Silent Kill

  PETER

  CORRIS

  SILENT KILL

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people and circumstances is coincidental.

  First published in 2014

  Copyright © Peter Corris 2014

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: info@allenandunwin.com

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 74331 637 5

  eISBN 978 1 74343 673 8

  Internal design by Emily O’Neill

  Set in 12/17 pt Adobe Caslon by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  For Tom and Linda

  Thanks to Jean Bedford for advice and corrections.

  Thanks to Jim Allen and Ben Smith for geographical information.

  If there’s any milk been spilt, I trust you to get it back into the bottle . . . Tidy him up.

  —John le Carré, Smiley’s People

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE 1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  PART TWO 16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  PART THREE 25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  part one

  1

  Jack Buchanan walked into my office without knocking. He hadn’t contacted me by phone or any other way and I hadn’t seen him for ten years. But I knew him immediately—he was 190-plus centimetres and a hundred-plus kilos of unbridled energy. He shoved my desk aside as I got up from my chair behind it and threw a looping right-hand punch. Looping right-hand punches are easy to avoid if you know the drill. You can block with a forearm or duck. Ducking is best, because it leaves you set to put a hard short punch into an exposed ribcage. That’s what I did and Jack staggered back, tripped over the client’s chair and fell to the floor.

  I stood over him the way Dempsey stood over Firpo.

  ‘Go easy, mate,’ he said. ‘Just wanted to see if you still had it. Help me up.’

  He stuck out his hand but I wasn’t going to fall for that. When I took it I twisted hard so that if he wanted to come up he had to move the way I wanted him to. And he’d made a mistake. Jack, I remembered, was left-handed and that was the hand he’d raised. Should’ve raised the right and left his strong hand to do some work. He realised it as he came up and I kept the twist pressure on.

  ‘Okay, Cliff, game over.’

  I let him go and stepped back. Jack was an ex-commando, ex-stuntman and actor. We’d worked together on a couple of films and a TV mini-series, him as a stuntman and me as a bodyguard and armourer. If he’d been serious his next move would have been a kick to the balls. Instead he rubbed his wrist and elbow and bent to pick up the chair. It was old and heavy, not much use as a weapon. He righted it and sat down.

  ‘I’ve got a job for you,’ he said. ‘Just wanted to be sure you were up to it. How old are you, Cliff?’

  ‘Feeling younger every day. You’ve slowed up, Jack.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘You mentioned a job. What kind of job?’

  ‘Bodyguarding.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Rory O’Hara.’

  ‘Jesus, are you serious?’

  ‘You bet I am. I want you to look after Rory; he’s one of my clients.’

  ‘Clients?’

  ‘That’s right. We’ve lost touch. I run a speakers’ agency these days.’ He looked around the room, which could best be described as functional. ‘There’s big money in it.’

  It was late afternoon and time for a drink. It’d always be time for a drink for the sort of proposition Jack was making. I had a bottle of Dewar’s in a drawer and ice cubes in the bar fridge. Paper cups. I made two drinks and handed one over while I prepared myself for Jack’s pitch.

  Rory O’Hara was a firebrand. He’d been a student agitator, a crusading journalist, had served a term in the Parliament of New South Wales as an independent and when he inherited a bundle of money, he became what he called ‘a self-funded righter of society’s wrongs’.

  Jack took his drink. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ he said.

  It wasn’t hard to guess. O’Hara had blown the whistle on a massive development project in the western suburbs. The development had the backing of a fundamentalist Christian church, a major trade union, a superannuation fund and had attracted investment from a variety of sources including an outlaw bikie gang. The finances were shonky, approval had been secured through the corruption of local councillors and a state government minister, the environmental report had been falsified and the prospectus issued to attract investors had violated every regulation in the book. The plan had involved building a massive church, blocks of flats and an entertainment centre.

  O’Hara had embedded people inside parts of the operation, accumulated evidence of all the misdeeds and published the results online. Vast amounts of money had been lost when the financial structure collapsed; several union officials, a fund manager, one of the local councillors and the state ex-minister were facing legal proceedings along with an auditing firm. It had been O’Hara’s finest hour and soon after he’d been the victim of a hit and run. All this had scored the maximum amount of publicity. One thing O’Hara wasn’t was publicity-shy.

  I sipped my drink. ‘So he’s out of hospital, is he, after his accident?’

  ‘If it was an accident.’

  ‘Wasn’t it?’

  ‘Who knows? The man has enemies galore and he’s nervous. Anyway, he’s coming out the day after tomorrow.’

  Jack reached into the breast pocket of his suit and produced a leaflet, which he passed to me. ‘He’s going on a big speaking tour. He’ll attract very big, high-paying audiences. There’s a documentary film being made and we’ve got a few high-profile TV interviews lined up. There’s also a book deal.’

  ‘More money,’ I said.

  ‘You bet. Take a look at the flyer.’

  The glossy leaflet featured a photograph of a handsome, smiling O’Hara in a wheelchair. The message was simple: THERE IS MORE TO BE TOLD. THERE ARE MORE GUILTY PEOPLE TO BE NAMED. COME AND HEAR RORY TALK ABOUT HOW HE CLEANED UP ONE MESS AND PLANS TO CLEAR UP MORE.

  There was a list of dates and venues for the weeks ahead—several in Sydney, Wollongong and Newcastle and a dozen in regional centres along the coast and inland.

  ‘Big itinerary,’ I said. ‘Is he for real?’

 
; ‘He is. He’s had people working for him for some time digging up the dirt. He’s a genuine new broom.’

  ‘I thought he was rich. Why is he turning himself into a money machine?’

  ‘What he’s doing costs a hell of a lot. It stretched his resources. He had to go to the US for one operation and you know what medical costs are like there.’

  ‘I had a heart operation there. My fund covered it.’

  ‘He says the health funds are essentially organised white-collar crime. He didn’t have any cover.’

  ‘Who hasn’t he pissed off?’

  ‘Nobody. You should see the hate mail—letters, emails, phone calls, death threats. The man has more enemies than . . . I can’t think of anyone.’

  ‘I suppose if he’s that anxious you’ve organised some protection in the hospital.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Why not just switch it over to the tour? Can’t see what more I could do.’

  Jack finished his drink and leaned forward. ‘Here’s the thing. Rory’s got an entourage—a personal assistant, a driver, a media adviser, several IT people handling the information he’s accumulated—and there’ll be a doctor and a nurse along. Some of these people have been with him for a while, some not. Also, he has a partner, Kelly Scott.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  ‘Female. Very. Do you get my drift?’

  I nodded. ‘I remember reading that O’Hara was hit coming out of his place in the late morning. So, if it wasn’t an accident, someone knew his movements—where he was going to be and when.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘What did the cops do?’

  ‘What would you expect? As little as possible. It could be that there’s someone inside his organisation prepared to betray him. That’s what he thinks.’

  ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘I think I can’t afford to take any risks. This tour’s going to be a circus and I’ve got a big investment in it. There’ll be all sorts of possibilities to get at him. I want you to travel along with them and suss out the . . . traitor, if there is one, or at least give him some reassurance. You’ve got the experience. You can pick a wrong’un and you know how to deal with him . . . or her.’

  ‘How would I join the circus?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘My representative on the tour, protecting my investment. As I say, I’ve put some money into it. I’m paying for the bus, subsidising the accommodation costs and the venue hiring.’

  ‘What sort of money?’

  ‘A lot, and I’m prepared to shell out to hire you. I’ll pay your standard fee and expenses and there’ll be a bonus at the end if it all works out well.’

  ‘You’re talking about a few weeks. That’ll run up a bill.’

  ‘I know. I’ll sign a contract with you and pay you a solid retainer.’

  ‘I’d have to drop everything else.’

  Jack looked around the room again. He held up his empty paper cup. ‘Dewar’s is on special just now, I notice. You haven’t had a phone call since I arrived and that clunky old computer isn’t bleeping emails. I saw that crappy Falcon parked across the street. I don’t get the feeling you’re snowed under with work, Cliff.’

  ‘I’d have to know more about O’Hara and a bit of time to think about it.’

  ‘Google him. It’s all there and pretty accurate. I’ve written the names of the people who’ll be on the tour on the back of the flyer. My numbers are there, too, and my email address. I can give you until tomorrow.’

  ‘How about you straighten my desk up?’

  He grinned. ‘Fuck you,’ he said, and went out leaving the door open.

  I went to the window and watched him exit the building. Long, confident strides. Maybe with a touch of bravado. He fished in his pocket for the remote and opened a silver Alfa Romeo parked illegally opposite. He had to ease himself into it; the fall he’d taken had hurt him more than he’d showed. He took off fast and showily. A big man with a big toy.

  2

  Jack had got me at exactly the right time. Business was slow and my live-apart lover, Marisha Henderson, had taken herself off to a high-profile job in Los Angeles. I wasn’t altogether unhappy about that.

  I’d driven her to the airport two days before. We’d been live-apart lovers for almost a year with the emphasis on the apart. There was an age gap and we had incompatible temperaments as we’d finally come to realise, and our compatibilities—sex, politics, tastes in music, senses of humour—didn’t compensate. Marisha was ambitious, driven, ruthless even, while I’d seen too much to push and shove. I liked action, involvement, challenges, but I didn’t expect rewards. Marisha did and demanded them.

  The parting was going to be friendly and without tears. We’d make promises to visit, which we might or might not keep. She was looking splendid in black trousers and boots, leopard-print top and a black silk jacket. Why are you letting her go? I thought, but I knew the answer.

  She touched my leg, setting up the tingle her touch usually did.

  ‘What’re you thinking, Cliff?’ she said. ‘Not missing me already?’

  ‘That’ll happen,’ I said.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Marisha was one of those women, a minority I think, who dressed to be admired by men and I’d admired her and told her so often. She never tired of it and was probably looking for it now. Usually I would tell her how good she looked and mean it, but it didn’t seem appropriate this time. She was put out. We went over a bump and the old springs in the Falcon announced their age.

  ‘How many times have I told you to get rid of this piece of shit and lease something better?’

  ‘Too often,’ I said as I approached the ramp to the car park.

  ‘Ooh, touchy.’

  It was like that between us, snippy. Mostly we laughed about it but over time it had had an eroding effect. I found a parking space, unloaded her three bags, and we wheeled them past the machine where I’d later have to pay the fee that’s said to be one of the highest in the world.

  Marisha’s high heels tapped on the floor as we went through the check-in procedures. Marisha wore high heels; no comfortable travelling flatties for her. She had her visa and had been super efficient with her bookings on the web and encountered no difficulties with the baggage drop-off or anything else. We reached the international departures gate. Marisha had enough time to spare to have a drink in the VIP lounge and get everything in order—her newspaper, her iPhone, her Kindle. She hugged and kissed me without the usual care for her makeup.

  ‘Stay in touch, Cliff. Often. I mean it.’

  ‘I will. Knock ’em dead.’

  ‘I will.’

  A quick wave and she was gone.

  I had missed her over the past days and I hadn’t had enough work to keep me busy. Jack’s proposition had its troublesome angles, the way a client’s approach always does, but it promised activity and reward. Also, I knew Jack—he was an operator, but he played it straight, mostly. I unfolded the flyer and read the notes he’d written on the back. Eight names and functions were listed:

  Penelope Milton-Smith, PA

  Kelly Scott, partner

  Clive Long, media liaison

  Gordon Glassop, IT support

  Sean Bright, ditto

  Stan Tracey, driver

  Dr Selim Chandry

  Melanie Kim, nurse

  I Googled Rory O’Hara. He’d been born in Bronte, only two suburbs away from Maroubra where I came from, but instead of a fibro house with working-class parents, he’d grown up with a rich father and socialite mother. Rory had a younger sister, an apartment in the city and a holiday home on the Gold Coast. He’d done arts/law at Sydney University and been president of the student council and editor of the university paper until ousted from both jobs by a right-wing coup as conservatives gained sway in the nineties. He’d won an election as an independent for an inner-city seat but resigned it after six months, declaring the parliament a useless oligarchy. He was thi
rty-eight years old, had been briefly married to a fellow student and had been a fitness fanatic and a low-handicap golfer before he’d been injured. His photographs shrieked silver spoon. Erect carriage, clear skin, perfect teeth.

  I Googled the other names but only got results for Kelly Scott, Clive Long and Penelope Milton-Smith. Kelly had been a model and an actress who’d achieved moderate success at both without apparently trying very hard. In the photos she was gaunt, the way they are, and looked bored, but that may have been a professional pose. Putting dates on the two entries together, it looked as though O’Hara and Kelly had been an item for about eighteen months.

  Clive Long had worked for the ABC, News Limited and several commercial TV stations. He was the author of Scratch My Back, published on the web—an analysis of the interplay between politicians and the media. He was fleshy, with an angry tilt to his head. He’d been with the O’Hara bandwagon for two years.

  Information on Penelope Milton-Smith was scanty but interesting. A swimmer, she had just missed out on selection for the Sydney Olympics. She’d qualified as a physiotherapist and then taken a degree in linguistics at Sydney University. Two photographs—one in a swimming cap and one with a mortarboard. Hard to assess her looks—handsome and healthy certainly. She’d been on O’Hara’s skeleton staff during his brief parliamentary career after which she’d worked as a ‘motivational speaker’ before becoming O’Hara’s PA fairly recently.

  I thought about another drink and reckoned I could handle it if I had a meal to blot it up before I drove home. I sipped the drink and considered the job. You can’t afford to be choosy with your clients and I’d taken on some I’d loved and some I’d hated. I was ambivalent about O’Hara. He was an attention seeker but he’d pulled the rug from under some people who thoroughly deserved it. He’d published all sorts of supposedly private documents and I had to wonder if this had made him vulnerable to legal action. That was a question to ask if I took the job on.