his right mind would have speculated on that topic in an official document. Ever since the Freedom of Information Act had been gazetted, candour was not advisable in paperwork forming part of the permanent public record. Even the most innocuous remark made in dispatches could eventually be ferreted out by some snooping journalist or tireless special interest group, and end up splashed across the front page. Let that happen and you could kiss your preferment goodbye.
Not that there aren’t ways around these things. I found what I was looking for scribbled on a yellow Post-It sticker stuck inside the back cover of the file. The handwriting matched the signature on the preliminary report of the coroner’s chief investigator. ‘Police et al. concur most likely pilfering,’ it read. The boys on the scene, it appeared, had gone into a huddle, put two and two together and concluded that the deceased had been in the process of stuffing a piece of prime porterhouse up his jumper when the grim reaper tapped him on the shoulder.
Here at last was something. Not official, mark you, but potentially useful. If Lollicato and the Sun decided they wanted a martyr, they might try painting this Bayraktar joker as another Mother Teresa. But if I could get one of his coworkers inside the place to confirm his reputation as a tea leaf, I would be morally one up on Lollicato. Relatively speaking.
Much more to the point was how much mileage Lolly & Co. thought they could extract from the situation. That would depend on the attitude of the dead bloke’s workmates. That, and whether there was someone inside to do their stirring for them. And I wasn’t going to find that out by burying my nose in a pile of papers. I shuffled the pages together, downed the last dribble of whiskey, scratched my head, yawned, and got up for a pee.
How had Agnelli ever convinced me that the government might stand or fall on this particular piece of nonsense? Now I’d have to drive these useless papers back into town, go out and prowl around some butchery in the backblocks of Coolaroo, and waste an afternoon cooking up some bodgie report. The best part of a couple of days down the tubes. And for what? As if I didn’t have better things to do with my time.
Red’s feet were sticking out from underneath the covers, cold as iceblocks. As I tucked the quilt back in, he rolled suddenly, sat bolt upright, scratched his head fiercely and slumped back into unconsciousness.
By that stage bed was looking like as good a place as any. I climbed into the matrimonial cot with Understanding Family Law, A Practical Guide to Financial Planning and Court Procedure . Ten pages of legal prose later, I succumbed to the elemental drone of the rain on the tin roof above me and slipped into the dreamless sleep of the innocent.
Well, maybe not completely dreamless, or completely innocent. About 4 a.m. there was this cave and this sheepskin.
The Ministry for Industry was fourteen floors up an octagonal guano-textured megalith a block west of Parliament. I bunged the Renault into a basement slot stencilled Strictly Deputy Director, hit the fourteenth floor at a jog, and slapped the envelope on Charlene’s private secretary’s desk. I was back inside the lift, standing beside an anorexic youth in orange dreadlocks and green lycra shorts, when the half-closed doors gave a shudder and parted.
‘Morning Murray,’ said Agnelli, his palm flat against the call button. ‘What’s with the face? Gone ten rounds with a cheese grater? What’s Lionel Merricks going to think?’
‘He can think what he likes. I’ve never heard of him.’ I made no attempt to leave the lift. The doors quivered, fighting to close.
‘He’s the chairman of Pacific Pastoral and we’re expected in his office in three quarters of an hour. Didn’t you get my message?’
I remembered the phone slip in my top pocket. ‘What message?’
‘The one I’m giving you now. Meet me in the foyer of the Amalfi in half
Not that there aren’t ways around these things. I found what I was looking for scribbled on a yellow Post-It sticker stuck inside the back cover of the file. The handwriting matched the signature on the preliminary report of the coroner’s chief investigator. ‘Police et al. concur most likely pilfering,’ it read. The boys on the scene, it appeared, had gone into a huddle, put two and two together and concluded that the deceased had been in the process of stuffing a piece of prime porterhouse up his jumper when the grim reaper tapped him on the shoulder.
Here at last was something. Not official, mark you, but potentially useful. If Lollicato and the Sun decided they wanted a martyr, they might try painting this Bayraktar joker as another Mother Teresa. But if I could get one of his coworkers inside the place to confirm his reputation as a tea leaf, I would be morally one up on Lollicato. Relatively speaking.
Much more to the point was how much mileage Lolly & Co. thought they could extract from the situation. That would depend on the attitude of the dead bloke’s workmates. That, and whether there was someone inside to do their stirring for them. And I wasn’t going to find that out by burying my nose in a pile of papers. I shuffled the pages together, downed the last dribble of whiskey, scratched my head, yawned, and got up for a pee.
How had Agnelli ever convinced me that the government might stand or fall on this particular piece of nonsense? Now I’d have to drive these useless papers back into town, go out and prowl around some butchery in the backblocks of Coolaroo, and waste an afternoon cooking up some bodgie report. The best part of a couple of days down the tubes. And for what? As if I didn’t have better things to do with my time.
Red’s feet were sticking out from underneath the covers, cold as iceblocks. As I tucked the quilt back in, he rolled suddenly, sat bolt upright, scratched his head fiercely and slumped back into unconsciousness.
By that stage bed was looking like as good a place as any. I climbed into the matrimonial cot with Understanding Family Law, A Practical Guide to Financial Planning and Court Procedure . Ten pages of legal prose later, I succumbed to the elemental drone of the rain on the tin roof above me and slipped into the dreamless sleep of the innocent.
Well, maybe not completely dreamless, or completely innocent. About 4 a.m. there was this cave and this sheepskin.
The Ministry for Industry was fourteen floors up an octagonal guano-textured megalith a block west of Parliament. I bunged the Renault into a basement slot stencilled Strictly Deputy Director, hit the fourteenth floor at a jog, and slapped the envelope on Charlene’s private secretary’s desk. I was back inside the lift, standing beside an anorexic youth in orange dreadlocks and green lycra shorts, when the half-closed doors gave a shudder and parted.
‘Morning Murray,’ said Agnelli, his palm flat against the call button. ‘What’s with the face? Gone ten rounds with a cheese grater? What’s Lionel Merricks going to think?’
‘He can think what he likes. I’ve never heard of him.’ I made no attempt to leave the lift. The doors quivered, fighting to close.
‘He’s the chairman of Pacific Pastoral and we’re expected in his office in three quarters of an hour. Didn’t you get my message?’
I remembered the phone slip in my top pocket. ‘What message?’
‘The one I’m giving you now. Meet me in the foyer of the Amalfi in half
Similar Books
