'Eat your muesli,' I said, not feeling like mine. We sat there, eating and looking at each other.

'And then?' I asked when we'd almost finished.

'He says business began to fall off even before the men came to see him. He depended on five or six major customers. Two went, and then after the visit his biggest customer, more than half his business, went elsewhere.'

'Reasons?'

'They gave him a story he didn't believe. He says they couldn't look him in the eye.' She paused and ate a spoonful. 'And then one Friday night the place burnt down. Blew up, actually. Full of gas cylinders.'

'Cause?'

'Made to look like negligence, he says. Insurance wouldn't pay. He thinks one of his workers set it up.'

'So he sold?'

'Yes. He was ruined. He says he could have sold the business for half a million before it all started. After the fire, it was worth nothing. No customers. No premises. The agents came around and offered half of the original offer and he took it.'

'Why did he change his mind about talking to you?' I asked.

Linda was studying the street. 'He says it's been boiling inside him all these years. He's convinced the whole business killed his wife. And his divorced daughter, who lived with him with her kids, she said he'd gone neurotic and went to live somewhere else.'

'Tell me about being followed.'

She smiled, a thin smile. 'Talking about neurotic,' she said. 'All day Sat.u.r.day I had this feeling someone was watching me. Then yesterday, after I left Swanreach, I stopped for gas and a car, ordinary cream Holden or something with two men in it, pulled up at the air hose. I realised I'd seen it parked way down the road from the house I'd been at.'

She took a deep breath. 'Anyway, I went in to pay and I b.u.g.g.e.red about, bought a drink, looked at the magazines, studied the engine additives, fanbelts, whatever. The guy at the air hose pumped three tyres and then he stuck on the fourth one, at the back. His head kept bobbing up. Finally, he hung up the hose and they drove off. I went outside quickly and they were pulling up by the side of the road about a hundred metres down. In front of a parked car. I went by them-I didn't have any choice-and they zipped out, forced their way into the traffic and sat about five cars behind me. I pulled in at a liquor place in Alphington and when I came out, they were at the kerb about two hundred metres back. So I changed direction, went back past them.'

'You realised that would tell them for sure they'd been spotted?'

Linda shrugged. 'I hate to say it, but I was completely spooked. I was hoping I was wrong. I hoped they'd go away.'

'But they didn't?'

'They did a U-turn right in the face of traffic. I drove on for a bit, did an illegal U-turn at some lights, saw them on my right, and then I didn't see them again.'

'Where'd you go?'

'Home first. Put the interview notes on the laptop. Then to work. That's when I got the message from this a.r.s.ehole in Sydney. Via this spineless a.r.s.ehole in Melbourne. And discovered my computer wipeout.' She smiled another wan smile. 'First I'm followed, then at work I get two quick kidney punches. Go home for the knockout blow. Every square inch of the place searched. I kid you not. My old photo alb.u.ms, Christ. They took the top off the lavatory cistern. Left it in the bath.'

I thought about Eddie Dollery and the money in the dishwasher. Was that only two weeks ago? Our coffees came. I was trying to think of something to say that wouldn't reveal the jellyback in me when Linda said, voice low, 'Oh, and about your friend Ronnie Bishop.'

'What?'

'I talked to someone I know from when I was on the compa.s.sion beat at the Age. She's a welfarey, a youth worker, knew Ronnie Bishop from way back. She says she wanted to give a party when she heard he was found dead.'

I waited.

'She says she thinks he got a whole lot of street kids into p.o.r.n movies. She says she's heard that Father Gorman runs the Safe Hands Foundation as a kind of brothel for sleaze-bags looking for under-age s.e.x. Ronnie was a recruiting agent on the street.'

I remembered something Mrs Bishop had said: Ronnie loved films. He saved up to buy a movie camera. He was always filming things.

Linda lowered her voice even further. 'Here's the really interesting bit. My contact says that around the time of the Hoagland business, she was working in a youth refuge, lots of street kids with drug habits. One of them, a girl about fourteen, saw a man on TV one night and said, "That's the bloke who f.u.c.ked me and my friend."'

'Ronnie?'

She shook her head. 'No. Lance Pitman MP, then Housing Minister.'

I closed my eyes and said, 'Jesus. Did they go to the cops?'

'No. No point. The girl wouldn't talk to the cops. But she fingered Ronnie Bishop as the one who set it up.'

I looked out the window. Ronnie and Father Gorman and Lance Pitman and Scullin the cop. Under-age s.e.x and p.o.r.n movies. And the Kwitny family, patrons of the Safe Hands Foundation and owners of Charis Corporation. 'What did they do about it?' I asked.

'This woman and another youth worker went to see Father Gorman. He gave them a lot of charm, said he'd look into it. They didn't hear anything more. Ronnie wasn't seen on the streets again.'

'And they left it at that?'

'They're both good Catholics. He's a priest.'

I said, 'What are you going to do now?'

She gave me her unblinking look. 'What the burglars didn't know is that I'd backed up everything at work and on the laptop on disk. And the disk is in my bag. I'm going to try to link Charis Corporation to the companies that bought up Yarrabank. That's the link I need. But if I can't tie them together, I'll write the story of the buy-up and see if the Age will run it.' She blinked. 'I'm sorry, Jack, I have to.'

I sighed and put my hand on hers. 'Don't be sorry,' I said. 'Let me tell you about my phone call from Perth.'

There was a piece of cardboard torn off a beer carton slipped under my office door. On it was written: I rembered somthing else about what you was asking about. See me at my house. It was signed: B. Curran, 15 Morton Street, Clifton Hill.

It didn't mean anything for a moment, and then I remembered I'd left my card with the man who'd lived next door to Ronnie Bishop in Clifton Hill.

A car hooted outside. It was Cam. We had a meeting organised with Cyril Wootton and his chief commissioner at the pub in Taylor's Lakes. Cam favoured places in the suburban wastelands for meetings like this.

It started to sprinkle with rain as we hit the freeway in Kensington.

We were in the fast lane, doing ten over the limit. On the right-hand bend coming up to the Coburg exit, Cam shifted into the middle lane, giving a furniture truck no more than a second's warning.

Five hundred metres further, he went back into the fast, no warning. A hooter blared at us.

'Having fun?' I asked.

'Two p.r.i.c.ks on a bike been with us since Carlton,' Cam said, voice normal. 'Just wanted to see what they'd do.'

'What'd they do?'

'Dropped way back. Put your hand under the seat, will you, mate. There's a little case.'

I found what looked like a small aluminium briefcase under the seat. It was heavy.

'It's loaded. Keep it out of sight,' Cam said.

I unsnapped the lid of the case. Inside, nestled in hard foam, were a long-barrelled revolver, cleaning equipment and about thirty rounds of ammunition.

'Ruger Redhawk,' Cam said.

'That's nice. What the f.u.c.k's going on?'

Cam had his eyes on the rear-view mirror. 'Dunno. Could be just two p.r.i.c.ks out for a ride. Could be someone thinks we've got the cash for the Commissioner on board.'

'Who knows we're meeting him?'

'It's a her. Just Wootton.'

The Essendon exit was coming up. Cam waited until it was almost too late and then swung off sharply on to it without signalling. 'I'm going first left, round the sports fields,' Cam said. 'Hold your tummy.'

I looked back. Three hundred metres behind us, four cars in between, a motorcycle with two figures in black wearing fullface helmets on it was coming off the freeway.

'Bloke on the back's got a little bag,' I said.

'His playlunch maybe,' Cam said. 'When last you shoot anything?'

I felt fear for the first time. It had seemed a bit of a joke up to then. 'In the Mallee about ten years ago,' I said. 'Shot a few rabbits.'

'Take that thing out of the box.'

I took the Ruger out and looked back again. The motorcycle was accelerating past the cars, closing the gap between us quickly.

The engine screamed and the tyres squealed as Cam changed down and took the left, but the car held its line. 'Nice bus this,' Cam said. 'But it hasn't got the legs for this kind of thing.'

The bike leant over at forty-five degrees as it came around the corner behind us, perhaps two hundred metres away.

We were on a street with houses on our right and sports fields behind a high wire fence on the left. We had to turn right at the corner coming up or go into a parking lot for the sports complex.

'I think we've got to show these boys the iron,' Cam said. 'Can't outrun them. I'm going to broadside in this parking lot. Get out quick, I'm coming out the same door.'

My eyes flicked to the speedo. We were doing a hundred when we went into the parking area. There were three cars in it, all near the gate at the left.

I looked back again. The bikers were close now, perhaps a hundred metres. The sun had come out and their leathers gleamed like otter skins.

Cam swung left towards the cars, slowed, then swung right. As the car came around, he hit the brake.

We went into a broadside skid across the tarmac, the right-hand wheels lifting. We came to a stop side on to a fence a few metres away.

'Out we go,' said Cam calmly.

I opened my door and half fell out. Cam was right behind me in a crawl.

'Keep down,' he said. 'Give me the gun.'

We crouched behind the front of the car. I could feel the heat from the engine on my face. Cam pulled back the Ruger's hammer.

The bike came into the parking lot almost without slowing and went right. As it turned half side-on to us, I got a view of the pa.s.senger.

His bag was slung around his neck by the strap now and he was holding something black and blunt.

'f.u.c.king Christ,' said Cam.

It was a sub-machine gun.

The rider slowed and swung left. He was going to make a run parallel to us.

We both ducked. They must have been about twenty metres from us when the pa.s.senger opened up, flat, coughing sounds, not loud. Most of the first burst was high, over the top of the car. But the last rounds. .h.i.t the front windscreen with sharp tapping noises. A large, jagged hole appeared on the pa.s.senger side and the rest turned to mosaic.

A second later, the next burst of hard coughing. They went low. Some hit the car, some hit the tarmac underneath, ricocheted and pinged off the cha.s.sis.

The bike was past, accelerating into a turn for another run.

'f.u.c.k this for a joke,' Cam said. He straightened up, Ruger in both hands, and leant his long forearms on the bonnet.

I put my head up. The bikers were side-on, just starting the turn towards us. The pa.s.senger saw Cam and raised the fat barrel of his weapon.

Cam fired.

He missed.

He fired again.

The bullet hit the back of the gunman's helmet. His left arm went up as the impact lifted him off the bike and spun him on to the tarmac.

The rider, unbalanced, veered sharply towards us, gained control and swung savagely away.

'One down,' Cam said softly, steadying himself for a shot at the rider.

The pa.s.senger got to his knees, left hand to his helmet, sub-machine gun still in the other. He was small, no bigger than a fourteen-year-old. He shook his head like a dog, then turned to look at us.

Cam was aiming at the rider.

The small man brought the sub-machine gun up.

'Down!' I shouted, grabbing Cam's coat and pulling him onto me.

The weapon coughed again, bullets whining just over the bonnet where Cam had been.

'Little f.u.c.ker,' Cam said.

The bike's engine roared.

Cam put his head up. 'Party's over,' he said.

I stood up. They were going out of the parking area exit, sun glinting on their helmets, engine screaming in second gear.