Irish - 02 - Black Tide by Peter Temple

Author:Peter Temple [Temple, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: M P Publishing Limited
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

14

I rang Drew from Taub’s and caught him on his way out to court.

‘Four bloody appearances today,’ he said. ‘In this condition, how can I get justice for the victims of a system designed to punish the poor?’

‘Four of those?’ I said. ‘And not a single dead-set guilty and remorseless criminal arsehole? Tony Rinaldi. Will he talk to me about that stuff?’

Drew sighed. ‘Ask him. I think I told him last night that I’d mentioned to you that he had an interest in the people in question.’ Pause. ‘I think I told him. Well, I must have.’

I said, ‘Thank you. Go the Saints. Goodbye.’

Go the Saints. I’d said it. The first time. It felt like coming out.

Tony Rinaldi now had chambers in William Street. The secretary said he was in conference. I left my mobile number. Today we had to measure up for a library.

Charlie devoted the trip to Kooyong to explaining to me why no-one could be a joiner of any consequence without undergoing what sounded like a fifty-year apprenticeship starting at age four and supervised by the Marquis de Sade.

‘So it’s twenty-five years just sweeping up the shavings,’ I said as we arrived at the address. ‘I can imagine the feeling on the day they let you hand them a chisel.’

It was several million dollars worth of old neo-Georgian house behind a high wall. Through wrought-iron double gates, we could see a gravelled driveway that turned the corner of the house. Beside the gates, a wooden door was set in the wall. I tried the handle. It was open. We went up the path to a massive black front door under a portico. I pressed a polished brass button.

The door was opened by a tall, thin man in his thirties, designer cheekbones, black clothes, short fair hair. Alternate fingers of both hands wore rings, red stones on one, green on the other. He looked at us in turn, a look for each. Charlie was in his formal wear: white painter’s overalls, clean, marked only by a faint oil stain here and there, and the jacket of a pinstriped suit he claimed to have got married in. It was not a claim anyone was going to dispute. I was in a dark suit and striped business shirt. With me carrying Charlie’s sliding measuring sticks, we made a fetching couple.

The man tilted his head, brought his hands up and clasped them under his chin. Now the ring stones alternated, red, green, red, green.

‘Stop and go,’ I said. ‘What about amber?’

He concentrated on me, unsmiling. ‘You are who? Or what?’

I looked at Charlie. He was studying the garden.

‘Here to take measurements,’ I said.

‘Oh. The carpenters.’

Charlie lost interest in the garden. ‘Carpenters build a house for you,’ he said. ‘You need carpenters?’

‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘To build some shelves. When you bring in the materials, please use the tradesmen’s entrance off the lane.’

‘Wrong house,’ said Charlie. ‘Let’s go.’ He turned and set off down the path.

‘Say hello to Mrs Purbrick for us,’ I said.

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