‘Have you?’ Maybe. Brave would have meant placing my signature after the obscene word on Bob Green’s car. Oh well, I guess Bankruptcy Man was just waiting for the right moment in history to emerge. ‘Is Heather okay?’ I asked. ‘She’s happy?’
‘I think so,’ Laura said. ‘Yes, I’m sure she is.’
Well, that’s good. It’s also another lost opportunity to rue, but I’d promised myself no more regrets. ‘She loved having you boys around here,’ Laura said. ‘Even when she pretended you irritated her to death, as she used to phrase it. Even when you did actually irritate her to death.’
I smiled. I did irritate her. Deliberately. My greatest talent with women since I was ten.
‘Helena called me,’ Laura said. ‘If you need –’
‘I’ve got enough,’ I said quickly.
‘What are you doing with it?’
How could I put it? ‘Remember what I wrote on Bob’s car?’
She nodded, not smiling. ‘That’s very difficult to forget, Chris. It’s an awful word.’
Used by a man, it is. Inga Muscio made that very clear. It still has its uses, though. In very exceptional circumstances. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘same tactic. Much bigger target.’
I rang Toffee next. He had no visa, but he did have the latest videophone.
‘Toffee? Chris Blake.’
‘Mate.’
‘You working?’
‘Knocking out a few chimneys today.’
Probably with his bare hands, I thought. ‘What about on the weekend?’
‘Need some work done, mate?’
‘Not building work,’ I said. ‘You know how you said if I ever needed a favour?’
‘Anything, anytime, mate,’ he said slowly, but with meaning. That’s the spirit. Why aren’t more clients this grateful?
‘I may need a bit of . . . muscle.’
There was laughter down the other end of the line. Deep. Cavernous. From the heart of an active volcano. ‘Mate,’ he said, ‘I am your man.’
‘How about your nephew? Is he around?’
‘If I say so. Need more than two?’
‘How many do you have?’
‘How many you need? Gang?’
Jesus. A gang. A Samoan forward pack. Things were falling into place nicely. ‘Let’s stick to you two first. Can you put the gang on standby, though?’
There was a pause down the other end of the line. ‘Somebody owe you money?’
‘Um . . . not me. Other people. People who were in accidents. They owe their families.’
‘I’m angry.’
‘Hold that thought,’ I said.
I told him where and when. He said they would bring their own tools.
I didn’t ask, but I liked the sound of that.
I was at South Pacific by ten thirty, putting the final touches to my fictitious Jonathon Bartlett file. The medical reports had been easy. An amateur job, but good enough. I had drafted them. Different fonts on the computer, depending on the doctor’s preference. Rehabilitation specialists tend to favour Arial. Orthopaedic surgeons go for Calisto. The neurologists, on the other hand, seem to prefer Times New Roman. Psychiatrists are into New Gothic.
The rest of the ruse was easy. I’d used real doctors’ letterheads. It was then a cut-and-paste job with a photocopier, or, better still, with reports that had been e-mailed, just a cut-and-paste job on my screen. It wouldn’t survive the CSI treatment, but these reports weren’t headed for a lab.
The Statement of Claim was the first document in the file. Duly filed in the Supreme Court by Black, Ackerman. I had placed a draft Defence on top of that, together with a written ‘statement’ from Bill Doyle taken by SP’s investigators. If the shit hit the fan I would admit that the investigators had never been instructed, Bill knew nothing, I’d just made it all up.
Next was a letter from Black, Ackerman quantifying damages, and briefly stating their liability argument. Graham Harold of Black’s and I had separately worked up the damages claim, and ended up within half a mil of each other. My money was on me being more accurate. I was a barrister, after all. We settled on $15.2 million as an initial figure. The letter on top of the file was the next one I had instructed him to write. Our client is leaving the country. In seven days.
Finally, on the inside cover of the file on a computer-printed sticker, I had made obvious the most vital piece of information. The plaintiff’s address. Lang Road, Centennial Park. Laura Green’s house.
I handed the file to De Luca in his office at eleven. I gave him a memorandum summarising South Pacific’s potential exposure. Dead duck on liability. Plaintiff’s figure $15.2 mil. A top end figure, but within the range. Eleven million was where the low end dollars were.
‘How the fuck did this get missed? This accident happened eighteen months ago.’
I told him that it had been handled by the late Greg Stewart. Somehow the file had been sent for archiving when he ‘left’ rather than being passed on to another claims handler. The matter only came back to life recently with the filing of the Statement of Claim. I’d gone out to Penrith personally to retrieve the file.
‘But all Stewart’s files were on the system, like everyone else’s,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand how this could have been missed or sent to storage.’
I shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t even employed here then.’
De Luca shook his head. He scanned the memo and started to flip through the documents in the file. ‘So, there’s no way of defending this? Liability-wise?’
I shook my head. ‘It was the poor guy’s first day on the job. He was a contractor. They sent him up a huge fig tree. He told them he’d never been up a tree in his life.’
‘And what happened? A fucking bat attack?’ I nodded. ‘Jesus Christ. I didn’t know they were vicious,’ he said.
‘Some are,’ I said. ‘Apparently.’ In the Amazonian rainforest, for example.
De Luca rubbed his chin. Wheels churned and creaked in his head. Steam blew. The noise was deafening. The mental apparatus he had between his ears was Manchester, circa early Industrial Revolution. ‘How’d he lose his leg? If he fell?’
‘The bat bit him.’
‘What? Off?’
‘No, Angelo. Not off. Some of them carry a virus. I’ve forgotten its name. Licivirus, I think. It caused an infection. They had to amputate.’
‘From a bat bite? Fucking hell.’
‘These things are a menace. I’m telling you, the insurance industry should lobby the government to exterminate. It’s a wonder this thing doesn’t happen more often.’
He looked at me, a little puzzled, a soft whir in his head now. ‘I don’t suppose there’s an indemnity issue? No way we can deny coverage?’
I shook my head. ‘The defendant has our standard public liability policy. And there’s no attacked by a bat exclusion.’
He gave me a dirty smile. ‘What’s life expectancy? Any evidence?’
‘Read Dr Love’s report. It’s bad news. The brain damage has deprived him of real insight into his condition. No depression. No lack of will to live. And he hasn’t had any urinary or other complications so far. He’s had excellent health care – his parents are quite wealthy – nice home near Centennial Park, apparently. They’ve already gone overseas ahead of him, so he’s on his own — with a full-time carer, of course. They’re unlikely to settle cheaply, and it looks as though we’re stuck with ninety-five per cent life expectancy. Another fifty-plus years for this bloke.’
De Luca rubbed his chin again. ‘So, your view then is best case scenario, about eleven million. Worst, about fifteen?’
‘Something like that,’ I said. ‘Barring mishap or unexpected complication.’
De Luca stared at the file. The cogs cranked up again. ‘You know what,’ he said, ‘no offence, but this is probably the perfect matter to be referred to my new group – now that you’ve done the initial assessment.’
‘No offence taken,’ I said. ‘I was th
inking that myself.’
‘Good,’ he said, standing up, inviting me to leave. ‘Thanks for the memo.’
‘That seven-day thing,’ I said on my way out. ‘Do you want me to draft a without-prejudice reply? Maybe offer two to three? See if we can get a bite?’
He shook his head. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Leave it with me. Good idea, though. Sounds like a matter we should try and get rid of fast.’
I nodded. I think I knew what he meant.
We’d be waiting for him.
Thirty-Five
Finally, it was Friday. D-Day. My last breakfast with Gabby before I headed for Normandy.
We argued again over her non-selection as a temporary tenant of Laura Green’s, and I reminded her once more that she wouldn’t thank me while they were removing her name from the Roll of Legal Practitioners. ‘It’s something prospective couples shouldn’t both do,’ I said to her. ‘It’s not like fencing.’
She reluctantly acknowledged the sense in what I was saying, but didn’t make an issue of the prospective couples thing. It made my day.
‘You’ll call me?’ she said at the door, ready to leave for work.
‘Daily,’ I said. ‘By the way,’ I added, ‘has Jacquie . . . has she called? Just out of interest. Recently, I mean.’
She glared at me. ‘Once,’ she said.
‘So, she hasn’t caught any rare diseases yet?’
‘No, Chris.’
‘You miss her?’
‘We agreed we would discuss all this later.’
I shrugged, kissed her, and she left. I could be wrong, but I believe she kissed me too.
Jacquie? Can you hear me in Djibouti? You’re toast.
As far as I could tell, particularly having examined her library, Gabby was more about equality than gender. Maybe she was a touch about superiority as well. She seemed to like men who were worth liking, but otherwise believed that the sex currently best equipped competently and humanely to run the world, its houses of government and other important institutions, was her own. When I look at the world, I think to myself, what sexist, misogynist idiot could possibly argue with that? Most of them probably, and they’d be wrong. The men Gabby didn’t like were white, corrupt, hawkish, neo-arch-conservative, voracious capitalists. And that just covered the Labor parties in Australia and the UK and the Democrats in the US. I wouldn’t have sex with these people either.
There’s no doubt about it. If I ever get in touch with my feminine side, she’s going to be a feminist lesbian for sure. With a soft spot for blokes like me.
As things currently stood, though, I was male. I was white. But I was a powerless, pseudo-Trotskyite social outcast as well. Gabby’s preferred type if you throw in tall and cute, which I would. I was also, when I put my cape and gown on, a fighter for truth and justice in my Gotham City.
Basically, I was Gabrielle Shepherd’s dream man.
I told De Luca the bad news after Gabby left. The bad news didn’t include the fact that I had a couple of two-tonne Samoans after him. The bad news was that I had suffered a major relapse. The blood tests were back. Epstein-Barr. He asked me if that meant AIDS. I told him glandular fever. He sounded genuinely relieved. I would be off work for all of next week, and possibly the week after.
‘So, you’ll be home all week? Resting up?’
‘Yeah. Why?’
No reason, he told me. (Other than that he was sending round the company hit man.) He said no problems, get well. He wished me a speedy recovery. I wished him good luck with the new injury claim. He said thanks.
May the best man win.
I got to work after the call. I had a lot to do.
And a lot had been done. Perth and Brisbane security firms had been engaged. I told them I wanted the plaintiffs in claims 04150 and 061247 followed. Twenty-four hours a day, for seven days. They had no problem with that. The next set of instructions threw them. If anyone tried to kill these people, I told them, I wanted it stopped. They thought I was kidding. They nevertheless demanded more money for that kind of job. I met them halfway. Besides, maybe Col Dixon had set things in motion and surveillance was already in place.
The local investigators were next. I managed to get hold of a crowd that had once been on South Pacific’s panel, but been kicked off for some shoddy work. I spoke to the principal. The instructions were simple. Follow Barry Hardcastle, James Jarrett and Angelo De Luca. Again, 24/7. I said the instructions were coming from board level. Very hush-hush. There were fears that these three were negotiating with another insurer to leave.
The guy seemed to buy it, but it may have been unnecessary detail. Frankly, he didn’t sound like he gave a stuff. A job’s a job. He said nothing at first when I told him about the three shotgun microphones I had bought. The kind with a range of 300 metres. It’s illegal to record conversations between people in New South Wales without their consent, or a warrant. The Listening Devices Act. Investigators allegedly won’t do it. It’s breaking the law. If you pay them enough money, allegedly they will do it.
I wasn’t daft enough to think anything would come of this. Anything like Hardcastle or Jarrett being caught on tape in conversation about who should be bumped off next, or engaged in light-hearted banter about money laundering over a latte at a Kings Cross cafe with a member of the underworld. Still, you never know. As an American football coach once said, luck is when preparation meets desire. I suppose in a game designed around commercial breaks you’re bound to come up with something profound. I had prepared. I had the desire.
On Thursday afternoon, I had picked up the rest of the hardware I needed. Hidden cameras weren’t as expensive as I thought they would be. I guess there wouldn’t be as many in women’s toilets if they were. And by buying in bulk I got a good deal. I had been looking at brochures for a few days, then I settled on a colour pinhole, one that could be inserted into a motion detector. I’m not sure why. I’m new at this game. I could have gone the smoke detector route, or the clock, or the desk lamp, or even a hidden camera designed for computer speakers. Your imagination is your only limit.
Along with the hidden cameras came a six-pack of tilt and zooms for outside. I didn’t think we could afford not to be too careful. These were nasty people we were dealing with. A couple of monitors, a recorder, tapes, a few DVDs to burn, and I was in business. At least for seven days. After that, if nothing happened, it would be liquidation time again, or I would have to pay a quick visit to Bob Green for further working capital.
The Greens made an early start Friday morning, and so did I. Laura and Heather were flying to Coolangatta, and I set about turning their grand home into something the boys from Langley would be proud of.
Jack Bartlett arrived just after noon. There had been one last forgery prior to this, that Gabby had sent to his home fax. His last-minute invitation to a Law Society conference on tort reform. He was to give a paper about the inspirational new economic plan of our legislators to take money from the maimed and injured in order to give it to insurance company management as stock options. ‘Personal Responsibility – why the Politicians are Kicking the Maimed and Injured into Poverty and the Insurance Companies into Profit’ was the title of the paper. My touch, and I liked it. The ‘conference’ was in Canberra. It was nearly winter. There was no chance of his wife wanting to go unless she was an Eskimo. A few lectures to be given either side of the conference bought us seven days. Any more would require some quick talking.
As I had instructed, Jack was wearing a cap and dark glasses when he arrived by disabled taxi. There was no access for him at the front of the house, so I wheeled him around the back. He slumped in his chair, already in character. ‘Should I dribble?’ he mumbled under his breath.
‘Not necessary,’ I said.
We reached the backyard. ‘Nice pile,’ he said to me, looking over the impressive dimensions of the house, the green expanse of backyard. ‘I must be rich.’
‘You are. And young. Young and rich.’
‘And extremely viol
ent when approached by strangers.’
I was right to cast him. ‘Let’s get in,’ I said. ‘I want to go over the drill.’
The drill was this. There would be a morning walk through Centennial Park. From the west side at Lang Road to the east at Darley. A twenty-minute stroll at least, maybe twenty-five pushing a wheelchair. Breakfast would be at the same spot every morning. A small café in Clovelly Road on the east side of the park. We would sit out on the footpath, weather permitting. The same table each morning. I would feed bits of toast to him. Things would be done by the clock. This was a military operation.
After breakfast, a walk back through the middle of the park to the big Duck Pond. We would take bread. He would watch me as I fed ducks, pelicans, swamphens, the swans. Not the ibises. Then we would head home. We would go out for lunch. I would have to carry him into the car. Each day we would eat at one of the same few cafés at Bronte or Coogee Beach. The afternoon would be a replica of the morning. After dinner, I would wheel him around the suburb. Down Lang Road, left and down to Cook, past Fox Studios, around and back home.
Toffee, or Kava, or both of them, would loiter near us always. In a car. Down the road. In the park. In the house. We would then simply wait. To be kidnapped. To be run off the road. For the house to be invaded. Christ almighty.
If Jack thought my plan was fucking stupid, he was too polite to say so. Or too dumbstruck. The only complaint he made was over the wig I bought for him to wear. He looked like a sixties rock star. Ringo, after a really hard day’s night. Keith Richards since he was twenty-seven. Still, with dark glasses, a hat, a scarf around his neck . . . he might pass as young from a distance. Say from Pluto. In case they were after me too, and knew what I looked like, I had my own wig – long, shaggy and blonde. I looked disturbingly like a cross between Rod Stewart and four of his wives. I put on a homeboy hat and dark glasses. That was better.
We went through the layout of the house next. There were no bedrooms downstairs, but I had him set up in the library, the only room in the house that reminded me of how it had been years ago. Throughout the nineties the house had been wrenched from the late fifties and into the new millennium by gradual renovations in between the tenancies. A kitchen that had once been all porcelain and sea-green lino, and in winter as warm as hot bricks, was now a surgical theatre of stainless steel. The enamel-coated stove was now European silver. So, too, the dishwasher and fridge. Remembering the old kitchen I can still see Mrs Green working her hands through mince, or sticky with dough. This new kitchen was direct from the LifeStyle Channel, admission strictly for those who can julienne a GM carrot in a millisecond flat.
The Ambulance Chaser Page 30
