by Jenny Spence
“Oh, I’ve got a little gallery in Double Bay. More of a hobby, really. What about you?”
“I’m in computers,” I say, and watch her eyes glaze over. “Something terribly technical.”
“You were always so clever,” she says, looking around. “Angela,” she calls, spotting someone more important. “Must dash, Elly darling. We should catch up. I’m on Facebook.” And she’s gone.
Brett has reappeared.
“Wasn’t that Judith Frampton?” he asks, impressed. “Russell Frampton’s wife? Is she a friend of yours?”
“Oh, just someone I went to school with,” I mutter, cursing inwardly.
“She called you Elly.”
“It’s a nickname. Sort of a school custom. From Elliott,” I explain.
“Oh, I see.” He nods, thinking it out. “What was her surname?”
“Bullen.”
“Right. So her nickname was . . .”
“No, Brett. Sorry. I made that up.”
Mercifully, he spots someone he knows and his attention is distracted.
“Daniel!” he says. “Hi!”
“Oh, hi!” says a stocky man, fiftyish, bald head with a fringe of dyed black hair. “Where’s Helena? I was hoping to see her.”
“Pressure of work. We’re getting very close on a major project, and she’s just everywhere at once. The music’s fabulous, isn’t it?”
“Yes, quite memorable. I don’t know who else could get away with doing a Magnificat without voices.”
“Quite, quite.” Brett nods sagely. “Oh, Daniel, this is Jane Elliott. She’s up from Melbourne to do some work with us. Jane, this is Daniel Gleisman.”
We shake hands and murmur pleasantries until the bells start ringing again.
“Well, give Helena my best,” says Daniel as he starts to drift away. “Enjoy the rest of the concert, Jane.”
“Friend of Helena’s?” I ask, as we make our way back to our seats.
“Actually, he’s her accountant,” whispers Brett. “I’ve got a few small investments of my own and I’ve been thinking of getting him to do some stuff for me. Helena says . . .”
But the lights have gone down and there are disapproving mutters around us, so he takes the hint and shuts up.
The second half of the concert is just as exciting, and my thoughts don’t return to Daniel Gleisman until Brett has disappeared down George Street in a taxi and I’m making my way into Wynyard Station. He’s bound to be the danielg Helena has been exchanging emails with, but there’s something else about that name that’s niggling at my memory, and I’m mentally sifting through all the lists I’ve come across in the last few weeks, trying to remember where I’ve seen it.
I don’t have an answer by the time I get home, but I send a quick SMS to Steve:
danielg probably Helena’s accountant Daniel Gleisman. He was at the concert.
Then I go to bed, hoping that sleep will work its magic and the memory I’m looking for will rise to the surface.
34
When your computer’s been on for too long it gets sluggish and starts running slowly. It’s because some of the tasks that you start and stop in the course of the day don’t finish cleanly, leaving little bits of unnecessary activity that run around pointlessly taking up resources. We call that memory leak. The only way to fix it is to reboot, getting rid of the unwanted processes.
The human brain is a bit like that, or at least mine is. By the end of the day it’s cluttered up with unfinished thoughts and half-baked ideas; but after a good night’s sleep it seems to sort itself out and be ready for a fresh start.
In the morning I’m still not sure, but I’ve got an idea I know where I’ll find Daniel Gleisman’s name.
If Lewis is about to collar Brian O’Dwyer, depending on how that goes, it just might be safe for me to go home soon; but before I leave Sydney I have to deal with the issue of the doctored document. There’s no way I’m going to speak to Helena, because I have a strong feeling she’s implicated, and I don’t know anyone else except Brett. It looks like I’ll have to bring it up, as delicately as I can, with him. He’ll be shocked and he won’t want to believe that there’s anything wrong, but he will tell me who I should talk to.
Once I’ve spoken to Brett he’ll go straight to Helena, of course, but she’ll find out sooner or later anyway. The important thing is to get it out in the open.
I think uneasily of Professor Bartholemew and his “accident”. Do things like that really happen? Are Helena and her cohorts – possibly Daniel Gleisman, probably not Brett – ruthless enough to falsify the professor’s report and then casually eliminate him? In a way I can understand how someone like Brian O’Dwyer could kill his mate for his money and then – if I’m right about this – hunt down anyone who might expose him. But this other thing seems coldly impersonal, like a business decision.
If I’m going to blow the whistle I’d better do it quickly, then get out of Sydney before they make a business decision about me.
I bundle up my computer and shove it in its bag, leave the flat as soon as I’m dressed and take the train to Wynyard. From there, I thread my way through to Castlereagh Street and the building that I found on my first day. To my annoyance, it’s locked.
I look at my watch. In my eagerness, I came out very early, and it’s still only ten to eight. The building probably opens at eight. I’d better not hang around outside because, if I’m right, it’s possible that Daniel Gleisman will arrive for work at any minute and see me here.
I cross the street and find a café a few doors up. It’s got a narrow bar with stools in the front window, and I order a coffee and sit there, watching. Ideally, I’d love to see Gleisman arrive and go into the building, leaving it safe for me to saunter into the foyer and have a look at the list of names on the directory of companies there.
Eight o’clock comes and goes. People start to trickle into the building and I start calculating the odds of Gleisman arriving in the minute or so it would take me to go in and have a quick look at the board. Then I consider the probability that it’s not even his building, and recalculate the odds in the light of that. Then it occurs to me that there might be a basement car park, which would have him bypassing the entrance altogether, and I cheer up considerably. Finally I accept that I’m going to go in anyway, so I figure I might as well go now.
I cross the street and stride purposefully towards the building. Just as I’m level with the entrance I see Gleisman coming towards me. He sees me at the same time, and recognition dawns. I think my knees are going to give way.
“Hello again!” he says pleasantly.
“Hello!” I say. “Small world!”
“What brings you to this part of the city?” So he knows where our office is.
I clap my hand to my jaw.
“I broke a filling yesterday. Terrible luck, away from home. A friend’s dentist managed to fit me in . . .” I gesture vaguely down the street. Always stick close to the truth when you’re telling a lie. That happened to me once, in Brisbane. Surely there’s a dentist somewhere around here.
“Oh, well. Good luck.” He’s turned into the building, preoccupied, and we part company.
I keep walking without looking back. My legs are trembling. I didn’t tell Steve I was doing this, and I feel naked without him. I imagine Daniel Gleisman has come back out of the building and is standing watching me with gimlet eyes, noting my confusion, checking to see where I go. If I turn my head, like Lot’s wife, all will be lost.
When I’m far enough away I call Steve.
“I want you to check something out.”
“Now?”
“Before work would be good. I might need you at lunchtime. Did you get my message about Daniel Gleisman?”
“Yes.”
“He’s in that building in Castlereagh Street. The one where we looked for Sutherland Investments.”
“Hey!”
“Accountants often have a board outside their office with a list of the
companies they represent. I can’t go in and have a look, because he’ll recognise me. Can you do it?”
“Sure.”
“We need all the names.”
“On it,” he says and hangs up.
Keeping my head down, I walk quickly to the relative safety of the office. The plane from Bali landed an hour ago, but I don’t expect to hear from Lewis. He’ll fill me in when he’s good and ready. Meanwhile, I’ve got to prepare my case for Brett. This isn’t going to be easy.
As if to thwart me, he doesn’t come in until mid-morning. He walks past my door glued to the phone, and spends the next hour running around printing and copying documents. Finally I manage to corner him by the fax machine.
“Brett, I need to talk to you,” I say. “There are some irregularities in the report. We might need to talk to someone on the Board.”
“Irregularities?” he asks, frowning.
“There’s some stuff I want to show you. I think there’s something seriously wrong with the application.”
“I’ve got to get this fax off,” he says. “I’ll come into your office in a minute.”
“Okay. I can show you what I’m talking about.”
A few minutes later he comes into my office, looking apprehensive.
“Okay,” he says. “What’s wrong with the application?”
“The whole section about the experimental shafts through the aquifers. The Professor Bartholomew section. It looks to me as though the results have been tampered with, and there are signs that the original report, the one he signed off, has been replaced with a ring-in.”
“What? Why would anyone do that?”
“The only reason I can think of is that the experiment was a failure. Maybe that’s what he really said in his report.”
“Wait a minute, Jane, you can’t say that.”
“Did you know that Bartholomew had an accident just after he signed off the report? That he’s now in a coma?”
He goes to the door and looks out. There are people walking up and down the corridor. He comes back and gives me a worried look.
“Brett, I’m not just saying this. I really want to show the evidence I’ve got to someone responsible.”
“I’d better call Helena,” he says.
“No, not Helena,” I say. “She’s – um – she’s too close to this, Brett. Can you give me some other names? Who’s in charge of the whole thing?”
“Listen, there’s an important fax coming through. I have to grab it before those other idiots see it.”
My phone vibrates, distracting me. Brett slips out.
It’s a message from Steve.
U R right sutherland investments and several others sending to ravi to check out
This is making my head spin. Is everything connected? I thought I had hidden myself away from the Peter Talbot business, but I’m still right in the thick of it. Daniel Gleisman, and by extension Helena are also embraced by the tentacles of this mysterious bank. I glance uneasily at the door, wondering if I’m making a big mistake by talking to Brett.
As if summoned by my thought he comes bustling in.
“Look, this is too sensitive to talk about here,” he says. “I’ve got to go down and do an inspection on the new office at two. Why don’t you come with me? You can bring your computer and show me what you’ve got down there, and we’ll decide what to do about it.”
“Okay, but don’t mention this to anyone, okay? We don’t know who’s involved.”
“Of course,” he says. “Best to be discreet.”
“No-one at all,” I say. “Are you clear about that?”
“Yes, of course, Jane,” he says. “It’s just you and me.”
“Right.”
I send an email to Steve:
“Going to lay it all out to Brett at new building, Darling Harbour, leaving here just before 2. He seems pretty shocked. You’d better stay on us.”
While I’m waiting, I copy all the files onto my laptop and arrange everything so I can easily demonstrate the issues that are troubling me. There are some blank CDs in the drawer of my desk, and I put a couple in my computer bag, just in case. Next, I have a play with the super secret blue phone. Luke and Steve couldn’t bring themselves to buy the cheapest technology, so it’s actually quite a neat little machine. It’s got an effective voice recorder, which I can put onto one of the programmable keys, and it’s got a slide mechanism. This means that with my hand in my pocket I’ll be able to discreetly unlock the phone, touch a button and start recording my conversation with Brett.
At half-past one I get something from Lewis. Just a two word SMS:
got him
Am I the only person in the world who uses punctuation in text messages?
35
Brett lopes along, chattering about last night’s concert. I suspect he’s been reading reviews and he’s trying out some unfamiliar idioms on me. There’s something manic about his mood in any case, and he’s determined not to talk about the business at hand. But his hands are shaking, and I can tell he’s trying to hide his nervousness.
We go down steps to a narrow road at a lower level. The building really is right on Darling Harbour, opposite a row of bars and restaurants which face the water’s edge. Most of them are closed at this time of day. Half the office buildings are construction sites, like the one we’re approaching. It’s hard to tell if the area is new, or just in a constant state of refurbishment. The only people around are construction workers in neon yellow jackets.
The foyer of the building is empty, the marble facade finished but covered in a layer of dust.
“It’s okay, says Brett. “They’ve got one of the lifts working.”
We step in and he taps a code into a control panel, then presses 24. The lift is fast, and takes us to the usual lobby with big windows at one end, offering views back over the city, and double doors at the other. He taps in another code and takes us into the unfinished office space.
“It’s going to be fabulous,” he starts. “We’ve got the boardroom in there, and . . .”
“Brett,” I say, unzipping my computer bag. “Can we look at my stuff first, and do the grand tour later?”
“Okay,” he says reluctantly. “You can set up in the little meeting room, through here.”
I follow him into a small room with a dazzling view of the inner harbour. There’s a round table and a couple of mismatched swivel chairs. My hand is on the super secret phone, ready to turn on the recorder, when I feel it vibrate.
It’s a message from Steve.
run
I look at the tiny word with incomprehension for a second.
“Brett.” My voice is hoarse. “Did you tell anyone about this meeting?”
“Well, just Helena.” He’s edgy, defensive. “I had to say something to . . .”
I’m stuffing my computer back into its bag and heading for the door.
“We have to get out of here, Brett. Come on. Now!”
“Jane, don’t you think you’re being a bit . . .”
“Please, Brett, come with me!”
He shakes his head and sits down on one of the chairs.
I run for the lift lobby. As I get there, I can hear the “ding” of the sole working lift about to arrive. I look around wildly. Just past the bank of lifts there’s a little tea room, in darkness, its door ajar. I slip in there and press myself against the wall. My phone vibrates again.
The lift doors open and a man steps out wearing a construction jacket. I can just see him through a crack in the door. He raises his head and looks around, as though sniffing the air, then he turns towards the double doors and I can’t see him anymore. A couple of seconds later I hear the faint click of the double doors closing.
I feel pure terror. I can’t breathe, I can’t move. It was the way he moved his head. This is like vertigo.
I peep out. The lobby’s empty. I creep towards the lift, but something’s wrong. The lift doors should have closed by now. He must have locked it off.
>
My phone vibrates with a message: north stairwell
How do I know which way’s north? I make a dash for the nearest fire exit and slip through the door. It’s on some sort of vacuum system and I can’t make it close without a loud click. I start running down the stairs, then remember the view through the window in the lift lobby. Water. It was on my left when I went through the fire exit, and that means I’m in the south stairwell. I grab the phone, pressing “Reply” as I run.
I hear the door above me opening.
“Elly?” Steve’s voice is in my ear.
“I’m in the wrong stairwell!”
“Keep going. Level 18.”
I can hear clattering footsteps above me. He’s going to be faster than me. I run, skipping stairs.
Somewhere below me I hear another door open. I keep running. How many levels? Footsteps above me, an open door below. Round and round.
Suddenly Steve appears, grabs my arm and pulls me through a door. Together we drag it shut. The mechanism resists us, and we can both hear running footsteps on the stairs, then the click as the door locks in place.
“Quick!” He’s running, and I stumble after him.
“The lift . . .” I stammer.
He takes us into another corridor where there’s a smaller lift, buzzing unhappily, Steve’s jacket stuffed between the doors.
“Service elevator,” he pants. “Probably take us to a back entrance.”
Our pursuer is stuck in the stairwell now. Even if he propped open the door at the top, it would take him too long to get back up there. He’ll run all the way to the bottom.
“He might come out right next to us,” I say.
“Yeah, but we’re faster.”
The lift feels painfully slow. As soon as it stops we burst out into a back lane littered with wheelie bins and rubbish skips. Steve belts along and I puff in his wake, not looking back. The lane seems horribly long. At last he disappears around the corner, and as I follow I risk a quick look back and see a flurry of movement. Fear gives me speed and I take the steps two at a time, my legs screaming in protest. We run across the road, dodging cars, then round a corner and up a shorter, steep stretch into a busier street. There are people here, and taxis. I flag one down and leap in.
