Detective Sergeant Warren Bowman had the good-humoured manner of a man in sales, not any old sales, specialised sales, motor spares or plumbing supplies or bearings, some secure line of work where the pros know stock numbers off by heart and the customers expect them to say things like ‘Almost got me there, mate’ and ‘We have the technology’.
‘They’re sayin it’s an ordinary OD,’ he said.
We were sitting in the Studebaker Lark just off St Kilda Road, the day turned irritable, periods of sunshine, sudden snarls of rain. Detective Sergeant Bowman was speaking to me courtesy of another policeman, Senior Sergeant Barry Tregear, someone I’d known since I was a boy sent to fight abroad for my country. At the request of some other country, the way it had always been for Australia.
‘Family doesn’t want to know that,’ I said, lying.
Warren turned his long head and appraised me. He had bushy black eyebrows that he brought together and parted: quick, slow, slow, quick, an eyebrow Morse code.
‘Yeah, well, not always your best judge,’ he said, dot, dot, dash. ‘The family.’
‘No. Funny place to OD.’
Dot, dash. ‘Well, they don’t set out to OD.’
‘Shooting up in his garage? Be more comfortable in his unit.’
Dash, dot. ‘No knowin. It’s like suicide. Go a long way, some of em. Mountains, some, they like to go to high places. But there’s others want to creep away. Toppin’s a bit like hide and seek, know what I mean? Some kids always go for the wardrobe.’
Expertise in dark matters. Warren knew these stock numbers.
A couple walked by, young, handsome in black clothing, arguing, heads flicking, spurts of words. He stopped, she stopped, he raised a hand, inquiring. She knocked it away in contempt, walked. The man waited for a few seconds, turned and came back towards us, jaw moving, small chewing movements.
‘He’s bin screwin around,’ said Warren. ‘Some blokes got no idea when they’re lucky.’ There was a stain of resentment on his tone.
‘So Robbie went into his garage, locked the door, got into his car, shot up, that’s it?’
He nodded.
‘The fit’s there?’
A nod.
‘Tracks?’
‘Yeah. User.’
‘User ODs alone in his Porsche parked in his garage. That would be unusual, wouldn’t it?’
Warren shifted in his seat, looked at me, dash, dot, dash, took his lower lip between thumb and forefinger, gave it a tug. ‘I’m in the box here, am I?’
You forget that people are doing you a favour, at some risk to their careers.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Get carried away.’
He kept looking at me, a long dash.
The angry young woman in black was coming back, in a hurry, full of regret, hoping to catch the man. Her calf-length coat was unbuttoned and it flapped open at every stride, long legs flashing, pale legs.
‘Jesus, women,’ said Warren, tone pure resentment now. ‘Fucking looks, all the bastard’s got is looks.’
‘For some things,’ I said, ‘all you need is looks. The key to the garage, he have that on him?’
He said nothing.
I looked upon the empty winter street, trees penand-ink lines against the sky, first hint of closure now, the imperceptible dimming of the light that some part of the cortex recognises.
Nothing more to be gained from this encounter. I said my thanks. Warren didn’t seem eager to leave the comfort of the old, squat American V-8 beast.
I said, ‘Warren, Robbie, any form?’
He shook his head.
‘A person of interest?’
He didn’t congratulate me on my intelligence, opened his door. ‘Thought you’d never ask,’ he said. ‘As I understand it, definitely. The car that attended, they called in, next thing two drug squad heavies are there, the uniform boys are back on the road.’
I said, ‘I’m not cross-examining here but are you still saying they actually believe this bloke’s an OD?’
Warren turned to me, a shrug, his eyebrows went dot, dash, dot, dash above the friendly salesman’s eyes. ‘Believe?’ he said. ‘I dunno what they believe. Believe in a Big Mac and large fries. They say there’s nothin says anythin else. What they believe I haven’t got a clue, mate.’
‘Any chance of a snap of the bloke?’ Cyril didn’t have one.
He sighed. ‘I’ll see. Duty calls. Cheers.’
I watched him go. He crossed the street, walked down some distance, crossed back and went to his car. He didn’t drive off immediately, waited a while. A cautious man. Still, there was every reason to be cautious if the drug squad was involved in the matter of Robbie Colburne.