CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
After Bristow and his henchman had left, Gary rummaged around in the bag of cash to make sure there was no padding. Thankfully, there seemed to be about $200,000 in genuine notes. That was extraordinarily decent of Bristow. If Gary was in his shoes, he would have used fake notes. Maybe Bristow was too anal retentive to cheat like that.
Of course, Bristow might send someone back to recover the money. But Bristow had much bigger worries on his plate and, if he made even a semi-rational calculation, would leave Gary alone.
Gary wondered if the Trewaley file was still on the internet. He strolled into the spare bedroom, turned on the computer and tried to access the Parliament House website. The fake site appeared with the blurb in the middle of the screen, impossible to miss. He clicked the link marked "documents" and PDFs started appearing. Excellent. Vincent really had done a great job.
Gary wasn't entirely sure how Bristow and his henchman entered his apartment, but suspected the thug picked the cheap lock on the front door. Gary would get a new one installed when he got a chance. As a temporary measure, he pushed his couch up against the door. That wouldn't stop a determined intruder. But the noise the intruder made would give Gary plenty of time to grab a weapon and come up shooting.
He put the carry bag full of cash in a wardrobe and put the Walther 9mm beside it. Then he put the revolver on his bedside table and lay down. Despite recent events, he soon fell asleep and dreamt he was in a bathtub full of bank notes.
He woke the next morning with something heavy on his chest. At first, he thought Karen had turned up in the middle of the night and got into bed, as she sometimes did. But he carefully raised his eyelids and locked eyeballs with the cat. He blinked first. "Hello, fella. Good work last night. Sorry about those nasty intruders. I don't think we'll see them again."
Gary delicately lifted the cat onto the bed and padded into the kitchen, where he replenishing the cat's food and water bowls, and resolved to buy him some treats when he got the chance. After showering and dressing, he again tried to access the Parliament House website and was again redirected to the fake site. Great.
While eating a bowl of muesli, he realised he could do nothing further about the Trewaley file. He had to wait and see how much exposure it got. But he had to move the cash he took off Bristow. He couldn't keep it his apartment because Bristow and his pal might try to reclaim it. Better to stow it in the small safe in his office and, when he got a chance, hire a bank safe-deposit box to hold it.
He finished eating, tucked the revolver into the small of his back, grabbed the carry bag with the cash and strolled down to his office, alert for threats. A blizzard of banknotes swirled around inside his brain and made him smile the whole way.
He stashed the carry bag in the office safe, turned on his computer and accessed the Sydney Morning Herald website. No mention of the Trewaley file. But he saw a story about the death of Michael Cassidy the previous day:
POLICE INVESTIGATE STRANGE DEATH PLUNGES
The Homicide Squad is investigating the strange deaths of two men who plunged from an apartment building in Drummoyne on separate days.
The first man to plunge from the building in Lawton Street was a university student, Mr Tony Tam, who lived in an apartment on the tenth floor. Mr Tam was found dead in the empty swimming pool of the building on Friday evening.
A police spokesman said yesterday that the police initially thought he jumped from his apartment and treated his death as a suicide.
However, yesterday morning, a second man, Michael Cassidy, fell from the same apartment building into the same empty swimming pool. Mr Cassidy served time in gaol for violence offences and was known as a standover man in the drug trade.
Mr Cassidy did not live in the building and the police are not sure where he fell from. They have not discovered any connection between Mr Cassidy and Mr Tam.
"These deaths are very strange," the police spokesman said. "We initially thought we were dealing with a suicide. But when a second man plunges from the same building into the same empty swimming pool, you've got to suspect foul play of some sort. Unfortunately, at the moment, we have no leads."
Gary felt a shiver of concern and wondered if he was a little rash when he tossed Cassidy off the balcony. But what else was he supposed to do? If Gary had shot the guy, he would have sparked an even more frenzied Homicide investigation. At least, it seemed, the cops had no leads. Hopefully, that situation would continue.
He repeatedly scrolled through internet news sites and listened to ABC News Radio, hoping to come across a report on the Trewaley file. Not a peep until eleven o'clock. Then an ABC news announcer reported that an anonymous hacker was redirecting visitors from the Parliament House website to a fake site that contained 'explosive allegations and supporting documents about the Leader of the Opposition, Angus Trewaley'.
Gary's nerves tingled as the radio newsreader said: "A spokesman for the Department of Parliamentary Services said the department is trying to restore access to the genuine site. However, it will probably take several more hours to do that. The ABC has contacted Mr Trewaley's office and asked him to comment on the allegations on the fake site. To date, it has received no reply."
The ABC obviously felt entitled to report that a Government website had been hijacked and mention the 'explosive allegations', but was too timid to detail them. However, it didn't have to. Listeners would be flooding to the fake site for edification.
Just after noon, a story was posted on the Sydney Morning Herald website headlined: 'Fake Parliament House website makes allegations about Trewaley.' The story was very similar to the ABC report, except that it also mentioned the fake site claimed the supporting documents came from an accountancy firm that worked for Trewaley called Merton & Co. The story pointed out that the principal of that firm, Robert Merton, recently died under suspicious circumstances at his beach house. Like the ABC, the Herald didn't identify the 'allegations' against Trewaley.
Gary tried to access the Parliament House website and was again redirected to the fake site with the blurb and link to documents. By now, thousands of people must have done the same.
Gary wanted to get closer to the unfolding story about Trewaley's finances. The solicitor, Terry Burke, was the treasurer of the local branch of the Conservative Party. He had told Gary that Trewaley planned to hold an election rally at Paddington Town Hall at 4pm that day, and asked if Gary wanted to accompany him. Gary had brushed him off. Now, he changed his mind and phoned Terry on his mobile.
"Terry Burke here," the solicitor said chirpily.
"Tezza, it's Gary."
"Yes mate, how can I help?"
"You still going to Trewaley's rally this afternoon?"
"Of course. Why?"
"Can I go with you?"
"Why the change of heart?"
"Oh, I thought it might be interesting. Still not sure how to vote."
"OK. It starts at four. Be over here at three and we'll go together."
"Will do."
Gary hung up and realised that, if Terry had heard the allegations circulating about Trewaley, he would have canned the chirpiness. Terry would soon get a rude shock.
Gary continued monitoring news websites and ABC News Radio. Just after two o'clock, the Herald site reported that the Prime Minister had issued a statement that called upon Trewaley to 'respond' to the allegations made on the fake website and indicate whether the documents attached to it were genuine.
After reading that story, Gary almost punched the air with excitement. The Prime Minister was obviously trying to push the story along without over-committing himself. It really looked like this scandal was starting to heat up.
Just before three o'clock, Gary left the revolver in a desk drawer and strolled around to the offices of Burke & Co, where he told Terry's stocky secretary, Olga, that he had an appointment to see her boss. Olga used her phone to tell Terry that Gary had arrived and then instructed Gary to take a seat in the small reception area.
/> Five minutes later, Terry bowled out, looking flushed. "Jesus, mate, have you heard the news?"
"What news?"
"There's a story on the Herald site that someone's created a fake Parliament House website with nasty allegations about Angus Trewaley."
"What allegations?"
"I checked the website. Some joker who calls himself Guy Fawkes claims Angus has millions hidden overseas and cheats on his tax. He's attached lots of documents to prove it."
Gary enjoyed sounding bland. "Are the allegations true?"
"Of course not. It must be bullshit."
"Did you look through the documents?"
"Nah, I'm not going to read that shit. They'll all be fakes. I'd love to get my hands on the miserable bastard who attached them and throttle him, whoever he is. That's the problem these days: any dickhead can post shit on the internet under an assumed name and nobody can stop him. Bloody cowards. Anyway, I'm sure it'll go nowhere. Ready to go?"
"Of course."
Terry always parked his BMW in a small car park behind his office building. He got behind the wheel, with Gary next to him, and started the engine. "You know, this Guy Fawkes shithead claims the documents he attached came from Merton & Co."
"So what?"
"That's the firm Patrick Arnott worked for, right?"
"Yes."
"Do you think Arnott had something to do with this?"
"With what?"
"Putting this shit on the internet."
"Why would he?"
"He obviously disappeared for a reason. Maybe he stole those documents."
Gary reminded himself that Terry was once a good, if not great, detective, and not to be taken lightly. "I've got absolutely no idea."
A suspicious glance. "You didn't put this shit on the internet, did you?"
Yep, Terry still had his mojo. Gary feigned surprise. "Me? Of course not. I have trouble turning on a computer. I couldn't do something like that. Anyway, you said this stuff is all bullshit."
"Yes, I did, didn't I? But this is the sort of crazy shit you'd do."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
The Paddington Town Hall, perched at the top of Oxford Street, was an impressive late Victorian building with a high clock-tower. The local council moved out long ago. Most of its halls and rooms were now rented out to the public.
Terry parked a couple of blocks away and they approached on foot. When Gary asked why the rally was being held at 4pm, Terry patiently explained it was so the evening news programs would show Trewaley before an enthusiastic audience. "Colour and movement - that's what politics is all about."
Dozens of riot police were clustered near the front entrance, leaning on their shields, keeping a wary eye on a hundred protesters waving placards and chanting unintelligible slogans.
Guests presented their invitations to a couple of burly security guards before filing into the building. Terry showed his invitation and said Gary was his guest. The guard shrugged and waved them through.
They climbed a long flight of stairs to the first floor, and crossed a small foyer into an elegant hall with a high ceiling and polished timber floor. At the far end was a low podium with a lectern. Conservative Party buntings and posters with Trewaley's beaming face coated the walls. A couple of hundred supporters milled about chatting loudly. Most of the men wore a navy jacket and grey slacks; the women, a lace frock, tennis tan and expensive jewellery. This had to be one of the most affluent election crowds ever assembled. Many were probably waiting for waiters to circulate with champagne and canapes.
Gary wondered how many had their wealth salted away in tax havens like Trewaley. Probably quite a few.
Terry glanced at Gary. "Can I leave you here? I've got to speak to a few people about party business."
"Sure."
Terry crossed the hall, climbed onto the podium and disappeared through a side door.
Gary noticed about 30 media people stood in a roped-off section next to the podium. He strolled over to it. While photographers and cameramen set up their equipment, half-a-dozen reporters stood together, chatting. Gary had seen several on television. They looked shorter and less glamorous in the flesh. One was describing how she recently broke her leg while skiing.
A fat guy whose name-tag said 'Robert Steffens - Media Liaison' approached them and they formed a horseshoe around him.
He said: "Any questions before we start?"
A female TV reporter pushed forward. "Yeah. When's your boss going to comment on the tax haven allegations?"
"Those allegations are bullshit."
"Maybe. But when's he going to say that?"
"He'll do a doorstop out the front, after the rally. You can ask him about the allegations then."
"And he'll deny them?"
"Of course."
"OK."
The chunky guy wandered off and the reporters went back to comparing skiing injuries.
Gary strolled about the hall, listening to the party faithful chat about the price of yachts, the price of imported cars, the price of real estate, the price of private schools and the price of everything else. A couple expressed disgust at the allegation that Trewaley was a tax cheat. A heavily botoxed matron said: "The Government is behind this attack. It's just the sort of slimy thing those rodents would do."
A voice behind Gary said: "What the hell are you doing here?"
Gary spun around and found himself looking at the scowling face of Oliver Bristow. After a stab of concern, he realised he had nothing to fear. Bristow couldn't afford to make a scene.
Gary lifted his finger to his lips and smiled. "Shhhh, not so loud."
Bristow wore a pinstripe suit, maybe the same one. But his pocket handkerchief was missing and he looked like a man dying for a good night's sleep, or maybe just dying.
"I'll have you thrown out."
"Don't be silly. You'd just cause a commotion. Now piss off."
A tongue flicked dry lips. "Why are you here?"
"Don't worry, I'm just here to watch. Hell, if he gives a good speech, I might vote for him."
"You'd better not cause any trouble."
"I won't."
"Good. You stole my money. I want it back."
Cops are taught to take command of a situation. Gary used that training. He leaned forward and whispered in Bristow's ear. "You're in a different world now, Sunshine - my world. It's a world where little bugs like you get squashed. I've got a special place in the bush where I bury pricks who annoy me. Do you want to visit it?"
A part of Gary sat in the stalls admiring his tough-guy act. True, it was a little hammy. But Bristow was an unsophisticated consumer and swallowed it whole. He paid Gary the high compliment of stepping back and glowing with fear. "You can't talk to me like that."
"I just did."
"Give me back the money."
"I don't know what you're talking about. Scram."
A long hot stare. "Fucker. I'll deal with you later."
Gary smiled. "You've been warned. You bother me again and I'll make you eat your stupid fucking suit with chips. Now piss off."
Bristow made a strange whinnying noise to release tension and stalked off. Gary wandered around for another 10 minutes, eavesdropping on conversations while the hall swelled until it was jam-packed. Terry appeared at his shoulder. "What have you been doing?"
"Oh, just strolling around, getting the vibe."
"I saw you chatting with Bristow. What was that about?"
"You mean the guy in the pinstripe suit?"
"Yes."
"Oh, nothing. He thought I was someone else."
Terry squinted. "Really?"
"Yes."
A minute later, the local Mayor, who belonged to Trewaley's party, emerged from a side door wearing his chain of office over a suit. He gave a short speech praising Trewaley while the audience applauded. Then Trewaley came through the side door and waved to the cheering crowd while striding purposefully towards the lectern. But Gary detected a sl
ightly hunted look and wondered if the release of his Merton & Co file was responsible.
Trewaley put some notes on the lectern and grabbed both sides. "Thank you, Mayor Tucker, for that wonderful introduction. I am most flattered. And thank you all for your warm welcome. I've travelled all over Australian during this election campaign and met lots of wonderful people, but nobody treats me as well as the people in my electorate."
Trewaley spent the rest of his speech running through his party's election platform and attacking the Government. His voice was surprisingly flat - as if there was something on his mind - and the audience was quite muted. That was not surprising. The wealthy citizens of the Eastern Suburbs rarely indulged in ostentatious displays of emotion.
However, when Trewaley finished with a promise that he would win the election, the audience erupted with wild applause. After waving for a while, he descended to the floor of the hall and strolled towards the rear door. While cameramen and photographers orbited around him, he shook hands and accepted slaps on the back. Gary followed him closely and got separated from Terry. He trailed the politician and the press pack down the stairs and out the front entrance.
Trewaley strode towards a big black Mercedes parked against the curb while waving to a few well-wishers and ignoring the screeching protesters, who showed how much noise a motivated political crowd could make.
A male reporter trailing after Trewaley kept asking for his comment on "... the documents posted on the Parliament House website".
Trewaley ignored the reporter until he reached the Mercedes and spun around, looking tense. Even before he opened his mouth, Gary sensed it was a mistake to talk.
Trewaley said: "I understand that someone has posted scurrilous material on the internet about my taxation affairs. That material is false and the documents are forgeries - complete forgeries. I have always paid my fair share of tax and will continue to do so."
A female reporter yelled: "How much tax did you pay last year?"
"That's none of your business."
"Will you release your tax returns?"
"No, that's a private matter."
"Do you have money in accounts in the Bahamas or Cayman Islands?"
"Of course not. The documents on the internet are forgeries."
Another reporter: "Do you know Mr Robert Merton, the principal of Merton & Co?"
Trewaley, who obviously hadn't expected that question, hesitated and frowned. "I may have met him - I meet many people."
"Has his firm ever done work for you?"
"I don't know. I've dealt with many accounting firms."
"Do you know who killed Merton?"
"Of course not. I know nothing about that." Trewaley realised he'd talked too long and lost command of the situation. "That's all I have to say. Goodbye."
While the journalists shouted more questions, Trewaley ducked into the back of his vehicle and it sped off.
"Fucking idiot," someone behind Gary said.
Gary turned and saw Terry standing behind him. "Hello. You heard that?"
"Yes, a total train wreck. Let's get out of here."
"OK."
They pushed through the tight ranks of police and protesters and strode towards Terry's car.
Terry said: "I told that little jerk-off Bristow that his boss shouldn't comment on his tax affairs - that would just give the story more oxygen. But Bristow said his boss was determined to answer the allegations." A sigh. "That's the problem with politicians. They think they can talk their way out of anything."
"Surely he had to answer the allegations?"
"No, he didn't. News stories last a nano-second these days. In 24 hours, the story would have been old news. But now he's on record talking about his relationship with a man murdered a couple of days ago - sheesh."
Gary didn't think Trewaley could have ignored the growing scandal so easily. "You think he's in trouble?"
"He's in free-fall."
They turned a corner and headed along an empty pavement. The chaos behind them receded. After about twenty metres, Terry frowned at Gary. "You're behind this, aren't you?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're Guy Fawkes."
"Don't be ridiculous. Why do you say that?"
"Patrick Arnott worked at Merton & Co. I reckon he swiped Trewaley's tax records and went on the run. Merton chased after him and so did you. You shot Merton and somehow got your hands on the records. Then you pinned them up on the internet. You're Guy Fawkes, aren't you?"
Terry should have stayed a first-rate cop instead becoming an overpaid and second-rate lawyer.
Gary stopped and stared at him. "I could tell you the truth - the whole truth - but you won't thank me if I do."
Terry smiled. "Don't worry, I'm a big boy - I can take it. But don't tell me everything, just the highlights."
Gary was relieved he could finally unburden himself about the carnage at the beach house, despite the risk of doing so. "OK. Merton and two thugs kidnapped Arnott and took him to the beach house. I tried to rescue him. Everything turned to shit and there was a big shoot-out. Arnott died; Merton died; a thug died."
"Who killed who?"
"I killed Merton and the thug; the thug killed Arnott."
"OK, got that. But you said there were two thugs. What happened to the other one?"
"He got away and died later."
"Of natural causes?"
"No."
A rueful smile. "OK. And, after the shoot-out, you torched the beach house?"
"Yes. That seemed the smart play. If I called the cops, they would have charged me with three counts of murder and forced me to prove my innocence. No, thank you. I'm not fond of juries and didn't want to embarrass Karen."
"She doesn't know about any of this?"
"Shit no."
"Understand. And you don't want to tell Madeline that her son died in the beach house because she'll blab to the cops?"
"Correct."
A frown. "Jesus, this was supposed to be a simple missing-person job."
"It got complicated."
"Fuckin' oath it did. Jobs always do when you're involved. I shudder to think what would have happened if it was a big assignment."
Gary flushed with anger. "That's unfair. Arnott was a silly boy who trod on the wrong toes. It wasn't my job to save his arse; I sure as hell wasn't getting paid to do that. But I tried and almost got killed."
Terry showed his palms. "Fair enough. I spoke in haste. But I wish we could tell Madeline something."
"We can't because she won't keep her mouth shut. Hell, she'll probably blame me for her son's death. But, for what it's worth, she'll soon find out he's dead. She gave some of his DNA to the police when she reported him missing. They'll match it with a body found in the beach house and inform her."
"I guess so. But she won't know why he died."
"True. But lots of things in life don't get explained, like why we're here and where we're going. And, to be quite frank, I don't owe her the full story. It's not my job to hold her hand. There are times to keep your mouth shut and this is one of them. I've got to look after myself."
"I accept that." They got into the car and Terry glanced at Gary. "But tell me this: why did you post that stuff on the internet about Trewaley?"
Gary put on his seat-belt. "Why? Because a lot of people died - including Patrick Arnott - to protect his dirty secrets. I couldn't let him get away with that."
"Hah. You never change, do you? When you were a cop, you were always fighting with the top brass."
"Yep, and Trewaley is much worse. Chopping him down is the best fun I've had in ages. I'm not a good man, but I'm a saint compared to him."
"So you're going to punish the world's crooks, one by one?"
"No, just the ones who wander into range."
Terry sighed. "You know, I believed in him. He talked a lot about his Christian values; I thought he was honest. But I should have remembered he was a property developer before he went into politics. Most of
them would kill for a buck."
"Sorry I burst your bubble."
A frown. "Shit, you know, I was looking forward to being pals with the Prime Minister, maybe even visiting The Lodge. That won't happen now."
"You think he'll lose the election?"
"Of course. The Conservative Party doesn't have a hope. People don't want a PM who's a big tax cheat."
"Will he lose this seat?"
"No, he'll hang on. There'll be a big swing against him, of course, but this is a Conservative Party bastion. Plenty of voters will hold their noses and vote for him."
"Including you?"
A sigh. "Yeah, including me."
"You're kidding?"
"No. I'm the treasurer of the local branch, for God's sake. I can't just abandon the party. It's a tribal thing. But I assume you won't vote for him."
"Only if I go insane."
Terry drove on for a while. "You know, it doesn't matter how many tax cheats they catch, there will always be plenty more. A few weeks ago, my accountant said my business is getting so big I should start looking at, umm, moving my money off-shore."
"To evade tax?"
"He didn't say that directly, but that was obviously the plan."
"What did you say?"
Terry glanced away. "I, umm, said I'll think about it."
"Well, don't."
A smile. "Don't worry, I won't. I've got to make sure there are no skeletons in my closet."
"Really? Why?"
"If Trewaley's forced to quit politics, the Conservative Party will probably need a new candidate for this seat - someone squeaky clean."
"Like you?"
Terry's eyes twinkled. "Why not?"