‘Don’t know if there’s a sensible answer to the question,’ he said. ‘What’s it matter anyway? Made his choice. You make your choice. Serious choice, but just a choice.’
‘His wife says he was often depressed.’
He gave me a look that said he’d met smarter people.
‘Could be said about half the people in the line of work- more. Not shuffling bloody paper, y’know. Pain and suffering and bloody dying.’
A fat pink woman in a lime-green towelling tracksuit, large breasts swaying and bouncing out of control, lurched around a corner. ‘Gidday, Dr Crewe,’ she panted.
Dr Crewe touched a finger to the brim of his tweed hat. ‘Don’t know what they think they’re doing,’ he said. ‘Do herself a lot more good jumping up and down naked on that miserable bloody shopkeeper she’s married to.’
I rolled up my right sleeve. The day was clear, almost warm. I’d left my jacket in the car. ‘Didn’t surprise you?’
‘Too late for surprises. Precious bloody little surprises me. What’s that on your arm?’
I looked down. ‘Burn.’
‘Burn? What kind of work d’you do?’
‘Blacksmith.’
He nodded. ‘Reasonably honest trade.’ Pause. ‘This interest in Ian Barbie, say it again.’
I told him about Ned’s visit to Footscray.
‘Sure he went to see Ian?’
‘The receptionist remembered him. He didn’t have an appointment, said it was a private matter. She told Ian and he saw him after the next patient. He was with Ian for about ten minutes.’
Dr Crewe didn’t say anything for a while. Out on the calm water, a man in a single scull was sitting motionless, head bowed, shoulders slumped, could be dead. Then he moved, first stroke slow and smooth, instantly in his rhythm, powerful insect skimming the silver surface. At the end of each stroke, there was a pause, missed in the blink of an eye.
‘This Ned,’ he said. ‘Any drug problem there?’
‘No.’
We walked in silence for perhaps fifty paces. ‘Ian had a drug problem,’ I said.
He didn’t say anything, didn’t look at me. We passed a scowling group of seagulls on a jetty, identical commuters waiting in anger for an overdue train home.
‘I left the practice on my seventieth birthday,’ said Dr Crewe. ‘Nine years ago last month. Saddest day of my life. Second saddest. Nobody feels seventy, y’know. Not inside the heart. Always twenty-five inside.’
More silence. Two runners came from behind, short chunky men, hair cut to stubble, big hairy legs. Footballers. Then a tall blonde came into view, white singlet, tight black stretch shorts, hair pulled back. She was at full stride, moving fast, balanced, arms pumping. As the balls of her feet touched the ground, her long thigh muscles bunched above the knee. Her legs and torso were flushed pink, her head was back, mouth open, eyes slits.
We both turned to watch her go. Our eyes met.
‘Always twenty-five inside,’ he said. ‘And sometimes you feel you could be twenty-five outside too.’
‘Eighteen,’ I said. ‘Eighteen.’
He gave a snort and picked up the pace. We were going up an incline between two huge oaks when he said, ‘You don’t want to accept your friend’s suicide.’ A statement.
‘No.’ It came out sharply.
‘I won’t talk psychological bullshit to you, but some questions you have to leave alone. They didn’t do it to hurt you. They did it because something hurt them and they wanted to put an end to that pain.’
‘Dr Crewe,’ I said, ‘I don’t know about Ian, but Ned wouldn’t kill himself.’
He stopped. I was taken by surprise, went a pace further.
‘They don’t end up hanging by accident,’ he said. ‘So I don’t know what you’re saying.’
I said, ‘I think Ned’s suicide was staged. I think he was murdered.’
He put his head back and looked at me down the long nose. ‘Police think what?’
‘Investigating officer seems to think it’s a possibility.’
‘Probably humouring you. You reckon the same might hold for Ian?’
‘If I’m right about Ned, it’s possible.’
Dr Crewe sighed and started walking. After a while, he said. ‘Loved the boy, y’know.’
I didn’t say anything.
‘Loved his mother, too, might as well tell you. People say he’s mine, but he’s not. Often wished he was. Instead I’ve got Tony-every inch a Carew, not a trace of Crewe in him. Mean-spirited, selfish, whole bloody clan’s like that. Mean-spirited and selfish genes pass on to every generation, doesn’t matter who they marry. Tony’s mother was a prime example.’
A small, round man in a tracksuit overtook us, wobbling as he ran. ‘Doc,’ he gasped. It sounded like an appeal for help.
‘G’day Laurie. Walk, you bloody fool.’
The man gave a feeble wave.
‘Three Carews joined up the same day I did,’ said Dr Crewe. ‘Wife’s brother, two of his cousins. You’d think one of ’em would see some action. Hah. Whole war in Canberra, fighting the paper, all three. More than luck involved, I can tell you. Tony’s the same. If there’s an easy way, he’ll find it.’
‘Ian was at Melbourne Uni with Tony,’ I said. ‘Little group of local boys, I gather.’
Dr Crewe looked at me, shook his head. ‘Done anything to keep Ian away from Tony and Andrew Stephens and the Veene boy. Andrew’s father was a good man, fine man, fought with the Greek partisans in the war. Good doctor too. Andrew. Young Andrew’s just rubbish. Too much too soon. Like Rick Veene. Rick’s got Carew in him somewhere down the line. His mother’s Tony’s mother’s third cousin or something. Poisonous breed. Buy their way through life. Bought off bloody Carew, that was easy enough.’
‘Carew?’
‘Carew College, University of Melbourne. Tony’s mother’s grandfather paid for it. Out of ill-gotten gains. Unjailed criminal. College. Place you stay in. Know about that?’
‘Only just,’ I said.
He gave me a look and an appraising nod. ‘Blacksmith. Name again?’