by Garry Disher
Wyatt showed then pocketed the ID, confident that similar ID had been waved at DeLacey in recent weeks. ‘A few questions.’
‘I’ve answered all the questions I intend to answer. And why are you ambushing me like this? I’m on my way home—that all right with you?’
DeLacey aimed his key fob. The Lexus beeped and flashed. But he didn’t move. Curious? The two men stood in the cone of yellow illumination cast by the light above the back door of Corris House, the air scented by distant garbage, harbour water, vehicle exhausts.
‘Won’t take a moment, sir.’
DeLacey turned sourly to face the music. Thinning sandy hair, a small, moist, red mouth, a waxy, molten quality to his nose, cheeks and brow. Resigned now. ‘Go for it.’
‘Mr Tremayne has been paying you in a timely manner?’
‘What? What the fuck are you on about?’
‘He’s sold some assets, we understand.’
‘Yes, and he’s doing the right thing with the proceeds.’
‘Legal fees, court costs, that kind of thing.’
‘Why don’t you just get to the point? Think you can do that?’
‘Aren’t you afraid your client’s going to run out of money soon?’
‘Why do we have to do this here? I can insist on a formal interview, with legal representation, film and audio, you’re aware of that? This is most unprofessional.’
The cat was back, stalking along the fence rail, a death-dealing flicker in the corner of Wyatt’s gaze. ‘You would notify us, wouldn’t you, sir, if you thought your client was going to slip out of the country?’
‘What? What are you on about?’
And the quality of his voice had changed. What does he know? ‘You would inform us, wouldn’t you, sir, if your client has put together a sum of cash and valuables with the intention of using it to finance, for example, a new life overseas?’
DeLacey opened and closed his mouth.
‘Cat’s got your tongue,’ Wyatt said. ‘I’ll bid you good evening and leave you to your headaches.’
He returned to his car. A short time later—long enough to make a phone call—the Lexus appeared. Wyatt tracked it to the man’s house. Saw him shut himself off from the world as the dark night stretched tight as a wire.
19
THURSDAY MORNING, LYNX TREMAYNE was distributing and turning tarot cards when her secret phone vibrated, close to her groin. There had been a time when she and Will took risks of the kind all adulterous lovers take. Spontaneous texts and calls; erasing the history immediately and hoping for the best. And given that Will was Jack’s lawyer, calls to the house on The Hill, or even to Lynx herself, had been easily explained. Will was lawyer and friend.
Now, with the Probity Commission raids, Kyle Roden’s trial and imprisonment, the media and an alphabet soup of federal and state agencies sniffing around, watching the house, tapping phones, monitoring bank accounts…Now she had a secret phone.
She touched it absently—small, slim, it barely broke the line of her pants—and gazed at the cards: what would it mean for the future if she were to call a halt to things now? Pausing to lay out the next card, she felt the unlucky sense of time being paused when it should be moving inexorably onwards. But William had texted her. They’d already had this week’s motel fuck, so this was William in the grip of something other than lust.
Lynx glanced around the sitting room, the coldly gleaming surfaces. Jack was somewhere about. He tended to stay at home these days, besieged by creditors, the media and prowling investigators. Unable to feel him nearby, lurking in a doorway or a passageway, she finally fished out the phone and read William’s text: Need 2 c u urgent
Lynx gazed at the cards uneasily, reading some high tide of panic behind the message. Enjoying the stiff, smooth sensation of the Celtic Cross in her right hand, she laid it out. Now for the result card—but she baulked. She didn’t want to know.
Yet.
She texted: where when
The reply: Cove asap
The Stockton Cove Motel, one of their earliest fuck pads, a short ferry ride across the harbour from Queens Wharf. It meant getting in the car, driving, parking, getting on the ferry, getting off the ferry, walking at the other end. Lynx grabbed her jacket. She found her husband beside the swimming pool, staring at the chemical blue water. Unshaven, naked under a thick towelling robe. Not drunk, not even drinking, just staring.
‘I’m off for a while.’
No reaction at first, the air around him—around the house—swollen by silence. Lynx thought of the tarot spread.
Then he turned his head to her, his features unreadable aside from a cloaked disdain in his eyes. ‘Pilates? Shopping? Yoga? Boyfriend?’
‘I feel cooped up, Jack.’
‘Sure.’
He reached for a glass of orange juice, his pronounced knuckles flexing. Lynx saw him, not for the first time, as a man who would have no qualms about killing if circumstances demanded it. ‘I’ll be back after lunch.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Do you need anything?’
Like vodka. A joint. ‘No,’ he said, gesturing his dismissal.
GETTING OFF THE FERRY, Lynx took a moment to gaze at the harbour before making her way to the motel, a dismal line of small, paint-peeling, salt-damaged rooms on two levels. A curtain twitched in a ground floor window, a door opened, and William’s head looked left, right and past her shoulder before jerking to beckon her into the miserable cave.
She glanced at the faded bedspread. It smelled in here. Like the timid hopes of the type of person who had to save up for a seaside holiday. She wouldn’t be taking her clothes off today. William closed the curtains and the light went out of the sky. She saw smudges of tension and tiredness under his watery eyes, and the confused and despairing expression of a man who felt the ground shifting under him.
‘What?’ she demanded.
‘Well, a kiss first,’ William said.
She put a little oomph into it but only to steady him. Then, more gently, ‘Something wrong?’
‘I was bailed up last night. About to get in my car and this guy appears out of nowhere.’ He stopped.
Was she supposed to guess what came next? ‘Okay.’
‘Probity Commission, Lynx.’
‘So?’
‘You don’t get it. A Probity Commission guy having a go at me after dark, as I’m about to drive home?’
‘Will, it’s part and parcel. You’re Jack’s lawyer, of course they’re going to try to rattle you.’
‘It was an ambush,’ he mumbled, his momentum stalled by her composure. He was simply forlorn now.
Lynx sat on the edge of the bed, hating the dipping of the mattress. She patted the bedclothes. ‘Sit.’
He looked grateful for the offer of comfort. He lowered himself onto the bed and rubbed the tops of his thighs.
She stilled his hands. ‘What did you say to him?’
‘I didn’t say anything. I’m not stupid.’
‘Okay, what did he say?’
Lynx saw the knotty mess of confusion and panic in his eyes. She knew some of his history. Before moving to Newcastle he’d been charged with ninety counts of professional misconduct at his Sydney firm, the result of a Law Institute investigation uncovering discrepancies in his accounts. He’d admitted to mixing trust and non-trust monies; been reprimanded and banned from receiving trust monies for six months.
No jail time. They look after their own, she thought.
Then he’d been investigated for engineering fraudulent lawsuits to protect the assets of financially troubled clients from genuine creditors. As a result, he’d been sacked and eventually found his way to a second-tier firm here in Newcastle.
A man with a certain Teflon quality. But not a streetfighter. Easily spooked by someone stepping out of the shadows.
‘William!’ she snapped to wake him up. ‘What did he say?’
She saw Will take charge of himself; hold a thread of terseness in his voice.
‘He gave every indication that Jack’s about to go down.’
‘We all know that.’
‘But they suspect he doesn’t intend to hang around for it. They think he’s put together a stash of money and he’s going to run.’
Lynx was silent. She didn’t feature in her husband’s plans, then.
‘Lynx? What do we do?’
‘I need to think,’ she said, shrugging into her jacket for the chilly ride back across the water. ‘I’ll call you.’
It was dark when she reached The Hill, the house promising a residual sense of comfort and familiarity despite her mix of anger, dread and panic. Despite the presence of her treacherous husband, who would leave her broke and alone and a laughing stock.
She went straight to the tarot array and played the next card. The Tower of Destruction. The tower struck by lightning and a man falling to his death.
20
MEANWHILE, AFTER HOURS of fruitless surveillance, Wyatt had changed into his suit and knocked on Mark Impey’s door. Held up his Probity Commission identification. ‘If I might have a word, sir?’
‘I’ve already spoken to you people. Numerous times.’
‘Just a few quick points of clarification, sir, and I’ll be out of your hair.’
Impey showed him into the house. Wyatt murmured approvingly as they passed through a large hallway with a broad staircase and several wide doorways. Through one of these to a beautiful reception room with dark-stained timber joinery, an elaborate plaster ceiling, bay windows and an Art Nouveau fireplace. Books upright and aslant in a massive bookcase. He peered at them as he was ushered towards an armchair: biographies of sporting heroes and businessmen, a range of self-help manuals with titles like The Pillars of Success, Heal Your Inner Self and How to Think Big.
Noting the exit points, he took a small spiral pad and a pen from his pocket. ‘Now that you’ve had time to digest our previous interviews with you, Mr Impey, is there anything further you wish to add?’
He saw Impey digest the implication that the commission had caught him out somehow, and swallow. ‘Am I in trouble?’
‘I don’t know—are you?’
More nervous salivating. ‘Do I need a lawyer?’
‘I don’t know—do you?’
Impey wore dark trousers and a white shirt. Not overweight but a faint bloat about him, a sense of flesh straining at fabrics. His face was sweat-shiny—partly nerves, Wyatt thought. Partly his system.
‘I’ll ask again: is there anything you wish to add?’
Impey tried to rally. ‘Nope.’
‘It didn’t alarm you when Mr Roden went to jail?’
His manner lofty now, Impey said, ‘I’d counted Kyle a friend, but ultimately he betrayed that friendship.’
‘He cheated you? You lost money as a result of investment decisions made on your behalf by Tremayne and Roden?’
Impey couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Do you people ever do your homework? I made money investing with Jack and Kyle. I didn’t lose money.’
Wyatt made a note. ‘You made money—then got out when the going was good.’
Impey tried to read his writing. ‘If you’re implying I got out because I was worried, then you’re mistaken.’
‘But you suspected your friends were running a Ponzi scheme.’
‘That is a lie.’
‘You didn’t see the warning signs?’
‘There were no warning signs. Signs of what? Market fluctuations? All part of the ebb and flow.’
‘Dividends dried up.’
‘It’s not unusual for investors and advisors to hit a rough patch. Global market forces beyond their control. You wait these things out, you don’t panic—that’s what novice investors fail to understand.’
‘You have faith that Mr Tremayne will recover?’
Impey heaved onto one buttock and fished out a handkerchief. Patted his brow and upper lip. ‘I do.’
‘It hasn’t occurred to you that your friend could well go to jail?’
‘Look, what’s this about? I’m not a partner in Mr Tremayne’s business, silent or otherwise. An ex-investor, that’s all. Not a signatory to any document, not a guarantor, nothing. I was once an investor but having made a small profit I decided to invest elsewhere. There was nothing but a wish to diversify behind that decision. I didn’t see warning signs, as you put it, and indeed I got out some time before the current fuss.’
‘Fuss,’ muttered Wyatt. ‘And you remained friends with Mr Tremayne?’
‘Is there anything wrong with that?’
‘And his wife?’
Impey tensed minutely and swallowed again. Wyatt didn’t know what that meant; perhaps something big. ‘Meanwhile, Mr Impey, I understand that calls to the general Tremayne-Roden switchboard are diverted to your mobile phone.’
‘People want to hear a reassuring voice. Staff have been laid off, Kyle’s in prison, Jack’s been getting hate mail and abusive phone calls…as well, there has to be some point of contact for worried investors.’
‘You’re a very good friend to Mr Tremayne, yes?’
Wyatt saw Impey hesitate, recover and cock his head. ‘Is there a point to these questions?’
‘A friend who might conceal from authorities the existence of certain funds that rightly should be returned to the liquidators of his companies.’
Wyatt watched Impey. If Tremayne’s million-dollar stash existed, and if it was in this house, the man would flick his eyes to it—a room, an attic, a cupboard, a cellar. Instinct. He wouldn’t be able to help himself.
But Impey screwed puzzlement onto his face. ‘What funds? The poor man’s affairs have been trussed up like a Christmas turkey by you people.’
‘Do you believe Mr Tremayne when he says that millions of dollars of client investments are held in an offshore trust that only he can access?’
‘I’ve seen the paperwork!’ Impey said, looking unconvincing. He’s seen paperwork, Wyatt thought. He isn’t sure it was genuine, or what it proved.
‘You do understand why we were obliged to seize Mr Tremayne’s passport, don’t you?’
‘Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.’
‘Of course, he could still sneak out of the country if he put his mind to it. If he had a spare million to live on. Buy false ID and retire somewhere that has no extradition treaty with this country.’
Impey swiped his forehead again. ‘Jack isn’t a quitter. He’ll have his day in court and be exonerated and the markets will rally.’
‘He’s in debt, Mr Impey. Nothing left to fund his defence.’
‘It might interest you to know,’ said Impey stiffly, ‘that he’s paid several of his debts in recent weeks.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Wyatt said flatly. Small debts, to forestall criticism?
‘Jack Tremayne is a friend. Friends help each other out. He made me a lot of money, so the least I could do was help him.’
Wyatt tingled. ‘You’ve been giving him money. Has that been declared?’
‘If you must know, I bought his boat from him. He wasn’t in a position to keep running it, and my buying it did both of us a favour—it gave him an injection of funds and me a boat I knew was in good nick, saving me a lot of hassle.’
‘An injection of funds,’ Wyatt said.
Impey tried and failed to look relaxed about it.
21
ALL MARK IMPEY WANTED to do was wind down. He’d spent most of the morning and afternoon putting out fires for Jack, and now this—targeted by some guy from the Probity Commission. Some hatchet-faced thug you wouldn’t want to meet on a dark street, and he’d invited him into his house.
First up today he’d visited a woman paralysed from the waist down after a truck knocked her off her bike. The fortnightly dividend from the $342,000 she’d invested with TR Futures was intended to provide for her daughter, who’d quit her job to be her carer, but the payments had stopped.
‘Jack’s hands are tied, Mrs Gann. The money’s there—I’ve se
en proof—but it’s overseas and he can’t access it while the Probity Commission has his passport.’
The daughter had fixed Impey with a look. All his life, women had done that. ‘There is such a thing as an online transfer, Mr Impey.’ She added sweetly, ‘But perhaps Mr Tremayne is now so destitute that he no longer owns a computer?’
Women had been making him feel like this—dull and clumsy—all his life, too. He left with his tail between his legs and called on a dentist who’d expanded his practice on the strength of early high returns. ‘What’s going on? The dividends have dried up and I can’t service the loan. Why won’t Mr Tremayne take my calls? Should I be worried?’
‘I’m sure it’s fine, Dr Cochrane,’ Impey said. ‘It’s possible Mr Tremayne was overseas when you were trying to contact him. As you know, he spends the European spring in Paris because of the ease of real-time trading on the US and European markets.’
‘From his five-star hotel room, I suppose,’ spat the dentist, ‘while his investors go down the gurgler.’
Impey tried to dampen the flames. ‘If you could be patient a while longer the money should start flowing again.’
‘Look at me,’ Cochrane said, gesturing at the belt cinched around his waistband. ‘I’ve lost ten kilos in a couple of months. Jenny’s had to go back to work, never mind that she’s got cancer. And our friends have started to avoid us.’
‘These things take time,’ Impey said, anxious to leave the miserable wretch in his half-completed new surgery.
‘We did so well at the start!’
‘There you go,’ Impey said with relief. ‘Jack’s the maestro. He made a lot of people a lot of money over the years. This is a market glitch, that’s all, you have to expect those over the long term.’
A couple more creditor sob stories and Impey had been glad to call it a day. But a tiny voice had begun whispering from the deepest corner of his mind: Maybe Jack’s businesses were falling in a heap. Too many creditors appearing with hard-luck stories. The authorities knocking on doors with search warrants. And Kyle Roden claiming in court that he and Jack had continued to invite and accept investments in TR Capital despite knowing the firm was facing insolvency.
