Follow the Money (3 page)

Sabatini stretched, easing a back that spent too long rigid in front of a computer screen. ‘What happened at Hassan and Associates isn’t an isolated incident. The Malouf case has . . . tentacles. I get whispers that quite a lot of small and medium range businesses are in trouble. There’s been a lot of borrowing and shoring up, which is expensive in the current climate. There’s also been a fair bit of apparent cyber fraud. Disappearing money. Mostly, it’s kept quiet and insurance covers the losses. The firms compensate over and above the lost amount on the proviso that the details don’t get out. The servers and the credit company people don’t want publicity. The Malouf case made an exception because it was too big to be dealt with in house, as it were, and he turned up dead, but believe me, there’s a collection of Malouf types floating about playing games with other people’s money.’

‘The insurance companies must be getting shitty.’

‘Yes, and no. In most cases, in real terms the amounts aren’t that big, and the legal insurers lay off against insurers and spread the pain down the line and pretty thin. They know they’re being taken advantage of but what can they do? They want to keep the lid on it and stay in business. No one who’s ever been broken into, had a car damaged or lost anything has any sympathy for insurance companies. They use the excess clause to cover their arses and they make millions by investing the policy premiums, most of which they never have to pay out on. Insurance is a legal racket.’

‘I wouldn’t argue with you, but . . .’

‘When you contacted me just now I thought you might have been hired by one of the insurers to investigate, break the code of silence, but unless you’re bullshitting me this is all new to you.’

‘It is. I started in at a very small scale. I thought it was just a rip-off missing person scam with a twist—the missing party apparently dead. But it seems to be growing hour by hour. How do you know as much as you do?’

‘Sealed containers leak.’

‘Do you have names for these other embezzlers?’

A waiter cleared our table and asked if we wanted anything else.

‘No,’ Sabatini said. ‘I mean yes.’

‘Sir?’

‘Sorry. Coffee—long black, please. You, Cliff?’

‘The same.’

As the waiter left I leaned across the table as if we had a secret: we didn’t, just a question. ‘What’s behind it all, then? You make it sound like a conspiracy.’

‘You said it, not me. That’s why I’m talking to you and letting you buy me lunch. If Malouf’s still alive and you can grab him, there’re two possibilities.’

A guessing game,
I thought. ‘One is that if I can grab him we might find out what’s going on. What’s the other possibility?’

Sabatini stroked his beard. ‘Malouf was one of the smartest hackers and cyber fraudsters we’ve seen. If he’s alive he’d still be at it. This stuff’s an addictive game for someone like him. All this might just be him! And remember, you said I’d get first bite.’

The person I most wanted to talk to next was Gretchen Nordlung but it wasn’t the time. I went home. Sabatini had given me references to several other articles he’d written where he skirmished around the question of dodgy financial advisers and managers without getting himself into trouble. We have new libel laws allowing greater freedom for journalists, and judges are awarding lower damages than juries once did, but caution is still the keynote.

It was a familiar scene: I pulled up by my house and the door of a car parked on the opposite side of the street opened and the men who stepped out could only have been police. Not that they wore suits and hats; they favour leather jackets these days and a casual but clean look. Neat beards are in rather than moustaches. I stood by the front gate as they approached, the taller and older of the two showing his warrant card.

‘Detective Sergeant Caulfield and DC Manning, Mr Hardy. We’d like a word with you.’

‘What about?’

‘Could we go inside?’

I looked up at the clear sky. ‘Why? It’s not raining.’

Caulfield sighed. ‘They warned me about you. Here or at the station.’

‘Could rain,’ I said. ‘Come on in.’

We went in and down the hall to the kitchen at the back where I set about making coffee. I spent a fair bit of money on the house a while back, but somehow its essential shabbiness had reasserted itself and it didn’t look much different from what it was before the makeover.

Manning leaned back against the sink; Caulfield sat down at the breakfast nook and took out a notebook. The water boiled and I filled the glass jug and set the plunger.

‘Black or white?’

‘Nothing for us. What’s your interest in Stefan Nordlung?’

‘Who says I have one?’

‘Photographs and footage taken by a bystander at the Spit marina where Nordlung was found dead this morning show you to have been present. You were also caught on a sweep shot taken by a TV news crew when they arrived. All this went to air on the midday news and one of our analysts identified you. So here we are, being nice.’

‘Not very nice. You’ve refused my hospitality.’

Caulfield glanced at Manning. ‘This is what they told us about, Ken. He wears you down with this sort of stuff until you lose your temper and do and say things you shouldn’t. He’s a past master at it, especially when he had a PEA licence, which he doesn’t anymore.’

‘Years of experience,’ I said.

Caulfield closed his notebook and stood. He stacked up to about 185 centimetres, but I’m 188 and these days pushing 90 kilos. Not that it was going to get physical, not like in the days of DS ‘Bumper’ Flanagan, when physical was the name of the game. But it helps to stand your ground on an equal or better level.

‘You’re in our books, Hardy. First time we catch you putting your nose into police business you’re in serious trouble. You’re not licensed to do anything except pick your fucking nose. Any hint of harassment, a speeding violation, a nine thousand dollar deposit in a bank account, any sign of a gun and you’re gone.’

‘On what sort of charge?’

‘Conspiracy’s a big net with fine mesh. As witness the judge presently not getting out and about and having a jolly good time on his pension with his pals.’

I nodded. ‘Terrorism’ll stretch a bit, too.’

Caulfield glanced at Manning. ‘That’s a thought. All unnecessary if you tell us what you were doing there.’

‘Maybe later,’ I said. ‘Leave me your card.’

Caulfield slapped a card down on the table and they trooped out, not slamming the door. This kind of thing had happened quite a few times since I’d lost my licence. I suppose the cops couldn’t be blamed. There were always rogues in the profession; I wasn’t the worst but, as Caulfield said, I had a habit of getting under police skins. For tough guys, police skins are thin.

I was upstairs at the computer, working through Sabatini’s articles, when he rang.

‘You didn’t put all your cards on the table,’ he said.

‘How’s that?’

‘I saw the news. You were there when they fished Nordlung out.’

‘Yes, I was just sticking to our no-names policy.’

‘I’m not sure I buy that, but it’s blown now. I bet I can guess who hired you.’

‘Guess away.’

‘Miles Standish, right?’

‘Let’s say you’re right. How did you get there?’

‘I’m not sure I can trust you. You’re economical with the facts.’

I laughed. ‘Nice one. Aren’t we all? OK, well I’ll give you something that might interest you. Two cops came to see me when I got home. Like you, they’d seen the news coverage and they warned me off. Obviously Nordlung meant something to them or why would they bother?’

There was a long pause and I thought I knew what was going through his head. I’d discussed this sort of thing with Lily a few times. Names, information, connections are the lifeblood of investigative journalism and private investigation alike. They’re also the currency, to be hoarded or traded. Sabatini thought I’d hoarded a bit. He had something to trade, but was it worth his while? The other thing about information is that its value drops the more people share it. It has a use-by date. Sabatini made his decision.

‘OK, you’d find out something about it sooner or later so you’re getting it from me now: the real stuff. I’m investing in you, Hardy.’

I smiled. I’d read him correctly and he was even using the appropriate language. I didn’t say anything.

‘Nordlung and Standish were hand in glove. Standish brokered the deal that enabled Nordlung to buy the
Southern Star
. Are you with me?’

I was. The
Southern Star
was a cruise ship that was being fitted out for luxury voyages to the Antarctic. The work was being done in Hobart. The ship had exploded and was a total loss.

‘Nordlung had it insured to the hilt and beyond,’ Sabatini said. ‘Massive premium. Standish raised the money and arranged the terms for that as well. Nordlung got a whacking great payout. If Nordlung’s the one who’s supposed to have seen Malouf you could be chasing shadows. Nordlung’d do anything Standish wanted him to.’

‘So it wouldn’t be in Standish’s interest to kill him.’

‘No; but there’d be plenty of candidates. Nordlung was a specialist in marine fraud of one kind or another. He started small and had some trouble, got bigger and honed his act. So are you investigating an alleged death or a real one, or both?’

‘I wish I knew. Maybe nothing. Standish has made himself unavailable.’

‘I could be wasting my time talking to you.’

‘You could be.’

‘I’m glad I did anyway. Know why?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Lily,’ he said and hung up.

Common sense said to give it up as a bad job—too little substance, too many uncertainties, no focus. But common sense wouldn’t pay the bills or help me out of the fix I was in with the option shares. That’s if I really was in a fix. I’d been reading lately about fake emails, so I paid a call on Perry Hassan to make sure he had sent Standish the email I’d seen. We’d got together a few times since the Malouf scam and he’d been apologetic. He still was.

‘I’m sorry, Cliff,’ he said, ‘but that’s right. Dick Malouf had the management of the portfolio and that’s what he did to you with those shares, probably just because he could. I know I was out of line telling Standish but he said he was thinking of employing you. I thought I was putting work your way.’

We were in his office in Five Dock, a large suite of rooms above a sprawling DVD rental joint. It used to be a relatively pleasant place to go the few times I went there—young, energetic accountants of both sexes working away in apparent open-plan harmony. Perry was a cynic who’d worked for the tax office in earlier days and was thought to know all the angles. He’d complained about executive lunches and desk-sitting piling on the kilos and I’d suggested he join my gym. He did and became an enthusiast. Now there was an air of despondency about the office and many fewer bodies.

‘Well, you have, I think,’ I said. ‘What d’you make of Standish?’

‘An operator. He put some people my way and then leaned on me to do certain favours. He says he’s going to help me with the insurance people and I’m going to need all the help I can get. That’s another reason why I gave him the details of your situation when he asked. Sorry.’

‘It’s all right. Is there any way to head off the margin call?’

Perry shrugged. ‘A very good lawyer might be able to stall it for a while.’

‘What about a conviction of Malouf for fraud?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘Say he isn’t.’

‘Cliff, I’m up to my neck in lawyers, aggrieved clients and auditors. I can’t sleep for worry. I can’t find the will to go to the gym. I can’t play games.’

‘OK. One question: can Standish be trusted?’

He threw back his head and laughed. Then he looked astonished and pleased that he was still able to laugh. So I’d done him some good.

Like Perry, I hadn’t been to the gym for a while. I decided to have a workout and see if a spell on the treadmill gave me any ideas. It’s been known to happen. Late afternoon and not many about. I stripped, stretched less thoroughly than I should have, and started the treadmill at a brisk walk. If I felt good I’d increase it to a trot. I was warmed up, considering increasing the rate, when I heard a door crash and a shrill voice cut through the
doof doof
musical fug.

‘Where is that bastard? I’ll kill him.’

I heard a crash of metal on metal and hit the off button. A large man in a suit had picked up a short bar and slammed it against one of the machines. A couple of people were doing floor exercises on the mezzanine level. A man and a woman leaned over the rail to look down. The intruder saw them and rushed towards the stairs.

‘You bastard, you cunt. I’ll kill you both.’

He threw the short bar away. It clattered against a wall and he picked up a longer, heavier one. That slowed him down long enough for me to get between him and the stairs.

‘Take it easy, mate.’

‘Fuck you!’

He was big and strong and swung the bar with one hand, but it wasn’t made for swinging—too long, too heavy. The movement put him off-balance. I grabbed the bar with both hands and twisted it out of his grasp. He roared and made a grab at me but I re-gripped and prodded him in the chest with the end of the bar and he stumbled and fell. I pinned him with the bar across his chest while Wesley, the gym manager and instructor, and two others came in to help. The would-be attacker glared up at us, swearing and spitting, but the fight went out of him.

We got him calmed down and convinced him that the two people he was after had left by the back exit.

‘Just as well for you Cliff here stopped you,’ Wesley said. ‘You were on the way to assault with a deadly weapon grief.’

The man shrugged and brushed down his clothes. ‘Who cares?’

He pushed us aside and made his way to the door.

‘Cliff, my man, you’ve still got some moves,’ Wesley said.

‘He’d have done better with the short bar.’

‘Don’t even think it. I need a murder in here like I need swine flu. Haven’t seen you for a while, man.’

‘I’ve had some bad luck money-wise and other worries. In fact I’m probably going to be late paying my membership.’

Wesley laid his big dark hand on my shoulder. ‘After what you did for me a while back, you’ve got a free pass as far as I’m concerned.’

I got back on the treadmill but my heart wasn’t in it and I did the minimum amount of work on the machines and with the free weights. Although it was kind of Wesley to make the gesture (I’d got his son out of trouble a few years before), the idea of being a charity case didn’t sit well with me. The Standish job, if it could be firmed up, gave me the prospect of recovering some money and earning some more. It was worth the effort, and I’d worked for less than honest people before.

I slept on it and decided that the first thing to do was get a stronger grip on Standish. I phoned the office but got nothing new from May Ling. I imagined her sitting there, able to cope with whatever came up, immaculate, carrying out her instructions to the letter.

In my experience, most separated wives keep pretty close tabs on their husbands for various reasons, some considerate, some not. I had a Vaucluse address for Felicity Standish.

I drove there in the usual sluggish traffic. The water to my left had a dull, gun-metal gleam under a heavy grey sky. Cars turned off New South Head Road towards Royal Sydney golf course, but I doubted that the players would get a full round in. What the Americans call a storm cell seemed to be building away to the east. I’m told they have leaf blowers on the tees and greens at Royal Sydney and people to immediately repair the fairway divots, but a flash of lightning and everyone heads for shelter just as at the roughest council course.

The Standish house was in a street that overlooked Nielsen Park out towards Shark Bay. Living there you were gazing out from one millionaire’s enclave across the water to another at Mosman.

The squattocracy that established the tone of Vaucluse included some honest men but not all, just as the present nabobs have some decent people among them. The address I had was a sandstone pile. There were pillars, a high wrought iron security gate and an electronic driveway gate in a high wall. Through the grille I could see a sweeping driveway and a fountain. It failed elegance, qualified as pretentious.

I buzzed at the gate.

‘Yes.’

‘I’d like to see Mrs Standish.’

‘What about?’

‘My name’s Hardy. I was hired yesterday by Mr Standish to do a job. You could check on that by calling his office. I need to talk to him and I don’t know where he is.’

‘This is Felicity Standish. Are you saying Miles is missing?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

‘What does Rose Petal say?’

‘Rose Petal?’

‘May Ling.’

‘She won’t tell me anything. I’m not sure she knows where he is.’

‘She knows. Have you got any ID?’

I held my cancelled PEA licence and driver’s licence up to where I guessed the camera was.

‘Thanks. Hang on, I’ll make that call.’

I waited for no more than a minute before hearing a click and seeing the gate move a centimetre. I pushed and I was in. There was a two-car garage beside the house with a white Saab slotted in. A couple of colourful and expensive-looking children’s tricycles occupied the other space. There were plastic toys around the fountain. So Standish was a family man. I’d never have guessed. Where was the profit?

I went up the wide steps to the front door, which opened at my approach. The woman who stood there was tall and slim, her figure displayed to best advantage in tight black jeans and a loose blue denim shirt. She wore ankle boots with medium heels and her dark hair and makeup had a perfect but unstudied look. She wasn’t beautiful; she was almost plain, but she presented as if she were beautiful and it worked.

Her hand shot out and I took it. It was warm. The house would be warm inside so the shirt was adequate. She shook my hand and kept hold of it just long enough to make me feel as if I was being drawn inside.

‘Come in, Mr Hardy. I’ve heard of you, of course. I believe we have things to talk about.’

She conducted me down a wide hallway past several doors on either side to a sitting room with a view out to a large garden and a swimming pool. The pool had a cover over it. Tall trees around the perimeter made the area totally private. There was a children’s swing near the end of the yard and what looked like a cubby house in a tree. She waved to a chair.

‘I’ve made coffee. Would you like some?’

‘I would, thank you. Black, no sugar.’

She smiled and her face didn’t look plain anymore. ‘Of course. Just a minute.’

I stood and wandered around the room. The furniture was simple but expensive. A photograph of two children, a boy and girl, stood on top of a bookcase. A couple of paintings on the walls could have been originals and could have been good, but they were abstracts so how can you tell? Flowers in a vase were dropping their petals.

Felicity Standish came back in with two solid mugs. She handed me one. She invited me to sit and dropped down into one of the leather armchairs. I sat and tried the coffee. Hot and strong.

‘You said you’d heard of me. From your husband?’

‘Oh, no. Haven’t seen him for weeks. No, I read the papers. I’m a crime junkie. Did you look at the books?’

I hadn’t, but now I swivelled around to look. Crime novels and true crime—hardbacks and trade paperbacks.

‘I read about you, and your partner being killed, and you losing your licence. You were in the news there for a while.’

I nodded. ‘Unfortunately. I won’t beat about the bush, Mrs Standish. I was hired to look for Richard Malouf.’

Her hands tightened around the coffee mug. ‘He’s dead.’

‘He may not be.’

‘I’d know if he were alive; he was my lover. Oh, but I can see you already knew that. Miles told you. Hated to do it, but he did, right?’

I nodded.

‘Did he tell you that he was screwing his secretary? No? But you’re not surprised. Well, you wouldn’t be—she’s very beautiful and with a heart like a block of ice.’

I drank the coffee while she told me that after she became aware of Standish’s infidelity she was easy meat for Malouf, who caught her in a down cycle and lifted her out of it. For a while.

‘I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,’ she said. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘I’ve got a trustworthy face.’

Her laugh was an embarrassed snort. ‘I wouldn’t say that, but I would say it isn’t judgemental.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But you’re being led up the garden path, Mr Hardy. You see, I think Miles Standish had Richard Malouf murdered.’