The Ambulance Chaser

by Richard Beasley

  Harry had warned me he had just earnt his sergeant’s stripes, and DS Colin Dixon of the Eastern Suburbs Local Area Command was looking very pleased with himself when I sat down to join him. Smug, even. Like he had just cracked a drug ring and pocketed half the proceeds himself.

  Dixon had been ‘too busy’ to see me until Thursday despite Harry’s protestations of urgency. I took sick days on Monday and Tuesday, too frightened to turn up at SP. I rang Gibbs late Tuesday, and he assured me he hadn’t said anything to De Luca about my break and enter on his cabinet. I decided to risk a return to work and finish – as incompetently as possible – the bordereau I was now being pressured about.

  ‘Col,’ I said when I sat down.

  ‘Chris,’ he replied. Or prick. It was a noisy café.

  ‘Detective Dixon,’ the proprietor interjected, running around from behind the counter to wait on his most important client. ‘Coffee for you both?’

  ‘Long black, Joe,’ Dixon said. Like a man would drink anything else. Crack out the Marlboros while you’re at it too. ‘And what would you like, Chris? Skim decaf latte? Blueberry briand on the side?’

  He’d said prick. Dixon had this theory that I was a mummy’s boy when we were kids. If he found out I was a Dusty Springfield fan the meeting would be terminated pronto. ‘Cappuccino is fine,’ I said.

  ‘So, Chris,’ Dixon said, scratching the ridge between his nose and mouth, ‘how’s work?’ He leant back in his chair and crossed his legs and smiled. If arrogance has a position, this is it. ‘Business a bit tough at the Bar, I heard.’ Not a lot had changed except the haircut, the suit and the shoes. He was still a complete shit. Smug would be an understatement for how he said this. He was wasted as a cop. He would have made a great federal treasurer.

  ‘I’m in insurance now,’ I said. ‘And what about you?’ I added. ‘Did I hear Harry correctly? You’re the gay and lesbian liaison officer?’

  Dixon gave me a pained smile and shook his head. ‘You always were a smart-arse, Blake. Thought you were better than everyone else. You were always going to come unstuck.’

  I wondered how long the macho banter could go on for. I was bound to lose with a cop. I could have hit him, but you get life in prison these days just for looking in the direction of a police officer, so I tried to move on. ‘Are we going to exchange pleasantries all day or can we discuss why I’m here?’

  Dixon leant forward and over the table, halving the distance between us. Part of his interrogation–intimidation technique, no doubt, used whenever he was going in for the kill against a dangerous menopausal shoplifter. ‘The only reason I’m here is because Harry asked me,’ he said. ‘He and his dad have given me a couple of references when I’ve been up for promotion, so I owe him one. What is it?’

  I was as logical and as ordered as I could be, starting with Simon Broun. ‘You’re telling me about a traffic accident in the inner west? he said. ‘Some unlucky wheelie on the road?’

  ‘Hang on, Colin,’ I said. ‘I haven’t finished. This is a jigsaw. You have to be patient and put all the pieces together, okay?’

  Next I dealt with Fadwell and the tractor accident Gabby had found at Penrith.

  ‘A couple of suicides now? One of them not even in the jurisdiction.’

  ‘Possible suicides. Both with claims against SP.’

  ‘I take it there’ve been coronial inquiries. Have you checked the coroner’s findings?’

  ‘Not yet,’ I admitted.

  ‘What else do you have, Chris? Apart from traffic accidents and suicides?’

  I had the Dobsons. ‘Do you remember this at all? A boating accident? They disappeared off Cronulla.’

  Dixon shook his head. ‘I’m sure it was fully investigated by Sutherland LAC. Have you spoken to someone there?’

  I moved on to the Cabramatta shooting.

  ‘Do you know how much crime there is in that area? How much drug dealing just on the streets?’ Dixon said when I was finished. ‘Once again, it would’ve been investigated. If it was a fatal shooting, by the State Crime Command – either the Homicide Squad or the South East Asian Crime Squad.’

  ‘Not from the perspective of the link to SP, though,’ I protested.

  ‘What link? So the guy had a comp claim. Some of the communities out there, they’re all on fucking comp of some sort. What’s your point?’

  What’s my point? Colin Dixon wasn’t that dumb. He paid no attention at school, because only nerds did that, and he had a chip on his shoulder the size of the Great Australian Bight about not going to university, but he wasn’t dumb. The problem was, Colin Dixon spent most of his life trying to prove he was smarter than other people.

  ‘Col, the point is this. All these people I’ve mentioned have one great big glaring dog’s balls thing in common. They all have claims against the same insurance company. Their deaths are financially very beneficial to that company. Don’t you think that’s a tad suspicious?’

  Dixon snorted down the last of his coffee and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. ‘Mate,’ he said, ‘if we started investigating every suspicion we had we’d be up everyone’s arse all the time. Every one of these . . . incidents would have already been investigated. If there was any evidence of foul play it would’ve been followed through.’

  ‘Maybe no one was looking at these deaths from that perspective, though,’ I said.

  Dixon smirked and raised an eyebrow. He looked like he was about to read me my rights and charge me with gross stupidity. ‘What do you know about police work, Chris?’

  I shrugged. ‘NYPD Blue,’ I said. ‘CSI. My social life’s not what it was these days, so most Saturdays The Bill on the ABC. Highlight of my week, actually.’

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘Let’s not forget the Royal Commission into Police Corruption. Cops receiving paper bags full of green stuff from crooks.’

  The Police Royal Commission wasn’t Dixon’s favourite topic. ‘You know fuck-all. You’ve got a big mouth, but you know fuck-all. If someone dies, the matter is investigated. From every angle. On the evidence.’

  Of course. Planted or not.

  ‘The claims officer I replaced died,’ I said. ‘He was killed. Bashed at night in the street. He was originally handling the case I mentioned about the tractor accident. Christ knows what else he knew . . .’

  Dixon snorted again. ‘What are you suggesting, Blake?’ he said. ‘Witness protection? Want to get in the program? Police marching into your office and searching for the papers containing the orders to kill these people? Hauling in your CEO for a few hours’ interrogation about whether he orchestrated all these murders? That’d really make someone’s career.’

  My last roll of the dice was with the Penrith files I’d found. Huge payouts matched by huge premiums. An enterprise called the Risqué Pussy involved. Surely he knew it. Owned by a major South Pacific shareholder. Couldn’t he smell what I could?

  ‘What an insurer charges for premiums is its business. Aren’t all premiums higher these days?’ Dixon knew as much about insurance as I did about police work.

  ‘Not this high,’ I said. ‘Look, say a business pays a massive premium. With money from some sort of criminal activity. It doesn’t matter what. The premium is fully tax-deductible. Say then there’s a bogus claim. The claimant’s payout matches the premium. The crooked claimant gradually leaks the money back to the crooks in the business. That’s money laundering.’

  ‘Money laundering?’ He sounded like he thought it was something Chinese ladies did.

  ‘Confiscation of Proceeds of Crime Act? Ever heard of that, Detective? If you engage in a transaction that involves money, and those funds are the proceeds of some sort of crime, then it’s called money laundering. Or is that out of your jurisdiction too?’

  Dixon shook his head and almost snarled at me. I’d taken us both out of our depth and he didn’t like it. ‘Like I said, Blake, you’ve always been a smart-arse. Where’s your fucking proof?’

&nb
sp; I had two problems at this point. I was fighting a losing battle with Colin Dixon, for one. The second was I didn’t really have any hard proof. What did I expect him to do? March in to SP and start making arrests? Based on possible coincidences? I fell back on trying to sound reasonable. ‘Look, Col, I didn’t come here to be told I was a dickhead,’ I said. ‘I’ve done enough over the last year to be convicted of that. I pleaded months ago, and I’m doing my time. I’ve just got a concern here. I mean, what if I’m right? Maybe my theory is far-fetched, but it’s genuine. I was just after some advice. Constructive, if possible.’

  Dixon leant back in his chair and crossed his legs again. There was contempt in the crooked smirk he gave me, but possibly a fragment of pity too. For the mummy’s boy smart-arse who’d had his comeuppance. ‘Chris,’ he said, ‘what you’re alleging is pretty serious stuff. You just have a theory, though, and we don’t even investigate those sorts of crimes. State Crime Command does. The Homicide Squad or Fraud Squad. If you’ve really got a bee in your dick about all this, write a letter to them outlining your case. That’s all I can suggest. And be careful. It’s seven years in the slammer if you’re convicted of knowingly making false accusations about someone. The Crimes Act. Ever heard of that?’

  I had. Specifically section 54 which prohibits causing GBH through a negligent act. Like selling herbal remedies nearly fatal to all cellular life more complex than cockroaches. ‘Can’t you write the letter for me?’ I asked. ‘Just say a confidential informant has passed on this information or something?’

  He looked at me like I’d suggested he was a cross between Inspector Clouseau and the Keystone Kops’ chief. ‘It’s not part of my job to pass on nutters’ theories to senior police.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can suggest I do?’

  ‘Write an anonymous letter to the Fraud Squad. Do the same to the Homicide Squad. It’s all I can suggest. What about . . . what’s it called? ASIC . . . or APRA?’

  APRA. The Australian Prudential Regulatory Authority. The government regulatory body which, amongst other things, presided over the collapse of HIH insurance, a company which sank into a $5.3 billion hole while for most of its life announcing profit after profit, growth upon growth. I figured the boys at APRA might be less suspicious than me. ‘I’ll pass on that,’ I said. ‘I think I’ll stick with your anonymous tip-off suggestion.’

  Finally, I got around to Clarrie Gerton. It was a subject that was going to require some delicacy. ‘Did you read the paper on Monday, Col? See the story on the ex-pollie they found dead?’ Clarrie Gerton’s death hadn’t attracted much publicity except on the ALP’s website. Short pieces in the Telegraph and the Herald marked his passing. A neighbour had found him on Sunday. Police said there were no suspicious circumstances. A heart attack was suspected. He’d had two big ones in recent years, and a bypass. Even the lemon chicken wasn’t being fingered.

  ‘What about it?’ Dixon said.

  ‘He had a claim against South Pacific too,’ I said. ‘A big one.’

  I thought I detected a flicker of concern this time. Maybe I was getting somewhere. ‘If there’s an autopsy,’ I said, ‘or some other investigation, would you be able to find out the result?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why not?’

  He laughed. ‘Chris, if the guy was murdered – let’s even assume he was – you don’t need me to tell you that. It’ll be page one.’

  He had a point. Unless there was a major cover-up. Or unless Clarrie Gerton had been killed by some undetectable poison, one that chemically breaks down as soon as it kills its host. They’re widely available. The right-wing political parties have stockpiles, I’ve heard.

  Another two coffees arrived without being ordered, and Dixon leant back, tilted his head and smiled at the girl when she placed them on the table, signalling that he was ready to have his arse kissed again whenever she was. There was an awkward pause between us after the coffees arrived, neither of us having anything more to say to each other. Then Dixon broke the silence. ‘You married, Chris?’ he asked, clearly not caring if I was or wasn’t. I shook my head. ‘No kids, then?’

  ‘No. You?’

  ‘Yeah. Three.’ At least he didn’t bother with photos. He was never a great sentimentalist. ‘Married Kate Summers,’ he said. With a touch of pride, too. Kate Summers had been in the year below us at high school. Babe of the Year.

  ‘My advice,’ Dixon said, ‘don’t get married. Stay single.’ Three kids under five can do this to you, so I’m told. Still, I wasn’t having any trouble following Dixon’s advice about staying single. ‘Whatever happened to that Heather bird you used to drool over? Private school chick?’

  I told him about Heather returning recently from Hong Kong, filled him in on Laura Green. He seemed saddened by the news, but it was hard to tell. They’re tough, these cops. We finished our coffees, caught each other’s gaze, realised we truly had nothing left to say. ‘You’ve been a great help, Colin,’ I said, getting up.

  ‘We’re here to serve,’ he said.

  He agreed to do one thing for me. I gave him a list of some of the holders of large parcels of SP shares, including the names of the directors associated with the Risqué Pussy. He said he would at least ask around to see if they had any form, just to humour me.

  I was turning away to leave when he said, ‘You were a smart little prick when we were kids.’ I tried to be. ‘You gave me the shits,’ he continued. ‘I’d be doing something with Harry, you’d come along, fuck up the whole thing.’ That was it, that was his grievance? A twelve year olds’ love triangle thing? I thought he was finished, but he wasn’t. ‘What happened to you, though – the struck-off thing – they should never have done that. What I said at first . . . look, that sucked, if you ask me. Everyone knows it was your old man’s fuck-up. Dad said to say so too. And Kate. She said to say hi.’

  Who says all cops are bad? I smiled. It must have nearly killed Col Dixon to say that. We shook hands, said goodbye.

  I was none the wiser about what to do next, but left feeling, officially at last, an innocent man.

  Twenty-Seven

  I was close to Gough Whitlam again. He was bigger this time, and in soft focus. A studio portrait rather than the dismissal scene, something that looked like it could have been hung in the foyer of MGM or Universal, a late publicity shot of one of their aging stars from a bygone era.

  I was in Machiavelli in Clarence Street. Hardcastle’s invitation to lunch. I got the call from his PA as soon as I arrived back from meeting Dixon. The PA said Mr H wanted to thank me for finishing the bordereau. I said there was no need, I couldn’t make it. Next moment Hardcastle was on the line. He was brief. ‘One o’clock. Machiavelli. We need to discuss a few other opportunities. Just you, me and Jarrett. No excuses.’

  A few opportunities? Like having me bumped off, for example? Or welcomed to his crew?

  I was the first to arrive. Hardcastle obviously had some pull in the place. Not just anyone gets the table under Gough’s photo. It suited me fine. Seated near the mugs of some of the others who were draped around the walls I might have lost my appetite. Talk about a chamber of horrors. I considered speaking to management, asking them to change their policy of hanging photos of politicians and public figures on the walls. Or could they at least stick to one theme? Like ‘Great Australian Prime Ministers’. Although that would leave the walls a little bare. I could be criticised for not being practical. And Gough might get lonely. Then I thought I might suggest a theme like ‘Political Leaders Deposed or Killed by the CIA’. That would still leave Gough’s portrait hanging, but he’d have company now. Salvador Allende of Chile could be next to him. On the left, of course. Then Achmad Sukarno of Indonesia. Patrice Lumumba of the Congo. An entire wall in honour of leftist leaders from El Salvador and Nicaragua. An honourable mention at least for Fidel Castro, if only for surviving more exploding cigars than any man in history. And, next to Castro – ironically, of course – another wall for the CIA’s mo
st photogenic victims. The thirty-fifth president of the United States and his younger brother.

  Gough was perfect for now, though. He reminded me of Gabrielle. Not every former prime minister reminds you of the woman of your dreams. It must be love.

  I ordered a Peroni when the drinks waiter came to my table. Why not? Get into the Italian spirit of things. Not that this was difficult at Machiavelli. There was enough salami and prosciutto hung from the ceiling to feed a legion of Roman soldiers, and the dark brown tiles on the floor were suitable for the restaurant, the kitchen, the toilets and any number of Positano and Leichhardt backyards. There was a fleet of waiters in white jackets and black ties, with age and experience spanning fifty governments, from Mussolini to Berlusconi, from Curtin to the Unspeakable. The waiters exchanged glances and smiles, and ferried about huge white plates of antipasto, upon which they dropped cracked pepper the size of meteorites from four-foot high grinders. Meanwhile, oregano and duplicity wafted from table to table as the clientele ordered up big on what appeared to be vitello di-insider trading.

  Machiavelli was the perfect place for a mafia-style hit. I could see myself waiting for Hardcastle and Jarrett: one ten, one twenty. At one twenty-one he walks in the restaurant. I won’t notice him at first. Tall, dark hair slicked back, dark suit, black tie, sunglasses on. That’s how he’ll look. He stands in front of my table. I see myself reflected in his glasses. White. Knowing now what is about to happen. He lifts his arm, black-gloved hand around silencer-tipped gun. In Sicilian English, he says, ‘My friend. You believe it is wrong to murder plaintiffs for the sake of the greater good of the company. You have spoken bad words of our political friends in government. You have been opposed to too many wars. You do not like cats. For all of this, you have no right to life.’

  He then empties the chamber into me. He drops the gun, walks out quickly, purposefully, but never running. There is no panic. A man at the table next to me says to a colleague, ‘Fucking whistleblower. Good riddance.’ He then proposes a toast to corporate excess and the torture of political activists in Third World countries.