Revenge Of The CEO: White Collar Crime Financial Thriller

by Peter Ralph

  “Those who have defamed my family and me, including those who blindly followed Channel 16 in this morning’s media, will feel the full weight of the law,” Elmhurst thundered. “Writs have already been issued and many more will follow. I am a very private person and I seek no accolades for the gifts and donations that my family and I make. Accordingly, revealing what I have today is not something I would normally do. Unfortunately, given the circumstances I had no choice. Thank you for hearing me out.”

  As Elmhurst took his seat members from both sides of the house stood and loudly applauded, and were quickly followed by those in the public gallery. It was only those in the press gallery and Craig Chisholm who remained seated and glum faced.

  Craig had taken a midday flight to Sydney specifically to listen to Elmhurst’s statement and had sat in the tightly packed public gallery. By the time it was over he was trembling and wrought with emotion. He had warned Fiona but knew it wouldn’t save him or the rest of the team, and that they would all be on the scrapheap before the week was out. What was the purpose of the setup? Did someone hate Elmhurst so much that they would go to enormous trouble and expense to bring him down? Or was it Fiona they were after and Elmhurst was just a pawn they used to get to her? Whoever engineered the setup was extremely cunning and not lacking financial resources. If the target was Fiona, one name came immediately to mind.

  Chapter 34

  JACK BARTLETT WAS SNORTING ice at least twice a week but still telling himself that he had it under control. He hardly needed sleep anymore, his work output was prodigious, and making love to Anneka was totally mind blowing, and even better when she sniffed as well. She would prepare two lines usually on magazine covers, but unbeknown to Jack would tip nearly all of hers back into the phial, only imbibing just a few grains. She had seen what ice had done to others and had no intention of becoming a drug addict.

  It was about ten weeks after sniffing his first line when Jack waited for Anneka in a small St Kilda coffee shop. He was annoyed and irritable, and getting sick of her coming up with lame excuses not to meet his mum and brother. She was running late and Jack tapped his feet and wrung his hands impatiently. Where the bloody hell was she? A few minutes later she sat down gently kissing him on the lips. “You’re late.” He snarled.

  “Honey, settle down. It took me ages to find a park. I’m five minutes late.”

  “You should’ve left home earlier. I can’t fucking stand tardiness.”

  “I’m sorry, is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

  “Have you got any stuff on you?”

  “Of course. As if I’d let my lover down. Are you feeling run down?”

  “Pass it under the table and I’ll go to the toilet.” Why won’t she stop talking?

  When Jack returned he was smiling, confident and happy, the anger and impatience that he’d been experiencing only a few minutes earlier had vanished. “You know you get an even bigger rush when you inject,” Anneka said.

  “Inject? I’m not injecting. Not ever. I’m no bloody druggy, and that’s what druggies do. Come on, let’s get out of here and find a cheap motel. I want to spend the rest of the day fucking you.”

  Anneka knew that he was just about hooked. Ten weeks ago he would have never used words like that, the closest being that he was in love and dying to make love to her. “Okay, you sure are frisky.” She giggled.

  “You better believe it, babe. I’m gonna ride you all the way to Texas.”

  Barry Seymour, Channel 16’s CEO, sat gloomily behind his desk staring out at Port Phillip Bay’s choppy green and blue hues. “You wanted to see me,” Fiona said, taking a seat opposite him.

  “Yes, I think you know why.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Elmhurst’s lawyers are demanding separate full page apologies from us and you personally in all the national dailies. In addition, they’ve demanded that the lead story in our national news tonight is a mea culpa confessing to the public that we stuffed up. Jesus, Fiona, how could you go to air with a half arsed story like that? What’s wrong with Craig Chisholm? It’s his job to make sure that stuff-ups like this never occur.”

  “It wasn’t Craig’s fault. He warned me but I over rode him. What else do Elmhurst’s lawyers want?”

  “Five million in damages payable as a donation to the Children's Leukaemia & Cancer Foundation.”

  “Jeez, are you going to pay?”

  “What choice do we have? If we don’t, the litigation will drag on for years, and instead of reporting the news, we’ll be the news. The board decided earlier today that we needed to nip it in the bud and put the whole sorry debacle behind us.”

  “I wasn’t told about any board meeting,” Fiona said, raising her eyebrows.

  “Fiona, the board determined not to continue with your services and accepted your resignation as a director. You can spend the rest of the day cleaning out your office and packing your personal belongings.”

  “I never resigned!”

  “No, but I told them you had. They wanted to call an extraordinary general meeting and hang you out to dry in public. I didn’t think that would help you or us.”

  “Did any of them support me?”

  “Not one. If it makes you feel better, they considered my position as well. They’re very angry and we’ve had advertisers threatening to take their business elsewhere unless you were fired.”

  “I made this channel,” Fiona said, fighting back tears of anger. “You would’ve never had those advertisers without my investigative journalism.”

  “That might be true but no one in this business remembers the good things; everyone remembers the bad. They’ll still be talking about the Elmhurst interview in twenty years’ time and budding journalists will probably study it. Fiona, you have a chip on your shoulder that clouds your judgment when it comes to those you see as privileged, because of Rupert Murdoch sacking your father. That was progress and typesetters were simply replaced by computers. If Murdoch hadn’t of moved with the times, he wouldn’t be in business today. You might just as well have assassinated Mother Theresa as take on Elmhurst without watertight evidence. What were you thinking?”

  Fiona didn’t agree but saw no point in arguing. “Did William Elmhurst apply pressure to have me sacked?”

  “No. His office said we should do what good corporate governance called for, but we were not to read that as a call for your dismissal.”

  “He is a good man, but someone hates him enough to go to a lot of trouble to bring him down.” Fiona sniffled.

  “Or you?” Seymour said.

  “Don’t think I haven’t thought of that. There’s only one person I can think of who’s that hateful and has the brains and money to pull it off – Douglas Aspine. Craig drew the same conclusion, but when you think about it, there’s no way he’d run the risk of coming back to Australia, and I doubt he could have orchestrated it from overseas.”

  “First it was Mary Denton, then Sir Edwin Philby and now you. It seems to be stretching coincidence to its limit. I can feel his evil hands all over this.”

  “Yes, but there’s one huge flaw in that theory. Surely Jasmine Bartlett would be the first person he would have gone after. After all, she was the one who framed him and put him away for twenty years.”

  “Hmmm, perhaps.”

  “Barry, what am I going to do? Channel 16 has been the whole of my life. I don’t know anything else other than television, and I’m hardly likely to be snapped up by another channel.”

  “I’ll give you the same advice I gave Craig. Your termination package is extremely generous. Take a sabbatical, go overseas for a year, and when you come back I might be able to do something for you.”

  “What? You’ve sacked Craig too? That’s so unfair. I told you he warned me not to try and take Elmhurst down. He’s not at fault in anyway,” Fiona railed.

  “Fiona, he’s been your producer since day dot. You’re joined at the hip. With you gone we need a totally new approach to th
e news and current affairs. If it’s any comfort, Craig said that without you he would’ve resigned anyway. He was happy getting sacked knowing how much extra cash it put in his pocket.” Seymour laughed, standing up and cuddling her. “I’ll miss you.”

  “Me too,” she gulped.

  Chapter 35

  BILL MULLER SPREAD THE morning newspapers out on his kitchen table. In direct contrast to the prior day every front page carried a headline about how William Elmhurst had been defamed. The articles were savage and accused Fiona Jeczik of sloppy journalism. Many critics hypocritically claimed she had brought the whole profession into disrepute. Usually when the media made mistakes, apologies were hidden in the back pages of the dailies but this wasn’t the case with Channel 16 and Fiona. Most of the papers carried prominent double page spreads headed: Apologies to the Right Honourable William Elmhurst. Many carried their own smaller apologies, not leaving out the fact that the stories they had printed had originated from being misled by Fiona Jeczik. All of them carried stories about Channel 16 donating five million dollars to the Children's Leukaemia & Cancer Foundation. While Elmhurst’s office claimed no credit for this, the reporters were quick to praise him. The financial pages covered the ten percent fall in Channel 16’s share price and Fiona’s sudden resignation from the board. The more pointed articles said that it was obvious she’d been given the choice resign or we’ll fire you.

  Muller read every word and when he’d finished made himself a strong black coffee and sat down in his thinking chair. He hadn’t believed it, but what had occurred with Mary Denton and Sir Edwin Philby may just have been coincidence, but the debacle that had befallen Fiona Jeczik completely destroyed the coincidence theory. The people who had helped destroy Douglas Aspine were getting their comeuppance, and it wasn’t happening by chance. Muller flicked his Teledex open to J and phoned Fiona on her mobile. She had no hesitation in agreeing to meet him in the city for coffee at midday. Muller didn’t put the phone down. Instead he worked it for the next two hours phoning cops and ex-crims looking for a lead.

  The Paris End Café was small and on a nice day the few tables on Collins Street were popular. The phone calls had made Muller late, and he was huffing and puffing as he approached the café. He could see Fiona and a man he recognized as one of her associates sitting at one of the street tables. She had been the face of national television and curious passersby slowed to get a better look at her. “This is like a reunion,” Muller said, extending his hand to Fiona.

  She put her cup down. “You remember my producer, Craig Chisholm. Oops, make that former producer.”

  “G’day Craig,” Muller said, looking around for a waitress, “Latte, thanks love.”

  “I never expected to see you again,” Fiona said. “You haven’t changed a bit.” You looked sixty and carried a lot of lines ten years ago, Bill, and you still look sixty and have the same lines.

  “Likewise, but that was before our old friend reappeared.”

  “What?” Craig said. “Have you discovered he’s back?”

  “No such luck, but I had a hunch, and after what happened to Fiona, I’m fairly sure he’s pulling the strings.”

  “Perhaps, but who’s to say that misinformation wasn’t to hurt William Elmhurst, and that I was just collateral damage?” Fiona said.

  “Hurt William Elmhurst?” Muller laughed. “Thanks to you he’s the most popular politician in Australia. The conservatives were going to get thrashed at the next election and now they’re six points clear. If Elmhurst was inclined he could challenge the premier and romp in. He won’t because he’s too loyal. You didn’t hurt him; you made him a bloody saint.”

  “It’s hard to argue against that logic,” Fiona said, glancing at Craig.

  “It’s black and white. Aspine escapes from Changi, Mary Denton gets charged with shoplifting, Sir Edwin Philby gets caught with kiddie porn, and you get lured into doing an interview that ruins your career. You don’t really think all that’s coincidental do you?”

  “It’s certainly persuasive, but why wouldn’t he have gone after Jasmine Bartlett first?” Craig asked. “He must hate her more than anyone else.”

  “I don’t know. I phoned her this morning and asked if anything different had recently occurred in her life. She responded in the negative and I didn’t want to push it. I didn’t want to scare her on the off chance that I might be wrong.”

  “You’re like me with the Elmhurst interview.” Fiona laughed. “You’re ninety nine percent sure.”

  “Do you think he’s in Australia?” Craig asked.

  “I don’t know. I phoned all of my contacts and one name kept popping up: Mick McHugh. There are only four forgers in Australia capable of producing the documents you got suckered with, and I was going to have a talk with them. However, if McHugh’s involved, there’s no way anyone’s going to be talking.”

  “I checked the supposed Crime Commission offices in the T & G Building the morning after the interview. The elevators that wouldn’t stop on level 10 now do, and there were for lease signs all over the place. It was a ploy to mislead us and it worked perfectly. I’d already asked the agent who the tenant was and got nowhere, but I thought that now the space was vacant I’d try again. He wouldn’t breathe a word and I sensed he was scared. It fits with what you said about McHugh, but I have to say that surprises me ‘cause he doesn’t seem all bad,” Craig said. “He’s often in the social pages and he does a lot of good work for charities.”

  “Don’t be fooled. He’s gregarious and charming on the outside, but underneath the veneer he’s a cold blooded killer. Police suspect him of committing at least ten homicides but he’s never needed to spend a day in court defending himself. We had him stone cold on one murder charge. Then the star witness committed suicide, and others disappeared or suddenly found themselves suffering from amnesia.”

  “How would Aspine ever get to know someone like McHugh?” Fiona asked.

  “He was in prison for nearly ten years, and he’d have contacts and those contacts would have contacts. I’m guessing that one of his Changi mates told him about McHugh.”

  “Okay, let’s say that everything you claim is kosher,” Fiona said. “How would Aspine have ever found out enough about William Elmhurst’s personal business to put that scam together?”

  “That’s troubled me, too, but I think I have the answer. At his peak, Aspine was a very powerful business figure dealing with the largest legal, accounting and stockbroking firms in the land. Let’s say he overheard something about Elmhurst that he wasn’t meant to hear, and he tucked it away in his memory bank for a rainy day. Slime bags like Aspine are always on the lookout for leverage.”

  “Jesus, that’s so bloody thin.” Craig scoffed. “You were going so well, but that’s a bridge too far.”

  “Loose lips sink ships.” Muller grinned. “Yeah, I know it’s lame, but my gut tells me I’m right.”

  “I think you’re right, but I’m not sure it helps,” Fiona said. “You told us that there’s no loose lips around Mick McHugh, and we’re not going to get anything out of his associates. So, what do we do?”

  “We watch and stay in contact with Jasmine Bartlett, because if I’m right, Aspine’s coming for her.”

  Chapter 36

  JACK BARLETT RUSHED TO the bathroom and dry retched into the toilet bowl. There was nothing to bring up because he hadn’t eaten for days. He was angry with himself, angry with Anneka, angry with the world and when he looked in the mirror he recoiled in horror. His eyes were yellow and his teeth were black. He turned away, held his head in his hands and shook it, trying to control the demons that were tearing his brain apart. When he looked in the mirror again, his eyes had returned to their normal dark brown and his teeth were white. He was seething when he returned to his room and let out an angry scream when he couldn’t find his wallet.

  “Sam, Sam, you little fucker. Give me my fucking wallet back. I’ll fucking kill you.”

  Sam looked at his mother with pal
ms uplifted. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “Don’t you ever use language like that in this house,” Jasmine shouted, banging loudly on Jack’s door.

  A bottle crashed into the door and smashed all over the floor. “He’s gone mad, Mum. Don’t go in there,” Sam pleaded.

  Jasmine pushed the door open and Jack was standing, holding his desktop monitor over his head as if he was going to hurl it at her. “Put that down,” she said. “Put it down now.”

  “I’ll call the police, Mum,” Sam said.

  “No Sam, Jack will be all right, won’t you Jack? Now come on, please put the monitor down and then we can talk about what’s troubling you.”

  As Jack lowered the monitor, Jasmine saw his wallet under his desk where he’d obviously dropped it, and she picked it up. “Here’s your wallet,” she said, handing it to him. “Apologise to your brother.”