The Labyrinth of Drowning (17 page)

She named a figure that ensured no one who could be described as a battler would be bidding at the auction.

‘Any chance of a private viewing?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ she said. ‘The owners are going to be there over the next few days to take some things out of the house. We’ve been asked not to let anyone in till Saturday.’

‘What sort of condition is it in?’ he asked, curious to hear how she might describe it.

‘It’s a deceased estate and hasn’t been lived in for several years now. It needs a good clean and an airing out. Structurally it’s very sound, though it will need painting. We’re sending some cleaners in this Friday, just to spruce it up a little.’

‘Is there any reason the owners are selling right now?’

Trusts of any sort were useful tools for money laundering, another reason why Shillingworth might acquire a property then leave it to rot. Perhaps the agent had this in her mind when she answered him.

‘I think they judged the market as right for the sale. Property prices are easing a little and there are more buyers around than there used to be. It’s all above board. We’ve spoken with the trust’s legal representative, a Mr Griffin.’

‘Joel Griffin?’

‘Yes. Do you know him?’

‘I’ve heard of him. Thanks.’

He left to make the long drive back to Sydney. He would be late. When he was a little closer to the city, he would phone Grace and let her know when he would be home. He welcomed the drive, it gave him time to think. What was Joel Griffin doing involved in this? Why would he be a party to the sale of assets from a secretive trust? Just his name brought another dimension of threat to Harrigan’s investigations.

In the mess of information he had, one name stood out: Shillingworth. Shillingworth Trust led to the Ponticellis, to Eddie Grippo at Four Square Real Estate. There, the connection became shadowy. The best he could say was that there was one. A question for Eddie: do you know Joel Griffin? If Griffin did have a connection to the Ponticellis, this was the first Harrigan had heard of it. Was his intelligence so bad? Or was the connection an occasional one, not much mentioned? And why sell Blackheath now? Forget market conditions. Whatever the reason, the trustees, Patterson and Tate, whoever they really were, had decided it was time to move on. Would other assets, such as Fairview Mansions, come up for sale? Another question for Eddie.

Then there was the line back to Frank Wells, to his adoptive mother’s niece, Jennifer Shillingworth, the woman with access to Salvation Army adoption records, the one person who could have known who Frank’s real parents were. A woman who, thirty-five or more years ago, hadn’t been above trying on the odd scam
herself. In a time before changes to the adoption laws, she might well have known people who were desperate enough to buy that kind of information. If this speculation were true, then, as Frank Wells himself had said, she was the most likely source of the documents an otherwise unknown Ian Blackmore had sent to him four years ago.

Ignoring the road rules, Harrigan picked up his mobile and sent an SMS to his retainer. He had already asked her to track down the Shillingworth woman but still he texted:
Find me Jennifer Shillingworth as a first priority and forward me any information you already have ASAP.

She’s dead
. The instinctive words came into Harrigan’s mind even as he sent the message. It remained to be seen if his expectation was on the money. Maybe someone had eventually bought that information from her. There were only three people who could have known it was for sale in the first place, let alone want to buy it: Frank, Janice and a young Craig, watching his parents fight. Frank hadn’t wanted to know and Janice was dead. Maybe after she’d left Frank, she had gone on about it to her son, the way she had to her husband. Maybe when she was drunk, banging it into his head.
If only your father had found out who his parents were, maybe we’d have some money now. We wouldn’t be so broke
. It fitted with the woman he’d read and heard about.

But supposedly Craig was dead too. Harrigan smiled to himself. Death was a perfect alibi. It gave you the space to do whatever you wanted. You could coerce property out of an old and vulnerable Amelie Santos and, in some strange twist of humour, put it into a trust named after the woman who might well have led you to her in the first place. But why wait until four years ago to chase it up? What had been the catalyst? Because Amelie Santos was old and could be expected to die soon? You turn up out of nowhere and introduce yourself to her as her grandson and heir even though she’s never seen you before. Would she even let you in? See you as other than a threat? And what could she be to you, other than a victim to exploit? Someone to cajole, charm, threaten and, with the help of your partner, finally terrorise?

But you couldn’t announce yourself to her as Craig Wells. If
you’d killed off your old identity by murdering someone else in your place, there’d be no room for you to resurrect yourself. Once Craig Wells was dead, he had to stay dead and you couldn’t bring him back to life. But you wouldn’t have to. Amelie Santos couldn’t have known her son’s name. You could give yourself any name you liked, say your father was dead to keep him out of the picture, and then try to get whatever you could out of your victim. In the way of family resemblances, maybe you even looked something like your grandfather.

Thinking this over, it occurred to Harrigan that perhaps all those years ago Jennifer Shillingworth might possibly have also approached Amelie Santos. If she had, then presumably the doctor, like her son, Frank, had sent her on her way, saying she didn’t want to know. And then later, when the laws were changed and adoption records became accessible, it was only to the family members. In that case, the only recourse for someone who had expunged his existence as Craig Wells was the original one: bribery. You go back to the woman who wanted to sell the information in the first place and ask her if she still wants to make a deal. Hadn’t Frank told him that Jennifer Shillingworth had already made copies of the documents? Maybe they’d been just locked away in a drawer somewhere, waiting.

Then there was the woman at the centre of this, Amelie Santos, the seemingly innocent vortex for all these connections. The strangeness of sifting through the paper remains of her patients’ old lives had left Harrigan with a sense of bleakness. Amelie Santos could have kept her child. Despite the circumstances of her marriage, she had still been a married woman in a time when that had mattered. Her father had had the means to support them both. Even in those days, with his help she would have been able to become a doctor as well as raising her son. Instead, that part of her life had been obliterated, except for the pieces of paper she had kept for herself from the child patients she could not save, a lifetime’s worth of grief and loss. For Amelie Santos, did pieces of paper detailing a patient’s name and history replace what had been lost in the flesh? Were they like fetish objects filling a vacuum, things that were fixed in time and could not grow older? Perhaps she’d had no
choice in relinquishing her son. Had her father or mother told her it had to happen, regardless? Or had the father of her child hurt her so much, she had rejected their son herself? If he had, why keep his name? No way to know now.

In all these shadows, Amelie Santos wasn’t the only obsessive figure. Someone had wanted what she had so much they had tracked her to her nursing home, deceived a woman they’d had no other interest in to assist them, and then presumably threatened and frightened an aging woman to get hold of it. Had they known at the time they were also acquiring the identities of the dead? Or had there been another reason for their actions and those records were only a bonus? Were they the same people who had tried to kill Amelie Santos in the first place?

With a chill, Harrigan realised that it was only their failure to murder Amelie Santos that had allowed them to acquire the Blackheath house. Whoever had attacked her that morning must simply have wanted to kill her. If they’d succeeded, the Blackheath house would have gone to Medicine International along with the rest of her estate. Presumably the organisation would have sold it on, the way they had her other two properties. But why kill someone as harmless as a woman in her late eighties if there was no prospect of material gain? In her own way, wasn’t she as much a victim in this as other people? Harrigan answered his own questions: because she wouldn’t give you what you wanted. You’d have to believe you had a right to it; so much so that you hated her enough to want to kill her when she wouldn’t give it to you.

It was still all speculation; nothing but shadows and guesswork. Time for home and sanctuary, Harrigan thought, negotiating the gridlock of Sydney’s commuter traffic.

Grace had cooked dinner; the smell of the food greeted him when he opened the door. He kissed her and picked up Ellie. It was like walking into comfort. Then Grace slipped away from him back to the stove.

‘Hungry?’ she asked.

‘Yeah.’

He couldn’t judge her mood. She did things too carefully, put
plates on the table as if they might break as she set them down. Was too quiet, too patient, with Ellie, her eyes excluding anything else as she helped her to eat, as if there was only the spoon and her daughter’s mouth. Ellie’s small fingers shredded still further the pieces of fish Grace gave her to eat. Grace wiped her fingers clean with a smile but still seemed distant. When she talked to him, she was trying hard to pay attention. The food was good, very good; but her mind was not there.

‘What’s up, babe?’ he asked when Ellie was in bed and they were alone.

‘Just work,’ she said, the way she always did.

She turned away, got up from the table and was gone again into wherever she was in her head. He watched her clear the dishes away and tidy the kitchen. She smiled at him and went into the lounge. Soon after, music filled the room. She appeared in the doorway.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘Do you want to dance? Come on. Let’s dance.’

‘Now?’

‘Yeah. Why not?’

‘Okay,’ he said.

In the living room, he slipped his arms around her and they danced to the slow music. She seemed to need it, to relax against him. She was slender and her body was warm in his arms.

‘What’s the music?’ he asked.

‘Art Tatum with Benny Carter.’

She often played these musicians.

‘It’s good,’ he said.

‘It’s wonderful.’

He held her a little closer.

‘What do people say about us?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ he replied. ‘People will say anything. It’s meaningless.’

She smiled and seemed to come back to him. There was just the moment, the clean and beautiful music. In his mind, he had a fence around this space, one no one else could break through. Outside of it, everything dissolved as being neither here nor there,
almost not in existence. This was the centre of things, here. Nothing else mattered.

When they went to bed that night, they made love. Later, she slept under the weight of his arm. They had always slept close together. With his other lovers, they had each tended to drift to opposite sides of the bed. Tonight, when they were both in a waiting space where the future was impossible to judge, their presence felt like a refuge for each other and they slept more deeply and peaceably than they could have expected.

T
he next morning in the meeting room, there was a third seat at the table, so far empty.

‘Borghini’s late,’ Clive said.

‘The traffic’s bad,’ Grace replied.

‘He’d better be here when Griffin calls.’

Her mobile lay on the table. She stared at it.
I’m drowning in other people’s blood and I don’t know where any of this is taking me. Everywhere is a dead end
.

‘I want some information,’ she said.

Clive didn’t speak but motioned for her to go on.

‘There have been three deaths besides Jirawan’s. Everyone we want to talk to gets removed. We might as well be at war—’

‘We are at war.’

‘I want to know what this operation is really about.’

He leaned too close towards her, the way he always did. ‘Are you thinking of bailing out?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘This is the crucial phase. I need to know if I can rely on you.’

‘Then answer my question,’ she said.

‘It’s very well timed because we’re getting to the point where you need to know. Does the Ghost network mean anything to you?’

‘No.’

‘It’s a name we’ve given to a significant financial brokerage for various criminal and terrorist organisations in the Asia–Pacific region. We don’t know if this entity is run by one person or several or the identities of those people involved. They launder and shift very large amounts of funds on a regular basis. Recent investigations have identified Sydney as both a source of funds and a staging post for the network. What information we have suggests the main broker is an Australian. Three months back, we received information from the Thai police that they had established a connection between an import–export business in Bangkok run by a Peter Sanders and that network. At the time Sanders was trying to get out of the business and he approached the police with an offer of information in exchange for protection for him and his family. Shortly after this, he was found murdered and his wife, Jirawan, was missing. Our investigation indicates that his offer was leaked to his murderers. Obviously they had their informants in the police.’

‘Why send Jirawan here?’ Grace asked. ‘Why not just kill her?’

‘I think Jon Kidd gave us the answer to that yesterday. Sanders almost certainly owed the network money. They don’t like leaving a debt unpaid. Not one that’s owed to them.’

‘Was she an innocent bystander?’

‘She could well have been. There’s no indication she was involved in the business. The Sanders import–export business was also associated with Angela and Robert McLeod, entrepreneurs who have done a lot of business in Asia and China over the years. They have many very significant contacts in that part of the world. Sara McLeod is their daughter, which made it very interesting when her name came up yesterday.’

‘Are they suspects? Is this network some kind of cartel they’re running?’

‘Our finance people began checking them out once we were advised of their connection to Sanders. It’s early days yet and their business interests are extensive, but our initial analysis is that the main McLeod business is legitimate. As we get more information, we may change our minds. But it may well be the source of the contacts the Ghost network has used in the past to establish itself.’

‘The Ghost network is a parasite on their business?’

‘Yes. Which makes Sara McLeod’s connection even more interesting. She’s the link.’

‘What role is Griffin playing in this? He keeps talking about his client,’ Grace said. ‘Does this client actually exist?’

‘That’s something you have to find out. At the moment, he’s shaping up as the central figure in this. We’ve already searched his unit in Bondi Junction. It’s nothing more than a shell. He goes there to sleep and change his clothes probably. He’s a very hard man to pin down. He seems to have almost no past and very limited means of support, despite the fact that he obviously has money. You just have to look at his car. All of which makes him a good candidate for our target. What we want now, what’s central to the success of this operation, is access to the network’s business records. Obviously, they’re computer-based. We need to know where they are. Those records are at the centre of this and they’re probably the last things we’ll find. But somehow we have to get our hands on them. So far, Griffin is our best chance to do that.’

‘What about Narelle Wong? Is her family connected?’

‘There’s no indication of that. But she’s a dual citizen. Her ID could be very useful to some other member of the network who wanted to move freely around the Asia–Pacific region, including coming here. She’s the perfect victim for that scenario. From what Kidd had to say, it’s not the first time the network have supplied their clients with new identities.’

‘Who’s her boyfriend? Griffin?’

‘Possibly. That’s something else you have to find out.’

‘You haven’t told Borghini any of this,’ Grace said.

‘I will brief him later today, as much as he needs to know. If we can dismantle this network, it will be a significant blow to a number of very dangerous organisations that depend on it for funds.’ He leaned forward again. ‘I am telling you this on the understanding that you will tell no one whatsoever outside of the operation about it. That means no one.’

‘I understand that.’

Briefly they were silent. Then there was a knock on the door and Borghini walked in.

‘Morning. Sorry I’m late. I’ve been working. Check this.’

He tossed on the table a photofit of a big man, roughly dressed, with a hard face and dark hair, followed by a mug shot.

‘One Mick Brasi. Standover man for the Ponticellis. You know who they are?’

‘Yes, we do,’ Clive replied, irritated.

‘We got his description from the barmaid at the Royal Hotel. He was seen in the bar just before ten.’

‘I saw him arrive,’ Grace said. ‘He walked in as I walked out. I didn’t know him.’

‘Just as well. You might have got yourself shot,’ Borghini replied unsentimentally.

‘Have you picked him up?’ Clive asked.

‘We’re looking for him.’

‘Don’t pick him up,’ Clive ordered.

Borghini sat back in his chair. ‘The man’s fucking dangerous.’

‘Put him under surveillance instead. He may lead us to something.’

‘You can get me the manpower first,’ Borghini replied. ‘The question is, if he did shoot Jacqueline Ryan, what are the Ponticellis doing involved in this?’

‘That’s what they do. They’re for hire,’ Grace said. ‘Brasi could have shot Arleen McKenzie and Kidd as well. It’s their MO.’

‘We need to ask if there’s more to it than that,’ Borghini said to her. ‘I think we should discuss it now. If you’re out there on the front line, I reckon you need to be bulletproof. Especially with Kidd saying things like you’re a puppet to these people. I really didn’t like that.’

‘Our targets probably see everyone that way.’

That was as much as she wanted to say. At the time, she’d brushed Kidd’s comment aside. Think too hard about that kind of statement and she wouldn’t be able to do her job.

‘Grace is well protected,’ Clive said quickly, then changed the subject. ‘I have other information we need to discuss first. As of midday yesterday, Sara McLeod and Joel Griffin have been under twenty-four-hour surveillance. The black Porsche is registered in her name to her parents’ address. She’s the daughter of Angela and Robert McLeod of Palm Beach, which is where Narelle Wong used
to go for parties. They’re A-list. Their parties include any number of celebrities and media stars.’

‘Can we tie Sara McLeod’s business to Life’s Pleasures?’ Grace asked.

‘Not without the testimony of the sex workers,’ Borghini said, a little red-faced at being rebuffed. ‘If they or members of their families are being offered some kind of new life in this country, they won’t cooperate with us.’

Just then Grace’s phone rang.

‘Grace Riordan.’

‘Joel here. How are you?’

‘Just wonderful,’ she said lightly. ‘What have you got to tell me?’

‘Maybe you’d like to relax a little. How about going on a picnic?’

‘Where?’

‘Lane Cove National Park. At one this afternoon. I’ll be waiting at the Chatswood entrance.’

‘Why are we meeting?’ she said. ‘Are we going to come to an agreement?’

‘You wanted to be part of the deal. I’m going to make you an offer. We’ll talk about it then.’

The conversation had been broadcast to the room. Borghini was watching her.

‘You take fucking care,’ he said. ‘They mean business.’

Clive glanced at him angrily. ‘Dress yourself up,’ he said to Grace. ‘Make it look like you’re trying to attract him. You should be able to do that.’

‘Do I need to?’

‘He put the possibility forward. Give it some air. You have to be very convincing.’

‘I will be.’

Lane Cove National Park was a narrow strip of land on the river of the same name, slender remains of the original forest and shrub lands now surrounded by Sydney’s leafy northern suburbs. It was a heavily visited park, and most walking tracks eventually took visitors down to the water. Grace followed the blue Audi along the
park’s Riverside Drive. She knew before it stopped where they were going. A black Porsche was already parked where Griffin pulled up. A tall, red-haired woman in jeans and a red shirt was waiting near a picnic table. High-heeled sandals made her appear taller than she was. Grace recognised Sara McLeod out of her tracksuit and with her hair loose.

Grace glanced around before getting out of her car. There were walkers nearby, but at a discreet distance, and a cyclist slowly making his way along the road. Against her ribcage, she felt her firearm. She hadn’t come here to step into the abyss.

‘Who’s this?’ she asked Griffin.

‘This is Sara. My associate. Sara, this is Grace.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard about you,’ the woman said. Her look was distant, mocking, even arrogant.

‘Let’s sit down,’ Griffin said. ‘Grace has something for sale, but more than that, she wants in.’

‘Into what?’ Sara said.

They sat at the picnic table where there was a basket waiting. Sara took out a thermos and poured her and Griffin coffee. Grace glanced quickly between them. What was their agenda? Why were they sitting down with her like this? Kidd had vouched for her but was that enough?

‘Don’t be rude, Sara,’ Griffin said with a grin. ‘Offer some to Grace.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Grace said. ‘You were there when Kidd got shot. I saw you.’

Sara laughed as she concentrated on pouring. ‘You do have eyes after all.’

Laugh again. Then I’ll know it was you laughing on the phone the other night
.

‘What were you doing there?’ Grace asked.

Sara looked up slowly, raising her chin. She stared at Grace with hazel eyes. They were entirely cold, like discs of light shut off from any emotion.

‘What’s it got to do with you? What were you doing there?’

‘I told you,’ Griffin said. ‘Grace has something to sell. She was trying to sell it to Jon. Weren’t you?’

‘He didn’t want to buy. He didn’t even want to talk,’ Grace said.

‘He just ran.’

‘No spine,’ Sara said.

‘But we do want to talk,’ Griffin said. ‘And you want in.’ ‘What does she think “in” is?’

‘Money laundering,’ Grace said, to be met with silence from both Griffin and Sara. ‘That’s what this is all about. That’s my guess.’

‘Is it?’ Sara muttered.

‘Those sex workers at Life’s Pleasures, the ones who don’t get paid. Jirawan. If I got a forensic accountant on to that brothel, then that’s what they’d find. Money laundering.’

‘Then why don’t you?’ Sara threw at her.

‘That depends on what I get offered, doesn’t it?’

Sara looked at Grace with cold-eyed contempt, as if it was an affront to share a picnic table with her.

‘You’re asking a lot, Grace,’ Griffin said. ‘You’re asking my client to trust you.’

‘Who is your client? You?’

Sara snorted with contempt.

‘Don’t be gauche,’ Griffin said. ‘You don’t go around asking other people who their clients are. I’m here to make sure he doesn’t have to be bothered with this. If you want him to pay you, you have to respect his privacy.’

‘If you’re protecting his privacy, what’s Sara doing here?’

‘I’ve already told you,’ he said with a friendly smile. ‘She’s my associate.’

‘In that case, how do I know who I’m dealing with?’ Grace said. ‘If you’re not the main man, then maybe I’m wasting my time.’

‘My client will meet you and deal directly with you when you’ve proved yourself to him but not before.’

‘Why do I need to do that?’

‘Because he has no other way of knowing what your bona fides are,’ Griffin said. ‘It all gets back to what you want. My client can buy your passport and your tape. That’s straightforward enough. But you say you want more than that. That complicates things. You have to do something for him if you want to take that next step.’

‘That’s right,’ Sara said. ‘He wants this girl. Miss Brainless.’

She tossed a photograph of Narelle Wong onto the table, one of the many publicity shots paid for by Mr Wong. Grace picked it up and looked up to see both Griffin and Sara staring at her. No distance in their faces this time. In its place, anticipation and greed.

‘If you want this girl, it’s going to cost you,’ she said.

‘You’ll get paid,’ Sara said. ‘The client wants her, the passport and your tape together.’

‘If I do this, where does that leave me?’

‘In,’ Sara said, raising her eyebrows. ‘The way you wanted.’

‘It’s not enough.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re putting me in the position where I take all the risk. I’m the front. I’ve got nowhere to hide. We’ve talked a little about what the business is. Before I put myself on the line the way you want me to, I want some guarantees myself. I want to know more.’

Griffin was leaning forward.

‘If you agree to this, then I’ll do that. I’ll talk to you about it myself.’

Sara glanced quickly at him, seemingly a little taken aback.

‘When?’ Grace said.

‘After you make the arrangements and before you pick her up. Here. Tomorrow. We’ll have lunch. I’ll be waiting for you.’ He glanced at Sara. ‘Just me and Grace.’