all of this pretty thoroughly with the police and so forth on Friday.’
I hastened to reassure him. ‘Oh, I’m not interested in the death per se , just any possible industrial implications.’
Gardiner applied butter. ‘Who else you talked to?’
‘No one much, yet. Lionel Merricks.’ This was nothing but craven big-noting. I wasn’t even sure he’d recognise the name.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘You don’t muck about, do you, son?’
I brushed it aside, modestly. ‘Just protocol really. It’s the situation on the ground at Coolaroo that interests me. And you’d know more about that than any chairman of the board.’
‘What about Apps?’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ I said. ‘But I got the definite impression Mr Apps wouldn’t recognise an industrial situation if it bit him on the bum.’
That got a chuckle. Gardiner relaxed back into his armchair, cup and saucer on his lap. ‘Bit tense, was he?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Is he always so stroppy?’
I must’ve been making a good impression. Gardiner touched the side of his nose and proceeded to slip me the inside oil. ‘Couple of months ago a mix-up happened in one of our shipments to America, sub-standard meat or something. There was hell to pay. Threat to the credibility of the export industry, all of that. Apps copped a bit of flack from the higher-ups and he’s been like a bear with a sore head ever since. You talk to anyone else?’
‘Not really. Some bloke named McGuire, the safety officer. A cleaner called Memo. My impression is that I’m on a fool’s errand.’
So far I was doing too much talking. At this rate those scones would get away from me. I smeared one and bit down hungrily. ‘What do you reckon?’ I mumbled through the crumbs and cream. My mouth filled with heaven, all melting and warm.
Gardiner picked up his cup and settled deeper into his seat. ‘Well it’s all news to me, son. I’ve been there sixteen years, ever since I left the service, and in all that time we’ve had fewer than half a dozen strikes and stoppages. And they were all at the behest of the union, backing up the log of claims and so forth. The slaughtermen, up to their knees in guts and shit all day, now they go out at the drop of a hat, and who can blame them? But our lot, industrial action isn’t their style. Most of them would rather have the day’s pay and solidarity be buggered. I just can’t see it, myself. I certainly haven’t heard anything, son. And I would, believe me, I would.’
This was music to my ears. I tackled another scone and moved on. ‘So what do you reckon he was up to in that chiller? Bayraktar, the bloke you found?’
‘Well, he wasn’t working on his tan, I can tell you that much.’
‘Fair bit of that sort of thing goes on out there, does it?’
‘As much as anywhere else, I suppose.’
‘So it’s pretty widespread?’
‘Stands to reason that a man who works in a meat warehouse would be a mug to buy his own chops. But not everybody’s walking out the front door with a side of lamb under their arm, if that’s what you mean.’
I’d walked into that one with my eyes wide open, practically called the man a thief to his face. I backed off at a million miles an hour. ‘Bit stiff, though. Freezing to death for a couple of kilos of free sirloin.’
‘Maybe he was greedy. Had quite an appetite by the look of him.’
‘Ever had much to do with him?’
Gardiner wiped his fingers on one of the little floral serviettes. ‘Knew him to look at. The ethnics keep pretty much to themselves.’
‘Speaking of which.’ I pulled the time sheet list out of my pocket and folded it down to the bottom half. ‘Know any of this lot?’
Gardiner took a spectacle case out of his pocket, slipped on a pair of half-glasses and tilted the sheet of paper to the light. ‘What’s this, the Cairo phone book?’
‘They were all on Bayraktar’s shift last week.’
Gardiner shook his head. ‘I’m not much good with ethnic
I hastened to reassure him. ‘Oh, I’m not interested in the death per se , just any possible industrial implications.’
Gardiner applied butter. ‘Who else you talked to?’
‘No one much, yet. Lionel Merricks.’ This was nothing but craven big-noting. I wasn’t even sure he’d recognise the name.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘You don’t muck about, do you, son?’
I brushed it aside, modestly. ‘Just protocol really. It’s the situation on the ground at Coolaroo that interests me. And you’d know more about that than any chairman of the board.’
‘What about Apps?’
‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ I said. ‘But I got the definite impression Mr Apps wouldn’t recognise an industrial situation if it bit him on the bum.’
That got a chuckle. Gardiner relaxed back into his armchair, cup and saucer on his lap. ‘Bit tense, was he?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Is he always so stroppy?’
I must’ve been making a good impression. Gardiner touched the side of his nose and proceeded to slip me the inside oil. ‘Couple of months ago a mix-up happened in one of our shipments to America, sub-standard meat or something. There was hell to pay. Threat to the credibility of the export industry, all of that. Apps copped a bit of flack from the higher-ups and he’s been like a bear with a sore head ever since. You talk to anyone else?’
‘Not really. Some bloke named McGuire, the safety officer. A cleaner called Memo. My impression is that I’m on a fool’s errand.’
So far I was doing too much talking. At this rate those scones would get away from me. I smeared one and bit down hungrily. ‘What do you reckon?’ I mumbled through the crumbs and cream. My mouth filled with heaven, all melting and warm.
Gardiner picked up his cup and settled deeper into his seat. ‘Well it’s all news to me, son. I’ve been there sixteen years, ever since I left the service, and in all that time we’ve had fewer than half a dozen strikes and stoppages. And they were all at the behest of the union, backing up the log of claims and so forth. The slaughtermen, up to their knees in guts and shit all day, now they go out at the drop of a hat, and who can blame them? But our lot, industrial action isn’t their style. Most of them would rather have the day’s pay and solidarity be buggered. I just can’t see it, myself. I certainly haven’t heard anything, son. And I would, believe me, I would.’
This was music to my ears. I tackled another scone and moved on. ‘So what do you reckon he was up to in that chiller? Bayraktar, the bloke you found?’
‘Well, he wasn’t working on his tan, I can tell you that much.’
‘Fair bit of that sort of thing goes on out there, does it?’
‘As much as anywhere else, I suppose.’
‘So it’s pretty widespread?’
‘Stands to reason that a man who works in a meat warehouse would be a mug to buy his own chops. But not everybody’s walking out the front door with a side of lamb under their arm, if that’s what you mean.’
I’d walked into that one with my eyes wide open, practically called the man a thief to his face. I backed off at a million miles an hour. ‘Bit stiff, though. Freezing to death for a couple of kilos of free sirloin.’
‘Maybe he was greedy. Had quite an appetite by the look of him.’
‘Ever had much to do with him?’
Gardiner wiped his fingers on one of the little floral serviettes. ‘Knew him to look at. The ethnics keep pretty much to themselves.’
‘Speaking of which.’ I pulled the time sheet list out of my pocket and folded it down to the bottom half. ‘Know any of this lot?’
Gardiner took a spectacle case out of his pocket, slipped on a pair of half-glasses and tilted the sheet of paper to the light. ‘What’s this, the Cairo phone book?’
‘They were all on Bayraktar’s shift last week.’
Gardiner shook his head. ‘I’m not much good with ethnic
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