Follow the Money E-Book

Peter Corris

• Herausgeber: Allen & Unwin
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Cliff Hardy Series
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 252

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

The thirty-sixth book in the Cliff Hardy series 'When beautiful young women kiss you on the cheek you know you're over the hill, but I didn't really feel like that. As Wesley said, I still had the moves.' Cliff Hardy may still have the moves but he's in trouble. The economy's tanking and he's been conned by an unscrupulous financial advisor and lost everything he's got. Cliff only knows one way, and that's forward, so he's following the money trail. It's a twisted road that leads him down deep into Sydney's underbelly, into the territory of big money, bent deals, big yachts and bad people. Cliff's in greater danger than ever before, but he's as tenacious as a dog with a bone.

Leseprobe

PETER CORRIS is known as the ‘godfather’ of Australian crime fiction through his Cliff Hardy detective stories. He has written in many other areas, including a co-authored autobiography of the late Professor Fred Hollows, a history of boxing in Australia, spy novels, historical novels and a collection of short stories about golf (see petercorris.net). In 2009, Peter Corris was awarded the Ned Kelly Award for Best Fiction by the Crime Writers Association of Australia. He is married to writer Jean Bedford and has lived in Sydney for most of his life. They have three daughters.

Thanks to Helen Barnes, Jean Bedford, Ruth Corris, Jo Jarrah and Stephen Wallace.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people and circumstances is coincidental.

First published by Allen & Unwin in 2011

Copyright © Peter Corris 2011

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. TheAustralian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Gaby Naher

For money has a power above

The stars and fate to manage love

Samuel Butler

‘I heard about your misfortune,’ Miles Standish said. ‘That’s why I asked to see you.’

‘I’ve had a few misfortunes in my time,’ I said. ‘Which one d’you mean?’

‘Losing all your money.’

‘Oh, that one.’

Standish was a lawyer. His secretary had rung me at home that morning asking me to meet him at his office at two in the afternoon. When I asked what about she said Mr Standish would explain. He’d told her to tell me that the matter was important, urgent and the meeting would be of mutual benefit.

I had nothing better to do and since I didn’t have a private investigator’s licence anymore and the money I’d inherited from Lily Truscott—and there was a lot left of it even after some house fixing and gifts and loans here and there—had all gone, ‘mutual benefit’ had an appealing ring.

Standish’s office was in Edgecliff and I travelled there from Glebe by bus, two buses. Driving in Sydney had become an exercise in frustration. Since my heart attack and bypass, I’d been advised to avoid stress and I found off-peak bus travel restful. I was early and I sat in the park on a cool late autumn day looking around at things that had changed and were going to change more. The boxing stadium where Freddie Dawson had cast a pall over Sydney’s sporting community by knocking out Vic Patrick had long gone, and the White City tennis courts were no longer grass. Boats bobbed on the water as they had since 1788 and always would, but if the climate change gurus were right, where I was sitting would be underwater later this century. How much later?

Standish’s office was one level up in a building on New South Head Road. The façade was nineteenth century but the interior was twentieth, even twenty-first—carpet, pastel walls, air-conditioning, pot plants. The secretary who’d summoned me was there to greet me. Obviously head honcho of a group of three women, all busy in the open-plan office, she was Asian, elegant and with a private school accent.

‘Thank you for being so prompt, Mr Hardy. Mr Standish is anxious to see you.’

Anxious didn’t seem quite the right word for these surroundings. Back when I had a low-rent office in Newtown, anxious was just the right word—my clients were anxious and so was I. Here, comfortable seemed more the go, but comfort is easily disturbed.

She showed me into a room that almost made the outer office look shabby. It was all teak and glass and set up for both work and relaxation—a huge desk holding electronic equipment reminiscent of NASA, and a cosy arrangement of armchairs, discreet wet bar and coffee table tucked away in a corner. The waist- to almost ceiling-high windows looked out onto the main road but the double-glazing muted the traffic noise to an agreeable hum.

Standish sprang from behind the desk, rounded it athletically, and almost bounded towards me. He was tall, well built, and looked about thirty, which could have meant he was older trying to look younger or younger trying to look older. He wore the regulation blue shirt and burgundy tie, dark trousers. We shook hands—firm grip, a golfer maybe.

‘Have a seat. Coffee?’

‘No. Thanks. Nice place. Did someone refer you to me?’

‘Not exactly.’

Standish liked to talk, especially about himself. He told me he wasn’t a courtroom lawyer. He hadn’t been in one since moot court in his student days. He was a money lawyer. I already knew that. You don’t turn up for a meeting like this without doing some checking.

‘I put together people,’ he said. ‘And then I put together deals. I help the money to be found and placed where it’s needed to the benefit of all parties including myself. You must know the movie Chinatown.’

‘I do.’

‘One of our . . . one of my favourites. You’ll remember Jake Gittes says divorce work is his metier. Deals are mine. I got first class honours in contract law and graduated magna cum laude from the Yale MBA course. I know the Cayman Islands, Cook Islands, Isle of Man, Jersey and Australian tax acts off by heart.’

I said, ‘Can’t leave you much room to know anything else.’

He leaned back. ‘You’d be surprised. I know you failed contract law at the University of New South Wales and abandoned your studies. I know that you are banned for life from holding a private enquiry agent’s licence in New South Wales and, by extension, anywhere in Australia. I know you had investments worth several hundred thousand dollars and it has all gone.’

I shrugged. ‘I never felt good about being rich anyway.’

‘How do you feel about being bankrupt?’

‘It’s not that bad.’

‘It will be, and soon.’

He brought a computer to life and tapped the keys. ‘Let me see if I’ve got this right. Richard Malouf was a partner in the very honest and upright firm that controlled your financial affairs. Unhappily, he was neither honest nor upright. Because of your, shall I say, careless attitude to your assets, he was able, over time, to liquidate the majority of your shares and hive off the money to accounts he controlled.’

I sighed. ‘I don’t really want to hear this. Malouf gambled the money away and got himself shot when he ran up a tab with someone who got impatient first and then got angry. You’re right; when I inherited some money I took my business to an accounting firm someone had recommended: a big firm.’

Standish smiled. ‘A mistake as it turned out. You should’ve come to me.’

Not likely, I thought, but he was accurate. I met the boss of the accounting firm—a Lebanese Australian named Perry Hassan—and liked him. He introduced me to Malouf. We talked; he seemed to understand my diffidence about being a capitalist investor. I trusted him. Financial matters bore me. I signed things I shouldn’t have and put things away in a drawer unopened.

‘Spilt milk,’ I said. ‘The money’s gone.’

‘What if I told you it isn’t, not necessarily.’

‘There was a thorough investigation.’

‘How many thorough investigations have you known that were all complete bullshit?’

He had my interest now, not because I believed him, but because the smooth unflappability was fraying. Despite the air-conditioning, he looked a little damp around the edges.

‘You’ve got a point, but Malouf’s dead. He was identified by his wife.’

‘Dental records? DNA? Did they bring in the Bali ID unit?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘They didn’t. There was a big stink on about a murdered family and they were preoccupied. He’s not dead. He’s been spotted.’

‘So has Lord Lucan. So has Elvis.’

‘This is reliable information. I want to hire you to catch him.’

‘Why would I do that? The money’s gone.’

‘I don’t believe it. I think the gambling was a cover story to help convince the authorities that he was dead. He’s still got your money, or some of it. Plus that of a lot of other people who could be very grateful to you.’

I looked around the room—the framed certificates, the photographs in the company of celebrities in politics, sport and show business, the gleaming surfaces. Standish was the living embodiment of a business and lifestyle I disliked. He was right about me failing contract law. I’d detested the subject and wrote rude things about the questions and teachers before walking out. It had been a catalyst for my giving up university and doing other things. I didn’t want to work for this man.

Standish tapped some more keys. ‘Following on from what I said about your finances, it’ll interest you to learn that Malouf left you a little legacy. More of a time bomb really. He bought, in your name, a parcel of shares at what seemed bargain rates. You OK’d the purchase. It was peanuts as things stood in your portfolio then. However, those are what’s called option shares and holders are liable for a very substantial margin call on them. In about a month’s time you’re looking at a bill for three hundred thousand dollars, give or take.’

I felt a sharp prick of anxiety. Being short of money was one thing, and something I knew a bit about. But bankruptcy was something else. And if what Standish said was true, Malouf hadn’t just taken me for a ride like the others but had got personal. When someone gets personal with me I get personal back.

He gave me a Hollywood smile. ‘I thought that’d get your attention. To answer your question, there’s your motivation. Catch Malouf and some very serious charges can be brought against him. You might be able to make a case of fraudulent dealing on his part that could get you off the hook in respect of the shares. I could help you with that, really help. Worst case scenario—if you can recover the money from Malouf, you could pay the call. The shares will have value in time, although not quite yet, given the GFC.’

‘And would you help me with that?’

‘What?’

‘Recovering the money from Malouf.’

The smile again, broader. ‘I wouldn’t stand in your way.’

‘How do I know you’re not lying about the shares?’

He opened a drawer in the desk and slid a sheet of paper across to me. ‘I got in touch with Perry Hassan, your trusted friend. He confirmed what I’ve just told you.’

I read Perry’s email to Standish. Somehow Malouf’s purchase of the shares, on the positive side of the ledger, hadn’t cost enough initially to make a difference to my balance sheet, but Perry conceded that I was facing bankruptcy. We civilians imagine that information about clients held by financial advisers is private and protected, but these days nothing is. At a guess, Standish had some leverage on Perry.

‘I have a few questions,’ I said.

‘Of course.’

‘I don’t have an investigator’s licence.’

‘From what I’ve heard of your conduct as a PEA, the rules you broke and the lines you stepped over, that hardly matters.’

‘That’s a fair point. OK, the real question. You’ve got a million-dollar office and a secretary who’s probably as efficient as she is glamorous. You know Mel Gibson and Bob Carr and Greg Norman; but you strike me as just a bit worried. What’s your motivation, Mr Standish?’

Suddenly Standish looked closer to forty than thirty. His face seemed to clench and lines radiated out from his eyes.

‘Did you ever meet Malouf?’ he said.

‘Two or three times.’

‘What did you think of him?’

I didn’t want to talk about Malouf. I’d tried to forget him. ‘As I said, I found all that money management stuff boring and I tended not to take much notice of the people who spouted it.’

He persisted. ‘Good-looking?’

‘Certainly not ugly, anyway.’

‘He had . . . has a fatal attraction for women, including my wife.’

You want to say ‘Ah’ at times like that but you don’t.

‘I discovered that they’d been having a long-running affair.’

‘How did you discover that?’

‘She told me.’

It hurt him to say it; Standish was the sort of man who liked to put a personal-positive spin on anything. ‘Why?’

‘It was after he disappeared with your money and other people’s as well, as I suppose you know. She seemed upset at the news about Malouf but not distraught. But it was a sort of catalyst. We hadn’t been getting along for some time, the usual things . . . and she told me, shouted it to me. She said she loved him.’

Saying this had taken a lot out of him. He got up and the athletic bounce had left him as he crossed to where his bar fridge and a cupboard were tucked away. ‘I’m going to have a drink. You?’

It was about three hours before my usual drinking time, but I didn’t want him to feel any worse than he already did. ‘Sure, what’ve you got?’

‘Everything.’

‘Scotch, a bit of ice.’

I didn’t recognise the bottle; that doesn’t mean much; I don’t see enough single malts to get well acquainted. He made the drinks and brought the bottle back to the desk. The whisky was smooth—about as far as my capacity for appreciation goes. Standish downed half of his in a swallow and topped up his glass.

‘I’m not a drunk,’ he said.

‘No.’

‘Just that it’s hard to . . . relive it all.’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you making fun of me?’

I sipped the drink. ‘No, I’m not. But you’ve only scratched the surface of what you want to tell me about all this, and I’m wondering how much you’re going to have to drink to get through it.’

He pushed the glass away. ‘They told me you were a hard man to deal with, but that if I was straight with you you’d give me a hearing and might be willing to help.’

‘I wouldn’t exactly call what you’ve been doing up to now being straight.’

‘No, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’m manipulative—force of habit. Let’s start again.’

Standish said his wife, Felicity, had met Malouf at a dinner for people in what he called the finance industry where he was the keynote speaker.

‘I was swamped by commitments, clients, prospective clients, offers of various kinds.’ He pointed to his glass. ‘I’d had a few too many.’

‘It happens,’ I said.

‘Yeah. I tell myself if not that night, then sometime, and if not him, someone else. I sort of believe it. Anyway, the point is, it became an affair. I was busy and didn’t know until she hit me with it.’

‘You said she was only upset when Malouf was killed, not devastated.’

‘You’ll think me paranoid, but I suspect her and Malouf’s wife and Christ knows who else of being involved in a conspiracy. There’s a lot of money involved, but more than that . . .’

For a man like Standish that was a big admission. What could be ‘more’ than money? I sipped whisky and waited for him to tell me.

‘Word got around about Felicity’s involvement with Malouf. Confidence is everything in this business. Trust is nothing. A few clients have . . . withdrawn; a few are cooling off and it’s not just the GFC. I’m facing a personal fucking financial crisis.’

So it was about reputation but still about money. He was serious, no question. He’d drawn up a list of names—the person who claimed to have seen Malouf, Malouf’s wife, his own wife, gamblers the police had interviewed, a journalist who’d covered the case, a lawyer representing a client who was suing Perry Hassan’s firm and another who was processing Perry’s application to the insurance company covering him against precisely this kind of disaster. For someone who didn’t particularly care for lawyers, it looked as though I was going to be spending some time with them. If I agreed to work for Standish.

‘Well?’ he said after handing over the list and some supporting information—newspaper clippings, web page printouts, emails. ‘Will you help me, and yourself?’

I finished the drink and ran my eye over the list. The alleged sighting had been in Middle Harbour, at a marina by the Spit Bridge. That helped me to decide. It’d be hard enough tracking people down and questioning them with no credentials whatsoever in Sydney, but impossible in Liechtenstein or the Bahamas. Standish saw me focusing on that entry.

‘He’s still in Sydney. That means there’s a reason, probably an associate. He had to have someone help him mount this operation.’

‘From what you’ve said it could be a woman looking after him, giving him sanctuary. That’s if the sighting’s genuine.’

‘The names are there. Felicity and I are separated. You can approach her.’

‘The helpful associate and the woman could be one and the same,’ I said.

‘Does that mean you’re in?’

‘I’m thinking about it.’

‘Let’s talk money.’

Standish began by mentioning a contract, a daily rate and expenses but I stopped him.

‘First off, I’ll go and see this yachtsman, the one who says he saw Malouf. If he doesn’t convince me then it’s all off and I won’t charge you anything. If I’m convinced I’ll follow up the other leads and see where I get. I’ll charge you what I think the work’s worth.’

‘That’s not businesslike.’

‘Right,’ I said, ‘look where businesslike has got us. I’ll need your email address and a mobile number where I can reach you twenty-four seven.’

He slumped down in his chair. ‘See May Ling in the office.’

I dealt with May Ling, who seemed to have everything at her perfectly manicured fingertips. I went down the stairs to the street feeling strangely buoyant. It wasn’t just the prospect of recovering some money or avoiding bankruptcy. High enough stakes to start with, but it was more than that. It was because I was working again and about to be useful in a way I hadn’t been for too long. Maybe.

They told me that after the heart operation I’d have a new surge of energy, feel ten years younger. I did some days, not others. Some days I worried about little things that never used to bother me and some days I didn’t let quite big things concern me at all. And I couldn’t predict the way it’d go. For the moment I was feeling younger because of the prospect of interesting work. I decided to walk back to the city for the exercise and to plan ahead. I was looking forward to studying the material Standish had given me and interviewing Stefan Nordlung, who’d claimed to have seen Malouf. He was a retired marine engineer, an acquaintance of Malouf’s. A drive to Seaforth tomorrow morning was a pleasant pros- pect after all the sitting about and time-filling I’d been doing.

I’d covered several kilometres briskly and was feeling good when my mobile buzzed. For some reason I have an aversion to walking along with the thing cocked up at my ear the way so many people do. I stopped and stepped out of the way to take the call.

‘Cliff, it’s Megan.’

My daughter. ‘Yes, love?’

‘Good news.’

‘Always welcome. Tell me.’

‘I’m pregnant.’

I said ‘What?’ so loudly people in the street gave me an alarmed look.

‘I said I’m going to have a baby.’

‘I can’t believe it.’

‘Why? Didn’t you think Hank and I were fucking?’

That was pure Megan—direct. ‘Yes, but . . . Well, that’s terrific. When?’

‘Six months. We waited until we were completely sure. We phoned Hank’s people in the States and you’re the first to know here.’

I mumbled something, said I’d see her that night and walked on in a sort of daze. Fatherhood had been sprung on me; I hadn’t known of Megan’s existence until she was eighteen. Now this. I didn’t know what a grandfather’s credentials were, but I was pretty sure they didn’t include bankruptcy. I thought about it as I moved on. Megan was young, who knew how many kids she might have and what help she might need? The stakes just climbed higher.

The happy couple were so involved in what they were doing—and they behaved as though they’d achieved some- thing no one else in the world had ever done—that they didn’t ask me what I was up to. That suited me. Like them, I wanted to be sure before making any announcements. I was happy for them and myself: I’d missed out on the real experience of fatherhood, a big thing to miss out on, and now I was getting a second chance at a version of it.

I went home from their flat with two-thirds of a bottle of champagne inside me. Megan wasn’t drinking and Hank was almost too excited to drink. The walk from Newtown to Glebe sobered me and it wasn’t late. Time to work.

I transferred Standish’s list and his brief comments on the people on it into a notebook. I had names—Stefan Nordlung, Felicity Standish, Rosemary Malouf, Prospero Sabatini, Clive Finn and Selim Houli. Sabatini was the journalist who’d written on the Malouf matter; Finn and Houli were gamblers. Finn was the manager of a casino at Parramatta and Houli ran a nightclub and a high stakes card game at Kings Cross. Both men had told police that Malouf had lost heavily but both denied having anything to do with his disappearance. I had addresses and phone numbers for some of them. I spread the clippings, printouts and emails on the desk in the room I used as an office—now given over mainly to paying bills—and immersed myself in the life and times of Richard Malouf.

Perry Hassan had sent Standish a copy of the CV Malouf had provided when applying successfully for a job in his firm. This, with Sabatini’s published articles, provided a detailed portrait. Richard Malouf was thirty-five, the only son of immigrant Lebanese parents who’d come to Australia in the early 1970s. Malouf senior was a veterinarian not qualified to practise in Australia but who acquired a great reputation among the Brisbane horse racing fraternity. He did well and his son attended private schools. Both parents were now dead. Richard Malouf played soccer for the school and was scouted by professional clubs. Instead, after stellar HSC results, he went to the University of Western Australia where he got a degree in economics. He followed with a master’s in computer science and worked for IBM and other firms in Perth before coming east and joining Perry Hassan’s outfit.

In 2003 he married Rosemary Bruce, an airline flight attendant. They had no children, lived in Balmain with a water view and a mortgage, and shared a Beemer. Malouf played golf at Kogarah, amateur soccer briefly, and collected wine. He was found in his car at the Sydney airport parking station. He’d been shot once through the head.

Several photographs accompanied Sabatini’s articles—schoolboy Malouf with his near perfect HSC score, Malouf with the soccer ball on a string and later receiving an award at IBM. I worked through the material, highlighting various points and making notes. I put the stuff together neatly and got up to take the medications I’d be taking for the rest of my life for blood pressure, heart rhythm regulation, cholesterol control. I swallowed them down with the dregs of the red wine I’d been drinking as an aid to concentration. It was a life sentence, but not to do it was a death sentence.

Always get up from your studies with a question, someone had said. I had one: why would a high flyer like Malouf join a firm like Perry Hassan’s? It was big, but not the biggest.

In the morning I phoned Nordlung at his home address. A woman with a faint American accent answered and I told her what I wanted.

‘I’m his wife. You’ll find him at the marina by the Spit Bridge, working on his boat.’

‘Can you tell me the name of the boat, Mrs Nordlung?’

‘It’s the Gretchen III—that’s Stefan’s little joke. Gretchen’s my name and I’m his third wife.’

I couldn’t be sure but she sounded drunk. At that time in the morning? Well, it happens.

It was a perfect day with a blue sky and light wind. Coming down Spit Road towards the water gave me a multi-million dollar view of Middle Harbour—no house with that view would be worth under a million and the boats would add many, many noughts. It was Wednesday mid-morning and the traffic was light, but there was plenty of activity around the launching ramps and at the marina and not much parking space. I squeezed in between two massive SUVs and remembered to watch my shins on their towing attachments. Tough for some—if you couldn’t afford a marina berth you had to keep your boat in the garage and tow it here.

The marina was T-shaped and the boats varied from modest little numbers to monsters with lofty flagpoles and garden boxes on the decks. I paused to take in the scene and when I thought of the insurance premiums and the upkeep and all the fees involved, it suddenly seemed that I wasn’t looking at boats but at huge, floating bundles of money. I asked at the office where the Gretchen III was and the woman pointed and then looked closely at me.

‘Are you from the police?’

‘No, why?’

‘I just thought . . .’

Looking in the direction she’d indicated, about halfway down the jetty, I could see people gathered around, staring down at a moored boat. I heard sirens wailing and I hurried. Attracting all the attention was a sleek boat with Gretchen III painted in blue on its white hull. Two men were bending over a man lying on the deck. One of the men had a mobile phone to his ear. The man on the deck was still; water was dribbling from his clothes and his head was cocked at an odd angle. There was a tangle of rope around his left leg.

The crowd was murmuring and one man swore as he saw another taking pictures with his mobile phone.

‘What happened?’ I asked the picture snapper as he backed away.

‘Looks like he got caught up somehow, fell in and drowned. I’ve gotta get this off to the media.’

The sirens screamed, people jumped aside, and an ambulance and a police vehicle drove down the jetty. There was an eerie silence as the sirens died, broken only by the slapping of the water against the boats and the pylons and the flapping of the flags on the masts. The paramedics jumped down onto the deck and the men who’d been attending the victim moved aside. I got a good look at him —long-limbed, long-headed with pale blonde hair matted against his skull. His pale eyes stared sightlessly at the sky.

I hung around picking up snippets of information. Nordlung had been found by the owner of the boat berthed alongside his, about twenty minutes before I got there. He’d noticed how untidy the deck of the Gretchen III was and had gone aboard to investigate. Nordlung was famous for keeping his boat in pristine condition. He found the rope running from where it had caught on the hatch door over the side. When he hauled on it, the body came into view. Nordlung was a big man and it had taken two to get him on the deck. They tried to resuscitate him but failed.

The police spoke to the two yachtsmen who were both smoking and looking shaken. Then there was a flurry of activity as the police used their mobile phones and pushed the onlookers further away. Another car arrived with plainclothes detectives and the chequered tape came out indicating that this was a crime scene. The detectives began taking names and addresses and I drifted away to the edge of the growing crowd. Eventually, I was able to walk away with others whose interest had been satisfied.

I bought a coffee at a stall outside the marina and drank it leaning against my car in the sunshine. More official vehicles arrived—SOC people, water police with, at a guess, a frogman, and there was probably a pathologist in the mix. A television camera crew swept in.

Shit happens, as they say, and there was no necessary connection between Nordlung’s death and my visit. For all I knew he could’ve had a hundred enemies, but it seemed more than likely there was a connection. The question then was, who knew of my intention? Standish, but not the precise time. Nordlung’s wife. The other possibility was that Nordlung’s phone was tapped and that can never be ruled out with the surveillance equipment around now. That idea opened up other questions. If Malouf had faked his death, someone had died to provide the body. And now Nordlung. They must be playing for higher stakes here than just ripping off some middle-range investors.

Thinking hard, I drove back to the city to a car park near the building where Prospero Sabatini worked. He wrote for a weekly called The Investor