The Ambulance Chaser

by Richard Beasley

  I’d reserved the spot for Heather and me when we were eleven, maybe twelve. Holding hands once or twice at that stage. No French kissing. Romance rather than spelling was my strong point back then, and she hadn’t started up with the sorrel lipstick yet. I could see now that the private boudoir I’d chosen wasn’t quite the honeymoon suite at the Four Seasons. It was cosy enough.

  ‘Still there?’ Laura called from the head of the table when I walked back out.

  I smiled. ‘A perfectly preserved hieroglyphic,’ I said.

  ‘You were such a secretive bastard,’ Bill said, laughing. ‘“Privet for 2.” You thought no one knew what you were up to.’ He could talk.

  ‘Privet for 2’ had been painted not long before Laura had left for the first time. At least, I thought so. Getting a timeline on these things is always hard. I seem to recall reserving the spot at around the time of the fight.

  The three of us were there. We had been playing with Heather in the Greens’ front yard at sunset. It was school holidays, summer. We were leaving, getting on our bikes to go home. I remember Bill Doyle taking Heather inside, shutting the door. Then he marched over to Bob Green’s car as soon as it pulled up. He dragged him out of the car, then whack. I can still hear that sound. ‘If you ever hit her again, I’ll fucking kill you.’ That’s what Bill Doyle said, sounding like God. That blow is forever stuck in my memory, cast in bronze. George Foreman sank into an African night with less.

  Bill Doyle didn’t do the Greens’ garden for weeks after that. Perhaps it was months. Then Laura and Heather left. Then Bob Green was gone, never to return. Laura and Heather did. To celebrate, I marked out a private spot in the shed. Bill returned too. That’s what I remember.

  ‘Come inside,’ Laura said to me when the plates were being cleared away. ‘I want to show you something.’

  I followed her inside, walking slowly, and she took me into the dining room off the library. She would paint in there sometimes, if it was cold or wet, paper strewn all around the floor. She pointed to a painting resting against the far wall of the room. Mr and Mrs Green.

  ‘Helena says that’s your favourite,’ she said. ‘It’s yours.’

  I looked at her, surprised. ‘I can’t,’ I said.

  ‘Of course you can. These three others too. None of my finest.’

  I walked over to the paintings and pulled Mr and Mrs Green forward. Three Boys was behind it. ‘I painted that one for you, anyway,’ she said.

  ‘I really can’t. Heather should –’

  ‘Heather will own this house soon,’ she said, cutting me off. ‘And she has dozens of my paintings. Neither of us is going to argue with you.’

  I pulled Three Boys forward to look at the painting behind it. The backyard of the house, in the days when it was big. A young girl is walking into the shed, one leg inside, one out. A boy is following her, looking sheepishly over his shoulder to see if anyone is looking. Me.

  ‘Privet for 2, it’s called,’ Laura said. ‘I painted it about twenty years ago.’

  Good grief. I really did think it had been our secret.

  Twenty-Two

  Based on Helena Abbott’s estimates, I left Laura Green’s house with between $60,000 and $100,000 worth of paintings. Depending on the market. I didn’t want to sell, but that kind of money can prove very handy to a bankrupt. Unfortunately, there was at least one trustee and creditors by the name of the Australian Taxation Office and a certain bank who might also find Laura Green’s artwork as admirable as I did. I’d keep them hidden for the time being.

  During the first part of the week I continued to work on the bordereau that De Luca and Jarrett wanted, at the same time trying to find out anything I could about South Pacific’s generosity when it came to slip-and-falls in strip clubs in the Cross. The insured company in that matter, and in the accountant’s negligence case I’d also found at Penrith, had a number of other policies with SP. The computer printout on the files I had taken had cross-references to five policy numbers. I had no idea what kind of policies they were, or even what I was looking for, and there were no more clues in the files I’d read.

  I chose the most junior person in accounts to help me. Craig Turner sounded young and enthusiastic. I told him I was doing this huge bordereau document for Barry Hardcastle, no less. On his express instructions. Passed on to me in the luxurious cabin of the corporate jet. Had he heard? Six hundred miles an hour. The leather and polished mahogany depreciated at more than my salary. ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘I’ve come across these policy numbers and I just want to double-check that no claims have been made against them. I don’t want to miss anything, especially first time round the block. And keep this just between us – I’m running a bit behind schedule.’

  He was only too pleased to help. He would call me once he’d had a chance to check through each policy number on the system, locate any files that might exist, see what he could find out. Attaboy.

  It was Wednesday before I had a chance to slip into De Luca’s office to see if his cabinet was open. On the first Wednesday of every month the various Team Leaders of each claims group met with the Head of Claims and some of the underwriters, actuaries and senior management to discuss claims performance. Clare had told me about the meeting because it was her first as a newly promoted Team Leader. It was to be held on the executive floor at 11 am. When I saw Clare, Gibbs and De Luca head for the lifts just before the meeting, I waited twenty seconds, then went straight into his office and shut the door.

  The cabinet was locked. I checked his drawers for a key, but found nothing except stationery. I’d let my skills in picking locks with paperclips lapse. I’d try another time. I turned around to walk out of the room. De Luca’s jacket was staring straight at me, perched on a hanger on the back of the door. I glanced through the glass partition to check if anyone was looking.

  I patted the right-hand side of the jacket. A wallet. The other side was better news. There were two sets of keys. The set with the Mercedes symbol was unlikely to open the lock. On the other ring were at least a dozen keys. On my twelfth attempt the cabinet opened.

  In front of me were several white folders labelled ‘Policy Documents’. There were others relating to claims-handling procedures, general advices, and management memoranda. In the right-hand corner of the cabinet was a small cluster of files that looked like claims files.

  I didn’t know exactly how much time I had. I guessed that the meeting might last one hour, maybe two, but for safety reasons I had to assume less. I couldn’t be greedy. I flipped through the tabs, found the one marked ‘Gerton’, locked the cabinet, looked out the glass partition again, then left the room quickly and returned to my kennel. I started reading.

  Clarence Gerton, or at least companies associated with various members of his family, had a property portfolio that could be described as an empire, without resort to hyperbole. At least by a bankrupt. The private investigator’s report on top of the file recounted this in detail that I’d never read in a newspaper. Exactly how this had been achieved on a mayoral allowance and a backbencher’s salary is hard to fathom. Perhaps Gerton or his late wife had received a series of fortuitous inheritances. Perhaps he’d been lucky at the racetrack. Won the lottery. Perhaps bush pigs fly. I didn’t bother doing the maths.

  One of Gerton’s companies owned a block of flats a few streets back from Bondi Beach. A post World War II eyesore, Gerton was having it renovated, no doubt in the justifiably optimistic hope of selling each of the ten units for a spectacular profit. Renovations were about halfway complete when there was a fire, and the entire place was gutted.

  When I read the word ‘fire’ I assumed it was a fraud case, especially when I saw that it had been deliberately lit. But it had been obviously deliberately lit. Both the police and investigator’s reports pointed the finger at a teenage stunt gone wrong, although no arrests had been made. The pranksters probably meant to cause a small amount of damage. With all kinds of inflammable material on-site, though, the buildin
g went up in a glorious blaze.

  Clarrie Gerton had the property insured. Or at least he thought he did. Sadly, he was wrong. Gerton had used the same insurance broker for years. To arrange insurance for his property interests. His public liability insurance for business premises he owned. His professional indemnity insurance now that he was a ‘consultant’. For his life and other personal insurances.

  He had also paid cash for the block. Hard cash. Five point one million, and he hadn’t borrowed a cent. This time I did do the maths. If he had no other money, Clarrie Gerton would have needed to be a backbench parliamentarian for about 72.3 years to acquire that sort of dough after tax. Assuming he didn’t eat, drink or provide for his family. Maybe he was smarter than he looked.

  Because he hadn’t borrowed to buy the block of flats, no bank or finance company had insisted on it being insured to protect the mortgage. Gerton was insisting, though, that he instructed his broker to arrange cover for the building. The broker – whose professional negligence insurance cover was with South Pacific – said he didn’t even know Gerton’s company had bought the building.

  The whole catastrophe had transpired in the last twelve months. The final document in the file was a letter from Gerton’s lawyers confirming that unless their client received a cheque for $8 million by the end of a twenty-one-day period – being the amount Gerton said he asked the building to be insured for, plus a little interest – court proceedings would be commenced without further notice. So there.

  It was Clarrie Gerton’s word against that of the broker South Pacific insured. If Gerton didn’t exist, his claim, or that of his company, would be very difficult to prove in court.

  Three scenarios occurred to me the moment I finished reading the file. 1: Gerton’s building burnt down in the manner the police think. He honestly believes he instructed the broker, during a phone call, to arrange insurance. The broker honestly believes he wasn’t so instructed. South Pacific is an honest insurance company and the matter will be resolved in a civilised fashion through either an out-of-court settlement, or by a judgment.

  I dismissed scenario 1 as ludicrous.

  2: Gerton is a crook. The broker is a crook. South Pacific is a criminal organisation. The building was deliberately burnt down. The whole matter is some kind of ruse so that South Pacific can pay Gerton a settlement well in excess of the building’s real value as a quid pro quo payment for dishonest services of some kind. Maybe tort reform, maybe something else. Who the hell knows? My Personal-Responsibility-Gate Conspiracy Theory raised its ugly head again. I slapped it across the face and told it to leave me alone for the time being. I needed more time to think through scenario 2. It seemed more plausible than scenario 1.

  3: Gerton is a crook, but his claim is legitimate. He may or may not be lying about calling his broker, but otherwise his claim is bona fide. South Pacific, on the other hand, is a criminal organisation. It has a potential exposure. If Gerton was out of the way, it could save itself a lot of money. Gerton is in his early seventies. He has had two heart attacks and a bypass. No one would miss him. In scenario 3, Clarrie Gerton’s life was in danger.

  I wasn’t sure what to do if scenario 3 was correct. If it was, and I did nothing, and something bad happened to Clarrie Gerton, how would I feel? Guilty? Tortured? Like my soul was damaged beyond redemption? Pretty good probably, but even right-wing politicians don’t deserve the death penalty. A moral imperative was involved. If you can save a human life no matter who it is, you have to do something. But do what? Ring Gerton and say, hey, mate, you might be about to be bumped off? Ring his lawyer and say the same thing? Anonymously tell the police to keep an eye on him? None of that would work.

  If I could talk to him, take him into my trust, tell him my concerns about South Pacific . . . well, that probably wouldn’t work either. But I had to try. Maybe I could convince him to tell his lawyers to back off for a while. Not issue proceedings just yet, make himself less of a potential target. Just until South Pacific was either somehow cleared as a corporate serial killer or exposed as such. That might take some doing, and also a little time.

  In my head I ran through a series of possible conversations with Gerton. None worked. I made a note of his address from the investigator’s report and decided I needed more time to think through what to do. I checked my watch. I had been reading for forty-five minutes. I had to get the file back.

  It took me twelve gos to open the cabinet again. I slotted the file back and shut the door.

  ‘Are you lost?’ My heart left a dent in the roof of my mouth and my bum bounced off the carpet floor. Twice. It was Gibbs. ‘What are you doing in here?’

  I didn’t answer at first. My pounding heart was bruising the four corners of my gob and my lungs had collapsed. I waited for anatomical realignment. When that occurred, my brain was still flat-lining. ‘What the fuck are you doing in Angelo’s cabinet?’

  ‘Looking at a file,’ I said. The words were instinctive. Start with the truth, build the lie around it. I should go into politics. I could recommend a war.

  ‘Has Angelo –’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘He hasn’t. Can we go outside? Your office? Please.’ I tried to tear up but couldn’t. I locked the cabinet, then put the keys back into De Luca’s jacket. Gibbs look mortified. ‘Please, Peter,’ I said. ‘Your office? I’ll explain.’

  He marched out ahead of me and stormed into his office. When I walked in he was standing in front of his desk, hands on hips, giving me what I think is his thunderous look. ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘Angelo took a claim off me,’ I said. ‘He wasn’t happy with how I was handling it. The insured had complained to him about me, didn’t want me dealing with it. I just wanted to see what he’d been told. I know I shouldn’t have.’

  ‘So you had no permission?’

  I shook my head. ‘It was silly, Peter, I know. I . . . I guess it was ego partly, I admit. And fear. I really need this job. I wanted to see what I was supposed to have done wrong. Please don’t say anything.’ I thought about batting my eyelids, but there’s only so far I’ll go to save my life.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The insured? What’s the name of the file?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just a slip and trip outside a supermarket. Cedric Investments.’ It was one of my files.

  ‘How were you doing anything wrong on that sort of claim?’

  Good question again. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘That’s why I wanted to look. My confidence is a bit dented. I thought maybe the insured recognised my name. You know, The Disbarred Bankrupt? I thought that’s why they might have wanted me off the file. Look, Peter, I really need this job. Please don’t say anything to Angelo. I won’t do it again. Don’t even talk to him about him taking the matter off me. Please? Okay?’

  He stood and stared at me for a while. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said. ‘There are other documents in that cabinet. I know that for a fact. Angelo is very particular about confidentiality. There are performance reviews in there. Including reviews on me.’

  ‘I wasn’t reading any of that, I swear,’ I said. ‘Please? Say nothing?’

  He glared at me again. ‘You’re damn lucky I had to leave early instead of Angelo. He’d sack you on the spot. You owe me one,’ he said. ‘Go back to work.’

  I sat down in my kennel again, my heart still pounding. Could I trust Gibbs to keep that cat’s arse of a mouth of his closed? While I was thinking about it, my direct line went. Gabrielle.

  She’d been busy. She already had a Securities Commission search on Dermatil Pty Ltd, the company that owned the licence of the Risqué Pussy. She read out the names of the shareholders, two individuals and a parent company, but none meant anything to me at the time. Neither did the names of the directors.

  ‘Can you meet me for lunch?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure. Why?’

  ‘I’ve been doing some more research.’

  ‘Where are you? Randwick South?’

&nbs
p; ‘Fourteen floors below you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m in your foyer. I’ve been looking at the SP security register all morning.’

  I told her to meet me in the coffee shop a few doors down.

  I brought her up to speed on my adventures first. The Gerton claim, and Gibbs springing me in De Luca’s office. We agreed I had to talk to Gerton despite the risks. Exactly what I would say we’d work out later. She would come with me if I thought it would help. I did. Then she told me her news.

  All public companies are required to keep a Securities Register of shareholders under the Corporations Law. It might contain a list of thousands of shareholders, sometimes millions in large companies. The SP Securities Register was kept on one of the management levels above claims, where she had spent her morning. ‘It would take months and months to go thoroughly through the whole thing,’ she said when I met her. ‘It’s easy enough to pick out the big shareholders, though.’

  She bit into her vegetarian focaccia, clearly pleased with herself. She’d barely had time to shove some loose strands of melted cheese into her mouth before continuing. ‘Do you know how much of South Pacific Jarrett and Hardcastle own? About 21 per cent between them. These guys are worth over two hundred mil on paper. God knows where an ex-bankrupt like Barry Hardcastle got that sort of money.’ God probably didn’t, I thought. ‘Know how many shares De Luca has?’ she continued. ‘Eight hundred thousand. I double-checked and wrote it down. Eight hundred thousand. You know how much that is? Over $7 million now. Where did he get that money?’

  Another one for God. ‘The shares would have cost less at the time he bought them, I imagine,’ I said. ‘Or they could have been given to him as a bonus.’

  ‘Even so,’ she said, ‘it’s still a lot of shares for someone in claims. National Head or not.’ It was.