What?’
‘Tell me about Jonty.’
‘Shit, he’s no saint. The guy was dealing in his office, right, he was shooting up junkies in his office. The far gones. Including me. He used to shoot me up, shoot up too, then I’d leave and he’d go back to seeing patients. Old ladies.’
‘And after he was suspended?’
‘Kicked him out. Expelled him from the family. Like me. Started dealing in clubs, in the street. He owed huge fucking sums to the suppliers, they were going to kill him…Can you go now, please, please.’
‘Just one last thing. How did they destroy Mark?’
‘Wouldn’t have him in the business. Barry wouldn’t have him. Barry hates him. I don’t know why. Won’t be in a room with him. He got Mark’s law firm to fire him. Then his own father wouldn’t give him a cent.’
She was rubbing her hands together, scratched her face. ‘Can you go now. Please?’
I stood up. ‘Thank you, Mrs Carson,’ I said. ‘I appreciate your talking to me.’
‘Yes. Goodbye.’ She wasn’t looking at me, she was looking at Jude. ‘Jude, darling, he’s going…’
The man was waiting for me in the anteroom, presumably had watched us on the monitor.
‘As you’ve seen,’ he said as we walked down the corridor, ‘Mrs Carson is not the easiest of patients.’
‘She’s not a patient,’ I said, ‘she’s an inmate.’
We flew home over the lush hills, beneath us the fields, the settlements, the roads, the cars, they looked like the perfect countrysides model railway enthusiasts build: one of each thing and everything in its place. I thought that there had probably been a time when the Carsons imagined they had built a perfect landscape, shaped the world with their money. Then strangers came and took Alice away from them and suddenly their money was as shells and flints and sharks’ teeth and Reichsmarks, a basketful would not preserve a hair on the girl’s head.
The pilot was looking at me. ‘Ex-military?’ he said. In his dark glasses I could see my reflection, bulbous.
‘Why?’
‘Dunno. Something. I had ten years.’
‘Ex all kinds of things,’ I said. ‘Ex-everything, basically.’
He looked away, flash of glasses.
We were over the Dandenongs and ahead, choking on its own foul breath, lay the imperfect city. Many of each thing and nothing in its place.
FROM ORLOVSKY’S car, coming in on the hideous tollway, I rang a cop called Vince Hartnett in Drugs and didn’t say my name.
‘Give me a number, call you in a minute.’
He’d be going outside to talk on a stolen mobile newly liberated from a dealer.
‘Got two private sales of Taragos to check,’ said Orlovsky. ‘And that’s it. The market in old Taragos is sluggish.’
‘The auctions,’ I said. ‘Could’ve been bought at auction.’
‘Could’ve been bought in 1988.’
I nodded, thinking about Dr Jonty Chadwick shooting up Christine in his consulting room, shooting up himself. Putting the blood pressure cuff on shaking junkies, pumping it up tight and giving them the needle. Not an old-fashioned family doctor but a doctor for the new family, the family of addicts. Still, even junkie doctors would have much experience of performing small procedures: extracting splinters, lancing boils, carving out plantar warts.
Cutting off two joints of a little finger. His niece’s little finger.
That would be a minor procedure. Hygienically done.
Was that likely? The son-in-law kicked out, expelled from the Carson family, struck off the medical roll. It was possible.
My phone rang. Vince Hartnett.
‘A doctor called Jonathan Chadwick. Mean anything?’
‘Jonty baby. Dr Happy. Added a new depth to general practice.
Yes, I know Jonty.’ He had a quick, streetwise way of talking.
‘What happened to him?’
‘Inside. Got five years in, let me see, ’96, ’97. Trying for the big time. Hopeless case. Sadly missed by the street life.’
I thanked Vince, went back to thinking about the Carsons. I knew something about one of
‘Tell me about Jonty.’
‘Shit, he’s no saint. The guy was dealing in his office, right, he was shooting up junkies in his office. The far gones. Including me. He used to shoot me up, shoot up too, then I’d leave and he’d go back to seeing patients. Old ladies.’
‘And after he was suspended?’
‘Kicked him out. Expelled him from the family. Like me. Started dealing in clubs, in the street. He owed huge fucking sums to the suppliers, they were going to kill him…Can you go now, please, please.’
‘Just one last thing. How did they destroy Mark?’
‘Wouldn’t have him in the business. Barry wouldn’t have him. Barry hates him. I don’t know why. Won’t be in a room with him. He got Mark’s law firm to fire him. Then his own father wouldn’t give him a cent.’
She was rubbing her hands together, scratched her face. ‘Can you go now. Please?’
I stood up. ‘Thank you, Mrs Carson,’ I said. ‘I appreciate your talking to me.’
‘Yes. Goodbye.’ She wasn’t looking at me, she was looking at Jude. ‘Jude, darling, he’s going…’
The man was waiting for me in the anteroom, presumably had watched us on the monitor.
‘As you’ve seen,’ he said as we walked down the corridor, ‘Mrs Carson is not the easiest of patients.’
‘She’s not a patient,’ I said, ‘she’s an inmate.’
We flew home over the lush hills, beneath us the fields, the settlements, the roads, the cars, they looked like the perfect countrysides model railway enthusiasts build: one of each thing and everything in its place. I thought that there had probably been a time when the Carsons imagined they had built a perfect landscape, shaped the world with their money. Then strangers came and took Alice away from them and suddenly their money was as shells and flints and sharks’ teeth and Reichsmarks, a basketful would not preserve a hair on the girl’s head.
The pilot was looking at me. ‘Ex-military?’ he said. In his dark glasses I could see my reflection, bulbous.
‘Why?’
‘Dunno. Something. I had ten years.’
‘Ex all kinds of things,’ I said. ‘Ex-everything, basically.’
He looked away, flash of glasses.
We were over the Dandenongs and ahead, choking on its own foul breath, lay the imperfect city. Many of each thing and nothing in its place.
FROM ORLOVSKY’S car, coming in on the hideous tollway, I rang a cop called Vince Hartnett in Drugs and didn’t say my name.
‘Give me a number, call you in a minute.’
He’d be going outside to talk on a stolen mobile newly liberated from a dealer.
‘Got two private sales of Taragos to check,’ said Orlovsky. ‘And that’s it. The market in old Taragos is sluggish.’
‘The auctions,’ I said. ‘Could’ve been bought at auction.’
‘Could’ve been bought in 1988.’
I nodded, thinking about Dr Jonty Chadwick shooting up Christine in his consulting room, shooting up himself. Putting the blood pressure cuff on shaking junkies, pumping it up tight and giving them the needle. Not an old-fashioned family doctor but a doctor for the new family, the family of addicts. Still, even junkie doctors would have much experience of performing small procedures: extracting splinters, lancing boils, carving out plantar warts.
Cutting off two joints of a little finger. His niece’s little finger.
That would be a minor procedure. Hygienically done.
Was that likely? The son-in-law kicked out, expelled from the Carson family, struck off the medical roll. It was possible.
My phone rang. Vince Hartnett.
‘A doctor called Jonathan Chadwick. Mean anything?’
‘Jonty baby. Dr Happy. Added a new depth to general practice.
Yes, I know Jonty.’ He had a quick, streetwise way of talking.
‘What happened to him?’
‘Inside. Got five years in, let me see, ’96, ’97. Trying for the big time. Hopeless case. Sadly missed by the street life.’
I thanked Vince, went back to thinking about the Carsons. I knew something about one of
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