I was unlocking the office door, wind pulling at my clothes, when a respectable Subaru drew up, double-parked.
Cam.
I got in. It was warm and comfortable, things I had been missing.
‘Pretty up there in the hills,’ he said, no expression. ‘Total waste of time. The address’s at the top of a dead end, three houses on the road. Dunno how you deal drugs from a place like that, all that commutin.’
‘Anyone home?’
‘Woman hangin up washin, two kids hangin on her, cattle dog.’
‘What now?’
‘The plumber and the wood man.’
I went inside, found Jean Hale’s faxed list, made haste to quit the dusty ice cave for the clean warmth of the vehicle outside.
‘Plumber I wouldn’t be hopeful about,’ said Cam, eyes on the paper. ‘Make too much money. Like doctors. Now wood’s another matter. Very seasonal, wood.’
‘What’s his name?’ I said.
‘Lizard Ellyard.’
‘Lizard Ellyard,’ I said. ‘Used to be a bikie gang called the Lizards.’
Cam turned his head, interest in the dark eyes.
I found the Hales’ number in my book, got out the mobile. Jean answered.
‘Jean, Jack. Can you ask your husband or Sandy if they know why this man Ellyard is called Lizard?’
She was gone for several minutes. I heard the labrador bark, a door bang.
‘There, Jack?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dave says Lizard wears an old leather jacket with Lizard on the back. Bought it at an op-shop, he reckons.’
I said thanks.
Cam was looking at me. I told him.
‘The Coburg milk bar lady said Artie was a bike person, very noisy,’ he said. ‘What happened to the Lizards?’
I tried to remember. ‘They were in the news, fighting with some other mob.’
‘Lizards,’ said Cam. ‘Not a good name for a gang. Too close to the ground, the lizard.’
Something on television: a smouldering building, fire engines.
‘Their clubhouse was attacked,’ I said. ‘Or they torched the other lot’s place.’
‘They all do that,’ said Cam. ‘That’s what they do on Sunday night. I might ask around. Listen, the big man said to tell you, eight in the seventh at the Valley on Sunday. Not the house at all, each-way. And pray for rain in the mornin.’
‘Getting back into it?’
Cam half smiled. ‘Kiwi horse, come for the winter pickins. Trainer’s dad’s a Pom, rode against Harry in England. This nag loves mud. The big man’s picked the suitable outin for him.’
In the office, a male on the answering machine said: Jack, here’s a number.
I wrote it down, walked to the Lebanese shop and ordered a salad roll. Then I rang the number, a mobile.
Senior Sergeant Barry Tregear answered.
‘Working days now?’ I said.
‘Days, nights, on a taskforce, mate. We’re all on taskforces, force of taskforces. Listen, go a beer? I’m about five from that place, y’know?’