White Dog by Peter Temple

guessed personal or business reasons?’
    ‘An impossible question,’ he said.
    Behind his head, a helicopter appeared, a long way away, coming from the northwest, moving like a black insect crawling on dirty water. The windows were double-glazed, no sound reached us.
    ‘I understand he was a close friend of your brother,’ I said.
    ‘Close?’ A small frown. ‘I don’t know about close. They went to the races, the beach house, a drink after work, that kind of thing. It was before David was married.’ He scratched a cheek. ‘A long time ago.’
    The small telephone on the desk buzzed. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. He picked it up. ‘Yes.’
    He swivelled his chair. I looked at him in profile, a neat face.
    ‘Bruce,’ he said. ‘Thanks for calling. Yes. Sometime soon, can you do that? Monday would be excellent, fine. Yes, it is that matter. And there’s another small thing. Good. Yes. Wait to hear from you. Thank you, Bruce, I appreciate this.’
    He turned back to me.
    ‘The impossible question,’ I said. ‘It would help our thinking.’
    ‘This is a headkicking industry, Mr Irish,’ he said, ‘but I haven’t heard of many developers murdered just for being developers. Is that an answer?’
    ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘What kind of work did Mickey do when he was with you?’
    ‘Anything my father gave him to do. For a year or so. Then it was dealing with the contractors, mostly. That’s more than a full-time job, it’s actually more than a job, it’s a preparation for hell. That can lead people into doing silly things.’
    ‘Such as?’
    He was looking at his fingernails. ‘Well, I suppose you know this royal commission into the building industry has heard some allegations about cash payments, that sort of thing, that go back to Mickey’s day.’
    ‘Mickey was involved?’
    ‘Involved? If he was involved, we were involved. And we weren’t. No, I’m saying it’s possible he knew more about what the contractors were doing than he ever told us. Told my dad, that is. I had nothing to do with Mickey, he didn’t report to me.’
    His phone rang. He said a few polite words, replaced the tiny handset.
    ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry Mickey’s not available to tell the commission what he knew about those days. Needless to say, the contractors won’t share that view.’
    ‘The commission was going to call Mickey?’
    A shrug. ‘No idea. Probably not. I’m just saying that we’d have been happy to have Mickey alive to testify if required. Anyway, I’m not bagging Mickey. He could get things done. He was good with people then.’
    ‘He lost that gift?’
    ‘Some people are good intermediaries, good at negotiatingon behalf of others. When they represent themselves, they’re less good.’
    ‘Have you heard anything about his behaviour in the weeks before his death?’
    ‘Only that he’d been acting … erratically.’
    ‘Why would that be?’
    A shrug. ‘The problems with the project, I suppose. Possibly added to by a bit of chemical dependence. That’s what I heard.’
    ‘Before he joined you, what did he do?’
    A look of thought. ‘I don’t know. My father took him on, someone recommended him. He had part of an engineering degree, he dropped out of uni. Queensland. He came from Brisbane.’
    ‘The crown’s case is that Mickey owned the weapon that killed him,’ I said. ‘Does it surprise you that he would have a gun?’
    Massiani waved a hand. ‘People have guns,’ he said. ‘Some people feel a need to have something to protect themselves with.’
    ‘Did he marry Corin Sleeman while he was working for MassiBild?’
    ‘After he left.’
    I had run out of questions. I got up. ‘I’m grateful for your time.’
    ‘I hope the Longmore woman gets off,’ he said. ‘If she didn’t do it. One of Australia’s finest families.’
    An edge revealed, the micro-bevel on a blade.
    Without consideration I said, ‘Mickey’s talent with people, that seems to have extended to his sex