‘Want to move?’ she said.
‘This is comfortable. Nice chair. You happy standing?’
‘Stand all day.’
We drank coffee. ‘Good, this,’ I said.
‘Real coffee,’ Cindy said. ‘Miss coffee places. Nescafe, that’s what they give you around here.’
‘Darren ever talk about someone called Lefroy?’
She didn’t hesitate. ‘Yeah. Saw him killed. Throat cut.’
My skin seemed to shrink, pull tight around my mouth, eyes. ‘Darren saw him killed?’ I said.
Cindy had a sip of coffee. ‘Video. This bloke showed them a video. Girl killed too.’
Never change your tone. Berglin’s rule. Start with it, stay with it. Want another tone, get someone else. ‘What bloke is this?’
‘El G. Took them to this place, big house, with like a little cinema.’
‘Who’s they?’
‘I dunno. Darren and his mates, I dunno. Cops. We stayed in a hotel after the burg, Darren got so pissed, just talked. I didn’t ask questions. Didn’t know about that part of his life.’
‘So they saw a video of a man called Lefroy and a woman being killed? That’s what you’re saying?’
‘Yeah. Darren told me that. Said it made him sick. The man laughed.’
‘El G?’
‘Yeah. El G laughed. Showed it twice, Darren said. Funny name that. Stuck in my mind.’
‘El G?’
‘No. Lefroy. Spell it how?’
‘Wouldn’t have a clue,’ I said.
A customer came in the door, elderly lady, head wrapped in a woollen scarf.
‘Not late am I, Marie?’ she said. ‘Lovely and warm in here.’
‘Have a seat, Gwen,’ Cindy said. ‘Won’t be a moment.’
‘On the night,’ I said, ‘Darren went out to the boat, never came back. That’s it?’
‘Where’d you hear that?’ Astonishment. ‘Cop said it must’ve gone on for an hour, more. Cut his ears off, burnt his hair off, don’t you know that?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Just testing. The lawyers-Fielding, Something, Something?’
‘Yes.’
She picked up a comb and combed my hair. ‘Nice hair.’
‘My father’s hair,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t give him anything back.’
I had plenty of time to think on the trip back. El G, Scully, Hill and Bianchi watching a video of the killing of Howard Lefroy and Carlie Mance. A quick video, home movie really. Made while I was telling Mackie there wasn’t any point in tailing Howard’s brother when he left. El G enjoying it, laughing, showing it again. Did it show the moment of Carlie’s execution? The man in rut behind her, between her legs, her head pulled back, blood squirting up the tiles?
One to do the killing, one to film it. Was that the way it had worked? Was the killer the driver, the man made up to look like Dennis Lefroy? Or was it the man who must have been in the boot when Dennis drove into the garage? Perhaps there were two men in the boot?
Years later, Bianchi burgled, then tortured and killed. Tortured for what? Pleasure? Something else?
Don’t worry, what they want, the lawyer’s got.
The killers Bobby sent had come up behind me on a country road. How could they know where I’d be?
I had a hamburger at a McDonald’s on the outskirts of Geelong, read the Age I’d bought in Hamilton, rang inquiries for the Law Institute of Victoria on Berglin’s mobile. An obliging woman took about two minutes to find the only three-name law firm in Melbourne beginning with Fielding: Fielding, Perez, Radomsky. She gave me an address in Rathdowne Street, Carlton.
I found a park across the street, outside a bookshop. As I crossed, the sun came out, took the edge off the wind. The gang of three had a shopfront office, two women behind a little counter. I said I’d like to see one of the lawyers. A five-minute wait produced a man who looked like the young Groucho Marx.
‘Alan Perez,’ he said, hand outstretched. ‘Come into my office.’
It was a very basic office, desk, computer, two client chairs, degree certificate.
‘Now. How may I help you?’ he said. ‘Mr…?’
‘Bianchi,’ I said, ‘Craig Bianchi. I’m helping my sister-in-law tie up the loose ends of her husband’s estate. He was a client of your firm.’
‘Who was that?’ he said, furry black eyebrows coming together.
‘Darren Bianchi.’
‘Not a client of mine. I’ll just look him up. Spell it how?’
He swivelled his chair, did some computer tapping, peering at the screen. He needed glasses. ‘Bianchi. Yes. Client of Geoff Radomsky’s.’ He swivelled back to look at me. ‘Deceased, did you say?’
‘Dead, yes.’
‘Well, both of them.’
‘Both of them?’
‘Geoff’s dead too. Here, in his office.’
‘Heart?’ I said. But I knew what was coming.