Читать книгу Mordialloc - James Maclean - Страница 19

‘So, let’s go over this one more time … ’ repeated the bored detective.

He leant forward in the reinforced interview chair. His perspiration covered the cheap padded vinyl backing. It was also working its way through the pits of his shirt. He proceeded to refill Floyd’s water cup.

A now very hungover and slightly concerned Floyd McGuinness sat opposite. His lawyer was sitting beside him. Max the lawyer looked to be about 85 years old. He was the same hack that had handled Helen’s divorce. Shit, had been Floyd’s first thought with the appearance of the old advocate. If mum’s settlement from that little fiasco’s anything to go by I’m already in some serious trouble.

Unfortunately though, he was all they could afford. His interest in Helen’s post marriage affairs might have been stretching the boundaries of professional courtesy, but Floyd was relieved, at least, to have someone there in his corner.

‘Go on, son … ’ said the old lawyer, patting Floyd lightly on the hand. He was trying to be all paternal. For some reason though, Floyd felt like he was being rubbed with a cold, dead fish.

The lawyer’s thin silver hair was waxed sharply across a shiny cranium. His darkened age spots were still clearly visible. Spider veins had worked their way across a bulbous nose, poorly concealed behind what could have been make up. And his teeth; so white they threatened Floyd’s retinas. From a distance he might have looked sharp but in such close proximity, he he wasn’t fooling anybody.

Mild dandruff blended with the grey of his suit, and a light smudge just below the crest of his shirt collar betrayed his laundry habits. It was all encased in a rich scent that had Floyd thinking of the yellow stones in a urinal. No, he certainly wasn’t the biggest legal gun in Mordialloc, but at least worked Sundays.

‘As I have told you all before, Tim, or Mr Hill if you want to call him that, shows up at the party late. He had a couple of birds – sorry, ladies – in the car with him and they wanted to continue their party at our place. I can’t say for sure, but I think Tim was already pretty drunk when he arrived. I remember thinking, “Geez mate, you must be an idiot to drive all the way back from the city in that condition – ’

‘Yeah, alright,’ cut in the detective, ‘please continue.’

‘I don’t know Mr Hill, or at least I didn’t before last night. As I told you before, perhaps I’d seen him around. I knew he was local. Anyway, if a bloke turns up late to your party with a car full of chicks – sorry, ladies – well, you’re hardly going to turn him away. Anyway, we all started playing some drinking games … ’

‘Who supplied the alcohol?’ asked the detective. ‘You DO know it’s a criminal offence to supply alcohol to minors and not everyone at your party was over the legal age.’

‘You don’t need to answer that if you think you’ll incriminate yourself,’ said Max the lawyer, doing what little he could to earn his meager fee.

Floyd eyed the stale old solicitor with a cursory glance. A stabbing pain caught him through the left temple. He turned back to the detective. ‘There were a few beers left by my older brother Doug and his mates. They’d all gone. There was also a light fruit punch. I think Tim must have brought some harder liquor with him. We started playing some drinking games. Like I was saying; and the next thing I know I’m being woken up by my brother Doug. I wish I could tell you more, I really do.’

Floyd had already said too much. He certainly wasn’t telling anything more. He’d been horrified enough by the scene when he first arrived at the station. A few boys from the party were already there being questioned. He just prayed nobody would be stupid enough to tell the whole story which, if it weren’t for such serious implications, was actually quite a laugh.

The talk of three years jail time had shocked Floyd early. A litre of cold water, a few pain-killers, and a slow old lawyer however, had given him time. He’d fashioned together a reasonably believable account. He hoped his mates were as fortunate.

‘Max, I’ll give it too you straight,’ The detective was now addressing the lawyer. ‘I think this kid’s pulling our chain. I think he remembers exactly what happened last night. As his lawyer you should be advising him to play ball.’

Ouch; One ‘cop show’ too many, Floyd cringed. I’ve gotta get out of this place.

‘Floyd … as your lawyer, and as an old family friend,’ began Max.

He was looking Floyd square in the eye. He was trying to conjure the same appeal that swayed the jury on the Kerrigan case. It made Max the toast of the Melbourne legal fraternity, back in late ’76 but he hadn’t done much since. Helen had mentioned it when touting his credentials prior to her divorce. Floyd had also glimpsed the yellowed paper clippings on Max’s office wall during his first visit.

‘If there is more to this, than you’re telling us,’ continued Max, ‘now’s the time to come clean. A boy has been seriously assaulted. Poor Mr Hill had to endure minor surgery to have a cigarette lighter removed from his anus. The police are fully involved and will take it as far as they need to. Mr Hill has implicated you and your friends as the culprits. Now’s your big chance, if you are involved, to escape serious jail time.’

Floyd could feel the sweat forming in beads on his forehead. What was this stupid lawyer doing? Shit, he should have known who bloody Tim Hill was; well, one of them should have known. He was the nephew of the Vice Principle of the Parkdale Grammar school; Harry Hill – a man conservatively estimated by Floyd and his friends, to be one of the biggest arseholes in Bayside Melbourne. The guy tirelessly patrolled everywhere from the beach to the railway station. He didn’t only report on wayward Grammar boys, he also submitted regular reports to St. Stephen’s. He was definitely not a man you wanted on your case.

‘As I’ve already explained to you,’ Floyd exasperated. His head was starting to pound. ‘the last thing I remember, we were playing a few harmless drinking games. Perhaps someone spiked my drink, I don’t know. I have some vague recollection of Tim being adamant he was driving the girls home. We made it clear to him he wasn’t driving anywhere. Maybe we had to forcefully restrain him? I can’t say for sure, but it would definitely go a long way to explaining some of the bruising you say he had on his arms!’

‘Plausible, Mr McGuinness, but highly unlikely.’ Yawned the detective, shaking his head. ‘We have medical opinion that strongly suggests Mr Hill’s injuries are consistent with an assault. How would you explain the bruising across his backside and the positioning of the lighter?’

‘You don’t need to answer that,’ said Max, covering Floyd’s exposed hand; another paternal pat. The dead, cold fish had returned.

‘I couldn’t if even if I wanted to,’ explained Floyd with a grimace. The pain from his left temple had magnified. He could feel it traversing across to his right. All he wanted was a pair of sunglasses, and a bed. ‘How many times do I have to tell you. There was a lot of drinking, I passed out and I can’t remember what happened. Last I saw of Tim, he was having a good time. I hardly knew the bloke but I welcomed into my party, anyway. Maybe he put the lighter up his own arse; maybe that’s how he gets his thrills. Christ, I don’t know. Hey, here’s a thought – maybe the butler did it!”

Nobody laughed.

Fortunately, Uncle Graham had drummed into them from their earliest years, ‘always play stupid, tell ’em nothing, give them nothing. You can’t easily change a story, but you can always suddenly remember a little bit more!’

Great advice; Floyd had never forgotten it.

Well, that was in the old days, anyway. These days, Uncle Graham was all about truth and honesty; making a fool of himself trying to be a nice guy. Jesus, they wanted the truth; the truth was that young guys ‘on the booze’ do crazy things. The truth was that nobody appreciated a good joke any more; and the truth was that silly Timmy had been a victim long before he ever appeared at any party.

Unfortunately though, nobody was interested in that truth. No; that truth certainly wouldn’t set them free. Shit, if his pathetic lawyer and the chubby detective with the mild gingivitis were to be believed, that truth could earn them all a nice little holiday - three years, and all expenses paid.

The detective checked his watch.

‘Interview concluded at 3.27 p.m.,’ he finally conceded into the small microphone. He eyed Floyd with suspicion as he got to his feet. His stare said it all, this wasn’t the end. Things weren’t as quite as bad as they had been when Floyd arrived in hand-cuffs, boxer shorts and an old t-shirt four hours earlier, but he wasn’t out of the woods yet.

‘They won’t be formally charging you at this stage,’ said Max. He was leaning so close denture paste was clearly visible. Floyd, too exhausted to move, thought for a split second that he might be French kissed. He automatically closed his eyes and puckered his lips. Then he flinched; the feel of a clammy, cold old hand. The dead fish; it was back.

For reasons of victim protection, as well as protection of the accused, all parties were made to sign an affidavit assuring anonymity. The case was listed as ongoing, and therefore not to be discussed publicly or otherwise for breach of the order. Floyd had been more than happy to sign. He didn’t bother seeking lawyer approval for that. Some things you just didn’t want out there in the public domain.

With the interview behind him, the hangover miraculously receded. Clearance to leave was granted. Floyd’s day finally felt like it might be on the turn. The lumbering detective however, had other ideas. His escort to the front door included a detour. A thin back corridor adjoined the sound proofed, rear interview rooms.

Floyd saw Glen Harkin before he was noticed himself. When he was, Glen suddenly averted his vision. The soundproofing was doing its job but Glen seemed to lower his head and cover his mouth anyway. The lawyer said something into Glen’s ear. They both stopped, and stared in Floyd’s direction.

Floyd’s stomach dropped.

In the room next to Glen was Kenny Coen. Both his parents were with him; a finely manicured lawyer sat between them. Mrs Coen, visibly crying, had a tissue in her hand. Mister Coen’s eyes were moist but he was holding it together. He was a rather skinny man with large nose and thick black framed glasses. The way he leant forward to catch every word gave the strained impression of a praying mantis.

Kenny, himself, was also crying. The interrogating officer seemed to be doing what he could to keep everybody calm. The scene didn’t inspire confidence but it did provide some solidarity. If Floyd was going down, he probably wasn’t going down alone.

A few other players from the party were also noted. They were all chatting away affably. Most had left not long after the birds arrived anyway. They wouldn’t be able to provide anything useful. The look of indifference on the faces of the interrogating officers only confirmed the fact. It was only Floyd, Bullet, Kenny and Glen that were privy to the whole unabridged version. Floyd hoped to god, that’s how it’d stay.

In an act of desperation rather than genius, Floyd had given big Glen the order to show any serious competition the door when it looked like the girls might hang around. A couple of the boys put up a drunken argument. Most though, had just taken it in their stride. It was certainly no reflection of friendship; everybody knew the score. Shaunny Thomas had hung around for a while, but he jumped in the taxi and left with the girls. He’d mentioned something about an early cricket match.

The noise permeating from the final interrogation room gave Floyd real cause for alarm. Even through the sound proofing, the bellowing of a detective was unmistakable. Furniture crashed, and something bounced of the bulletproof viewing window. Floyd recoiled. As he passed the window, a very redeyed, poorly dressed, balding detective could be clearly seen threatening the man in his charge.

Bullet Bulowski was sitting back on a chair. He was leaning slightly against the glass. One leg was crossed to reveal almost the full length of a worn black cowboy boot. A trickle of blood on his left temple suggested he might have fallen at some stage. Unfazed, Bulowski was attempting to light a cigarette. There was no lawyer present and the room’s interview table had been overturned. The angry detective was hovering above him like a cobra. Spit was flying like venom as the detective yelled for all he was worth. At that moment Bulowski raised his head slightly. Not much, but just enough to catch Floyd’s eye. He smiled wryly.

Bloody Bulowski, thought Floyd. He finally broke out of the chaos into the sunshine. The warm rays felt blissful on his face as the cool salty breeze filled his nostrils. This is some shit you’ve landed us all in.