Revenge Of The CEO: White Collar Crime Financial Thriller

by Peter Ralph

“I’m sorry.”

  The agent put the phone down and smiled. Mick McHugh had told him he would get a call seeking information about the tenant, and when he did, the precise way in which he was to respond. McHugh was not someone to be crossed and the agent had complied to the letter with his instructions.

  Sir Edwin Philby had always been a stickler for punctuality so it was no surprise when he arrived fifteen minutes early at the Happy Koala Kindergarten. He sat out the front in his car reading the newspaper almost oblivious to the sound of little children playing only a few metres away. At 1.55 he was becoming concerned because there were no parents milling around at the entrance to the kindergarten, and there was no sign of the premier and his entourage. Perhaps the function had been cancelled and Vanessa Edgerton had forgotten to advise him,

  How rude and annoying.

  He punched her number into his mobile but strangely there was no ring tone or message bank. He waited another five minutes before getting out of his car and striding purposefully toward the entrance gate. Surely the premier’s office would have notified the kindergarten staff if there had been a change of time or a cancellation.

  Chapter 24

  THE HAND ON HIS shoulder was heavy. Sir Edwin swung around to see two burly men dressed in ill-fitting suits and wearing hats. Immediately behind them were television crews, reporters and photographers. “Inspector Ron Ireland, sexual crimes squad,” the larger of the two men said, showing his badge. “You’re under arrest, Sir Edwin. You have the right to …”

  “You bloody fool, what are you talking about?”

  “We have reason to believe that you have been watching and trafficking in child porn and …”

  “I’m Sir Edwin Philby. I’m a pillar of the community, you idiot. As if I’d do something like that. I’ll have your job. Where did you get such a stupid idea?”

  “We’ve tracked emails with pics attached to and from your email address. They were enough to obtain search warrants and my men are searching your premises and offices.”

  “You’re doing what? I haven’t seen any warrants.”

  “Your cook and secretary have. Now come on.”

  “What were you doing in front of the kindergarten?” one of the reporters shouted.

  “Yeah, why would you sit in front of a kindergarten?” another yelled.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sir Edwin snarled. “I’m here at the invite of the premier.”

  “That’s enough,” Inspector Ireland said to the reporters.

  “You’re making a big mistake,” Sir Edwin snarled, as the police shoved him in the back of a waiting divvy van manned by two uninformed policemen. “I have important contacts in this city. Before this is over you’re going to rue this day.”

  That night Aspine channel surfed watching the news. Every channel covered Sir Edwin’s arrest and the exchange he’d had with the reporters. He looked shocked, angry and under severe stress. The following morning the arrest was on the front page of both Melbourne’s dailies. The police had said very little but there were rumours on the internet that thousands of kiddie porn pics had been found on Sir Edwin’s computers, and shocking photographs had been hidden around his house. Aspine hadn’t had sex since his escape and nor did he have any desire. Watching the news and reading what the dailies were saying about Sir Edwin was far more satisfying than any sexual encounter could ever be. Sir Edwin was finished; he would end up in jail shunned by the community as there was nothing lower than a trafficker and purveyor of kiddie porn. Aspine realized, that with time, computer experts might eventually prove the pics were planted on Sir Edwin’s computer, but he would never regain his standing in the community, and would forever be thought of as a paedophile.

  The call to Craig Chisholm was right on time. “Do you believe me now?” the rasping voice asked.

  “I didn’t find anything other than there are some people occupying the floor of a city building who are paranoid about secrecy. I’m guessing there are plenty of floors like that in this city.”

  “Bullshit! With no signage in the foyer or on the door. With elevators that bypass level 10 without a security swipe card? I get the impression you’re not interested, and if that’s the case just let me know, because your competitors sure are.”

  “I’m interested. I just need more.”

  “All right, but this is the last information you get without producing some cash. Get your lawyers to look at the share register of Clean Coal Limited and then search one of its larger shareholders, Benefish Proprietary Limited. Don’t take too long though, ‘cause the guys at channel 6 are hot for this story, and if they weren’t penny pinching, it’d already be theirs. Oh, and just in case you try the same thing, it’s fifty grand in cash and I won’t take a cent less. Capiche?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “I’ll phone the same time tomorrow.”

  Harry Denton pleaded with the police not to charge Mary but they were paranoid about the Office of Police Integrity and the Victoria’s newly created Independent Broad Based Anti-Corruption Commission. The days when police officers could use their discretion to either warn or charge someone were long gone and Big Brother was always looking over their shoulders. From reading and watching the news it was easy to gain the impression that were more police in Victoria investigating other police than police investigating crims. The local Leader newspaper ran the story with a photo of Mary and the shop owner arguing heatedly in High Street Road. Mary had sworn to Harry that she hadn’t taken the cashmere top and someone must have planted it. She was devastated and the article in the Leader had been like a dagger through her heart. They never missed a Sunday morning service at their local Presbyterian Church, but Mary refused to go out anymore, too embarrassed to face her friends and fellow parishioners. She confined herself to the house forsaking the charitable and community work she’d undertaken for decades.

  Harry was distraught. He loved Mary so much and he blamed himself for not seeing the encroaching dementia that she was clearly suffering. He recalled her losing and misplacing keys, forgetting appointments and going out without locking the house. He’d paid scant attention to these occasional lapses because he’d also become forgetful, and had just put it down as part of the aging process. Close friends had suggested that Mary might need the care a nursing home could provide. Harry could not imagine waking up without Mary next to him, but perhaps she would be better off in a nursing home.

  I hate the thought, but am I being selfish? Wouldn’t she be better off with professionals looking after her? For the first time he worried about predeceasing her. What will the poor thing do if we’re still in this house and I die? It might be better to get her into a nursing home now.

  Chapter 25

  RETIRED DETECTIVE BILL MULLER was amazed. He had interviewed Sir Edwin Philby about the hit and run attempt on Douglas Aspine’s life and later about Kerry Bartlett’s suicide. Philby had been pompous and full of himself, but after all he was a knight of the realm, and that carried a lot of status. Muller prided himself on his judgment, honed by nearly forty years of policing, and was certain he knew the signs of paedophilia having grilled many paedophiles. Philby had not exhibited any of those signs, and Muller knew that he was either incredibly cunning or had been set up, as he was bleating to anyone who would listen. Muller was so intrigued that he made a few phone calls to mates still on the force and learned that the evidence was damning; thousands of disgusting photographs had been found on Philby’s computers and he’d been arrested skulking around a kindergarten. His claim that the premier had invited him to a function at the kindergarten was an outright lie. There was no function, and the PA he claimed to have spoken to, Vanessa Edgerton, denied ever speaking to him. He hadn’t used his normal email address when trafficking pics but had created a Gmail account in the name of kiddieluva. According to Muller’s contacts, “Sir Edwin Philby was one helluva sick son of a bitch.”

  It had taken Jack Bartlett forty-eight hours to build up the co
urage to phone Anneka. He need not have worried. She teased him about how long he had taken. They agreed to meet up for brunch on Saturday morning in Albert Park. Jack was already waiting in the restaurant when Anneka arrived wearing a summery white dress, with a green and gold flowery pattern and matching white half wedge sandals that showed off her long, toned legs. As he rose to greet her she kissed him lightly on the lips and he felt his face burning.

  “Hello. Did you have enough time to get your grandmother’s medicine?” he asked.

  “Thanks to you I did,” Anneka said, putting her hand on top of his. “I told her how wonderful you were.”

  Jack’s heart beat a little faster. “It was nothing. I never asked you. What are you studying?”

  “Business Studies but not at Melbourne. I’m at Monash but was trying to get a transfer the day we met in the car park.”

  “Monash is a very good university. Why do you want to transfer?”

  “Yes.” She laughed. “It is, but Melbourne is so much more prestigious. Internationally it is recognised as our finest learning institution.”

  A waitress appeared. Anneka ordered a green smoothie and Jack copied her, even though he would’ve preferred bacon and eggs. “Were you born here?” he asked.

  “No, in Sweden but I’ve been here since I was six.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen.” She lied. “And you?”

  “The same. Where do you live?”

  “Mt Eliza. It’s beautiful but it’s so far from everything. I love the beaches and greenery though. Life is full of trade-offs, isn’t it?”

  The waitress brought their smoothies and Jack was pleasantly surprised by the taste. “This is quite sweet,” he said. “There must be a lot of fruit in it to counter the taste of the vegetables.”

  “Sweet, just like you.” Anneka smiled.

  As they left the restaurant she reached down and took Jack’s hand. “Do you have time for a walk along the beach?”

  “I have all day.” He laughed.

  “Hmmm, so do I.”

  Craig Chisholm’s investigations into Benefish Proprietary Limited did just enough to further pique his curiosity. In early 2003 the New South Wales government had issued Clean Coal Limited with an exploration licence for coal over privately owned barren land in the west of the state and subsequently a grant for development approval. Title to the property had been in the name of William Elmhurst for many years but in 1995 it was transferred to Benefish Pty Ltd, a company that appeared to have no connection with the Elmhurst Family. The development grant added significantly to the value of the property and in late 2003, ownership was transferred to Clean Coal Limited for a consideration of sixty million dollars satisfied by issuing six percent of the shares in Clean Coal Limited to Benefish Proprietary Limited. Fifty of the hundred shares in Benefish Proprietary Limited were owned by an accountant’s nominee company and the other fifty by a lawyer’s nominee company. Clean Coal Limited had been incredibly successful and paid ever increasing dividends from 2000 and Benefish Pty Limited’s six percent was now worth close to two hundred million. Whether William Elmhurst was involved in anything untoward or criminal, could only be determined by finding out who the accountant’s and lawyer’s nominee companies were holding the shares in Benefish Proprietary Limited for.

  Chapter 26

  THE MELBOURNE MAGISTRATES COURT was a hive of activity and it was nothing for a sitting magistrate to hear more than a hundred cases in a day. Defendants charged with causing a public nuisance, offensive behaviour, assault, shoplifting, burglary, driving offences and a plethora of other criminal charges predominantly were unrepresented and pleaded guilty. By necessity, justice was incredibly swift. However, a small percentage of defendants always pleaded not guilty, some of whom were represented by attorneys skilled in the workings of the magistrates’ courts. Sometimes the magistrates were even swifter and more brutal with those defendants they deemed to be wasting the court’s time.

  Mary Denton was represented by senior and junior counsel together with their instructing lawyer, a level of representation almost unheard of in the lower courts. Senior counsel had examined the evidence and advised Mary to plead guilty, after which, and because of her long and flawless record, he would implore the court not to record a conviction, but she would not hear of it. Because of her embarrassment she had also fought against calling character witnesses, but Harry had insisted, and there were more than twenty witnesses on the witness list prepared to speak glowingly about Mary. The prosecutor read out the charge and then called the shop owner and the two detectives as witnesses.

  Senior counsel cross examined the shop owner asking her if she had actually seen Mary put the cashmere top in her shopping trolley, and whether it was possible that someone had planted it. “No and yes. It’s possible but unlikely,” she responded.

  The magistrate was impatiently drumming his fingers on the bench. Not guilty pleas like this made it impossible for him to complete his list – impossible if he didn’t bring them to an end that was. Senior counsel called the first of Mary’s character witnesses and was about to call the second when the magistrate rapped his gavel on the bench. “Guilty, but with no conviction recorded and the defendant will put two hundred dollars in the poor box.”

  Mary started to stand up and protest but her lawyer took her arm and gently pulled her back down. “I really must protest, your honour,” senior counsel said, though he was quite pleased.

  “Protest all you like, counsel.” The magistrate chuckled. “You can always appeal if you don’t like my ruling.”

  “I want to appeal,” Mary whimpered, but her legal team was not listening and for them the matter was closed.

  A Herald-Sun reporter sat at the back of the court furiously typing on his notepad. With luck, his article about there being one law for the rich and one for the poor would appear on page three of tomorrow’s paper.

  In the week that had elapsed since Jack Bartlett had had brunch with Anneka Nordstrom they had been inseparable. Jack had taken girls out but had never had a girlfriend and now he was totally infatuated. They had gone to the movies and bumped into some students in Jack’s class who wouldn’t normally give him the time of day, but had fallen over themselves to get introduced to Anneka. He couldn’t have cared less about them, but his chest swelled with pride when he was with her. He would’ve had to be blind not to notice the admiring and sometimes lecherous glances that she attracted. She was not only aesthetically and physically perfect, but had a great personality and was happy going to places that he could afford on his limited budget. It was early evening when they came out of Subway holding hands and giggling as they strolled over to Jack’s car.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You’ll have to drop me back at my car. I promised Granny that I’d be home while it was still daylight so I could take her for a walk. She’s in a wheelchair and hardly gets out at all.”

  “I understand,” Jack said, putting his arms around her waist and drawing her to him. They kissed passionately and Jack held her tighter, thrusting with his lower body. His hormones were totally out of control and he was breathing heavily.

  “Whoa, slow down, tiger.” Anneka laughed, gently pushing him away.

  He looked mortified. “I…I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry. I want you just as much but this is not the time or place. When it happens, I want to remember it for the rest of my life. It will be the first time for me.” She lied.

  “Me, too.”

  “I’m glad,” she said. “I’d hate it if you were one of those playboys.”

  “Me? A playboy? You’re kidding.”

  “Why not? You’re a very good looking young man, but you’re mine. If I catch you looking at another woman, I’ll castrate you.” She giggled.

  On the short drive to her car Anneka held Jack’s hand and said, “Do you want arrange something for next weekend?”

  “Do you mean …?”

  “I do.” She g
iggled. “But only if you want to as well.”

  Jack’s out of control hormones had completely taken over his addled brain and he gasped, “I want to. I want to.”

  Fiona Jeczik listened intently as Craig Chisholm told her about anonymous calls and The Crime Commission’s investigation of William Elmhurst. “I knew it,” she said. “Squeaky clean Bill Elmhurst is too good to be true.”

  “We don’t know that yet,” Craig protested. “Don’t let your dislike for the conservatives cloud your judgment.”

  “It never has. There’s far too much smoke here for there not to be some fire. I can feel it in my veins.”

  “Fifty thousand’s an awful lot of money.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Fiona said. “Set something up with this guy and let’s see what he’s got. In the meantime I want you to phone those accountants and lawyers fronting Benefish Proprietary Limited and find out if they act for Elmhurst personally. Tell the receptionists that you’re an insurance broker and Elmhurst asked you to phone about a building you’re insuring. If you’re put through to a partner just hang up, that’ll almost be enough confirmation for me that he pushed a licence and development grant through the parliament to feather his own nest.”

  Craig sighed. “That’s nowhere near enough. It could be coincidence. It could be that Elmhurst made a sale of the land to someone with the same accountants and lawyers.”

  “Did you see the three pigs’ just fly past my window?” Fiona sneered. “Craig, you’ve been with me for nearly fifteen years. How many times has this nose ever been wrong?”

  “Never.”

  “Exactamundo, and it’s not wrong now. Get all you can from this snitch and start setting up an interview with Elmhurst. Tell his minders that it’s to celebrate his thirty years in parliament. He’s not going to know what hit him.”