Part 29 (1/2)

I tugged at it.

It was just one broken tack. The rest held.

Along the back wall, all hope gone, feeling the regular line of tackheads.

The tacks stopped.

I ran my fingertips into the corner, perhaps thirty centimetres away.

No tacks.

I ran them down the left-hand wall.

No tacks for the first thirty centimetres.

I felt in the dark corner. The lino curled back slightly. I pulled at it. A triangular piece peeled back stiffly. I felt beneath it with my right hand.

There was a small trapdoor, perhaps twenty centimetres by fifteen.

I pulled it up with my nails. It came away easily.

I put my hand into the cavity.

There was a box, a long narrow box, shallow, lidded.

I got my hand under it and took it out of the cavity. It was a nice box, pearwood perhaps, the kind that used to hold the accessories for sewing machines.

I got up and went to the entrance, to the light.

The lid had a small catch.

I opened it.

Cam's girlfriend's flat was the way we'd left it, apart from the battered front door. My malt whisky was still standing next to the telephone in the kitchen.

Cam was in the Barcelona chair, holding himself upright, drinking Cascade out of the bottle again. I was on the sofa, drinking nothing, nervous. Linda was at Channel 7.

'They'll run it you reckon?' asked Cam.

'Depends what's on Vane's film.'

We sat in silence in the gloom. After a while, I got up and drank some water. Cam finished his beer, got up painfully to get another one out of the fridge. When he came back, he said, 'That shooting today. Made me think of my German.'

'Your German?'

'Last bloke who shot at me. Before...when was it? Yesterday.' He lit a Gitane. 'Gary Hoffmeister. We were shooting roos out to b.u.g.g.e.ry, out there in the Grey Range. I only met him the day before we went. Off his head. Had a whole trunk of guns. Rifles, handguns, shotguns. Never stopped shooting, shoot anything, trees, stones, anything. He was full of n.a.z.i s.h.i.+t, too. Kept asking me about my name, how come I was this colour. I just said, I'm a tanned Australian, mate. I thought, you'll keep. Wait till we're out of here.'

Cam drank some beer.

'Last night out,' he said, 'Gary was off his face, talking about Anglo-Saxon purity, Hitler was right, the coming Indonesian invasion. I went to take a p.i.s.s round the back of the cooltruck. Came round the corner, .38 slug hits the truck next to my head. Into reverse, got to the cab to get my rifle, he fires about five shots, trying to hit me right through the driver's door.'

He appeared to lose interest in the story.

'What happened?' I said.

'Got the iron, off into the scrub. Took about half an hour to get a clear shot at the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He was trying to stalk me like Rambo. I put him in with the roos, took him to the cops in Charleville. He was nice and cold. They knew f.u.c.king Gary there, handshakes all round, good b.l.o.o.d.y riddance.'

'They charge you?'

'Had to. Court found I acted in self-defence. Had to come back from WA. Took a little trip back to the scene while I was there. Near there, anyway.'

'What for?'

Cam smiled his rare smile. 'Dig up the ten grand Gary had in his gun crate. And that Ruger. No point in giving that kind of stuff to the cops. Spoils 'em.'

The phone rang. It was 6.25 p.m.

I went into the kitchen and picked it up.

'Put on the TV,' Linda said. 'Seven at six-thirty.'

I went back to the sitting room and switched on the set.

'Something's on,' I said. 'Six-thirty.'

The ads went on forever. We sat in silence.

The current affairs show began with its montage of news footage: bombs, riots, politicians talking.

Then the serious young woman came on, dark top, little scarf, air of barely controlled excitement.

'Tonight,' she said, 'this program deals with allegations about the involvement of a Cabinet Minister, public servants, a clergyman, trade union leaders and others in an under-age s.e.x ring. It also alleges police involvement in the death in 1984 of a social justice activist, and ma.s.sive corruption surrounding Charis Corporation's six hundred million dollar Yarra Cove development.'

She paused.

'These are serious and dramatic allegations. And we believe they are fully substantiated.'

Another pause.

'First,' she said, 'we show you, exclusively, shocking photographs taken by a Special Branch detective on the night in 1984 when social justice activist Anne Jeppeson met her death.'

First, we saw some old footage of Anne Jeppeson leading a Save Hoagland march and answering questions at a news conference. A male voice-over gave a quick history of the Hoagland closure.

Then the woman said, 'On the night of 18 June 1984, Anne Jeppeson was leaving her terrace house in Ardenne Street, Richmond, at 11.40 p.m. Unbeknown to her a Special Branch officer, Paul Karl Vane, was watching her house from a vehicle parked across the street. He had a camera and began taking pictures as she left the house.'

I held my breath.