The Brush-Off (26 page)

But I'd taken tea with this man, eaten one of his ginger-nut snaps. Not to have picked him up out of the dirt would have felt like a calculated act of disrespect. Of myself as much as of him. Besides which, the river was beginning to rise. Rain-pitted water was inching towards the body. The cause of his death was patently obvious, written in the clearly visible trajectory of his fall down the riverbank. I stood for a moment looking down at the second wet body I had seen in as many days. Then I draped the coat over Aubrey and carried him up to the house. I think the coat weighed more.

‘What you told me yesterday,' I asked, as we trudged together through the smell of wet earth and the drumming of rain on leaves. ‘What was true and what was lies? And what did you talk about with Phillip Veale?' But Giles Aubrey made no answer.

If moving the body was a problem, nobody told me. Nobody told me much at all, really. I'd only just finished laying Aubrey out on his bed when the ambulance arrived. The two-man crew ignored the rain which had eased to a steaming drizzle. I didn't really know the man, I explained. My son had found the body.

‘These old people,' said the driver, not unsympathetically. ‘They do insist on living alone.'

The label on a bottle of pills on the bedside table bore the name of a local doctor known to the paramedics. She was phoned and agreed to come immediately. She would, I was told, sign as to cause of death. A nearby undertaker was also called. Procedures were in motion. Red and I were superfluous. We'd walked halfway back to the Charade before I realised that they hadn't even asked my name.

Our drive back into town was subdued. My attention was focused on Sunday drivers, poor visibility and slippery roads. ‘You handled that well,' I told Red. ‘Not many kids your age have seen a dead body. How do you feel?'

He fiddled with the radio, unfussed, immortal. ‘Life's a bitch,' he said. ‘Then you die.' The catchphrase in my mind remained unspoken. ‘Did he jump? Or was he pushed?'

We made it to the movies, after all. Not
Die Hard
but
Moonwalker
. First we ate cheap Chinese, then we sat side by side in the dark and watched Michael Jackson scratch his crotch for ninety minutes. My mind floated free, searching for a thread to cling to in the maze of possibilities, to bind the fragments of fact and conjecture together.

Marcus Taylor makes a minor scene at the Centre for Modern Art. What were his words? ‘This edifice is built on a lie.' Six hours later, he's dead. A note found in his pocket raves about corrupt hands on the levers of power. ‘You do not know what you are buying.' A picture vanishes from his studio.

Salina Fleet, my lucky break turned sour. She claims to be Taylor's lover and blames herself for his suicide. Then she plays down the relationship and accepts without surprise the proposition that his death was accidental. Volunteering the information that she was selling his ‘appropriations' and demanding protection, she realises she's said more than she should and clams up. Then she flees in fear. Not from me. Her bag was half-packed before I arrived. From Spider Webb.

Spider, me old mate. The hot-shot bodyguard warning me off. Off what? The sixty thousand dollar question. Or the six hundred thousand dollar question? The common link between Salina and Spider—Taylor's vanished painting,
Our
Home
Mark 2. And Lloyd Eastlake? Where did he come in to the picture? Or didn't he? And Giles Aubrey, with his incredible tale of undetected fakery. Was he, literally, the fall guy?

By the time Michael Jackson transmogrified into a flying saucer and went into orbit, I knew one thing for sure. It was something I'd known before we came into the theatre. As long as Red was in town, as long as there was the slightest chance that Spider Webb's implicit threat was real, the only business I'd be minding was my own.

Back outside on the street, the drizzle had stopped and the cloud ceiling had lifted. ‘Look,' said Red, pointing upwards. ‘Michael Jackson.'

I looked where he was pointing, to where the moon glowed like a candle behind a paper screen. It hung low in the sky, immediately above the towering steel skeleton of the Karlcraft Centre. ‘This edifice is built on a lie,' I heard Marcus Taylor saying.

‘Tricked ya,' crowed Red. As we crossed the street to the car, I reached out and took his hand. He wasn't such a big boy that he wouldn't let me hold it.

My new desk was real wood. My new chair had adjustable lumbar support. The new morning was washed clean from the night's rain. The outlook for Monday was a mild, blue-skyed twenty-eight degrees. My shoes were shined and just enough phone-message slips had accumulated to confirm that I was a man worth knowing.

But turning up at 8.45 a.m. on my first official day at my new job with a pair of ten-year-olds in tow was hardly the ideal way to strike fear into the hearts of the Arts Ministry pen-pushers.

Red was with me because his flight back to Sydney didn't leave until 9.20 that evening and, for a few hours at least, our quality time had to take a back seat to my day job. Tarquin Curnow came along because of a deal I'd cut with Faye and Leo the night before.

The predicament we faced that morning was a common one for the time of year. All over town, parental noses were due back at the grindstone. But the school term had not yet resumed. For another week, mothers and fathers would be forced to improvise child-care arrangements. Fortunately, Leo was employed at the university, a place where the concept of work is still pending definition. We agreed that if he could slip away at lunchtime and mind the boys for the afternoon, I would keep them occupied for the morning. Exactly how, I wasn't sure.

‘You two can play computer games on my Macintosh,' said Trish, who'd already set up Checkpoint Charlie at Agnelli's door. ‘Just keep the noise down and don't get in my way.' Trish was still adopting a wait-and-see attitude towards me, but she'd had a soft spot for Red ever since he was a baby.

The cool change had made it possible to sleep comfortably for the first time in a week. And I hadn't wasted the opportunity by dreaming of Spider Webb. One of the first lessons you learn in a political party is patience, to defer to
force majeure
, keep your powder dry and bide your time. I'd decided to bide mine until precisely 9.30 that evening, the moment at which Red's plane would be airborne and cruising north at an altitude of 10,000 metres and a speed of 500 knots. As of then, and not before, Spider Webb and the mystery of the missing painting would be at the top of my agenda.

In the meantime, while the boys sat in a corner of the ministerial reception area defending the galaxy from space invaders, I had a different fish to fry.

But first I had to catch it. Since my original idea of putting Angelo Agnelli and Max Karlin together and monitoring developments had proved abortive, the time had come to start asking direct questions about my boss's move into the world of campaign finance. I went to my new desk, picked up my new telephone and rang Duncan Keogh at party headquarters. ‘Murray Whelan here, Duncan,' I said. ‘Calling from Angelo Agnelli's office.'

That was as far as I got. ‘Jesus,' cut in Keogh, irritably. ‘Every man and his dog in on it now, are they? Tell Agnelli not to be so damn impatient. A day or so isn't going to make any difference. If we withdraw the term deposits before maturity there'll be penalties. As to the cash account balance of '—he shuffled some papers around—‘of $207,860, that was invested in Obelisk Trust on Friday afternoon, just as Angelo instructed. Tell him he'll have to be satisfied with that for the time being.'

My new chair was ergonomically correct, but that didn't stop me nearly falling out of it. In itself, the idea of getting a better rate of return on party savings was a good idea. Dickhead Duncan should have done it himself, months ago. And if Obelisk paid the best rate, so much the better. Keep it in the family. But a 6 per cent boost in interest wouldn't fill the coffers to the extent Angelo had been talking about. If he was moving this fast on basic housekeeping matters, what was he doing on the door-knocking front? What favours was he offering where the big donations were to be found?

As I struggled to digest what Keogh had just told me, Agnelli himself appeared at my door. He pulled his cuff back and tapped the face of his wristwatch. ‘Veale's briefing,' he mouthed. ‘Coming?'

‘Angelo's here with me now,' I said down the phone. ‘I'm sure he appreciates your efficiency.' Abruptly hanging up, I made a face like a man who'd just disposed of a nuisance. Agnelli, leading off in the direction of the conference room, showed no interest in who I'd been talking to.

The Briefing-of-the-Incoming-Minister ceremony was a text-book exercise. Veale and a brace of deputy directors laid bare the ministry's policies, resources and processes in a professional and lucid manner. Agnelli nodded sagely throughout. I took notes. ‘Any questions?' said Veale, after an hour.

The question I most wanted to ask Veale remained unasked. The mystery of Giles Aubrey's phone call would have to wait for a more appropriate occasion. I asked a few little ones instead, just to show I was on the ball. About the Library Services Review Working Party and the International Festival Economic Impact Task Force. About the advisory panels that recommended grants. I picked one at random. ‘The Visual Arts Advisory Panel, say. What's the procedure governing selection and appointment of members?'

‘Individuals with expertise are nominated by the panel chairperson.' One of Veale's deputies answered for him. ‘Subject to the minister's approval, of course.'

Which would be given without a second thought. No minister had the time or inclination to vet the membership of the hundred and one committees needed to keep a healthy bureaucracy ticking over. He or she was guided by the judgment of the relevant chairperson. In this case, Lloyd Eastlake.

That about wrapped up the briefing. Ange took me into his office and spread a copy of the tabloid
Sun
across his desk. ‘Seen this?' he demanded.

I'd scanned the newspapers over breakfast and found nothing about the floater in the moat. For one dreadful moment I thought I'd missed something, that Agnelli was about to bore it up me for dereliction of duty. But he had the paper open at a section I never bothered to read, the social page.
New cultural supremo Angelo Agnelli lends his presence to charity
bash in aid of the Centre for Modern Art
, said the caption. The photograph showed Ange standing between Max Karlin and Fiona Lambert,
Our Home
in the background.

‘How's that for an auspicious start?' glowed the new supremo. ‘Lining me up with Max Karlin was one of your better ideas.'

For a moment, I was tempted to inform Agnelli that I'd overheard his conversation with Duncan Keogh, that I knew he'd ordered the investment of a fair whack of the party's fighting fund in Obelisk Trust. State my concerns and do my best to convince him that he was headed into dangerous waters. But my years of handling Agnelli had taught me that direct contradiction was a tactic unlikely to succeed. You can't push on a rope, I reminded myself.

‘Nothing about corruption in high places, I see.' Agnelli cast yet another admiring glance at his photograph and closed the paper. ‘Looks like that body in the moat business is dead in the water.'

The press was quiet on the subject, I admitted. ‘At the moment.'

‘Speaking of water,' Agnelli went on. ‘I'm off on an inspection and orientation tour of catchment resources and storage facilities. The Water Supply Commission is laying on a helicopter. Won't be back until tomorrow morning.' A joy ride into the hills, in other words. Come lunchtime, he'd be assessing the water quality of Lake Eildon from a pair of water-skis behind the official reservoir-inspection vehicle. ‘Think you can see to it that the wheels don't fall off the Arts while I'm gone?'

Bugger the Arts, I thought. With Agnelli out of the office, the coast would be clear to escape and make the most of what little time Red and I still had together. It could be months before I saw my boy again. ‘I've got more than enough to keep me busy,' I said.

‘Not too busy to write a speech for me, I hope,' said Agnelli. ‘I see from the diary I'm booked to open some art exhibition at the Trades Hall tomorrow evening.' By profession, Angelo was a lawyer. Early in his career, he'd specialised in industrial accident compensation cases and he still saw himself as the worker's friend. ‘I'd like to say something about ordinary working people enjoying the benefits of high culture,' he instructed. ‘And put in lots of jokes.'

I'd just fed Agnelli into the lift with my assurance that his speech would be a masterpiece when Phillip Veale's secretary buttonholed me in the foyer and told me the Director would like a word. Veale looked up from behind his paperwork with the unfussable equanimity of a kung fu master. ‘Shut the door, please, Murray.'

When I turned back, he was perching on front of his desk, pinching the crease at his knee so the action of sitting down did not abrade the fabric of his trousers. ‘The minister was satisfied with this morning's little show and tell, do you think?'

‘A polished performance,' I admitted. ‘It will be interesting to see the impact of Angelo's plans for a comprehensive organisational restructure.'

Veale acknowledged my little drollery with a sigh of resignation. Another minister, another restructure. At the briefing, he had been genial but proper. No ironic inflections, no knowing asides. A man with a finely honed sense of the correct demeanour. Now, pressing his fingertips together, he assumed an attitude of hesitation, as if pondering the most tactful approach to a ticklish issue. He let me share his equivocation for a moment. ‘A word of advice,' he began, feeling his way. ‘If I may be permitted?'