‘My name’s Charles Lee. I’m a friend of Ronnie’s. I’m keeping an eye on his house. No-one seems to know where Ronnie is at the moment…’
‘You don’t have a Melbourne address for him?’
‘Um, you could try his mother. Would you like her number?’
I wrote it down, said thanks and goodbye, then dialled it. No-one at home.
It’s nice that there’s a special occupation for the anal retentive. It’s called librarianship. The thin man with the silly little cornsilk moustache gave me a smile of pure dislike and went away. I was sitting at a table in the Age library on the fourth floor of the paper’s hideous building on Spencer Street. A message from Steve Phillips, the assistant editor, had preceded
I paused. ‘When was that?’
He spat on to the path. ‘Dunno.’
‘Was it while he was living here?’
‘Must’ve been. Bloke said he remembered Ronnie gettin in a car all smartened up. Then he read where he dobbed this other fella. That’s what the Greek said. Don’t get time to read the paper myself.’
‘That’s useful,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’
9
I went back to my office, made some black tea and sat in the client’s chair. Where was Ronnie Bishop now? Last seen tooling off in his Triumph, fresh from doing his civic duty in the matter of R. v. McKillop. And where was a policeman called Scullin, whose circle included the accused and the star witness?
Barry Tregear didn’t need to think about the name Scullin.
‘Martin Scullin. I know Scull,’ he said. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘No problem. He might be able to help me with something.’
‘You still farting around with that McKillop business?’
‘On and off.’
‘You’ve missed Scull today. By about six years. He took the package. Gone fishing.’
‘What about a number or an address?’
‘Big ask. I’ll have to talk to the man. What do you want to see him about?’
I thought for a moment. ‘Tell him it’s about an old dog of his, Danny McKillop.’
‘Where’d you get that?’ Tregear asked.
‘Widely known at the time.’
‘I’ll get back to you. Where are you?’
I gave him the number.
I gave the R. Bishops in the phone book a quick run-through. There were only two Ronalds and neither of them had ever lived in Morton Street. I rang an estate agent called Millie Vincent I’d had dealings with and asked her to check the Landlords’ database for Ronald Bishop. She rang back in twenty minutes.
‘They’ll drum me out of the trade for doing this,’ she said. ‘A Ronald Arthur Bishop rented a house in Prahran in 1984–85. Then a Perth agent ran a check on him for a property in Fremantle in late ’85.’
She gave me the name of the agent.
I got through to a man called Michael Brooke. He got the impression I was a fellow real estate agent and told me a Ronald Bishop had been the tenant of a house in Walpole Street, Fremantle. ‘Then he bought it at auction in, oh, ’86 or ’87. Paid a bit over the odds then but it’s turned out to be a smart buy. By the way, he calls himself Ronnie Burdett-Bishop now. Moved upmarket.’
R. A. Burdett-Bishop was in the Perth phonebook.
No-one answered at the first two attempts. The phone rang for a long time before a low-voiced male answered on the third try.
‘Could I speak to Ronnie, please,’ I said.
‘Who is that?’
‘An old acquaintance suggested I call him.’
There was a pause. ‘Ronnie’s in Melbourne.’
‘That’s where I’m calling from. Is there some way I can get in touch with him here?’
There was another pause. ‘Who did you say you were?’
‘My name’s Jack Irish,’ I said. ‘I’m a lawyer. You’ll find me in the Melbourne phone book.’ For some reason, this statement sometimes had a reassuring effect on people.
‘Well, I’d like to help you,’ the man said. ‘My name’s Charles Lee. I’m a friend of Ronnie’s. I’m keeping an eye on his house. No-one seems to know where Ronnie is at the moment…’
‘You don’t have a Melbourne address for him?’
‘Um, you could try his mother. Would you like her number?’
I wrote it down, said thanks and goodbye, then dialled it. No-one at home.
It’s nice that there’s a special occupation for the anal retentive. It’s called librarianship. The thin man with the silly little cornsilk moustache gave me a smile of pure dislike and went away. I was sitting at a table in the Age library on the fourth floor of the paper’s hideous building on Spencer Street. A message from Steve Phillips, the assistant editor, had preceded
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