Immediately below us, a drop of two storeys, was a section of mosaic flooring. The newly laid tiles were bright in the half-darkness. The pattern was a cornucopia spilling forth the fruits of abundance. ‘Public art,’ he said. ‘As a major investor, I was able to insist on the inclusion of murals, sculptures…’
His voice trailed off. He turned and picked up a terracotta tile from the pallet behind him. Casually, he tossed it over the balcony. Twenty-five metres below, it hit the horn of plenty and exploded like a grenade. ‘So Angelo wants his money back, does he? Well, you tell him that he’s not alone. I want my money, too. And I’ve lost a damn sight more than he has.’
Eastlake threw another tile, then another, flinging them out into the void. Four, five, six he hurled, rapid fire, grunting with the venomous exertion of it. They bounced off scaffolding, struck columns, ricocheted downwards. The harsh clashing of hollow metal and the shattering sound of breaking glass filled the air. Across the reverberating emptiness, well out of range, one part of the shadows seemed lighter. A shape like a man stood immobile, watching.
As abruptly as it began, Eastlake’s cathartic rage halted. Taking a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, he placidly wiped his hands. ‘Obelisk is finished. As Karlcraft’s principal unsecured creditor, it will be lucky to get ten cents in the dollar.’ Despite his pretence at composure, he was wound tighter than a spring. ‘Obelisk customers, I’m afraid, have done their dough. All thanks to Max Karlin’s cave-in to the banks.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘And to think that only yesterday I was concerned about maintaining the value of his art collection.’
We had moved to the reason for our meeting. ‘Giles Aubrey died of a fall,’ I said. ‘Or that’s what we’re supposed to think. Personally, I have my doubts.’
Eastlake smiled thinly, continuing to wipe his hands. ‘And this is why you insisted we meet? Face-to-face, as you put it. So you could share your doubts?’ He put his handkerchief away, did up the top button of his shirt, straightened his neck and slid the knot of his tie into place. The obscure inferences of a nut-case were the last thing Lloyd Eastlake needed at a time like this. This meeting, a pit stop in the journey of life, was now at an end. He turned to go.
I could see his point. Time to start getting down to detail. ‘I intend to share my suspicions with the police. And, unfortunately, you are involved.’
That stopped him in his tracks. ‘Me? How?’
‘Because of your ownership of a company called Austral Fine Art,’ I said. ‘And because of the political implications arising from its dealings.’
‘What’s Austral got to do with Giles Aubrey? What political implications?’
It was a long story and I had to begin somewhere. ‘This afternoon,’ I said, ‘purely by chance, I discovered that one of the paintings in the Combined Unions Superannuation Scheme art collection is a forgery. A painting supplied by Austral Fine Art. It is quite likely that other works sold by Austral are fakes. Further, I suspect that the person who organised the fraud was responsible for the deaths of both Marcus Taylor and Giles Aubrey. We both know who I’m talking about.’ I leaned back against the guard rail and let the implications of my words sink in. ‘Don’t we?’
Eastlake stared at me with frank amazement. He tilted his head and searched my eyes, as though attempting to discern my motives. He appeared to conclude that I was stark raving mad.
It was a perfectly understandable reaction. Not only had he just suffered a reversal of his financial fortunes. Now he was being told that the woman he loved had been taking advantage of him, and that she was suspected of murder.
‘These are remarkable allegations,’ he said at last. ‘Can you prove them?’
I did my best to look sane. ‘The evidence is largely circumstantial at the moment, I admit. But once a proper investigation begins, the outcome will be inevitable. If I felt I could hold off taking my suspicions to the police, I would. But you understand that I can’t be party to concealing activities of this nature.’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’ Eastlake was genuinely perplexed.
‘Don’t be dense.’ Did he want me to spell it out for him? ‘Think about the political implications of your little peccadillo. You’ve set yourself up as Labor’s man in the arts. You’ll have to immediately resign from the Visual Arts Advisory Panel, the CMA chairmanship and the various other government appointments you hold.’
Eastlake was utterly incredulous. ‘Have I got this right?’ he said. ‘You’re telling me that you’ve held off informing anyone of your suspicions until you had the chance to ask me to resign my official positions?’
Not strictly true, but I nodded anyway. ‘I know it’s a case of shutting the gate after the horse has bolted,’ I said. ‘But I think you’ll agree that your position will be untenable once this gets out. The sooner you act the better.’
Eastlake seemed to give this suggestion some thought. He bent his head and ran a hand slowly through his hair. We were standing about three paces apart and I could see the bald patch on the crown of his head.
Suddenly, it came towards me. Eastlake’s shoulder rammed full-strength into my upper body. His leg went behind my heels and swept my feet out from beneath me. I tilted backwards, off balance, and felt myself pivoting over the guard rail. One arm flew out wildly, scrabbling for equilibrium. The other shot desperately towards my attacker, my fingers raking the air.
‘Oumphh,’ I said, caught in a wave of vertigo. Then I toppled backwards over the rail and pitched weightless into empty space.
My right hand closed around something soft and smooth. My shoulder joint wrenched violently in its socket, jerking me upright. I was no longer falling. I was dangling in mid-air.
‘Urrgh,’ said a voice above me. The thing in my hand was Lloyd Eastlake’s Mickey Mouse tie. Somehow I’d managed to grab it as I went over the rail. I hung from it, one-armed, swinging like a pendulum. My feet scissored the empty air. My free arm flailed upwards. ‘Urggh,’ said the voice again.
Lloyd Eastlake’s face stared down at me. His lips were purple. His eyes bulged. His windpipe was pinned against the horizontal bar of the rail. My weight was dragging him down, strangling him. The fingers of my left hand found the tie and gripped it. I held fast, two-fisted, and felt the silky noose tighten further around Eastlake’s neck.
His arms flew over the rail. He grabbed his rodent-infested neckwear and started hauling it upwards, desperately fighting to relieve the pressure. The thin fabric began to slide from my grasp. My elbows sawed against the raw concrete lip of the balcony. My feet windmilled helplessly, two storeys above the hard floor.
As Eastlake pulled upward, the clenched knuckles of my right hand struck the bottom pipe of the guard rail. I let go the tie and lunged for it. My fingers wrapped themselves around smooth metal. It took my weight. With my left hand I immediately refastened my grip on the tie. But the pipe was too thick for my fingers to encircle. It was already slipping from my grasp.
All this was happening very quickly. I tried not to look down. I looked up, past the Mickey Mice. Eastlake reared above me, his throat now clear of the top rail. One hand was tugging at the middle of his tie, the other was clawing at the knot. Spit was dribbling from his lips. His eyes were utterly whacko. He had tried to kill me and now both of us would die.
Not if I could help it. I released the tie with my left hand and grabbed the bottom rail. Eastlake flew backwards, out of sight. Now I had the rail by both hands, I began to haul myself upwards. Overarm chin-up. Never my best event. My bicep muscles quivered. They felt like jelly. My cheek grazed the concrete rim. Then my chest. Then my sternum. It was like trying to climb out of a swimming pool without the resistance of water to push back against. I twisted and jived in mid-air, struggling to swing a leg up over the edge of the balcony.