Taking Care of Business ch-28

by Peter Corris

  He shook his head. ‘Not really. All I need I have on the hard drive. A laptop and I’m set.’

  I was getting out of my technological depth but tried not to show it. As things stood, I couldn’t see any reason why we couldn’t swing it pretty much over the next twelve hours. I asked him if he could set up some sort of meeting with his wife or children for the following day, a meeting he wouldn’t make.

  He frowned. ‘I’d hate to do that.’

  ‘If that’s the way you feel, all the better.’

  ‘I’m beginning to dislike you, Hardy.’

  Well, shit, I thought, that’s a pity, just when I was beginning to like you. I reminded myself that this guy was more or less a rat deserting a sinking ship and as likely to be as infected with the plague as the rats that were due to be drowned. I grinned at him. ‘I’m not being paid to be liked, just to be efficient.’

  ‘Paid,’ he said wearily. ‘Yes, of course. I suppose I can do what you ask. What do you propose after that?’

  ‘Ransack this place, make it hard to tell what’s been taken. Perhaps splash a bit of your blood about. Dump your car at the airport and hey, presto.’

  Whitney finished his drink and cradled the glass in his hands. ‘That won’t work,’ he said.

  ‘I know it isn’t subtle but I thought it didn’t need to be. You’re gone under suspicious circumstances. Could be you went of your own accord after you had a run-in with someone, could be that someone took you. What’s the difference?’

  ‘I don’t fly. Never. I have an absolute phobia about it. No one who knew me would believe that I’d flown out of here, willingly or unwillingly.’

  I stared at him. ‘You, an international money man, and you don’t fly?’

  ‘The money moves with the touch of a key. Have you ever been in a plane crash?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I have. In Europe. It’s worse than you imagine, much worse. I still have nightmares about it. It’s not that I won’t fly, I just can’t. I’ve tried. I go catatonic.’

  I thought about it. The advantage of the airport is that you could have left for anywhere on the globe, as close as the nearest country airport or as far as Stockholm. In Europe or the States a train station can have a similar effect, but not from Melbourne. Where could you go? Adelaide or Sydney. No mystery.

  ‘Sorry to make it hard for you,’ Whitney said.

  He seemed to mean it. He wasn’t a bad bloke as far as I could judge and I’m always well disposed to people with weaknesses, having so many myself.

  ‘Have you got anything to eat here, Mr Whitney? An interrupted meal’d be a nice touch and I’m starving.’

  He got his frozen packaged meals from some top-of-the-line place and I had a wider choice than in my local Glebe eatery. I decided on lasagne. He bunged it in the microwave and I settled into it. It was a shame to leave it half eaten and not to drink more of the bottle of red he opened. He phoned his ex and arranged to call around to see his kids the following evening. That pained him and he took it out on his study where he made quite a mess.

  He hadn’t changed out of his business clothes other than to loosen his tie and hang up his jacket. We left it there with his wallet in the pocket and his loose money and keys spilled out on the desk in his study.

  ‘You said something about blood.’

  I’d established that Whitney wasn’t a smoker. I ran some water on two butts I’d picked up at the airport and left them in the sink. ‘Too melodramatic,’ I said. ‘This looks all right. Let’s go.’

  I carried his laptop and manhandled him out to my car. I wasn’t gentle and the resistance he put up should have looked genuine. He took a look back at the house where we’d left a few lights burning.

  ‘No regrets?’ I said and gave him a moderate belt in the kidneys.

  He grunted but still shook his head as I shoved him into the car. Once we got going he was quiet apart from giving me some help getting onto Sydney Road. I had a feeling he wasn’t going to be very stimulating company. Pity about the return business class seat, I thought. Must keep the petrol receipts.

  On the outskirts Whitney sensed that I’d tensed up.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘We’re being followed,’ I said.

  Whitney shivered as if he was cold, although the night was mild and he should have been comfortable enough in his shirt sleeves. ‘Can you see who it is?’

  ‘I’m not looking,’ I said. ‘A good driver can tell if someone he’s following is looking back. The trick is to pretend you haven’t noticed. That is if you want to get away.’

  ‘What else would you want to do?’

  ‘Confront them.’

  He massaged his back where I’d hit him, maybe harder than I’d intended. ‘And what’s our strategy?’

  I liked that. He wasn’t scared of a fight. ‘I haven’t decided yet,’ I said. ‘We’ll string along for a bit and see if they make a move.’

  ‘What sort of a car is it? Who’s got the power?’

  ‘I only caught a glimpse-Falcon or Commodore, maybe.’

  ‘They can outrun this.’

  ‘In my experience, Mr Whitney, it doesn’t come down to that. It comes down to manoeuvrability and who’s the most serious.’

  ‘Have you got a gun?’

  ‘You can’t take a firearm on domestic flights without a lot of paperwork.’

  ‘So, you don’t?’

  ‘I’ve got one. They don’t check the baggage the way they say they do. But come on, this is white collar crime, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think anyone would come after me with a gun. I was thinking it’d look good if you displayed one.’

  I kept my eye on the road and the traffic, drove and didn’t say anything. This Whitney was no fool and, while I didn’t mind him getting into the spirit of the thing, I didn’t want him taking over.

  We went through Seymour and were between Euroa and Benalla when I noticed that the petrol gauge was showing half full, or half empty depending how you like to look at it. Two sly checks had told me the tail was still with us and I was getting tired of it.

  ‘D’you know this road?’ I asked Whitney.

  ‘I’ve driven it often enough.’

  ‘What’s at Violet Town?’

  ‘Nothing much. The highway bypasses it.’

  ‘What if you need to stop for petrol?’

  He drew a deep breath. ‘Yeah, I’ve done that. Self-serve. Nothing open.’

  ‘Good. We’ll pull in there and see what gives.’

  I took the exit to Violet Town and went slowly along the quiet, dark road that looked to be headed to nowhere. A set of headlights appeared behind me, not as far back as before and gaining. I pulled into a petrol station that had a self-serve sign glowing faintly with the third ‘e’ missing. I told Whitney to stay where he was, got out and tossed the car keys casually from hand to hand before making a show of feeling for coins in my pocket. I slipped the Smith amp; Wesson. 38 from the underarm holster and held it close to my body while I unscrewed the petrol cap.

  A dark blue Commodore slid up behind the Pulsar and two men got out. I recognised them, not as individuals but as types. Muscle but not crude muscle; talking muscle, persuading muscle, convincing muscle. I mimed putting coins in the machine, unhooked the hose and stuck the nozzle in the opening. One car went by while this was happening and the nearest lights were some distance away through trees.

  The men approached and stood a metre or so from me. Both about my size, one younger-dark shirt and pants, no tie; one the same vintage as me-blue shirt with loosened tie, cream trousers, lower half of a suit.

  ‘We’d like a word with Mr Whitney,’ the older one said.

  I said, ‘No.’

  The younger one took a step forward. ‘He’s telling, not asking.’

  I pulled the nozzle out, gripped the hose and swung the metal end against the side of his head. He yelped and went down on one knee. The older one moved quickly, seeing me encumbered by the h
ose. He charged with his shoulder lowered, attempting to crowd me against the bowser. I took a bit of the shoulder but not enough to move me. I kicked at the back of his knee as he went past and made a lucky connection. He fell hard, bumping his head on the bitumen. The other man looked ready to have another go until I showed him the gun.

  ‘I said no and I meant it. Help your father back to the car and then you can compare notes on what went wrong.’

  The trousers of that cream suit were going to need a good dry-clean and its owner looked shaken. I marched them back to their car. They didn’t resist and in a way I admired them. They hadn’t been briefed or paid for the heavy stuff and in their game you have to know exactly how far to go. They got in and I stood a little to one side with the pistol trained on the driver, the younger one. I pocketed the gun, took out my Swiss army knife and drove the long blade into the front passenger side tyre. A quick skip across and ditto on the other side. I took the gun out again and waved it at them before going back to my car, putting the petrol cap back and driving off.

  Whitney was slumped in his seat looking drained, as if he’d done the work. ‘They’re going to wonder why I didn’t drive off,’ he said.

  ‘I showed them I had the keys. Have to hope they noticed.’

  He glanced at me. ‘You thought of that?’

  ‘It’s not all just biff, Mr Whitney.’

  ‘How badly did you hurt them?’

  ‘Hardly touched ‘em. Hurt their pride more than anything. Still, it should do us some good. You keeping such poor company.’

  As we headed up to the border I asked Whitney to tell me how the scam had worked. He seemed to be sliding into depression which wouldn’t do either of us any good and I thought that talking about the sort of stuff he knew might pick him up a bit. It worked. He sparked up.

  ‘They picked their marks-companies and individuals who’re happy to make losses for tax purposes. They paid enormous commissions and handling fees without a blink. When they did make losses the losses were inflated, when they made gains the money was swallowed up by the losses. The big money was made by using the clients’ money to trade successfully and then falsifying the results. They were shrewd, looked after the clients who were careful and played fast and loose with the careless ones. I know what you’re thinking-who cares if people with too much money get taken?’

  I shrugged as best you can when you’re driving. We were back on the highway, moving smoothly with the usual mix of traffic-cars, trucks, caravans-and nothing suspicious in sight.

  Whitney sighed. ‘They’ve got into bed with some of these companies that’re stripping their assets and not paying redundant workers their due. There’s a lot of that going on at a fairly low level. Doesn’t attract media attention. But if you’re getting a good cut it mounts up.’

  He had my interest now. I’d tried to nail an operation of this kind for some unionists and failed. The shields thrown up by lawyers and accountants were just too solid. Whitney fell silent and I had to jog him by telling him about my experience.

  ‘Yes, that’s the sort of thing. Look, it’s not so hard to steal money inside the system. Insider trading goes on every day. The real trick is to avoid tax and launder it. That’s where they’ve been extraordinarily clever.’

  By the time we got to Wodonga I was tired. Rest stop in Albury, I thought. I’d had enough of financial shenanigans for now. ‘Just tell me one thing. Is Kenneth Bates the prime mover in this thing?’

  I could feel the surprise and outrage run through him. ‘Good God, no. He’s the one who suggested that I take the steps I’m taking.’

  I installed Whitney in Morgan’s Hotel in Victoria Street, Darlinghurst. It’s a small, low-key place-no mini-bar, help yourself breakfast, like that-but it has good security. You have to buzz from outside to get in, a touch Whitney appreciated.

  The following morning I escorted him to the ASIC offices in King Street. Stuart Mackenzie was waiting for us.

  I kept my distance while they were talking and looked about for things or people that shouldn’t be there. Everything appeared to be kosher; the men in the good suits were presumably lawyers. There were also a few in bad suits, bitter-looking types who I took to be ex-cops. Me in my linen jacket, open-neck shirt and slacks and the men in bad suits eyed each other suspiciously.

  Overnight, Mackenzie had supplied Whitney with a suit, toilet gear and a briefcase. He was looking appropriately executive as he was led away with Mackenzie tagging along to be ‘debriefed’, whatever that meant. I sat down in a Swedish style armchair in pleasant surroundings and went over the notes on my expenses. They were mounting up- plane fare, Avis rental (with a penalty for not delivering it back in Melbourne), hotel bill on my card, at least initially. I was on my second day, therefore a thousand bucks to the good. In theory. I still didn’t have my contract with Mackenzie. I’d faxed my standard contract to him before leaving for Melbourne. I hadn’t been into the office since getting back. Maybe it was sitting in front of my fax machine (or, more likely, scattered over the floor), all signed and sealed. Maybe.

  Waiting around is a big part of this game and you learn to find ways of filling in the time. A bit like acting. What was it Gary Cooper said? ‘I spent twenty years acting-one year acting, nineteen years waiting to act.’ Some do cryptic crosswords, some play cards, some play pocket billiards. I read. I settled into the comfortable chair and got on with Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. I was carried away by it and feeling that Savannah heat when I saw Mackenzie and Whitney approaching.

  ‘How’s it going?’ I said.

  ‘Not bad,’ Mackenzie said. ‘We’re continuing over lunch. They’re getting some food in. I thought I should let you know so you can take a break. I expect we’ll be finished by about three and we can decide what to do next then.’

  Stuart was looking pretty pleased; Whitney was looking professionally neutral. He nodded at me, friendly enough for someone you’ve punched in the kidneys.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back here at two thirty.’

  That gave me the better part of two hours; plenty of time to check the faxes in the office and have a salad sandwich and a glass of wine somewhere, maybe two glasses. I left the building and was taking the steps to the street level when my right arm was gripped solidly.

  ‘Police, Mr Hardy,’ a voice said in my ear. ‘Let’s take it nice and quietly, shall we?’

  A big body loomed up in front of me and I was wedged between the two of them. The one holding me flashed his card and the other one helped himself to my pistol. They were both big and very good; their bodies concealed what was happening from the passers-by and then we were moving in unison towards the kerb as if this was as much my idea as theirs. I was bundled into a police car and off down King Street in one smooth movement and I knew I could forget about my quiet lunch.

  I settled back against the seat and tried to relax. ‘How about some names and a hint as to what this’s all about?’

  Two cards came out. ‘I’m Detective Constable Masters and this is DC Quist,’ the one who’d applied the expert arm grip said. ‘A serious charge may be laid against you, Mr Hardy. We’re going to Darlinghurst to talk about it.’

  ‘One of my favourite places. I’ve got some good friends there.’

  ‘You might need them,’ Quist said.

  ‘Quist,’ I said. ‘Any relation to Adrian, the tennis player?’

  He looked at me as if I’d spat on his shoes and didn’t reply. No sense of history.

  They took me to a room I’d been in before, or the one next to it or one across the passage. They’re all the same, nothing like the old sweat and smoke smelling holes with rising damp and flaking paint. Your modern interview room, while not exactly designed to make you feel comfortable isn’t set up to put the fear of God into you. It’s austerely appointed and efficient-looking with practical chairs and tables and recording equipment that works without needing to be kicked. In a way, it’s worse. In the old days the cowboy cops could
lose it and, although it might cost you a few bruises, you could sometimes get the better of them when cooler heads prevailed. Not so now-you feel processed.

  ‘According to our information,’ Masters began, ‘you assaulted two men near Violet Town in Victoria last night. You caused physical injuries and menaced them with a firearm.’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘You deny you were in Violet Town?’

  ‘I want to lay a counter complaint against two men who followed me from Melbourne and when I stopped for petrol attempted to abduct my passenger. I used a controlled amount of force to prevent that happening.’

  Quist looked at his notebook. ‘You call bashing a guy with a petrol pump and dislocating a knee controlled force?’

  ‘Under the circumstances, yes.’

  ‘What about the gun?’ Masters said.

  ‘I’m licensed to carry it.’

  ‘How did you get it to Victoria?’

  ‘It flew.’

  ‘Unless we can see the paperwork, that’s a serious breach of the regulations. Your PEA licence looks shaky, Hardy. I assume your passenger was a client?’

  ‘In a way.’

  ‘Would there be a contract for your services?’

  Trying not to show any undue concern, I leaned back in the chair and studied them. They weren’t the old-style knuckleduster, brown paper bag cops. They were players by the rules, obeyers of orders. The trouble was the people giving the orders were often obeying orders themselves and so on along a chain that ended up with someone who didn’t give a shit about the rules. It was pretty clear that this was some kind of diversionary tactic, designed to separate me from Whitney for a period. Someone with influence was taking an interest in the matter, and that interest was hostile to mine.

  ‘Viv Garner,’ I said.

  Masters looked at Quist and Quist looked at Masters. ‘What?’ Masters said.

  ‘My solicitor.’ I fished out my wallet and handed over a card. ‘I’m not saying a word until he gets here, and probably not then.’

  Masters nodded and took the card. They both got up and left the room. They’d done what they’d been told to do and now they had to ask what to do next. I knew what I had to do-worry about what might happen to Whitney when I didn’t turn up to nursemaid him at two thirty. Thank God for mobile phones, I thought. I took mine off my belt intending to call Mackenzie’s office number. They’d have Stuart’s mobile number and I could instruct him what to do-more importantly, what not to do, like go boozing with a nice chap from ASIC. The phone was useless. Rundown batteries. Human error. One of my specialties.