Follow the Money Page 11

  ‘Point taken,’ I said.

  The sun broke through as we came down into Watsons Bay and the place took on the sparkle it advertises. They say the Isle of Capri is like that—you look across from cloudy Naples and see it out there under a patch of blue sky. I wouldn’t know but I wouldn’t mind taking a look.

  I’d been to Watsons Bay for lunch in the pub beer garden or, if I was flush or someone else was paying, at Doyle’s restaurant on the jetty. I’d also had a case fairly recently where one of the parties had used a gym in the area. I mentioned this to Felicity.

  ‘There’s a gym in the same street as the apartment block. Belle Vue it’s called, would you believe?’

  She turned into a street not far back from the water and drove slowly past a big four-level apartment complex, glowing white in the sunshine. The gym I’d mentioned was directly opposite. The apartments were obviously top of the range—large, with balconies big enough to accommodate a lot of greenery. She made a turn and we went down a narrow street beside the block. The corner apartments featured two balconies and views across the beach and the water all the way back to the city.

  ‘Look up, top floor, of course,’ Felicity said. ‘On the corner. Multi-million dollar view.’

  We completed the circuit and stopped below the complex.

  ‘What’s the security like?’ I said.

  She shrugged. ‘I forget. I’m sorry . . . I didn’t realise how coming back here would affect me. Shit—that bastard! I need a drink.’

  And I needed to think. We went to the pub, sat under an umbrella with a bottle of wine and a seafood basket and watched the boats coming and going and the well-heeled people having a good time in the middle of the week. She dipped a chip in the tartare sauce, ate it and reached over to touch my hand.

  ‘Why don’t we just book a room and forget about all this?’

  She burst into laughter as soon as she spoke. She’d had two glasses.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s a line from a movie. I couldn’t resist it.’

  ‘What movie?’

  ‘I forget.’

  ‘How about the security?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I really don’t know. It was only a couple of times and I didn’t notice.’

  Something about the apartment block worried me, something half noticed. We finished the food and the wine, had coffee and walked on the beach for a while. Then we drove back and I saw what hadn’t registered properly—a For Lease and a For Sale sign discreetly displayed at street level. The agent was local.

  ‘Can you remember the number of the apartment?’ I asked.

  ‘Twenty.’

  The estate agent—thirtyish, well-groomed, pearly white shirt —probably perked up when he saw the Saab stop outside. Could’ve felt a drop in spirits when he saw me but regained confidence at the sight of Felicity in her stylish clothes and her air of affluence. She said we were interested in the Belle Vue apartments.

  ‘Bargains there,’ he said, ‘for leasing and buying. It’s the GFC you see. Some of the owners took very hard hits.’

  ‘Selling their boats,’ I said.

  ‘Indeed, and their apartments, though some have other homes, of course, and are leasing their places out here until things improve.’

  ‘I like the look of the one at the top on the west corner,’ Felicity said. ‘Is it available?’

  He gestured for us to sit while he went behind his desk and rummaged for a document. ‘Here we are. Number 20. Yes, it’s for sale.’

  ‘How much?’ I said.

  ‘It’d be negotiable, dear,’ Felicity said. ‘Would it be vacant possession or is there a tenant?’

  ‘It’s vacant. Has been for some months. The owner, well, I have to be discreet, but he’s very hard pressed. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘Ball park figure,’ I said.

  He looked at me with dislike. ‘Two million.’

  I got to my feet. ‘No way. We can do better.’

  Felicity got up reluctantly. ‘But . . .’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Thanks for your time.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Felicity said.

  We left. The rough diamond and the pearl.

  We got in the car and she started the engine. ‘I’m sorry, Cliff. A wild goose chase.’

  ‘You know,’ I said, ‘under certain circumstances I reckon chasing wild geese could be fun.’

  She laughed. ‘I can see why Miles thinks so much of you. You can cope with things, can’t you?’

  ‘What else is there to do?’

  Neither of us said much on the drive back. I asked her to drop me at a taxi rank. She pulled expertly into a tight spot, leaned across and kissed me on the cheek. Another one.

  ‘I enjoyed today more than anything I’ve done for a while. You’ve done me some good. I hope you find him and it all works out for you, Cliff.’

  ‘Thanks. And for Miles?’

  ‘Why not? Goodbye.’

  The Watsons Bay dead end didn’t depress me. Felicity had said it did her some good and the same was true for me. I’d enjoyed her company and her resilience struck a positive note with me. Too many of the people I’ve dealt with professionally have been diminished by their experiences. Felicity was a refreshing change. Money helps.

  I had a quiet night and slept well. I woke up stiff, but forced myself to go to the gym. As often happens, I felt better once I started. I put in a solid workout and after a splash around in the spa I felt good. Good enough to face a solid breakfast at the Bar Napoli and shoot the breeze with the barista and some customers. As usual, it was sport and politics, although they’re increasingly coming to look much the same.

  The Balmain Tigers were offering a hundred grand commission to anyone who could find them a major sponsor. ‘How about you, Mario?’ a customer shouted, holding up the headline at the owner who’d drifted in as he did at whatever time pleased him.

  ‘Ugly game. Nessuna grazia, nessuna competenza.’

  I looked at Fortunato, known as Lucky, by the coffee machine. He shrugged. ‘Means no grace, no skill.’

  Not the place to argue with that. They went on to discuss the axing of the annual Norton Street Italian Festival by the local council. Not enough sponsors. It was something Lily and I had enjoyed. I missed her and I’ll miss it.

  I drove home feeling clear-headed, but without any fresh ideas about locating Richard Malouf. As it turned out I didn’t need any. My mobile was ringing when I got through the door. I answered it.

  ‘Hardy.’

  ‘Mr Hardy, this is Richard Malouf.’

  My hand tightened around the phone. ‘ Yes? Go on.’

  ‘You’d be sceptical, naturally. You don’t recognise my voice?’

  ‘I only spoke to Malouf a couple of times. I don’t remember anything about his voice.’

  He went on to describe our meetings in Perry Hassan’s office in precise detail, down to what we talked about. It was hard to see how anyone else could have had that information, but I wasn’t buying it just yet. I asked a series of questions based on things Rosemary had told me and drew on some of the things Gretchen had said. I threw in a curly one about Felicity Pargetter and he fielded it neatly.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Suppose I believe you, what’s the purpose of this call?’

  ‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to find me. I’m impressed by your efforts. I thought you might want confirmation of my existence.’

  ‘You’re talking to yourself. If you’re Malouf you’re a target for people much more dangerous than—’

  ‘Oh, I know that only too well. That’s why I need your help. I siphoned off quite a bit of your money. It was only an exercise in proving to myself and others that it could be done, but still I can understand that you’d want it back. I can give you the precise figure if you like.’

  I was convinced now. I remembered Malouf’s cocky, self-satisfied manner more than his voice.

  ‘So you’re sitting somewhere on your boat tapping the keys with everything at y
our fingertips, is that right? I want the money back, sure, but there’re two people dead and a few others very distressed and it all stems from you. You’re the shit that hit the fan, or the fan itself, I’m not sure which.’

  He laughed, still pleased with himself. ‘Very graphic. I admit we’ve got a tangle here, but in my experience tangles can be . . . untangled. I think there’s a way to do that.’

  ‘Get you off the hook for killing the man who was identified as you?’

  ‘Certainly. I admit I gave Selim the idea of pressuring Rosemary, but the detail’s not important. That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about a deal with the police to . . . absolve me of my . . .’

  ‘Massive embezzlements.’

  ‘If you want to put it that way, but believe me there’s something very much bigger behind all this. Something global that would be of concern to every level of government in this country.’

  Big talk, and probably rehearsed, but the trouble was he sounded as if he knew what he was talking about and I had just enough information to put flesh on the bones of what he was saying. I needed more, though.

  I said, ‘You’ve set up something big, got the ducks in a line, why not just run with it?’

  No answer. I waited. ‘Malouf?’

  ‘Ah, good, you believe I’m who I say I am.’

  ‘Fuck you. From everything I’ve heard, you’re a lying, egotistical arsehole, so, yes, you’ve convinced me.’

  I heard a sigh. ‘Run with it, you say. I’ve been running with it. You can’t imagine how hard I’ve worked. I’m tired.’

  ‘You’ve done the dirty on Wong and Houli. You thought you could get away with that but now you have your doubts. I’m inclined to let you stew in your own juice.’

  ‘That won’t help you get your money back or stop your city from turning . . . cancerous.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘That’s the point—what do I mean? Talk to your principals. Talk to Inspector Chang and Sergeant Ali, talk to May Ling, but I’ll tell you this—if Wong and Houli don’t get a result soon they’re going to feel some pressure and they’ll destroy everyone in sight. I mean you, Standish, May Ling, Gretchen, Rosemary, Felicity, everyone! I’ll be in touch.’

  I didn’t have the equipment set up to record phone calls any longer—I’d dismantled it some time after losing my PEA licence. I missed it now. I scribbled down as much as I could remember of what Malouf had said and wished I’d put some more questions to him. One would have been—how do you know so much about what I and others’ve been doing? There are ways of course, electronic methods, and it looked as though Malouf would be well up to speed on those, but the best method is to have someone on the inside keeping you informed.

  I made a list of all the people Malouf had called my principals and scribbled notes beside the names—dates, brief details of character, attributes, meetings, likely motives. I had a lot of questions: were Chang and Ali all they appeared to be? Were Standish and May Ling consummate actors, playing both sides against the middle? What about Yusef Talat and Lester Wong? Could they be double-crossing their bosses? I didn’t feel confident of these suspicions—too many gaps, too many breaks in the traffic. I looked at the list again and realised that I’d left one name off it—Richard Malouf. Maybe he wasn’t sequestered on his high-tech boat; maybe he was out and about, monitoring all our activities. It was a thought, but I couldn’t decide whether it was alarming or encouraging.

  I needed an ally, someone to bounce ideas off and suggest strategies; someone to help. In the old days I would’ve turned to Frank Parker but I’d got him into trouble too many times before. Hank Bachelor was out; Megan had made it clear I wasn’t to involve him in anything sticky. I looked at my list again—Sabatini. Why not?

  I emailed Sabatini, setting out most of what I’d learned recently and telling him that Malouf had spoken to me. I knew that would hook him; no journalist can resist a Lazarus story. I implied that there was more to be said, and that I needed his expertise and possibly his hands-on help. A rock climber is a risk taker by definition, and Sabatini struck me as an ambitious type who probably had his mind on bigger things. Rosemary was definitely not a widow now, but there was a question as to whether she’d been legitimately married at all. I hinted at this. If their relationship was going full steam, what was more natural than that he’d want to be involved in dealing with the man who’d put her in danger?

  I got an answer just an hour later. Sabatini didn’t say where they were, but he’d been thinking about the Malouf business all the time and when he’d told Rosemary about my email she’d encouraged him to go back and help. I was reading the message when my mobile rang.

  ‘Hardy, it’s—’

  I cut in. ‘Be careful, there’s a chance someone we know could be listening.’

  ‘Shit, all right. She’s safe with friends. I’m coming back. I’ll be—’

  ‘You’ll be where you say you are when you get there.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Thanks. Think hard, we need ideas.’

  ‘Can you give me anything more now? More to think about?’

  ‘Yes, what is it that you most worry about?’

  ‘Jesus, that’s no help.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘Hurry back.’

  I suppose I had some idea about Sabatini publishing something, maybe in his blog, and that drawing Malouf out into a meeting. Then we could hold him and either deal with the police or deal with Houli or Wong, whatever seemed to give the best result. It would depend on what he meant by ‘cancerous’, how serious the business they had set up really was.

  It was a plan of sorts, an attempt to take the initiative. I didn’t like the idea of just sitting around waiting for Dick Malouf to get in touch. When I’d mentioned the fact of the so far unknown dead man, he’d described it as an unimportant detail. Intelligence he undoubtedly had, and charm, to judge from the way he’d made himself appealing to women. That indifference to the life of another human being, though, also exhibited self-absorption. Just like Miles Standish, but worse. It was a serious weakness.

  Most of the time I was comfortable in the house I’d lived in for many years, but occasionally the memories, good and bad, got to me and I needed to be somewhere else, preferably in company. I went down Glebe Point Road to the pub where I sometimes play pool but none of the people I play with was there. I had a drink and waited but no one I knew came in. I wandered off to an Italian restaurant where I could at least exchange pleasantries with the waiters and the owner. I was still down a few kilos and kept up the good work by ordering a salad, entrée-size lasagne and a small carafe of wine rather than a bottle. When eating alone I read. I had another Shipway title, Free Lance, with me; not as good as Knight in Anarchy, but interesting enough.

  The restaurant had benches rather than chairs and as it filled up it was usual to have to share the space. I was enjoying the food and wine and interested in the book and didn’t look as a man slid into the seat beside me.

  ‘Good book?’

  The last thing you want. I nodded, keeping my eyes on the page. I felt a sharp prick below my rib cage on the left side and my head swung round until I was looking into the eyes of Lester Wong.

  ‘I can slip this into your heart in a fraction of a second, Hardy,’ he said quietly. ‘It’ll kill you instantly and there wouldn’t be much blood. I’d jump up in alarm as you slumped forward and that would be that. What do you think?’

  There was blood already; I could feel it trickling down my side. Lester wasn’t looking at me now—just another customer waiting to order.

  ‘Can I finish my dinner?’

  ‘Of course. Take your time up to a point. We don’t want to create a disturbance. Then you pay and we leave together.’

  ‘You won’t be able to keep the knife on me, Lester. I beat the shit out of you easily a while back and I could do it again.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I remember,’ he said. ‘But things are a bit different now. You see, we have May
Ling in a car outside and if you cause any trouble we’ll spoil her pretty face forever. Would you like to be responsible for that?’

  I had weapons to hand: a knife, a fork, a glass and a carafe, usually enough to work with in a situation like this. But Wong’s threat had that edge of menace that cut off all options. I put down the book and had a solid swig of the wine.

  He took the knife away, leaving a small snick. The blood trickled a little harder. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘That’ll do. Let’s go.’

  It went smoothly. I was wearing a flannel shirt, jeans and a longish jacket; the blood was well concealed. Lester stayed close but managed to look as if he’d just changed his mind about eating there. We went out; Lester gestured at a people-mover parked close by and I saw May Ling through a window. Nobody took any notice as Lester escorted me towards the vehicle. A door slid open.

  ‘Get in.’

  Freddy Wong was sitting beside May Ling in the back row of seats. Lester pushed me towards the middle row.

  ‘Any trouble?’ Freddy said.

  Lester said, ‘Quiet as a lamb.’ He said something in Chinese to the driver and the vehicle moved off.

  ‘Say hello to your friend, Mr Hardy,’ Freddy said.

  May Ling said nothing. I could smell her perfume until Freddy lit a cigarette.

  ‘What’s the idea?’ I said.

  Freddy puffed smoke; May Ling coughed and he laughed. ‘It’s about Richard Malouf. What d’you think? You’re going to tell me everything you know that will help me find him, or my beautiful cousin’s face will be beautiful no longer.’

  ‘He knows about the boat. I had to tell him,’ May Ling said.

  I could feel the blood congealing a bit north of my hip. With luck it’d soak through my pants and make a mess of the seat. ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘Has he got Gretchen?’

  ‘Sunny?’ Freddy said. ‘No, but I will get her if necessary. Perhaps it won’t matter, that’s up to you.’

  ‘We don’t know where Malouf is,’ I said.