The CEO: White Collar Crime Finance Suspense Thriller

by Peter Ralph

  “Why am I going, and why are we taking my car?”

  “You’re my PA, I want you with me, and taking the fucking Ferrari would be inappropriate. Understand?”

  “Is that what your public relations people told you?”

  “Get the address and let’s get going. I’m not looking forward to this anymore than you, and the faster we get it over with the better.”

  The drive to Scoresby in the outer suburbs of Melbourne was quiet and uneventful. Aspine felt the tension rising, the tightening of his chest and shoulders, and the dull thudding in his temples which would soon turn into a full-blown migraine. He glanced over at Kelly, who was grim-faced, eyes only for the road on the thirty kilometre drive. She was in her own world, pondering the grief that she knew Bert Stuart’s wife and family would be going through. Cars were parked on both sides of the small street that Kelly turned into, but she found a space and squeezed her Volkswagen into it.

  “Wh-what would you like me to do?” She asked nervously.

  “Stay close to me. I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings about what I say.”

  “You want me as a witness,” she gasped.

  “Kelly, I want and expect your support. This is the last thing I wanted to occur, but it has, and I have responsibilities, and so do you.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes, to me.”

  Groups of family friends were milling around the nature strip and driveway of the small brick veneer house. Many of the women were red-eyed and the men were grim, tightly grasping their cans of beer. Aspine and Kelly made their way to the porch amid much whispering and pointing. Many of the men worked for Mercury and they all knew who Aspine was, however, he didn’t know any of them. The group on the porch cleared and they entered the house. A small, tearful, auburn-haired woman greeted them in the living room. “I’m Bert’s wife, Rita, and this is our son, John.”

  John was also small, late twenties, almost bald, with a small goatee beard and large spectacles. His eyes were red and his handshake limp. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Aspine said, directing his comments to both of them, while looking at Mrs Stuart.

  As he was about to introduce Kelly, she burst into loud sobs, taking Mrs Stuart’s hands. “I feel so sorry for you. I feel your loss so badly,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks

  “There, there, love,” Mrs Stuart said, in the brave way that people suffering extreme grief seem to find in their darkest moments. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”

  Before Kelly could respond, John asked, “How did it happen...how did it happen, Mr Aspine?”

  “I’m sorry, John, the details that I have are sketchy. It seems that a sub-contract driver reversed his tipper over your father,” Aspine said, swallowing hard.

  “Bu-but how?” John stuttered.

  “We’re not sure,” Kelly said, placing her hand gently on his shoulder. “We’re so sorry.”

  Aspine glanced around the warm, homely room, focusing on a cluster of photos on the mantle shelf. “Your husband was in the army, Mrs Stuart?”

  “He was a highly decorated war hero in Vietnam,” John sniffled. “It’s ironic, he survived the Viet Cong, but he couldn’t survive your bloody quarry. How could you let this happen? What happened to your safety procedures?”

  Aspine felt the thudding above his eyes, and the room suddenly became uncomfortably warm. He knew what the young man was building up to, and he caught Kelly’s eye and moved his head subtlety toward the door. “I’m sorry, John; until I see the investigator’s report I can’t answer that.”

  “Mrs Stuart took her son’s hand and quietly said, “Calm down, son, today is for mourning, not vengeance.”

  “We won’t stay, Mrs Stuart. We just wanted to pay our condolences. If there’s anything we can do, please let me know.” Aspine said, backing toward the door, wondering what she had meant about ‘vengeance’.

  Kelly squeezed John’s hand tightly, before kissing Mrs Stuart on the cheek.

  It was late afternoon when they got into Kelly’s car. “Christ, I need a drink something shocking,” Aspine said, turning on his mobile phone. He had seven messages, but the only one he returned was from Wes Bracken.

  “Douglas, Fiona Jeczik phoned. She’s running a story on the accident on Your Family Today tonight, and asked us if you wanted to put your side.”

  “Put my side? What the fuck’s she talking about? What’s she got? It was a fucking accident,” he snarled, his head pounding.

  “She sounded smug, like she knows something that we don’t. I told her you were out seeing the family and weren’t available. What could she know?”

  “Don’t worry about the bitch, she’s bluffing.”

  “Let’s hope so, but you still better watch the telly tonight.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be in touch, Wes.”

  He glanced over at Kelly, whose face was pale and drawn.

  “Turn right at Springvale Road, and we’ll stop at the Novotel. You look like you could use a drink too.”

  “Don’t ever put me through anything like that again. God, that was so sad. It hasn’t fully hit Mrs Stuart yet; she’s still in denial.”

  “It’s about another three kilometres on the left hand side,” he said, ignoring her. She’d handled herself very well at the Stuarts, but he wanted to tell her not to talk anymore, that he was longing for a drink, that he was under stress, and badly needed sexual relief. Her dress had crept up a little and he placed his hand over his eyes as if to massage his headache, while squinting through his fingers to check her out. He briefly thought about hitting on her. In any other circumstances he would have, but he sensed that she’d be disgusted with him and it would kill his plans for a future liaison. The image of Fiona Jeczik flashed through his mind, and he wondered how the bitch planned to ambush him. He wasn’t worried about her − he’d visited the grieving family and done everything by the book.

  There were plenty of tables in the lounge, and Aspine chose one where they could see the television. The news had just commenced and the death of Bert Stuart was the second story. “Fuck, it’s been a quiet news day,” he cursed.

  “Did you say something?”

  “No. What are you drinking?”

  “Vodka and orange juice, thanks.”

  He ordered a Jack Daniels for himself.

  “I need this,” he said, gulping half the burning alcohol down in one swig.

  The colour in Kelly’s face had returned but her eyes were still red. She could barely taste the vodka and couldn’t get Rita Stuart’s tear stained face out of her mind. God, this hadn’t been part of the job description and, for the first time, she was having second thoughts about leaving Telstra.

  “You’ll get over it,” he said, tactlessly.

  “What?”

  “I know how hard it was for you today, but we didn’t kill Bert Stuart − it was an accident − an unavoidable accident!”

  “Then why did I have to hold your hand? Why couldn’t you have taken someone else? I’ll resign before I ever let you put me through something like that again.”

  He swished the remainder of his Jack Daniels around in his mouth before swallowing it, and holding the empty glass up to the barman. The alcohol was kicking in and the pounding in his temples was easing. Kelly’s bitterness surprised him, and any lingering thought of propositioning her evaporated. “Hopefully, neither of us will ever have another experience like this,” he said, taking care to remove the edge from his voice. As he was talking, the theme music for Your Family Today echoed from the television, and the tense face of Fiona Jeczik appeared on screen. His stomach knotted, the pain above his eyes returned, and he sculled his whisky, immediately trying to catch the eye of the barman.

  Fiona related the tragic death of Bert Stuart, and finished by expressing sympathy for his wife, family and the driver of the tipper, but omitted to say that he was a sub-contractor.

  Deceitful bitch!

  She then went over Bert’s war record. He had been a high
ly decorated Vietnam War hero, and one of the last soldiers to come home just before the fall of Saigon in 1970. There were pictures of him in full uniform, his medals and ribbons taking up most of the front of his shirt. The camera panned back to Fiona wiping tears from her cheeks.

  Hypocritical bitch!

  Harry Denton’s solemn face appeared on the screen, and she asked him questions about Bert. Harry spoke quietly and respectfully and told how he had employed Bert when he returned from Vietnam with severe deafness, the result of a Viet Cong mortar attack. According to Harry, he’d been a fine worker, a good friend and a great man.

  Suck-up bitch!

  Fiona choked as she asked union leader, Andrew Lawson, if Mercury’s safety procedures had contributed to Bert’s death. Lawson knew how to spin the truth while avoiding a defamation action. “Well as you know,” he said, “Mercury recently retrenched four hundred of our members, and lost some very good safety people, in doing so.”

  “So the risk of accident increased as a result of the retrenchments?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “Were there any other factors that contributed to Mr Stuart’s death?”

  “We suspect the plant noise levels might be excessive.”

  “Would excessive noise levels be painful for someone who had to use a hearing-aid?”

  “Extremely.”

  The camera panned back to Fiona’s face and she was rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

  Frame-up bitch!

  “We contacted the company to enquire whether its CEO, Mr Douglas Aspine, wished to appear on this program, but unfortunately we did not receive a return call.”

  Aspine’s eyes were glued to the screen, and he muttered under his breath, “I’m too smart for you, bitch.”

  “We thought you’d like to know how Mr Aspine reacted to the news of Mr Stuart’s death. He immediately started making phone calls. Not to Mr Stuart’s family, but firstly to his lawyers, then to his public relations firm, and then to his insurers.

  We were informed by sources close to the company that Mr Aspine’s PA prompted him to phone the family, but was ignored. We wanted to ask Mr Aspine why he felt it was necessary to contact his professional advisers, rather than Mrs Stuart. I guess this is how ‘big business’ treats it employees, and those who are close to them.”

  The camera panned to Fiona’s face and her eyes were flashing with anger.

  Self- righteous bitch!

  “Kelly, what the fuck did you say to that bitch while she was waiting for me on the phone?” Aspine growled, his face black with rage.

  “Other than ‘do you still want to hold?’ Not a word. Do you think I’m stupid?”

  “You didn’t accidentally slip up and let her know who I was talking to while she was holding on?” he snarled, nauseous, head pounding, and the underarms of his shirt sopping.

  “I just told you that I didn’t talk to her, other than to ask if she wanted to continue to hold. How many times do I have to say it?”

  His glass was empty and he couldn’t catch the eye of the barman, so he shouted, “Hey,” and when the barman looked around he pointed to his glass. He ground his hands together as if trying to crush them, before mumbling, “Fucking prick.”

  “What?”

  “It was that bastard, Keen. He was in my office the whole time. Other than you, he was the only one who knew who I called. I’ll kill the prick!”

  “What about the insurance company? You didn’t phone the insurers. What was that about?”

  “That Jeczik bitch just embellished what she already had, knowing there was nothing I could do about it,” he sneered.

  “Why has she got it in for you?”

  “Ratings, of course.”

  “You think she’s that shallow?”

  “Her day will come,” he muttered, wishing the intense stirring in his groin would go away. He checked out Kelly’s trim-taut body once more, but knew it was pointless. His mind turned to Charlie. God, why had he got rid of her?

  “We better get going.”

  “I’ll get a room here, Kelly.”

  She was relieved. She’d seen the charming side of her new boss, and now she’d seen the black side. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Yeah,” he grunted.

  Aspine booked the room in the name of Douglas Court and paid cash in advance, on the pretext that he’d be leaving early in the morning. Once in the room, he flicked the Yellow Pages to Escorts, and punched the nearest agency’s number into his mobile, making sure his number would appear as ‘private’ on the caller ID. Two minutes later his room phone rang. “Douglas Court?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m just confirming your booking. Natalie will be there in fifteen minutes.”

  She was young, skinny and nervous. Her face was pock-marked, and the tell-tale injection scars of a drug addict punctured her lower arms. He looked at her and felt sick at what he’d sunk to, but he needed to stop the pounding in his brain and the throbbing in his groin. He paid her two hundred and fifty dollars and told her to undress and get into bed, before turning the light off. He took his clothes off, put on a condom and closed his eyes tightly, before climbing into bed, mounting her, thrusting wildly like a crazed stallion. She bit her lip and whimpered in pain until he finally exploded inside her and rolled off. His head was no longer pounding and the tension had disappeared, but he was disgusted with himself and his weakness. He flicked the bedside light on and, without looking, pushed her out of the bed with his feet.

  She gathered up her clothes and went into the bathroom. He heard the basin taps being turned on and the toilet being flushed. “Hurry up and get out,” he shouted.

  - 17 -

  THE TAXI DROPPED Aspine home at 6am and he told the driver to wait.

  “Where have you been?” Barbara snapped. “Where’s your car?”

  “One of our men got killed yesterday. I visited his wife and family and had a bit too much to drink.”

  “You slept at his place?” she said, looking astonished. “The accident was on the news. They said that directors could be jailed for manslaughter as a result of workplace deaths. Did you leave your car out there?”

  Why won’t she just shut up? “I slept at a nearby hotel. I didn’t drive my car. It’s at work.”

  “At least you showed some sense. I don’t know why you can’t phone when you’re not coming home?”

  He pretended not to hear. “I’ve gotta shower and get to the office.”

  News of the possible legal action hit hard, and Mercury’s shares opened at $3.00, down 50 cents on the prior day’s close. The 50 cents knocking one hundred and fifty million dollars off the market cap.

  Just before noon Kelly lodged the company’s half yearly report with the Stock Exchange. Net profit was up thirty-seven per cent, cash at bank was up three hundred million dollars, and full year guidance was for net profit to be up fifty per cent. Aspine would’ve preferred to make a lesser forecast, but to do so, would have meant admitting defeat and handing Harry ammunition. Besides, if he didn’t achieve guidance he wouldn’t get his million dollar bonus, and the value of his options would be severely diminished. He intended to move heaven and earth to bring in his profit forecast.

  The market welcomed the result and the optimistic guidance. Bert Stuart’s death and the possible legal action was forgotten, as the institutions and punters waded into the market and bought shares, pushing them to a five-year high of $3.80. Stockbrokers and merchant bankers who hadn’t shown any interest in Mercury for years came out of the woodwork. Aspine was invited into their plush offices, where he addressed them on the company’s past results and future prospects. He met with more than a dozen brokers and basked in their compliments, while being careful not to provide them with any more information than that available to the public. The brokers asked the same or similar questions in different ways, always trying to find something out that their peers didn’t know which they could use to their advantage. CEOs sometimes
leaked information to a favoured broker, without appearing to breach the Stock Exchange’s rules or Corporations Law. A broker would ask a CEO. “Is it true that the company’s going to increase profits by sixty per cent over the next six months?” And the CEO might respond. “You know I can’t answer that,” while beaming effusively. Aspine would become an expert at this form of leaking.

  The invitation to lunch, from Selwyn Lappin, head of research at the prestigious brokerage, Blayloch & Fitch, was a pleasant and unexpected surprise. “This way, Mr Aspine,” one of the receptionists said, showing him to the boardroom, while he was still taking in the ambience and atmosphere of the offices: the walnut reception counter; the deep leather Chippendale chairs; the paintings by Whitely, Boyd and Nolan; the quiet order, calmness, lack of urgency; and the smell of old money. The boardroom comprised floor to ceiling windows with views encompassing Port Phillip Bay, the Botanic Gardens and the Melbourne Cricket Ground. The seventeen-seat mahogany table was set for four. Selwyn Lappin shook his hand warmly, before introducing him to Phillip Muir, the head of institutional broking, and Duncan Milgate, who was in charge of corporate. The prawns, lobster and French chardonnay were served by two tuxedoed waiters, and the talk was largely confined to family, golf, politics and the state of the economy. After the table was cleared and coffee had been served, Selwyn Lappin said, “You’ve done a remarkable job, Douglas. How confident are you about bringing in guidance?”

  “Thank you. It won’t be a problem,” Aspine responded, knowing it was going to be a real struggle.

  “Have you got anything up your sleeve over and above the fifty per cent?” Phillip Muir asked.

  “You know I can’t answer that,” Aspine grinned, “but Mercury’s a long way from firing on all cylinders. Look…”

  “You’re already ten weeks into the second half, so you must have an idea about how much you’re going to beat guidance by.” Duncan Milgate interrupted.