The Unbroken Line Read online

‘Jesus. That’s fucked up.’

  ‘It is. But that’s where I think you’ll find your starting point. It looked like it was premeditated. They could have done this sort of thing before.’

  Will walked through the living room and pulled a whisky bottle down from the shelf.

  ‘All right. I admit it,’ said Petra. ‘You’ve got me intrigued. One of my colleagues has a source inside the ADF. I’ll look into it, see if there’s a link to the army and get back to you.’

  In the kitchen Will shifted his grip on the bottle so that he could hold it around the neck and pick up two glasses.

  ‘Good. I’ll be in touch with the rest of it by the end of the weekend.’

  ‘And, Will? Don’t think this gets you off the hook with me. I still think you unfairly benefit from your connections and your backroom deals. I don’t know if it’s actually illegal but it’s morally dubious.’

  Will hung up the phone and tapped it on his chin. He hated that there was some truth to what De Marco had said, but there was no way he’d make her see the difference between himself and men like Eldon.

  ‘Fuck it.’

  Will returned to the bedroom. Teresa had a fake-fur blanket pulled around her shoulders. He placed the glasses on the side table and poured two slugs. She relit the nub of the joint and held it out to him.

  ‘Saved you some.’

  Will pinched the joint between his fingers. ‘Won’t it mess with your concentration? Tomorrow being a Monday and all.’

  Teresa shrugged. ‘I don’t have to appear in court. Usually I save it for a Friday, but for some reason my Friday night got thrown all out of whack and I was still getting my head right last night.’

  Will finished the joint and stubbed it out. He held out his glass towards her.

  ‘To having to drag ourselves through Monday.’

  She knocked her glass against his and took a sip. She then returned it to the side table before doing the same with Will’s.

  ‘Now,’ she said, reaching out her hand and leading him back onto the bed, ‘as I recall you were going to make things up to me.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  A light mist lingered in the morning air, beading on surfaces and making pedestrians cautious as they navigated the city’s bluestone alleyways. Empty bottles, torn flyers, crushed cigarette packets – the detritus of the weekend had gathered at the firm’s door. Will stepped over it and walked up the stairs to the first floor. The opaque glass of the front door was dark, the stencil barely visible despite its painted gold outline.

  Will was first in, as planned.

  He moved quickly into Miller’s office and gathered up the papers from the floor. Keeping them in order, he placed the stack into the photocopier and made two duplicates. He topped up Toby’s water in the kitchenette as the machine ran. On hearing its final shudder, he returned to reception and sorted the documents. Will slipped his copies into his desk before returning the original pages, in order, onto Miller’s office floor. Miller had repeatedly demonstrated how observant he was, so this was more a courtesy than an attempt to conceal his actions.

  Fuck Miller.

  Will had no idea how they would reconcile his deceit if they ever got out of this mess.

  He could end up in jail.

  That would be one way to resolve things. The firm bankrupt before it had even gotten off the ground. Will an embarrassment to his profession.

  And yet where once he would have been satisfied to fade into obscurity, to leave the law entirely, since the attack in the tunnel, since realising that there were forces at work against him, he wanted now more than ever to keep the firm alive. The legal practice hearing, Superintendent Vincent closing the official investigation, the Zamberlans and whoever had hired them – he felt like he was fighting everyone at once and he wanted to win.

  Logging on to his computer, he checked his meetings.

  Haideh had scheduled one about the Barnett briefs. After this, Esther had booked him in with an entry that read New client meeting: C. Trpkov. Not a name he recognised. But after this, his afternoon was open, his next meeting being the following morning with Mr Lawrence Hume. He had no idea who that was either. Will picked up Miller’s research and started reading.

  His meeting with Haideh and Barnett dragged. Although well appraised of the sophistication of car alarms and GPSs, Barnett responded with indignant petulance at the more basic principles surrounding property ownership. By the time they had finished, Will was overdue for his meeting with Trpkov.

  As he ushered the squat Barnett out of his office he froze, unsure of what to do next.

  The fact that Caja was sitting in reception felt like an affront to some fundamental social boundary. That he was reading the office copy of Time magazine and drinking a cup of tea added a perverse layer of absurdity to the proceedings.

  Caja wore a grey three-piece suit and a Rolex. The head flowed and stubble had recently been trimmed, in notable contrast to his wild eyebrows. Over his hawkish nose he wore a pair of black-rimmed glasses. He peered over them as he saw Will and nodded.

  ‘Please come in,’ Will said.

  Caja nodded again and followed him into his office, returning the teacup to a smiling Esther. Caja plucked the glasses from his face and held them between his fingertips.

  ‘I have come to talk about Nicholas Aaron,’ he said.

  ‘You could have picked up a phone.’

  ‘I wanted to see your face. To see if you lied to me.’

  ‘I get that a lot. Why would I lie to you?’

  Caja sat in one of the visitor’s chairs and slung his right arm over the back of it.

  ‘Aaron is in jail,’ Will said, remaining on his feet.

  ‘Please sit,’ Caja said, as though Will had been waiting for him to offer.

  Will kept standing behind the desk. He scanned for hard objects. He had no ornamental teapots to throw.

  ‘He made no deals?’ Caja asked.

  ‘I’m sure you had your informant check up on that already.’

  ‘He made no deals.’ Caja lowered his head. ‘Good. What did he tell the police when he tried to make a deal without you?’

  Will placed his hands on the back of his chair.

  It’s coming.

  He tried to control his breathing, to push his mind into a place not where he was calm, but one where he no longer cared.

  If you’re not invested in the outcome, you can negotiate from a stronger position.

  ‘You. His suppliers.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  Time seemed to slow. He became deeply aware of his small movements, his micro-expressions, those subtle tells that would give him away. This would be decided right now.

  ‘No,’ he said, measuring a balance between a casual glance and a pointed stare.

  ‘Nothing about some other activities we may have been engaged in?’

  ‘He said very little. As you know, he doesn’t like me. I think he wanted to be done with it as soon as he could.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Fear. He fears you, the old man. He is very aware of what it would mean if he talked about your organisation.’

  ‘And yet without you there, he was going to talk to the police.’ Caja sat forwards now, glaring at him as though his gaze could penetrate Will’s thoughts.

  Careful. Slow and careful.

  ‘I wasn’t there, so I can’t know for certain. But Aaron said they weren’t interested in him. They were trying to learn about me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they suspect something is going on. Because they believe I might know who Aaron’s supplier is.’

  ‘Do they know that it is us?’

  ‘They suspect but have no proof, suspicions they held long before I came along.’

  ‘That is nothing new.’

  ‘You do realise that they can’t compel me to reveal anything. Lawyer–client privilege.’

  ‘Of course.’

  A gnawing fear was moving through him now. Unbidden, unwa
nted. He was afraid for Aaron, unmanned by his compassion; he didn’t want to see that fucker hurt.

  ‘I’ve done my part, Caja. I made sure Aaron didn’t say anything. And he didn’t. The laws of evidence are very exact. They can’t use anything unless it’s a signed declaration. As Aaron’s lawyer, they would have advised me if this had taken place. It would have been in the hand-up brief.’

  Caja tapped the glasses against the side of the chair. ‘Good.’ He stood up and pulled down his waistcoat.

  Will looked at Caja, this thug who clearly thought of himself as civilised, in his own way, with his three-piece suit and cologne.

  Will stood on his side of the table. ‘There’s something I’d like from you.’

  ‘From me?’

  ‘Yes. I’d like an assurance.’

  Caja stopped preparing to leave and turned his hands out towards Will – Go on.

  ‘I want you to guarantee, Caja, that Nicholas Aaron will be safe in prison.’

  ‘No one can guarantee that.’

  ‘No, they can’t. But I’m not talking about him making his own way, staying on the right side of the right people. I’m talking about the Ivanics. I’m talking about you. I want you to give me your word that he’ll be safe.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because clearly there are doubts about what he has said.’

  ‘But you have given your word that he didn’t say anything to the police.’

  ‘And so I’d like yours that you won’t have him killed.’

  Caja’s face didn’t move. Slowly he closed his hands together in a single, soft clap. ‘You have my word.’

  ‘Good.’ Now was the time to bring it all to a close. ‘And otherwise, you and me, the Ivanics – we’re done now.’ Will remained still.

  ‘We may contact you in the future. As paying customers, if our people need it.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Because refusal often offends.’

  Again there was no movement in his face. But in a delayed response, the corners of his mouth turned up a few seconds later.

  ‘Very well.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  A dense, overgrown garden crowded the raised beds partitioned by brick pathways and climbing frames. It shrouded the red-brick facade of the Californian bungalow and retained the water from the night’s rain. The smell and moisture of an earthy dampness still hung in the air. The small, cluttered property felt as though it had been transplanted here – it was in complete contrast to the well-maintained mansions that lined the Parkville street. Will stepped up onto a patio under flaking eaves, a stack of photocopies in one hand and a wine bottle in the other. He tucked the wine bottle under his arm and knocked on the front door.

  The curtain at a window parted just enough for a single eyeball to blink at him. The plume of a grey eyebrow remained lowered until recognition set in.

  The door was flung open and the stocky silhouette of Professor Derek Quayle lurched towards him.

  ‘William Harris!’ he said, using both hands to vigorously shake Will’s. ‘My most notorious student. I thought I heard black wings approaching. Come inside.’

  The door opened directly onto the living room, where a stale fireplace added an undertone of burnt wood to the heavy aroma of cigarette smoke. Throughout the room were spread newspapers, magazines and books. Beneath these were flat, formless couches and half-a-dozen coffee and side tables. In a leather La-Z-Boy with a wine glass in her hand sat an obese woman in brogues and tweed.

  ‘Will, my house guest, Professor Patricia Stephenson-Wrigg.’

  She reached a hand out from the partly reclined chair.

  ‘We have corresponded,’ she said, with the formal British accent of a BBC newscaster. ‘Earlier this year. You were hunting for Lamb’s Precedent, as I recall.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Will, shaking her hand.

  Quayle hooted from the side of the room, plucking a wine glass from the mantelpiece. ‘Will caused a minor ruckus with it, actually. Bit of a legal celebrity now.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’ve brought this,’ Will said, holding out the wine. ‘A Bordeaux.’

  ‘A bold statement, Mr Harris. I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Quayle said, reaching for the bottle. ‘The 2009 Château Lanessan. Not terrible. Entry-level but —’

  ‘But what, Derek?’ Stephenson-Wrigg said. ‘It’s out of your budget at the moment. So thank you, Will, that’s very kind.’

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Will asked. ‘This isn’t a bad time?’

  ‘No, it’s fine. I’m in from London because Derek’s life is in a bit of a shambles. I’m here to see if we can scrape it back together.’

  ‘He doesn’t need to hear about that. A former student —’

  ‘A friend, if I’m not mistaken,’ said Stephenson-Wrigg.

  Quayle nodded and scowled. ‘It’s Jane. She’s left me. For good.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘And the law school suspended me,’ Quayle added, as he turned and carried the wine over to a sideboard cluttered with half-finished bottles and dusty glassware.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A minor infraction. It was politically motivated.’

  ‘You threw an ashtray at a student,’ said Stephenson-Wrigg.

  ‘He was begging for a pass grade. And besides, I didn’t hit the little shit. Just the wall behind him.’

  ‘You missed because you’d been drinking. Which was also why they reviewed the entire year level’s results and had to get them all reassessed by another lecturer. You’d been drinking while marking essays.’

  ‘So?’ Quayle asked, taking out a corkscrew and working at the top of the bottle. ‘We all drink while marking essays. It’s the only way to get through the damn things.’

  ‘You failed over 80 per cent of the class.’

  ‘With good reason.’ Quayle popped the cork and held it towards Will. ‘I’d say Harris here is a better lawyer for my criticisms. How will any of them improve if we continue to dumb down education? It’s all about the money these days. All about money and entitlement. They’re sending me their sons and daughters and expecting nothing to be required of them.’

  Stephenson-Wrigg flapped her hand at Quayle and shook her head.

  ‘Anyway, which illustrious cause brings you here, Harris?’ Quayle said as he poured three glasses.

  ‘Money and entitlement, actually.’ Will remained standing, unsure where to sit.

  Quayle stopped pouring and looked at him.

  ‘Entitlement?’

  ‘Yes. Have you ever heard anything about families with connections to the First Fleet being involved in the manipulation of justice today?’

  Quayle remained still. ‘The First Fleet?’

  ‘Well, actually the New South Wales Corps.’

  ‘They arrived with the Second Fleet, Will.’

  Will balanced the wad of notes on the closest headrest and started to flick through them. ‘That’s true. But some of the marines from the first enlisted with the corps rather than return to England.’ Will pulled out the marked-up photocopies he’d worked on that afternoon. Quayle finished pouring and hurried a glass each over to Stephenson-Wrigg and Will before fetching his own.

  ‘After the Rum Rebellion there was a spike in the number of freeholds purchased by enlisted men.’

  ‘That’s all fine and well, but how does this connect to anything a lawyer might have to do today?’ Quayle asked, lifting an open broadsheet off the couch and removing the crumpled cardigan that lay beneath it. ‘Please sit.’

  ‘Well, there’s still some research to be done to connect the dots,’ Will said, sitting and taking a sip of his wine. ‘We’re not sure of the links, or in fact, whether there are any. But we’ve received advice from a source that suggests there is a connection between the Eldon family, their Fleet ancestors and a corrupt group today. They call themselves The Covenant.’

  ‘Why can’t thi
s informant be more precise?’ Stephenson-Wrigg asked.

  ‘Because he’s dead,’ Will said. ‘It was Mark Eldon, Michael Eldon’s son, who first suggested the connection.’

  Stephenson-Wrigg shifted, the chair creaking under her as she lit a cigarillo. ‘You’re a criminal lawyer, are you not?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘If you don’t mind my asking,’ she said, puffing on the thin brown bundle, ‘why are you looking into this? If there is corruption, it would be a job for the authorities.’

  Will stared at the dark red liquor in his glass. ‘We suspect our firm is being targeted by Michael Eldon. I was run off the road, a friend of mine attacked, and my partner is being framed for negligent manslaughter. I want to know who’s behind it so I can outmanoeuvre them.’

  ‘Not to go after them?’ Quayle asked from the mantelpiece, as he slipped a hand-rolled cigarette into the corner of his mouth. For a moment the deep shadows on his face receded.

  Will looked back at Quayle.

  ‘So you do mean to go after them,’ Quayle said, flicking his lighter.

  ‘I don’t even know if there is a “them”. It could just be Eldon, it could be two people, or it could be a phantom we created ourselves. Let me say this first so that no one else has to – it’s all very tenuous.’

  ‘This was the research you were talking about on the phone, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ Will replied. ‘We’re under-resourced. I need help.’

  ‘Granted, I’m only loosely aware of Australian history, but it certainly sounds alluring,’ Stephenson-Wrigg said.

  ‘I’ve made a copy of all the information we have from the National Archives. I’d like to find proof that this Covenant exists and that Michael Eldon is connected somehow. Will you look into it for me?’

  The details of the room were being lost in a thickening haze of tobacco smoke. Will sipped more wine and pushed on to the point of his visit.

  ‘Of course he will. Derek will be happy for the diversion,’ Stephenson-Wrigg said.

  ‘I would?’

  ‘You can’t spend your days locked up in here drinking away your cellar.’

  ‘Oh, I assure you, I can. But I won’t deny that it intrigues me. Will has a knack for digging up interesting historical conundrums. It is a fool’s errand, however. Please don’t be confused about that. I don’t anticipate I’ll find much at all.’