‘Allison,’ said the manager, ‘please come down with us. I’ll need a witness when I open the client’s box for Mr Irish.’
We went downstairs, manager, secretary, me, Lyall at the rear, down to the repository of secrets, to the rows of safe-deposit boxes.
Martin Seeberg’s box was one of the bigger ones.
At the last moment, the manager got cold feet. ‘We should wait for Mr Seeberg’s permission in writing,’ he said. ‘I’m not happy about this.’
I said, ‘I’ll say it again. The last person to use this box, my client Stuart Wardle, has been missing for three years and is thought to have been murdered. I’ll get a court order but it’ll take a day. You have a witness. I don’t seek to take anything away or to open anything. All I want to know is what the box contains.’
He nodded, unhappy. ‘Yes, all right.’
The lock opened with a snap.
Grey steel slide-out box with a hinged lid. He slid it out, carried it over to a carrel.
We crowded around him.
With a flourish, he opened the lid.
Empty.
We set off back to Parkville in silence.
‘Stuart was murdered because of an interview,’ Lyall said. ‘Is that what you think?’
I nodded. ‘Bits of a transcript are on his computer hard disk.’
Lyall said nothing, looking out of the window. We were at the Victoria Street intersection, when she said, ‘He asked me about video copying. How you did it.’
I came close to sideswiping an old Datsun. ‘When?’
‘When he bought the video equipment. The day he was learning to use it.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I told him to go to Imagebank. They do all sorts of photographic work, video, make certified copies, do vision enhancing, manipulation, that sort of thing. They seal and store stuff for you. Very efficient.’
‘Where are they?’
‘In South Melbourne. Fawkner Street.’
No-one has done the trip between Victoria Street and South Melbourne faster. We left in our trail many frightened people, people on foot, people in all forms of motorised transport.
I parked in a loading zone. How did contravening a municipal ordinance rate against the laws I’d seen broken in the past twenty-four hours?
‘July 1995?’ the bearded man said. ‘That’s not a problem. What’s the name?’
I told him. He went to a computer terminal.
Lyall and I looked at each other. She was wearing a soft leather jacket, brown, hair loose. I put my hip against hers, pushed. She put her hand down and ran her nails up my thigh.
‘Large men in suits make me randy,’ she said. ‘It’s a power thing.’
‘This is not the time or place,’ I said.
The man looked up. ‘Yes, Stuart Wardle, paid with a MasterCard. We copied two videotapes.’
Another moment to hold the breath.
‘Store them?’ I said.
He tapped the keys.
I closed my eyes.
‘No.’