‘Noting in the tox report except alcohol. Anyway, it would’ve been unlikely. People into this stuff know the risks. There’s a fine line between asphyxia and recovery. Something more than alcohol would be quite a risk, in my opinion. Did you find any drug paraphernalia anywhere?’
‘Nothing.’
Cadveron paused, ‘Okay. But I imagine you wouldn’t have inspected the rope too closely. Doing that should rule out possible accidental penetration from a sharp instrument within the rope.’
Black summed up: ‘So with no tox, no other evidence of drug use and with this deceased’s background and the scene, we’re confident this one’s just a pervert’s mistake.’
‘Looks that way. Just that damned needle mark. But nothing changes the cause of death. He died of asphyxia.’
‘What puzzles me,’ said Black, ‘is why he couldn’t save himself.’
‘Not the first time autoeroticism has gone wrong, is it? If he accidentally put more and more pressure on his carotid artery without knowing, he’d have lost consciousness quite quickly. After that, asphyxiation and death.’
‘We’ve been operating on the assumption there was no one else in the room with him. If there’s no reliable evidence of foul play, we’re still talking a coroner’s verdict of accidental death by misadventure, aren’t we?’
Cadveron picked the pleading tone. ‘Of course, Rod. I’m not trying to make your life any more difficult than it needs to be. I’ve told you what I’d want to know if I were in your shoes.’
‘Appreciate that,’ said Black. ‘I’ve got one more loose thread to tie up. Hopefully it won’t change our preliminary view.’
With over a quarter of a century’s experience in policing, forty-five-year-old Rod Black, tall and slim, olive complexion, had family-size bags under his eyes and a piece of his left ear missing. The tired eyes were de rigueur for a career cop. The lost lobe was the result of a bullet destined for his forehead and if it hadn’t been for a pretty girl for whom he’d literally turned his head, he’d have solved his last case many years ago.
He could have been an inspector or even a chief and joked that the organisation had cost him not only his marriage but also his hair and good looks. His decision not to go for his senior’s exams was unpopular with the brass. But who wanted to be a champion of paperwork and arse licking?
Black figured he was in good company. About a third of the CIB were whingeing about the leaking arseholes above them. Another third, including him, were in survival mode, keeping their noses clean. The newbies were putting their hands up, keen as mustard. The rest were held to the job by money manacles while they tried to deny their disaffection.
He toyed with the idea of getting rid of the email from Donaldson, but the job sheet from the forensic IT guy would need to go as well. Too much like self-sabotage and too risky. Sitting at a spare desk next to Hart’s he decided to shake Derek Donaldson’s tree. As he sat down he removed his bifocals, huffed some hot breath onto the lenses and wiped them on the middle of his loosened tie. It was a long-standing habit that colleagues associated with Black thinking up some scheme. He thumbed through the phone book looking for Donaldson’s number.
He felt Hart’s eyes then heard, ‘The selection of massage parlours is better in the yellow pages than the white.’
‘Chance’d be a fine thing, Bazza. Didn’t the super say this morning that pole polishes had to be deferred until job sheets were in order?’
‘No bigger kill-joy than our mad Mick.’
‘Anyway,’ said Black, ‘I’m going to see if I can make a fat man sing and end this bloody opera of perversion that’s hit our desk.’
Hart let the mistake go.
****
In the Thomas and Donaldson office, Black could hear the big man puffing and wheezing before he actually saw him. As he got closer, his enormous bulk seemed to consume all the light in the office. Donaldson stuck out his fleshy right hand and introduced himself. Black reciprocated.
‘Can I get you anything to drink?’ Donaldson asked, continuing to walk away from the cafeteria, strewn with dirty cups, meat pie wrappings and beer bottles. Black understood that the correct answer was no.
They were in a meeting room, two chairs around a heavy wooden table. Black noticed the effort it took for Donaldson to get seated.
Deliberately faking a smile, he asked, ‘I understand you know Mr Neil Apsley?’
‘Old Napers? Yeah, I know him. What’s he been doin’ to have you CIB boys interested?’
‘When were you last in contact with him, Mr Donaldson?’
‘Call me Derek. Mattera fact, I tried ringin’ him a day or two ago but couldn’t get hold of ’im. Sent the old bugger an email suggestin’ we meet up for coffee.’
Black thought Donaldson already suspected his email had been discovered. He’d be smart, not lie and draw suspicion to himself. ‘Did you have that meeting, Derek?’
‘Nah. Sposed to have been a few days ago. Bugger never confirmed.’
Black stared at him, pausing to let his words hang in the air. The email was silent on any planned date for the meeting. ‘He was found dead,’ said Black, matter-of-fact tone. ‘In his own home.’
‘Dead? How? Someone do ’im in?’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘No reason. ’Cept you blokes in CIB don’t get involved with routine deaths, do ya?’
‘We were wondering when you last met up with him.’
Donaldson frowned, rubbed his damp forehead. ‘Christ, it would be years ago. Decades in fact.’
‘So why did you want to meet him? It might shed some light on whether his death is suspicious or not.’
The big man looked surprised. ‘Suspicious? Our meetin’?’ A shrug. ‘I just emailed him suggestin’ we catch up over coffee.’
Black perfectly still, unblinking, ‘But you hadn’t had contact in decades. What did you really want?’
Donaldson rubbed his hand across his mouth. ‘I just thought it would be nice to catch up.’
‘So, just social then?’
‘Yeah. Social, that’s right.’ Donaldson answered with more confidence.
‘Where were you in the early hours of the morning on 9 March, say between midnight and two in the morning?’
‘Christ, where do you think? Well tucked up in bed. I’m not much of a lounge lizard these days.’
‘Can anyone confirm that, Derek?’
He rubbed a stomach that sat like an apron over his knees. ‘Well, I don’t tend to have too many dolly birds call on me for a servicin’ and an overnight stay, if you get my drift. I live on me own these days.’
Black pulled a copy of Donaldson’s email from inside his jacket pocket and looked at it. He paused, noticing that the dampness on the big man’s forehead had turned into beads of sweat. ‘So when you mentioned in your email to him something about a bit of business he might be interested in, were you lying to him, or lying to me just now, Derek?’
‘Shit, that’s a bit harsh, detective.’
‘Well, let’s say mislead then. Social and business are quite different, aren’t they? Why would you do that to an old friend you hadn’t seen in years?’
Donaldson wiped at his mouth. ‘It wasn’t really a big deal.
We, least I, thought there might be a chance of him connectin’ up with business contacts, him being at The People and that. There’d be a drink or two in it for him, if you know what I mean.’
Black tilted his head, ‘So you never saw him?’
‘Nah, been years.’
Black let seconds of time pass as he listened to Donaldson’s shallow and laboured breathing. ‘Never been at or inside his house then?’
‘I wouldn’t even know where the bugger lived, come to think of it.’
‘He reply to your email?’
Donaldson flushed. ‘Nah, not a dickey bird.’
The lie was understandable. Receiving a child porn attachment from Apsley would be embarrassing if he’d rec
eived it innocently. Still, it was something to hold over him if the time came.
‘Okay,’ Black said. ‘That’s it for now. Good to meet you and clear that up, Derek. Can I ask one favour? And please understand, it’s fine for you to say no to this.’
Eager to have the heat off. ‘Sure, what is it?’
‘I need a few hairs from your head. A bit of evidence to close off any suspicion given you were the last person Neil communicated with.’
Derek, tugging keenly at the dank and unkempt surrounds of bald crown said, ‘No problem, I’ll get you an envelope to put them in.’
‘And can I just grab your home address and contact details please, Derek.’
‘I’ll write it on the back of me business card for you.’
‘Cheers,’ said Black. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Chapter 13
It had been only two days but Fowler’s impatience got the better of him. With suit and disguise, he went to the new post office box to check progress. He scanned the gleaming red wall for his number and beamed at the ID on the envelope as he pulled out his licence.
Next stop, O’Farrell & Associates, mortgage brokers, in the suburbs. No pesky spy cameras on top of street lights or cameras in banks. Third hurdle jumped as he headed for a meeting with a broker he knew to be on the take.
Once there Fowler produced his fraudulent trifecta: title of ownership at the Thomas residence in Park Terrace, bills confirming he lived there and a new driver’s licence.
‘This all looks in order, Trev,’ said Kent Sligh. The broker, ten years younger than Fowler, had no difficulty adopting an air of overfamiliarity. They were in the O’Farrell & Associates boardroom – grey walls, tilting black chairs on silver wheels, whiteboard scribblings of a previous meeting not removed. ‘The way rates on these loans are structured by most of the banks, you may as well take a million as take a half.’ He named the banks with the best rates.
Fowler recognised the one that Thomas & Donaldson used for all their banking and told Sligh to avoid it. ‘I’d be disinherited if I did business with them. It’s not worth the grief.’ The broker cocked his head slightly to the right. ‘Long story,’ said Fowler. ‘Maybe some other time. What’s the next step from here?’
Sligh tossed his shiny monogrammed pen onto the smoke-glassed table and leant back in his chair, cupping his hands behind his head. ‘From here, we lodge the application for revolving credit. Based on your recent government valuation, there’s no problem. Long run business accounts support your company’s ability to pay the interest on the loan even if recent profit has dipped a little.’ He straightened up and rubbed his hands together. ‘Within a couple of working days, the credit will be deposited in your new account and the funding will be available for Thomas & Davidson to draw on.’
The mistake in the name was proof of how little attention Sligh had been paying; his only priority was clipping the ticket between the borrower and the bank.
‘Provided you make the interest payments,’ continued Sligh, ‘this arrangement will continue for as long as you want it to. You’ll receive monthly statements by mail at your PO Box. All pretty straightforward, really.’
Doodling on a pad, he almost whispered, ‘You’ll recall that for an extra twenty thousand gratuity, payable to me in person, I can arrange the draw-down for one million dollars.’ He looked up and smiled. ‘No other bank costs involved.’
Greedy bastard, thought Fowler. ‘That’s what we like. That’s the way we do business,’ he replied, his voice full of enthusiasm. ‘I assume you can also meet another request I have inside the price of your…gratuity.’
An expansive arm gesture. ‘Of course, anything for an important client.’
‘The initial business investments I need to make will require pre-printed bank cheques. I’m not talking about your own company or personal cheques you understand. I mean bank cheques. Able to be cashed immediately, anywhere, without question. They’ll be funded by the draw-down you arrange.’
‘I understand the difference, of course. How many and in what denomination?’ asked Sligh.
‘Seven cheques. Each for one hundred thousand dollars.’
Holding up a new credit card in Thomas’s name, Fowler added, ‘I want two hundred thousand credit into this and the balance of one hundred thousand, if my maths is correct, into a revolving account that the bank opens in my name.’ Fowler handed over the Amex.
‘Yes, of course and your maths is impeccable.’ Sligh forced a grin. ‘But I’m afraid that with these additional transactions, an additional five thousand will be required.’
Fowler crossed his arms. ‘That’s a bit steep, Kent.’
Silence ticked off long seconds. ‘Okay,’ said Fowler, ‘it’s more than I expected. But make sure it’s done within twenty-four hours and not the usual two days bullshit. I expect top priority for this sort of money.’
‘Of course, Trev.’ Sligh stood up from his desk offering his hand. ‘We’re a firm that delivers.’ Chuckling, he continued, ‘We may not be the cheapest in town but you always get what you want.’
Chapter 14
Just after Black left Donaldson, Thomas emerged from his office, very red-faced, looking as though he was about to have his own angina attack. He waved a sheaf of papers at his partner. ‘We need to be thinking about our next moves on Dench,’ said Thomas. ‘He’s holding his position while we’re slipping back. We shouldn’t be in this position. That prick ruined a bloody good company, a company we set up for success with all our financial backing. He’d never have been in this business without us. This is the fifth fuckin’ client of ours in as many days that’s asked us to transfer files to Dench. It’s time we dealt to the prick again, once and for all.’
Hands up in a calming motion, Donaldson said, ‘Christ, mate, I don’t want you in hospital as well.’ He paused, then dropped his voice. ‘I didn’t know – about the clients, I mean. I figured you had your own problems to focus on.’
Thomas shook his head. ‘He’s never fully paid for undermining me with the staff.’
‘Or me for the humiliation from that list he published. But we can’t repeat that strategy of postin’ porn pictures on his stationery to clients.’
Thomas’s face seemed to soften with the reminder. ‘I wish I’d been the fly on that dunny wall, you know, when they opened those brown envelopes and Dench’s invite to act out the action in the pictures.’ He grinned. ‘Those were the days, mate.’
‘I reckoned you enjoyed writing the apology letters even more.’ Donaldson winked. ‘You know, the stuff about him havin’ a mental problem, bein’ addicted to porn.’
‘Addictive personality is what I said.’
‘You made it sound quite official, Trev. Probably why it worked so long.’ Donaldson frowned. ‘Worked a treat then, but we can’t do it now.’
Thomas looked up at the ceiling. ‘What about setting him up for some tombstone policies?’
‘Well, there’s a timin’ issue. Can we wait that long? Fine to find some dead people and write life policies for them but those policies would have to be in place for months before any commissions were paid.’
Thomas winked, ‘Not the commissions at issue, mate. It’s the life cover pay outs where we’d pull the big dollars.’
‘Well, if he’s still usin’ our old policy framework, there’s still that stand-down time.’ Donaldson tested the fit of his collar. ‘Besides, he’d be bloody wary. We’d have to be careful. He’d be suspicious of anyone from our team suddenly bringin’ him new business.’
‘Yes and no,’ argued Thomas. ‘Stealing back one of our team would play to his ego – getting one over us. And if we send in our best salesman, we’d have a show. He’d come up with a plausible story about us crashing and burning, how he made a bad call – eat lots of humble pie in front of old syph head.’
Donaldson looked reflective, cautious about his mate’s continual need for vengeance. Trev had undermined Dench in business and humiliate
d him in public. Who could forget the infamous Christmas party of 1980 when, for the first time, Dench had plucked up the courage to take a woman along.
In the general drunkenness, Dench caught his girlfriend and Thomas exploring the inside of each other’s throats with their tongues. Trev had told Dench he was having a great night - that the woman had just offered to suck his cock for Christmas. It was an incident that led to public threats to kill.
Not that Dench was a saint. Donaldson had approached his former partner about the ignominy of his name appearing at the bottom of the revenue data, a list sent around all company employees identifying best and worst performers. Dench served him unsympathetic crap about the company needing increased levels of performance and accountability in the face of stronger competition in the market. Thomas was only two places above him on the list. Donaldson knew he was collateral damage in their war.
‘I reckon anythin’ or anyone from our office would smell pretty whiffy to Dench now,’ Donaldson said.
‘Trouble is,’ Thomas said, anguish on his face, ‘we’re feeling the pinch here, Derk. Things are getting tighter by the day and it won’t be long before we have prospectus issues. Bloody bankers have our balls in a vice and that bastard Dench needs a bloody good rogering.’ He made the bent elbow gesture, a tight fist thrusting upwards. ‘I’d like him to feel some pain. Better still, I’d like the bastard to disappear altogether.’
Seeing movement in his peripheral vision, Thomas got up and closed the door.
The two old mates sat in silent reflection but Donaldson couldn’t shake Black’s visit from his mind.
‘Meant to say, I sent an email to old Napers. You remember the bugger? He was on that bloody jury with us. In fact he runs The People,’ Donaldson added. ‘Or did.’
‘The People!’ thundered Thomas. ‘I wouldn’t trust those bastards with the steam off my shit.’
‘Nah Trev, keep your hair on. We’re not makin’ a movie here, mate.’ Donaldson shook his head at his partner’s volatility. ‘He wasn’t the editor. Besides that’s what the cops were here for. Apsley is dead. They were here askin’ about the email I sent him before I went to hospital.’