Web of Deceit (8 page)

She guessed he didn’t want to talk about her. ‘Don’t grumble. If you found something
you liked, the phone would ring.’

She sat on the arm of the other recliner and sipped. Alex flipped through the channels and stopped on a newsbreak that was talking about the death at Town Hall station last night. The newsreader said the family had been notified. Poor people, Jane thought. What a way to lose someone, and even more so if he was pushed.

‘It doesn’t sound like they know
yet what happened,’ Alex said.

An ad came on for the station’s nightly news. Jane rested her cup on her thigh and watched, face carefully blank, as Laird looked seriously into the camera and spoke about the importance of the truth.

‘Every time I look at that guy, all I see is ears,’ Alex said.

‘I’ve never noticed,’ she said, the blood rushing up her throat.

‘You met him
at that awards thing, didn’t you? What’s he like?’

‘Seems okay.’ She lifted her cup to her mouth. ‘We hardly spoke.’

Just enough to know they clicked and for him to get her number. It was when he’d called her the day after the bravery award ceremony, three months ago, that they’d talked. He’d asked how she was, mentioned that he’d seen the tears in her eyes when she’d received the
medal for dragging the suicidal woman back from the edge of a roof, and next thing two hours had gone by. He’d invited her to his place for lunch the following day, they’d kissed over the salad nicoise, then spent the evening in bed. Jane’s heart pounded so hard at the memory she could feel it in her face.

The job phone rang and she jumped up. ‘Can you grab that? I gotta go.’

In the
bathroom, she locked the door and ran cold water on her hands and wrists.
What are you, a teenager? You think of him and get all hormonal? Cut it out. Calm down. This isn’t love. It’s just a bit of fun.

‘Person fallen down stairs,’ Alex called through the door.

‘I’ll be out in a second.’

She glared at herself in the mirror.
A bit of fun, nothing more. Pull yourself together.

SEVEN

M
arko Meixner had worked in an office on the fifteenth floor of a building in Kent Street in the CBD. The western side of the building would have a nice view of Darling Harbour, but Payton and Jones was on the east so the rain-streaked glass of its reception area looked onto other office windows and soaked roofs.

The PA at the desk studied Ella’s and Murray’s
badges, then picked up the phone. ‘Police detectives,’ he said, listened, then put the phone down. ‘Mr Weaver will be just a moment.’

Ella narrowed her eyes. If she was a civilian and detectives came to her office, she would be jumping right to it. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘I’m not sure,’ the PA answered.

Ella’s phone buzzed. A text from her mother.
Dinner tonight?

Don’t know
yet. I’m still on that case.
As if she could’ve forgotten.

Please?

Ella sighed.
Okay. Unless I get overtime.
Fat chance of that.

Thanks. Lol.

Ella knew her mother meant ‘lots of love’ rather than ‘laugh out loud’, but it always made her smile. She put the phone away and next moment the door near the PA opened.

‘Detectives, welcome!’

A tall heavy-set man crossed
the carpet towards them. His hand was huge, damp and flabby when he shook Ella’s, and she had to tilt her head to look him in the eye.

‘Bill Weaver,’ he boomed. ‘Come through to my office.’

His office was timber-lined and leather-couched where it wasn’t windows. His enormous black chair creaked when he sat down. He folded his hands as he faced them across a desk covered in papers and
with the biggest computer monitor Ella had ever seen occupying one corner.

‘How can I help you?’

‘We need to ask a few questions about one of your employees, Marko Meixner,’ Murray said.

‘Yes, I notice he’s not in today,’ Weaver said. ‘Is he in some kind of trouble?’

‘Firstly, what kind of business is Payton and Jones?’ Ella said.

‘We’re financial advisors and planners.
Basically, we help people decide where, when and how to invest.’

‘So Marko’s role is what, exactly?’

‘He talks to clients, finds out what they want and need, looks into their financial situation, helps them choose an investment strategy, and helps them alter that strategy later if their circumstances change.’

‘How long has he worked for you?’ Ella asked.

‘Three years, give
or take,’ Weaver said.

‘And before that?’

‘With another company, I don’t remember which. Doing accounts-type work though. This job was a promotion.’

‘And you’ve been happy with his performance?’ Murray asked.

‘Absolutely,’ he said, then asked again, ‘Is he in some kind of trouble?’

‘When did you last see or speak to him?’ Ella said.

‘Yesterday afternoon. I realised
at about three that he wasn’t here. He mentioned to me once that he has some issues, and is on medication, and I thought, well, perhaps he’s had to go home. I would’ve preferred that he let me know, but sometimes sensitive people don’t like to draw attention to themselves, do they, they prefer to simply slip away. Nobody else knew anything about it either. I’m surprised he hasn’t turned up
or called in today though.’

Ella said, ‘How has he been lately? Has he mentioned any specific problems? Or have you been worried about his work performance?’

‘I don’t know that I feel entirely comfortable talking about this without his permission.’ Weaver adjusted his hands on the desk. ‘Is he in some kind of trouble?’

‘We’re sorry to have to tell you that he died yesterday,’
Murray said.

Weaver stared at them. ‘What?’

‘We’re sorry,’ Murray said again.

‘He’s dead?’ Weaver said, disbelief in his voice.

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t understand. Was he sick? Did he have an accident of some kind?’

‘We’re not sure at this stage,’ Ella said. ‘We’re trying to piece together what happened.’

Weaver took a folded handkerchief from a desk drawer and
wiped his forehead, then leaned forward to his phone and pressed a button. ‘Peter, can you come in here, please?’

The door opened and the PA stepped in.

‘Tell everyone –’

‘No,’ Murray said. ‘We’ll need to speak to the staff ourselves.’

Weaver flapped the handkerchief at Peter. ‘Bring me some water then.’ He wiped his face again as the door closed.

‘Are you okay?’
Ella asked.

‘I can’t believe this. Are you certain it’s him?’

Murray nodded.

‘And what happened?’

‘He was hit by a train.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘Did he have any particular friends in the office?’

‘Uh, Denise, and I guess Roger,’ Weaver said.

‘Daniel Truscott?’

‘Not that I’m aware.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘I’m having trouble taking this in.’

Ella could see that. Sweat was beading on his forehead and upper lip as fast as he could wipe it away, his cheeks were red and his jowls shiny. His eyes looked unfocused. He loosened his tie and popped the collar button, and pressed the handkerchief to the skin it revealed. She hoped he wasn’t going to have a heart attack.

The door opened and Peter brought in a tray with three glasses and
a jug of water. He put it on the desk, then hovered at Weaver’s shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m okay, I’ll be okay.’ Weaver fanned his face with his hand. ‘I just need a moment.’

It was too easy to picture him passing out and sliding off the chair onto the floor. Ella had done CPR on big guys before but nobody of this size.

‘Would you like to lie down?’ Peter asked.

‘I’m fine, really,’ Weaver said, but he didn’t resist when Peter took his arm and helped him to his feet.

Ella grabbed Weaver’s other arm and felt the heat and dampness of his skin through his shirt and suit jacket. He stumbled between them to one of the couches, then slid down onto the squeaking leather to blink dazedly at the ceiling.

‘I’ll be fine in a moment.’

‘Maybe we should
call an ambulance,’ Peter said.

‘No, I’m all right. It’s just the shock.’ Weaver fanned his face with both hands.

Ella drew Peter away. ‘Marko Meixner died yesterday.’

‘Oh no.’

‘I’m starting to feel better already,’ Weaver called to them. ‘Don’t ring an ambulance, for God’s sake.’

‘Maybe see how he goes while we talk to the other staff,’ Murray said to Peter.

Peter nodded. ‘I’ll stay right here.’

*

Out in the reception area, Murray said, ‘Denise first, then Roger?’

The main area of the office was open plan. Four men and two women sat at desks behind shoulder-high partitions. The woman who was closest turned as they walked in.

Murray held up his badge. ‘Detectives Shakespeare and Marconi. We’d like to speak to Denise, please.’

The woman stood up, colour rushing to her face. The other staff stared.

‘This way,’ Ella said, and led her back into the reception area.

Denise Pham wore her black hair cut short across her cheeks. When she put her head down to cry, the ends swung forward by her temples. She was thirty-five and had known Marko for a year.

‘How had he been lately?’ Ella asked.

‘A little
quieter than normal.’ Denise pulled a tissue from the sleeve of her grey blouse and dabbed her eyes. ‘He’s never been really lively, but the last few weeks he’s been a bit more, well, withdrawn, I guess you might say.’

‘Did you ask him about it?’ Ella said.

‘A couple of times I said, “Are you okay?” and he said he had things on his mind but nothing major. I thought it might be something
at home and he didn’t want to talk about it.’

‘Do you know his wife is expecting?’

‘Oh no, really? That makes it even more tragic.’

‘Did you hear whether he told anyone else what was wrong?’

Denise shook her head. ‘As I said, he’s quiet. He doesn’t share much at the best of times. He keeps his head down and buries himself in his work.’

‘Did Marko tell you yesterday
that he was leaving early? Or did you see him go?’

‘No. I didn’t notice he was gone until Bill came in asking about him. People often go out for meetings, so an empty desk is not unusual.’ She dabbed her eyes again.

‘Thank you,’ Murray said.

Roger Saito sat down and wiped his palms on his knees. He was twenty-eight, he said, and had worked at a desk next to Marko’s for two years.
‘We’d chat a lot, mostly about work, but sometimes about other things. I like to surf, and he’d ask me how my weekend was, had I caught much in the way of waves.’ He smiled and his dark eyes filled with tears. ‘I can’t believe he’s dead.’

‘Who was closest to him in the office, do you think?’ Ella said.

‘Me,’ he said. ‘I mean, because we sat together I talked to him more than anyone
else. He was a bit of a loner. I invited him out to the pub and stuff a few times, but he wasn’t interested. I think he spent most of his time with his wife. They were into travelling. Loved going overseas.’

‘What else do you know about his life?’

‘His wife, Chloe, works in accounts on the North Shore. They wanted to have a big family. He plays tennis one night a week at a court somewhere
around here. I’m not sure where though. He loves his job, is right into it. He worked really hard.’

‘Had you noticed any change in him recently?’ Murray said. ‘Say over the last couple of months?’

‘He was a bit distracted,’ Roger said. ‘I’d see him sometimes staring off into space where before he’d always be typing or on the phone and going through documents. Or I’d say something to
him and he wouldn’t seem to hear me.’

‘Did you mention this to him or anyone else?’

‘I asked him if he was all right, but he just shrugged it off. I didn’t tell anyone else. I thought if he’s having a tough time that’s his business. Besides, he’s usually so completely focused, I felt like he’d earned a bit of time-out.’

‘Did you know that his wife’s pregnant?’

Roger glanced
around. ‘He did tell me but he asked if I’d keep it secret for now. He was over the moon about it. Couldn’t wait to be a dad.’

‘Did he ever talk about a court case he’d been involved in?’

‘No.’

‘You ever hear him mention the name Paul Canning or Simon Fletcher?’

‘No. Who’re they?’

Ella said, ‘How was he yesterday?’

‘Pretty quiet, but especially after this one
phone call.’

‘What phone call?’ Ella said.

‘He took a call and he sounded funny,’ Roger said. ‘I was doing some paperwork and the place was quiet, and I could tell that he’d lowered his voice. He sounded really serious.’

‘What was he saying?’ Murray asked.

‘All I heard him saying was no. He’d be silent for a moment, as if listening to the other person speak, then he’d say
no. Maybe four or five times. I assumed it was an angry client who hung up on him in the end, because next thing he put the phone down without saying goodbye or anything else. I glanced around and he was facing his monitor but not doing anything. Then I had a couple of phone calls to deal with myself, and I forgot all about it.’

‘Did you get the impression that he was angry or upset?’ Ella
asked.

‘It’s hard to tell from one word,’ Roger said. ‘He clearly wasn’t happy, but he didn’t sound like he was on the verge of shouting at whoever it was.’

‘Have you heard him get calls like that before?’

‘No, but not all clients are happy all the time,’ he said. ‘I assumed it was simply that.’

‘So what time did that call come in?’

‘Around two, I’d say. Maybe two
thirty.’

‘And did he mention to you that he was leaving later, or did you happen to see him go?’ Murray asked.

Roger shook his head. ‘I don’t even remember the last time I saw him. I guess at some point I noticed he wasn’t here, but just assumed he had an appointment or something.’

‘What’s the phone system like?’ Ella asked. ‘Does each phone hold a list of numbers who’ve called
it?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Roger said. ‘Some central phone hub might have them though.’

‘Can you show us Marko’s desk?’ Murray said.

It was spotless and neat. Ella sat in the chair and surveyed the space. He had no Post-Its stuck along his monitor like Roger did at the next desk, no pens lying around. The keyboard sat square on to the monitor, the whole area dust-free, even between
the keys. A diary lay to the left of the keyboard and she opened it at the ribbon. Someone had written
Call Nicky McLeod
in the space for 9 am that day.

‘Is that his handwriting?’ Murray asked.

‘Yes,’ Roger said. ‘That’s one of his clients. She’s got some investments she’s looking to roll over. She called this morning at 9.30 and I said it looked like Marko was off sick. She’s calling
back tomorrow.’

A tennis racquet and briefcase were tucked under the desk. Ella drew out the case and opened it. A softening banana lay in the bottom next to an empty manila folder, and three pens stuck out of the pockets inside the lid. She ran her fingers around the edges but there was no sign of anything hidden.

She opened the desk drawers. All three contained thick binders of information
from various companies. She lifted them out and gave them to Murray to flick through.

‘He doesn’t seem to write much down,’ she said.

Roger tapped the top of the monitor. ‘All on here. You need to see?’

She nodded. If he willingly gave them access, they didn’t need a warrant.

He booted up the computer and in a moment she was looking at a plain black desktop background with
three columns of icons, mostly folders labelled with people’s names.

‘You recognise these names?’ she said to Roger.

He nodded. ‘They’re all clients.’

‘How do you know?’ Murray said.

‘Because I know. This is a small firm. We answer each other’s phones. We help each other out. Marko and I’ve worked side by side for two years. He’d recognise all my clients’ names, and I recognise
his.’

Murray closed one binder and opened the next.

Ella looked back at the screen. She clicked on recent documents and went through them one at a time. All were about work: contracts, enquiries, tax issues. She opened his web browser and looked at the history, but again it was all finance-related.