The second book in the Jack Irish series, 1999

In the late autumn, down windy streets raining yellow oak and elm leaves, I went to George Armit’s funeral. It was a small affair. Almost everyone George had known was dead. Many of them were dead because George had had them killed.

My occasional employer and I sat in my old Studebaker Lark a little way down from the church. When the first mourners came out, mostly men in raven suits, Cyril Wootton said, ‘Most relieved lot I’ve seen since the plane out of Vietnam. Still, they won’t sleep easy till the ground subsides. May I be told why we’re here?’

‘Your bloke’s mate’s in deep to the Armits,’ I said.

‘How’d you find that out?’

‘Anyone could find that out. Wade through sewage for a week, that’s all it takes. George liked him. He’d be dead otherwise.’

Two big men, sallow, black hair, moustaches, came out, followed by two women.

‘The sons, Con and Little George Armit,’ I said. ‘Con’s wife’s the thin one.’

‘Well,’ said Wootton. ‘The other one appears to have shoplifted watermelons and put them down the front of her dress.’

Con and Little George and the wives lined up, backs to us, each with wife to the right. Con put his right hand on his thin wife’s shoulder. His left hand moved around slowly and squeezed his brother’s wife’s high right buttock.

‘Racked with grief,’ I said.

‘Reflex action,’ Wootton said. ‘Armits have been in the fruit business for many years.’

‘Here’s George.’

The box had a hard black sheen, a perfect match for the Mercedes hearse. It was carried by six young men, tanned, even height, thick necks, could have been a surfboat crew.