Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [14]
A story on page four of the paper caught his eye. It was about a GP who had been supplying his receptionist with drugs. After everybody went home they liked to stay behind in the surgery and relax together, talk a bit and pop a few pills. Have some fun. Make a couple of home movies if they felt like it. Everything was going fine until one found its way onto the net. It was popular with a lot of people but none of them worked for the Medical Association of New South Wales.
Doctor Ian Durst. The name flashed into Jack’s mind. The newspaper story had reminded him of a similar episode about five or six months ago, involving Mr Fake Tan of the Sucker Punches, formerly Doctor Ian Durst, gynaecologist, Double Bay. He had been struck from the medical register after a sex, drugs and money scandal. It was on the evening news: his photograph had been in the papers. That was why Jack thought he had seen Durst before, when he glimpsed his face in the car in Kasprowicz’s driveway.
Durst. He said the name in a low voice. It sounded like a town in Austria. Or a type of sausage. Son of a bitch.
Jack paid for breakfast. It was nearly 8.30 a.m. Outside, the drizzly rain had stopped but the wind had picked up and whipped around in annoying gusts. Traffic was quickly filling the streets as Jack hurried on to Susko Books. He wanted to call Brendan MacAllister before opening up. Jack’s former boss at MacAllister’s Old Books knew a little something about everything that went on in old Sydney Town.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Jack.’
A pause. ‘Jack?’ MacAllister put on an exaggerated English accent. ‘I am sorry, but I do not believe I know anybody by that name.’
‘Like that, is it?’ said Jack.
‘I am sorry, sir, but I suspect that you may have dialled the wrong number.’
‘I suppose I’ll have to send you a written apology before you’ll speak to me?’
MacAllister laughed. ‘You can write?’
‘You can read?’
Brendan MacAllister was a big man: fifty-five and fit, with dark red hair everywhere except his scalp. Handsome in a bald, bristly kind of way. His laugh was deep and resonant. Cups and cutlery shook if he happened to be at a table when something struck him as funny.
‘Nice of you to call,’ said MacAllister. ‘I thought you were dead.’
‘It’s been a busy couple of months.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Then in a Scottish accent: ‘Did I not treat you like a son?’
‘I was an abused child, your Honour.’
‘Oh, that’s why you’re ringing: blackmail. How much?’
‘Hundred thousand ought to keep me quiet.’
‘Sure, sure. Cheque okay?’
‘Only if it’s in a bag with the cash.’
‘Funny bastard. Hang on …’
Jack waited. He flicked through a pile of mail on the counter. He could hear MacAllister calling out to his wife.
‘Right,’ he said, back on the phone. ‘My coffee shall be here directly.’
‘How’s Denise?’
‘Demanding as ever. What’s new with you?’
‘I’m getting married.’
MacAllister grunted. ‘Really? What’s her name?’
‘Annabelle Kasprowicz.’
‘A millionaire’s daughter, no less! I presume you’ve met the father-in-law.’
‘A gentleman and a scholar.’
‘In the fifth rung of hell.’
‘Know him well?’
‘Used to be a regular. World War II stuff. Especially keen on anything Nazi. Funny, being Jewish, family run out of Poland, all that. Sold him some diaries by an SS man last year. Didn’t even want to bargain.’
Jack tapped the counter with the edge of an envelope. ‘What do you know about his brother, Edward Kass?’
MacAllister slurped some coffee. ‘Renowned poet. Recluse. Broke. And judging by his poetry, pretty pissed off about it.’
‘Money the family rift then?’
‘The perennial rich bastards’ classic. Back in the seventies Edward took big brother Hammond to court over the family millions. He didn’t get any.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Plus zero. You know mamma and papa