Peter Corris
Taking Care of Business
A GIFT HORSE
Never look a gift horse in the mouth,’ my old grandma used to say. When I’d asked her why not she didn’t know, and she also didn’t seem to know what a gift horse was. She was an Irish gypsy but more Irish than gypsy, and it must have been a generation or two since her branch of the family had had anything to do with horses.
Grandma Lee’s phrase came to mind when I got a call from Sentinel Insurance offering me a surveillance job. A couple of things about that call: one, it almost certainly wasn’t intended for me. The Hartley Investigation agency, a Californian outfit, had recently begun operations in Sydney and their Yellow Pages listing came in immediately behind mine. I’d had a couple of mistaken calls and corrected the caller; but, point two, I couldn’t afford to turn this job down. Things were crook.
The GST hadn’t helped. Clients resent the investigator’s expenses as it is, and the ten percent on top of the fee and the expenses was a significant deterrent. A second factor was the advertising and respectable profile of the big agencies. In these times of corporate high power they looked more and more like merchant bankers or stockbrokers and less and less the way those of us in the caper used to look-that is, somewhat dodgy failures or retirees from other things.
‘It’s a simple surveillance matter,’ Bryce Carter, who announced himself as claims manager of Sentinel, said. ‘The subject has an income protection policy with us. She’s a landscape gardener who claims that a railway sleeper fell on her foot.’
‘Ouch,’ I said.
‘That’s as may be. By the way, who am I talking to?’
‘Hardy here.’
‘The Hartley Agency comes recommended.’
I cleared my throat. I must have misheard him. ‘I’m sure we can handle it.’
‘I’ll email you the details.’
‘We prefer fax for these matters, Mr Carter. More secure. Security is our watchword. I’ll give you the number.’
He swallowed it. I haven’t got around to email yet but I’ve found that everyone who uses it is aware that someone, somewhere could be reading them. Doesn’t stop them being indiscreet with their boyfriends, girlfriends or both.
I gave him the number and said I’d fax him a contract when I received his fax. My contract was headed Hardy Investigations, but with any luck he wouldn’t worry about it. Subcontracting, outsourcing, subsidiaries-who knows who’s doing what these days?
I read the ten-minute news summary and did the quick crossword in the Sydney Morning Herald then twiddled my thumbs, an indication of how slow things were, until the fax came through.
Rosanne Carroll had a couple of degrees in science and horticulture and she ran a business called Natural Landscaping from an address in Epping. In support of her insurance claims she’d submitted documents showing that her income over the past two tax years had averaged out at around eight hundred dollars a week. Not bad, I thought, but not vast wealth by any means, particularly because I suspected that some hard physical work was probably involved.
Her premiums were paid up and she was invoking the policy to claim her usual level of income for the six months it was estimated it would take her to recover from the injury. She’d provided a battery of doctor’s certificates to the effect that her left fibula had been fractured and there was damage to the tendons in the foot. Her lower leg was in a cast as of the day after the accident, now three weeks ago, and was expected to stay there for another three weeks. To quote the medico: ‘… some atrophy of the muscles in the foot can be expected and extensive physiotherapy will be required to restore full mobility.’
Ms Carroll also had an accident policy with the company and, with medical expenses thrown in, Sentinel was looking at a payout of more than twenty grand. As I looked through the papers I couldn’t help it-my sympathies were with Ms Carroll. For one thing I knew the injury was a nasty one, having broken a fibula a couple of years back- or rather, having had it broken for me by a baseball bat. For another, I carried similar insurance myself, resented the premiums and expected the company to come good if required. So far, on the couple of occasions I had needed to make a claim, everything had been sweet, if slow.
Against that, I knew that phoney insurance claims made the premiums higher for all concerned and that this kind of scamming was dead selfish. The amount of money involved was sufficient for Sentinel to insist on verification. Fair enough, I thought, although it wasn’t the sort of work I liked. But I disliked it less than I disliked the bills that were mounting up. Beggars can’t be choosers. Did Grandma Lee ever say that? I doubted it; when in need she could always slip into the gear and read a palm or two. I filled out the contract form, faxed it off and had it back, signed, within the hour. Licensed to snoop.
I rented a video camera, drove out to Epping and located Ms Carroll’s place of business. Natural Landscaping consisted of an old weatherboard house located on a double block of land adjoining what looked like a ten-hectare plant nursery. There were a couple of newish sheds on the land and a three-slot carport sheltering a late model Holden ute and a bobcat. One of the sheds was open and I got an impression of cement bags and tools. There were a couple of piles of sand and gravel with plastic sheets drawn over them. The operation looked, at an ignorant glance, neat and efficient.
I gathered this information from a slow cruise-by. I parked a hundred metres away and used my mobile to call the business number Sentinel had supplied along with some details on ‘the subject’. I scanned the details while the phone rang: age thirty-two, single, 177 centimetres, 75 kilos…
‘This call is being diverted to another number.’ More ringing.
‘You’ve called Rosanne Carroll at Natural Landscaping. If that’s Kay Fisher, Kay, I’m on the Morrissey job at 76 Ramsay Street, Baulkham Hills. Anyone else, please leave a message.’
Did someone drawing income support announce that they were ‘on the job’? Curious. My trusty Gregory’s told me the address wasn’t far away and I was there inside fifteen minutes. Number 76 in Ramsay Street was a corner block backing onto the Cumberland State Forest. Great views if you like trees and hills. By parking higher up I could look down into the back of the property where some work was going on. With the naked eye I could see two figures. My Zeiss glasses revealed them as two women, one in overalls laying turf, the other with a foot in plaster and supporting herself on crutches standing by, watching.
I cruised twenty metres closer, unshipped the video camera, adjusted the zoom lens and filmed the action, such as it was. Looked okay to me-injured boss supervising subcontractor. Increased overhead, income support needed and justified. All kosher, as long as she didn’t jump up and start helping to lay the sod or unload the truck drawn up near the job. I clicked off after a couple of minutes and lowered the camera. The work went on with the injured woman occasionally pointing and looking up at the sky. Rain was threatening. Did you want rain when laying turf? I didn’t know. Presumably she did know.
As I watched a white Toyota pulled up beside the back gate to the block. A woman got out, signalled to the woman on crutches, opened the gate and joined her. Had to be Kay Fisher. She helped the woman on crutches collect her belongings-shoulder bag, clipboard. The injured woman spoke to the worker and then, with the new arrival close by, made her way on the crutches to the car. She apparently needed help to get into the car and I could see what a difficult operation that was going to be so I filmed it. The car drove off and I followed. It stopped at a shopping centre and Kay got out and returned after a short time with some shopping bags. Back to Epping.
More help to get out of the car and up the steps to the house. It was three o’clock in the afternoon but the injured woman was visibly drooping with tiredness. She was helped inside. I didn’t bother filming any of this. I was convinced. Ten minutes later Kay emerged and took off. I jotted down the number of her car. I stayed where I was for an hour in case Ms Carroll came out in her tracksuit and took off up the hill. No show.
