I located Dr Macleod’s number in the phone book, rang him and got a male secretary. I stated my business in very general terms and secured an appointment to see the good doctor at 3 pm. That gave me some time to fill in so I took my Smith amp; Wesson. 38 apart and cleaned and oiled it. I hadn’t fired it in a long time and wasn’t anxious to again, but Talbot, a drug-user and violence-prone, sounded dangerous and I had a feeling I was getting closer to him. The. 38’s not a heavy gun, and it sat snugly in a lightweight holster under my left armpit, easily concealed by any kind of loose fitting jacket. I’ve found though, that I tend to move differently when wearing a gun, stand, sit and walk differently, so I strapped it on and kept it there to get used to the feeling while I ate a sandwich and a couple of bananas and drank a cup of caffeinated coffee.
It didn’t surprise me to find my friend and medical adviser, Dr Ian Sangster, smoking and drinking black coffee in his break from surgery at 1 pm. What did surprise me was that he was smoking a filter cigarette and the coffee packet beside his percolator had the word ‘decaffeinated’ printed on it. Sangster was noted for his complete refusal to follow what he called ‘medical correctness’. He ate fast food, smoked, drank a lot, imbibed a dozen cups of coffee every day and didn’t exercise. He looked permanently exhausted but had boundless energy. I tapped the packet.
‘What’s this, Ian? My faith in you is in danger of shattering.’
He took a deep drag on the cigarette and butted it. ‘Don’t worry. It’s only for six months. I’m giving medical correctness a trial. I’ll go in for tests and see if there’s any bloody difference in anything. You’d have been more astonished if you’d seen me at six this morning.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Walking. For half an hour.’
‘Mm. I think medical correctness’d advise cutting out the fags altogether. What about the grog?’
‘White wine only.’
‘How much?’
‘Stuff you. To what do I owe the pleasure?’ He lit another filter and made a face as he tasted the smoke. ‘I’ve got a clinic in half an hour, less if they’re scratching at the door.’
This would be the free-as-air session Ian lays on for the indigent of Glebe, of whom, despite the rents, rates and mortgages, there are still quite a few tucked away here and there. I poured myself a cup of coffee and tasted it. It wasn’t bad and it reminded me that I hadn’t said anything about food to Geoff. No doubt he’d make his own arrangements.
‘I’m interested in a colleague of yours, Ian. Dr Bruce Macleod. In Flemington. Know anything about him?’
One of Ian’s activities, along with drinking, smoking and eating like Elvis Presley, is his membership of innumerable medical bodies – discussion groups, tribunals, policy framing committees. Network should be his middle name. He shook his head and sucked in more smoke which came out in little gusts as he spoke. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells. Can you leave it with me?’
‘Not for long. I’ve got an appointment with him in a couple of hours.’
‘I’ll make some calls and get you on your mobile if anything turns up.’
I strolled back home wondering if Geoff had left yet. When I’d gone off to see Ian he’d been still at the computer fiddling with something I didn’t bother asking about, figuring I wouldn’t understand it anyway. I caught him as he was getting into his car.
‘Just going,’ he said.
‘Need petrol money or anything like that?’
He shook his head and drove off.
To Melburnians Flemington signifies racehorses, to Sydneysiders it means a fruit and vegetable market. It’s about the only example I can think of where Melbourne sounds more exciting than Sydney. I was struck by the proximity of Flemington to Homebush, the basic area of operations in this case. What had I told Geoff? That I had a feeling there was a connection of some kind at work here. But experience has taught me not to trust intuition any more than halfway. This could be sheer coincidence.
I was early and I sat in the car waiting for a call from Ian. It came, breaking in on a fantasy I was having about what might follow if Megan French was my daughter. I saw us on Maroubra beach where I’d spent nine-tenths of my time when I was young.
‘Ian?’
‘You’re anxious and I have to be quick. How this bloke’s kept his licence to practise is a tribute to the incompetence of the legal system. Talk about negligence suits. Someone should write to Evan Whitton about it.’
‘Dodgy?’
‘Decidedly. A slave to the health funds, a collaborator with plastic surgeons, a pill pusher, a quack for hire. Doesn’t do much hands-on doctoring and what he does he botches. What’s he up to now?’
‘I’m after a low-life who’s got a problem with a crippled leg, impotence and at a guess psychotic tendencies. Plus a history of drug use and violence.’
‘Just exactly Macleod’s sort of patient. He’s probably supplying him with heroin and helping him with his worker’s compensation or welfare fiddle in return for a cut.’
‘So he’s unlikely to supply me with information about one of his patients?’
‘Not at all. It’d depend on how much you were willing to pay him.’
‘And what sort of a bloke is Macleod himself? Tough?’
‘No. Obese, I’m told. A butterball. But he’s got some nasty types on the payroll, according to my source. Watch yourself, Cliff. You can only break certain bones in the human body so many times.’
It was my day for visiting clinics. Dr Macleod’s setup went under the name of the Macleod Medical Clinic, according to the brass plate on the gate that gave pedestrian access. This was beside a driveway, also gated, and set into a high brick fence surrounding a half-acre block that commanded a good view across to the vast sprawl of Rookwood cemetery. The brass plate also listed Dr Macleod’s various degrees and diplomas. It was hard to guess from some of the initials exactly what medical fields they covered – and the institutions that had awarded them weren’t mentioned.
For me, I was dressed formally. Not the suit, but I’d exchanged my usual casual jacket for a blazer, my jeans for a pair of charcoal slacks and I had on a clean blue button-down shirt and black slip-ons. No tie. I fancied I looked the part of an energetic semi-professional pursuing his lawful occupation. The gun under my arm was licensed after all, even if the one held on a clip under the dashboard of the Falcon wasn’t and the lock picks attached to my key ring would cause any alert policeman to take them from me, put me behind some bars and see how I got on from there.
The wall was two metres high with a strand or two of razor wire on top. Top security. Maybe the doctor collected Old Masters. I pressed the intercom buzzer beside the gate, got a recorded message and stated my business. There was a humming noise and the gate clicked open. Inside I noted grass and cement in about equal amounts; a well-tended native garden with seats and benches. It looked as if the doc liked his patients to sit in the sunshine while they waited for him – or while they wrote out their cheques afterwards. I realised that I was making judgements on the basis of Ian Sangster’s information. Why not?
The main building was a long, low piece of colonial architecture, much modified over about a hundred years. A series of signs directed deliveries to the back, patients to one verandah entrance, business callers to another. My visit to the other clinic had filled me with confidence about my robust health; I was here on business.
I responded to a ‘Please Open’ sign on a door and found myself in a waiting room that resembled something you’d see in an accountant’s office. Leather armchairs, low table, business magazines. A disembodied voice said, ‘Please make yourself comfortable. Dr Macleod will be with you in a moment. Please avail yourself of the refreshment facilities.’ This meant a coffee machine and a fresh juice dispenser. I made a cup of coffee and sat down. The seat hissed under me the way well-upholstered vinyl pretending to be leather will and I felt better. The coffee was lousy.
A second door opened and a huge man entered the room. He was over 190 centimetres and built like Sydney Greenstreet; chalk him down for 140 kilos. I began to get up but he moved quickly and had to bend down slightly to offer me his hand.
‘Mr Hardy,’ he said in a strong Scots accent, rolling the Rs. ‘I’m Bruce Macleod.’
The hand was soft from the heel pad to the fingertips. Shaking hands with him was like mixing dough.
‘Afternoon, doctor. Good of you to see me.’
He wore a double-breasted business suit, grey with a muted pinstripe, a white shirt and burgundy silk tie. His appearance said, ‘I’m wealthy and successful.’ I wondered what sort of patients responded to that. He bent at the knees to support his weight and lowered himself into a chair.
‘Not a medical matter, I believe.’
‘It is and it isn’t. I’m a private detective as I told your…’
‘Secretary. Yes.’
‘Right and I’m looking for information about one of your patients.’
‘Damien Talbot. Most unfortunate. I’ve heard of the trouble he’s in.’
‘It seems he’s seldom been out of trouble. I’m working for the mother of the young woman who’s with him. Naturally, she’s concerned about her daughter. I want to find Talbot and get the girl away from him.’
‘Anticipating the police, I take it?’
He was probing. It suggested that the police hadn’t yet made the connection to him. A marginal advantage to me, possibly. ‘That wouldn’t hurt.’
‘I see. And what d’you want from me, Mr Hardy?’
He was a smooth number, self-assured, confident – almost arrogant. Not a guy to threaten, maybe a guy to flatter. ‘First,’ I said, ‘your professional assessment of Talbot. How dangerous is he? How serious is his physical impairment? Anything you can tell me along those lines. I know there’ll be limitations to what you can reveal.’
He frowned and tented his fat fingers. ‘Very severe limitations I’m afraid. And secondly?’
‘Can you help me to find him?’
‘Help how?’
‘Can you get in touch with him?’
He smiled, revealing expertly capped teeth. It struck me that he was vain, despite his bulk. In fact he gave the impression of being proud of every kilo and their arrangement. ‘Help you to trap him in other words.’
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’
‘I daresay you wouldn’t. I’m afraid I’ll have to think this over, Mr Hardy.’
‘Why’s that?’
He frowned. ‘As you suggested, there’s a serious matter of confidentiality involved.’
‘There’s also the public interest.’
‘And your own.’
‘You’re being offensive.’
I recognised the technique. This guy was a master at putting you on the defensive. I struggled to get back into the action, considered mentioning the police, but he didn’t give me the chance. He was levering himself up and he was just a touch short of breath when he gained his feet. ‘As I say, Mr Hardy. I’ll consider what you’ve put to me. It’s not something to be undertaken lightly. I take it my secretary can get in touch with you?’
He glided out on what I suddenly realised were very small feet. Twinkle toes. I stayed where I was and waited for the announcement. It came a few seconds later. ‘Please leave the waiting room.’ I sat still and looked around. The camera could’ve been anywhere but I made guess at the ventilator high in the wall opposite me. From there a swivel mounted camera could survey the whole room. I poured the cold coffee into a vase of flowers, put up two fingers and left the room.
Once outside the building I expected to be escorted to the gate but no-one appeared so I drifted around to the back to see what else the doctor had on the premises. A four-berth carport with two 4WDs at home, several small Besser-block buildings and another drive-in entrance. Back here grass gave way altogether to concrete and the whole area gave off an air of high security. As I stood there in the weak sunshine with the breeze cutting into me, a man emerged from the main building. He was stocky and looked uncomfortable in his suit as if his natural uniform was more like mine – something allowing quick movement and travel over rough ground.
‘Help you, sir?’
From the nicely balanced way he stood, he looked more ready to hit than help.
‘Not really. I’ve just seen the doctor…’
‘And now you’re leaving. The gate’s that way.’
He pointed but not the way an untrained person points, not so as to disturb that precise balance. He was about my size but a good deal younger and I didn’t fancy a physical contest with him even if there’d been something to gain from it. I wondered if I could get the edge in other ways.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Just off. What goes on there?’ I pointed to one of the small buildings and let my jacket come open so he could see the . 38. He did, but it didn’t faze him.
‘That’s the doctor’s library. The other building is a pathology laboratory.’
‘Uh huh. Well, I’m on my way.’
He said nothing but I could feel his eyes on my spine as I walked away, around the main building towards the front. A button released the gate and I went out to where the air was free to breathe and there was no-one watching your every move. Or so I thought.
I was irritated and dissatisfied. I had questions: how often did Talbot see the doctor; when did he last see him; what was the nature of their relationship? Macleod wasn’t going to tell me and neither was the well-balanced attendant. I looked along the street. The clinic occupied at least two frontages with a vacant block on one side and a paved car park serving a small electronics factory on the other. Privacy. Opposite, it was a different story. The houses on large blocks had deep gardens. Some were double-storeyed behind high hedges; some were set close to the street and some further back. I wondered if there were any sticky-beaks, nosey-parkers, snoops behind those hedges and gates. You never know.
I decided to try my luck at the houses and started at the end of the street, a hundred metres or so from the clinic. I took a risk, saying that I was from the sheriffs office with a warrant to serve. The ID card I carried to that effect was legitimate but specific to the warrant it related to and long out of date, but it opened some doors. I asked several women, one man and an adolescent with a heavy cold if they’d ever seen Talbot’s van and learned nothing. At a house almost opposite the clinic, the door was opened by a small, elderly woman of the kind that used to be called a little old lady.
Standing on the doorstep she barely reached to my chest which made her not much over five feet in the old measure. She had white hair but her blue eyes still had a lot of colour and were bright. Her hands were well worn and the skin on her face was finely lined rather than wrinkled. She held her thin body very straight. I guessed her age at about eighty but judged there was still plenty of mileage left in her.
The path up to the house was flanked by lines of tall pines and other trees dominated in the garden and the temperature was several degrees lower than out in the street – nice in summer, a bit chilly for now. The woman was dressed for it in slacks and a heavy cable-knit sweater. I gave her my spiel and she looked at me as if she was considering calling the dog. Another miss, I thought, and put the card away.
‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ I said.
‘It’s all right, I’m not bothered. I’m thinking.’
More promising. I stayed put.
‘You’re not a policeman, are you?’
‘No.’
She pointed at the clinic. ‘If you’re working for that man I’ll say good day to you, but I have a feeling you’re not.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what you have in mind but…’
‘You’re not working for that man?’
She really had my interest now. It’s rare for people to deny doctors their title and it generally means something when they do. I more or less followed suit by stating that I wasn’t working for Macleod.
‘I thought not when I saw you in there. I can tell you things about him if you’re interested.’
Batty, I thought, but possibly useful. ‘You saw me in there?’
‘I can see into the place from my second-floor window.’ She touched the spectacles she wore. ‘I can see very well with these. I saw you with one of his thugs and I could tell that you weren’t getting on from the way you both moved.’
‘Could you? And why are you so interested in what goes on over there?’ I thought it was time to produce the card again. ‘You are?’
‘Miss Mirabelle Cartwright. I’ve seen that van you asked about, too.’
Bingo. ‘Perhaps we could talk inside.’
‘Yes, you see, that man murdered my sister.’