Good Money (32 page)

The chauffeur slouched against the car and tipped back his cap. Broad, Brodtmann's right-hand man. Crystal wiggled some fingers at him, the sign for him to stay. I opened the door as she rang the bell. She raised her large, dark sunglasses and nestled them in her hairdo. Smudged eye-makeup deepened the melancholy. ‘We are a mess …' She dabbed her nose on a tissue. ‘Clay, he can't eat, can't sleep, no interest to check stock price.'

‘Would you like to come in?'

She looked with distaste at the room behind me. ‘I'm here to ask you, Miss Hardly, personally, to leave all this alone.'

‘It's Hardy.'

‘Leave us to remember Nina in peace, and go back to Melbourne.'

‘I'm just here visiting a friend.'

‘No. Please. You listen to me. You don't need to be busy body. Clay has the police looking for those fucking animals,' she said. ‘The New Zealand one, that fucking bastard.'

‘I hope they catch him.'

‘Oh, don't worry, he will pay,' she said, and showed her teeth, even and white. ‘You go home, yes? Tonight?'

‘Sorry,' I said, and started to close the door.

Crystal put a point-toed boot in the crack. She lowered her extended lashes and her voice. ‘What were you thinking to take Jemima out of the hospital? The poor girl is dying.'

I was stunned. Who were these people? ‘That's none of your business.'

‘Last warning for you.' She gave me a threatening stare and sashayed to the car.

I rushed down the path after her. ‘Hey!'

Crystal was at the car and the driver had the door open. I caught up and gripped Crystal's arm; it was like leather-covered rock. The driver landed a blow in my solar plexus that sent the air from my lungs in one huge puff. I dropped to my knees. He grabbed a handful of hair and yanked my head back. He growled in my ear. ‘Go back to Melbourne, bitch.'

‘It's … a … free … country.'

He pushed his cap back on his head and spat. ‘You're one ugly dog, you know that?'

He let go of my hair before his steel-capped toe slammed into my kidneys. I fell sideways to the ground. From there I had a worm's eye view of the car as it edged away from the curb. I stayed there, trying to breathe through the searing pain in my back. It was several minutes before my breathing returned to normal, and I sat up just as Vince pulled into the driveway.

‘They've moved.'

‘Who?'

‘The Lloyds. I asked the neighbours, there's no forwarding address.'

‘Bugger.'

‘What are you doing down there?'

‘Resting.' I was on my feet now, walking to the house.

‘What happened? What did I miss? Come on. Tell me and I'll make you some tea.'

‘No tea, ever again,' I said, and gave him a genial pat on the shoulder. I moved on wobbly legs inside, with my shaking hands in my pockets. The buzzing in my head was possibly from shock.

He was not surprised to hear that Crystal had had me followed and had warned me off. He was surprised that her chauffeur had punched and kicked me in broad daylight on his street. I reassured him that I was fine, other than bruised and humiliated.

‘That's who we are dealing with,' he said.

I took him to mean that I could call the cops if I wanted but not much would come of it. So I changed the subject. ‘So, no luck with the Lloyds?'

‘Oh, we had
some
luck.' He started going through his papers on the kitchen table. ‘Not a total waste of time. The neighbour knows where the Lloyds were headed.'

‘Where?'

Vince dug through his files for a while. ‘Maybe it's in me briefcase.'

I checked my phone and found a missed call from Phuong. I also had one from Shane Farquar. Nothing from Brophy. I called Phuong first. ‘Can you die from being winded?'

‘Depends. No. I don't think so. What's happening over there?'

‘My own stupidity.'

‘Be careful.'

‘Careful. Right. Will do. Got some news for you. Finchley Price — Maurangi works for him.'

‘How do you know? Jesus, don't answer that.' Phuong paused. ‘I've got news for you. A fire at Pickering's mother's house: place gutted, two bodies inside, a fifty-eight-year-old woman and a twenty-nine-year-old male. Suspicious, the deaths and the fire.'

‘Mr Funsail?'

‘We believe the crime is related to the case, yes.'

‘But the case all revolves around Mr Funsail, doesn't it?'

I could hear her sigh. ‘That Funsail thing, it's a doodle in a book, we don't know what it refers to — it's probably nothing.'

It was strange to hear Phuong say ‘we'.

‘Say hi to Bruce,' I said, genuinely happy for her.

‘Found it.' Vince came back, flapping a folded map at me. He spread it across the table. The map covered 22,000 square kilometres, roughly half the size of Switzerland. It could have been a foreign country — large swathes of green, few roads, and lots of empty space.

I rubbed my aching back. ‘So, where are the Lloyds?'

Vince pointed to a convergence of three roads. ‘Laverton.'

34

AFTER A
sleepless night on the floor in Vince's spare room, he offered to take me out for breakfast. My flight to Laverton was not due to leave until the afternoon. Both of us sat in grim silence in his Toyota. I was wearing a jacket I had brought with me that was too small and pulled across the shoulders. We crossed a bridge, heading south. Fremantle. I was getting the tour. The place had a past — lots of nineteenth-century statues, historical markers — and was now in various stages of reconstruction and renewal. Some tenants left over from the time before the gentrification were the tattoo parlours, the needle exchange, and the VD clinic; not that they advertised, but I was versed in the signs.

There was an outdoor café on a corner in the middle of town. Vince dropped me off, saying something about finding a park. Despite a fine drizzle, people were sitting at tables under large umbrellas. An adjacent doorway was open, with stairs leading up to a methadone clinic.

I made no conscious decision — I just went up the stairs.

It was a cruddy waiting room: one grubby window with bars, a couple of low counters built into a wall, each with a slot in the perspex big enough to talk through. Posters on the wall advised clients to ask for a smaller dose if it had been a while. I sat next to a fidgeting youth in a lumber jacket. His face covered in scratches, some dried blood. Next to him there was a girl in parachute pants, with a puppy in a shopping bag — no wait, it was a soft toy.

I took off my stupid jacket and noticed, seated near a pot plant, a large man in chinos and a clean check shirt. With his clean-shaven face and good haircut he looked like an industrialist headed to a Sunday barbeque. He radiated a ‘fuck off' vibe.

A door opened and a woman in a zip-up nurse's uniform came out. ‘Simon?'

The man in the chinos sprang up and bolted past her to the back room.

She looked at me, frowned. ‘You registered here?'

‘No.'

She handed me a clipboard and a pen. ‘Fill this out. Got your Medicare card?'

‘Yes.'

She went away and I sat there, looking around. Thinking of Brophy. Coming in here was a mistake, I wasn't going to learn anything about him by judging this place. Who knows why we love who we love? I put the clipboard down and made a coy little manoeuvre towards the door. I was thinking about Crystal forcing Tania to make a false report. Was she planning to expose the fraud? What would Crystal do if she got wind of the plan? The girls at the salon said Crystal had come in, abused her. There was stomping behind me and Simon, the chino man, came thundering down the stairs. ‘Morning,' he said. ‘Lovely day for it.'

‘Shit-awful, actually.' I was trying to put the damn jacket back on, pulling at the sleeves.

He laughed, like that was funny. ‘Sounds like you need a cup of coffee.' He had a British accent, somewhere between Prince Charles and Stephen Fry.

‘Urgently,' I agreed.

Outside, he waved at a boy in a long apron standing in front of the café then pointed to a sidewalk table. I sent a quick text to Vince, and joined Simon. Hands flat on the laminex, knees wide, eyes closed, he breathed deeply, like a man lately released from prison. ‘How long?'

‘Hmm?' I was miles away. In Victoria, Melbourne, Footscray, in an art gallery, with an artist — and I was speaking to him of exoneration. Acceptance. Love. ‘How long what?'

‘Your habit?'

I had a habit. Of sorts. ‘Too long.'

‘Oh don't.'

‘Don't what?'

‘Feel sorry for yourself. You're alive, aren't you? It's a great time to be alive.' He spread his arms wide, beaming at the world.

‘Aren't you worried about being seen? At the clinic, I mean.'

‘Not at all,' he chuckled. ‘Do it in plain sight and they'd still not believe it. Not the type.'

‘Right.'

‘Like you. Not too many users of the service have manicured nails. You are … let me guess … a manager? National manager of something?'

I hooted. ‘Not even close. I'm in social … policy.' A lie. I felt the need to be a rung or three up from the actual.

‘A wonk? Good God. You bureaucrat beggars are running the country into the ground. Babies out of school, spending our dough on art classes for gay cats or some nonsense.'

‘Hey!'

He laughed. ‘Country's going to the dogs.'

‘Some social policy makes sweet honey in a cup.'

He roared at that. ‘Quite.'

‘What do you do?'

‘Oh me,' he sighed. ‘Much worse, I'm afraid. Evil bastard.'

The waiter brought coffee in glasses. I stirred in some sugar. ‘Oil baron?'

‘Worse. Enabler of oil barons.'

‘Enabling how?'

‘Mergers, joint ventures. Brokering finance agreements. Sow the silver, no skin of mine on the table, reap the gold when it goes wrong. And it does, spectacularly.'

This development was almost too serendipitous. As though I'd tripped with my hands outstretched and caught a rare bird. I guessed luck was like that. Having spent days pouring over dense legal bumf, wishing and hoping for a translator, I find one at the methadone clinic. I was careful not to frighten him off. I looked at my froth, lifted some on a spoon. ‘What might go wrong? Say, in a joint venture?'

‘Very often it's insolvency. No one thinks it's going to happen. Everyone borrows, mortgaged up to the eyeballs, then the market turns bad, the project is incomplete. One partner has other assets and can dig itself out, but the other can't and calls the liquidator. The first partner is stuck with the project until the liquidator agrees to a deal. That might take years.'

‘And the banks, they're exposed too?'

‘The banks are eager whores. They offer their backsides to one hundred per cent of the project cost. But they spread out the risk among the investors. And they hold the deeds and the assets, take everything. Can't say I'm bothered. Capital of another kind, that's more of a concern.'

‘Not banks?'

‘Very wealthy individuals. Funny money.'

‘Like?'

‘Good heavens, what is this? Social policy research?'

‘Just interested,' I said, trying to sound detached.

His glass was empty, and he pushed back his chair.

‘Thanks for the coffee, Simon,' I said.

‘Good luck with those gay cats.' He strode out into the street and flagged down a passing cab.

The liquidators on the Mount Percy Sutton venture sold everything to CC Prospecting. All the money from the sale went to the bank. Meanwhile the Lloyds lost everything. I would be seeing the Lloyds soon. But what of the other investors? Other companies had money in Bailey Range. Who were the other investors who'd taken a financial hit? I needed to know where every cent of investor money came from.

Multiple car horns blared, interrupting my thought processes. The tooting persisted. A brand new, red Maserati was blocking traffic; cars were trying to get around him. The driver leaned on his horn, treating everyone to the sound of Italian irritation.

Vince sat down and picked up a menu. ‘Eggs,' he said to the waiter. ‘Bacon, sausages, everything. And coffee. Strong.' He passed over the menu and eyeballed me. ‘So who was that bloke you were yakking with?'

‘No one,' I said. ‘Tell me, Vince, how would your average ignorant thug launder money?'

‘Thug, like who?'

‘Like Gaetano Cesarelli or Wayne Gage. How does money laundering usually work?'

Vince shrugged. ‘Lots of ways. Send small amounts through gaming, share trades, and trust funds. I heard about a gang that sent money out in international investments — came back clean in Aussie dollars.'