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, which prided itself on its investigative journalism. I'd Googled him and got the essential details-aged thirty-two, ex-army with service in Timor and the Solomon Islands, master's degree in economics, keen rock climber. He'd published two books-one on corporate fraud, one on rock climbing. I phoned Sabatini and he agreed to meet me for lunch in a pub close by.
I called Standish's mobile and was told that it was either switched off or out of range. He was living in a serviced apartment in Potts Point. I called the direct line to his flat and got the standard Telstra voice message. I asked him to call me as soon as possible. Then I phoned Standish's office and got May Ling.
'It's Cliff Hardy. Mr Standish, please.'
'I'm afraid Mr Standish isn't available, Mr Hardy.'
She made it sound as if she was doing me a favour giving me this information.
'Why?'
'He's away on business.'
'Where? For how long?'
'I'm not at liberty to say.'
'It's important. How can I reach him?'
'I can't help you. I'm sorry. I'll tell him you called.'
'When?'
'When he returns.'
'I hope you can keep everything running smoothly until then.'
'I think so. Goodbye.'
I just bet you can, I thought.
A frustrating morning, requiring a relaxation of a rule. I went to the pub Sabatini had nominated, the John Curtin, and ordered a middy of Pure Blonde-low carb, nothing you couldn't work off in a gym session. Sabatini's photograph, postage stamp-size, had appeared at the top of his articles and I had no trouble recognising him when he strolled into the pub. The surprise was that he seemed to recognise me. We shook hands.
'We've met, sort of,' he said.
He was short-medium, neatly put together, with dark hair and a beard. He wore the clothes favoured by some in his profession-suit, dark shirt, dark tie loosely knotted. I couldn't place him.
'I worked with Lily Truscott on a few things a while back. I was at the wake.'
I nodded. 'It's a bit of a blur to me now. What're you drinking?'
He ordered red wine and I had one as well to go with the pasta. We ate at an outside table in Liverpool Street. I told Sabatini more or less the truth-that I'd been hired by someone who believed that Richard Malouf was still alive and wanted redress. No name, of course. I said that the person who'd claimed to have seen Malouf after his reported death was also dead. I said I'd read his articles and thought he'd be interested if any of this turned out to be true.
'You bet I'd be interested.'
'Did you have any reason to think the death might've been faked?'
'No, he was a notorious gambler and womaniser. Any number of people could've been out to get him.'
'But an execution seems a bit… extreme.'
'I did think that at the time, and I did wonder why he hadn't taken the Qantas option when he'd got hold of the money. You can gamble and fuck in comfort just about anywhere.'
'If you were at the wake you must know about me. They took away my PEA licence. I've got no standing. Malouf stripped me of a fair bit of money, but here's something in your line-he left me with a bunch of shares that have a big call on them. I'm facing bankruptcy. That's my interest, plus it was Lily's money, really. I was trying to do a bit of good with it here and there. I'm angry.'
That was coming it a bit strong, but I needed his help and I can be manipulative when I have to be. We both worked on the pasta and the wine for a few minutes while the foot traffic drifted past us.
I said, 'If this thing takes shape you'll get whatever I have to give.'
He scooped up the last of his ravioli and took a sip of the wine. 'Thanks. I can understand where you're coming from. But how can I help now?'
'We've got two dead people connected to this-possibly. I've got the feeling that there's much more to the
