Authors: Shane Maloney
I was thinking about making a break for it when a little tan Toyota Corolla scooted into the driveway and disappeared down the side. The dog yapped a bit, then the front door opened. For a man in his sixties, Herb Gardiner was very well preserved, a bit of a gent in a Fletcher Jones tweed jacket, corduroy trousers and a rollneck navy-blue jumper. He had the nuggetty face of an ex-pug and the lightness on his feet of a man who’d just taken out the box trifecta at Eagle Farm. He wore the crooked grin of a short man on good terms with the whole world. If he was suffering from post-fatality trauma, he was bearing up well.
‘And who are you, then?’ he demanded with exactly the inflection you’d use yourself if you walked into your lounge room and found a total stranger with a scabby face dawdling on the divan.
As I stood up to tell him, the widow came out of the kitchen. ‘He’s come about the house,’ she said. The apron had disappeared and she’d plumped up her hair. Gardiner shrugged off his tweed jacket, brushed the raindrops away with the meticulousness of a bloke who took good care of his tools, and draped it over the back of one of the pink armchairs.
‘Actually,’ I said guiltily, ‘the union suggested I get in touch.’
‘Did they just?’
Fair enough. This one called for a very straight bat. ‘It’s a courtesy call really, Mr Gardiner. My name is Murray Whelan. It’s about the, uh, incident last week at work.’
Gardiner gave me the stop sign. ‘Those scones of yours smell scrumptious.’ He sprayed charm all over the widow, splashing some on me in the process. He scooped the brochures up off the coffee table and slotted them into a gap in the blondwood shelf of white-bound encyclopedias. ‘I’ll make a bit of space. Sit down, Mr Whelan.’
‘Murray, please.’
The scones appeared before my bum had even hit the cushion, straight out of the oven. A good three inches tall, they were, on a tray with jam and whipped cream and little linen serviettes. As Mrs Nextdoor bent to lower the tray, Gardiner, master again in his own house, patted her rump. She all but purred. He looked at me across her backside and winked. Here was a man who had it made, and didn’t he know it. For the first time all day, I was beginning to enjoy myself.
‘Leave you boys to it, will I then?’ she said.
‘Rightio, pet. Thanks a lot.’ Gardiner pulled up his sleeves daintily and reached for the teapot. Under the grizzled hair of his forearm was an ancient tattoo—a faded, languorous mermaid. ‘I’ll be mother,’ he said.
Entertaining Herb’s uninvited callers was clearly not what the good widow had in mind when she’d come round to play house, but she copped it sweet. Gardiner would be around for a little while yet. She went out through the kitchen and I heard the back door close.
‘So, what’s this all about, son?’ Gardiner said amiably.
It was long past the point where there was any mileage in playing funny buggers. I put my cards on the table, face up between the apricot conserve and turf tips. ‘I work for Charlene Wills,’ I said. Gardiner accepted my credentials with a nod. The local member was well known.
‘Dunno if you saw it,’ I went on, ‘but there was bit of speculation in the
Sun
yesterday to the effect that this business out at Pacific Pastoral on Friday might lead to some kind of industrial problems. The government would prefer that didn’t happen. A committee in the Industry Department has called for a report. Since I work in this area they decided I was just the bunny to write it for them. And because you’re the union rep and also happened to be on the spot when the body turned up, I thought I’d come straight to the horse’s mouth.’
Gardiner took all this in, nodded again and broke open a scone. ‘I went through all of this pretty thoroughly with the police and so forth on Friday.’
I hastened to reassure him. ‘Oh, I’m not interested in the death
per se
, just any possible industrial implications.’
Gardiner applied butter. ‘Who else you talked to?’
‘No one much, yet. Lionel Merricks.’ This was nothing but craven big-noting. I wasn’t even sure he’d recognise the name.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘You don’t muck about, do you, son?’
I brushed it aside, modestly. ‘Just protocol really. It’s the situation on the ground at Coolaroo that interests me. And you’d know more about that than any chairman of the board.’
‘What about Apps?’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ I said. ‘But I got the definite impression Mr Apps wouldn’t recognise an industrial situation if it bit him on the bum.’
That got a chuckle. Gardiner relaxed back into his armchair, cup and saucer on his lap. ‘Bit tense, was he?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Is he always so stroppy?’
I must’ve been making a good impression. Gardiner touched the side of his nose and proceeded to slip me the inside oil. ‘Couple of months ago a mix-up happened in one of our shipments to America, sub-standard meat or something. There was hell to pay. Threat to the credibility of the export industry, all of that. Apps copped a bit of flack from the higher-ups and he’s been like a bear with a sore head ever since. You talk to anyone else?’
‘Not really. Some bloke named McGuire, the safety officer. A cleaner called Memo. My impression is that I’m on a fool’s errand.’
So far I was doing too much talking. At this rate those scones would get away from me. I smeared one and bit down hungrily. ‘What do you reckon?’ I mumbled through the crumbs and cream. My mouth filled with heaven, all melting and warm.
Gardiner picked up his cup and settled deeper into his seat. ‘Well it’s all news to me, son. I’ve been there sixteen years, ever since I left the service, and in all that time we’ve had fewer than half a dozen strikes and stoppages. And they were all at the behest of the union, backing up the log of claims and so forth. The slaughtermen, up to their knees in guts and shit all day, now they go out at the drop of a hat, and who can blame them? But our lot, industrial action isn’t their style. Most of them would rather have the day’s pay and solidarity be buggered. I just can’t see it, myself. I certainly haven’t heard anything, son. And I would, believe me, I would.’
This was music to my ears. I tackled another scone and moved on. ‘So what do you reckon he was up to in that chiller? Bayraktar, the bloke you found?’
‘Well, he wasn’t working on his tan, I can tell you that much.’
‘Fair bit of that sort of thing goes on out there, does it?’
‘As much as anywhere else, I suppose.’
‘So it’s pretty widespread?’
‘Stands to reason that a man who works in a meat warehouse would be a mug to buy his own chops. But not everybody’s walking out the front door with a side of lamb under their arm, if that’s what you mean.’
I’d walked into that one with my eyes wide open, practically called the man a thief to his face. I backed off at a million miles an hour. ‘Bit stiff, though. Freezing to death for a couple of kilos of free sirloin.’
‘Maybe he was greedy. Had quite an appetite by the look of him.’
‘Ever had much to do with him?’
Gardiner wiped his fingers on one of the little floral serviettes. ‘Knew him to look at. The ethnics keep pretty much to themselves.’
‘Speaking of which.’ I pulled the time sheet list out of my pocket and folded it down to the bottom half. ‘Know any of this lot?’
Gardiner took a spectacle case out of his pocket, slipped on a pair of half-glasses and tilted the sheet of paper to the light. ‘What’s this, the Cairo phone book?’
‘They were all on Bayraktar’s shift last week.’
Gardiner shook his head. ‘I’m not much good with ethnic names, I’m afraid.’
I drained my tea and began to get up. ‘Well, thanks a lot.’ This was music to my ears.
‘Anytime, son. Happy to help. Need anything else, just let me know. But you’d better be quick. I’m due to be demobbed any day now. Only a couple more weeks of 5 a.m. starts and I’m my own man.’
‘So I hear.’ I took the list back. Not an entirely unproductive half-hour all in all. A free feed, plus old Herb had driven yet another stake through the heart of Agnelli’s conspiracy theory, at least the Pacific Pastoral part of it. I changed the subject. ‘What do you think you’ll get for this place?’
‘The agent thinks ninety-five, ninety-five and a half. I wouldn’t know these days. It needs a lot of work.’
Apart from the décor I couldn’t see where, but then Gardiner probably changed the tap washers once a week. ‘That’d make my place worth about fifty bucks. You should see it. Talk about needing work! I was up in the ceiling putting in some insulation last night and the roof fell in on me. That’s how I got these.’
‘Nasty,’ said Gardiner.
‘They’re the least of my worries.’ I fingered my scabs. ‘Think I can get a roofer to come and give me a quote? Been on the phone half the day I have.’ Well I would be, as soon as I got back to the office.
Gardiner got up and started wrapping the remaining scones in a serviette. ‘Here, take these, son,’ he said. ‘She’ll get shirty on me if she thinks we didn’t eat them all. And while you’re here, give me your details. I’ve got a mate in the building trade who might be able to help you out.’
‘You sure?’ I hesitated only long enough to be polite before stuffing the bundle into my pocket.
‘Sure I’m sure,’ he said. He wrote my address and phone number on a pad by the phone and opened the front door. ‘I’m getting as much as I need.’ Faint kitchen noises came from back in the house. ‘Believe me, son. Believe me.’
Out on the street, the rain had let up. All that remained of the puddles was an iridescent glaze. By the look of it, things were on the improve. When I glanced back, Gardiner was still standing at the open door, the little white terrier nuzzling his hand. I gave a nod and climbed into the Renault, one hand already dipping into the package in my pocket. A quick half-hour drafting up the MACWAM report and I’d have this thing knocked on the head.
Context
, I thought. Make that
Background
. Double underline. The words in my head began to shape themselves into a preamble.
Background
A situation has recently arisen in the context of the ongoing legislative process relating to the Industrial Insurance Act such as to suggest it advisable that specific consultations be undertaken in relation to addressing uncertainties which may have been perceived to have arisen as a consequence of press speculation concerning a recent workplace fatality in the Melbourne metropolitan area.
Not bad for openers, I thought, mentally moving on to
Implementation
. But my concentration was slipping. An image kept surfacing in my mind, a tubby little man in harem pants.
Nasreddin Hoca, he of the hefty turban and curly slippers. He of the bushy beard and pithy parable. Fancy him working at Pacific Pastoral. It was a bit hard to imagine that wry old wiseacre in a pair of white overalls and a shower cap, hefting a side of beef out of a refrigerated semi. Not his style at all. Not unless the arse had fallen out of the obscure epigram business.
If Red’s bedtime story book was right and this Nasreddin Hoca guy was a famous Turkish legend, up there in the Mother Goose category, then wouldn’t Bayraktar have known he was signing off against a false name? Interesting. Since I was out and about, I decided on the spur of the moment to roll past Bayraktar’s address. From what I could remember of the coroner’s file, it was either 363 or 636 Blyth Street. Either way, the detour would not take me far out of my way. A few extra minutes of solitude in the car would help me finish mentally drafting the report.
Blyth Street is a broad avenue running east–west from the Merri Creek to Sydney Road. I started at the Merri end and cruised past respectable homes with barley sugar columns holding up their porches. 363 was a Shell self-serve, so I followed the numbers up towards Sydney Road.
Once upon a boom the local gentry had lived up this end, in polychrome brick villas and imposing terraces fretted with iron lacework. Things had taken several downturns since then and all that remained to hint at the vanished grandeur was the occasional one-winged terracotta gargoyle or the peeling curve of a bay window. Mostly it was blocks of flats, crummy, identical strata-titles, pockmarking the streetscape. Six feet of red scoria and a dead cabbage palm out the front, letterboxes exploding with junk mail down the side. Bayraktar’s joint was bound to be in one of those.
But closer to Sydney Road, things were on the up and up. Skips full of builders’ rubble sat by the kerb outside big Victorian terraces, evidence of renovations in progress. Brass plates and Mercedes hinted at solicitors and pathologists. And 636 was no dingy block of flats, flung up in the sixties.
It was a classic two-storey boom-era Italianate mansion, modestly substantial and trying its best to look inconspicuous behind a cast-iron fence, the original by the look of it. A dinky little square tower sat on top, and jutting out above the front door was a coach-porch sort of arrangement. Everything had been painted a matt white with fetching gloss highlights in olive green on the woodwork and the little iron balconies wrapped around the first floor windows. The overall charm was complemented by little security cameras mounted under the eaves at each corner. Taken together with the gunmetal grey BMW parked under the portico they gave the place the discreet and impenetrable air of a private casino on the Côte d’Azur.
Far too fancy a set of digs for a meat lumper, even if he was a foreman. By the look of it, somewhere along the line someone had screwed up the paperwork. I slowed to a crawl and peered out the passenger window at the brass plate on the gatepost. Etched in black were the words Anadolu Klubu, then underneath in smaller letters Anatolia Club.
An irate toot sounded behind me, a glazier’s truck in a hurry. Up ahead, the lights at the corner had just gone orange. I hit the accelerator and raced them, turning up the hill into Sydney Road. Past the Patras Emporium and Appliance Discounters I went. Past the Court House Hotel and the Edinburgh Castle, past Barnacle Bill’s, past the black walls of Pentridge. Two blocks past the electorate office I pulled into the kerb outside the Turkish Welfare League.
The League was another shopfront opening directly onto Sydney Road. The only other businesses this far up were in the motor trade. Direct-to-the-public retread wholesalers, windscreen replacements while-u-wait, Midas Mufflers. And up here, the road was an industrial-strength drag strip.