Glebe eatery. I decided on lasagne. He bunged it in the microwave and I settled into it. It was a shame to leave it half eaten and not to drink more of the bottle of red he opened. He phoned his ex and arranged to call around to see his kids the following evening. That pained him and he took it out on his study where he made quite a mess.
He hadn’t changed out of his business clothes other than to loosen his tie and hang up his jacket. We left it there with his wallet in the pocket and his loose money and keys spilled out on the desk in his study.
‘You said something about blood.’
I’d established that Whitney wasn’t a smoker. I ran some water on two butts I’d picked up at the airport and left them in the sink. ‘Too melodramatic,’ I said. ‘This looks all right. Let’s go.’
I carried his laptop and manhandled him out to my car. I wasn’t gentle and the resistance he put up should have looked genuine. He took a look back at the house where we’d left a few lights burning.
‘No regrets?’ I said and gave him a moderate belt in the kidneys.
He grunted but still shook his head as I shoved him into the car. Once we got going he was quiet apart from giving me some help getting onto Sydney Road. I had a feeling he wasn’t going to be very stimulating company. Pity about the return business class seat, I thought. Must keep the petrol receipts.
On the outskirts Whitney sensed that I’d tensed up.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘We’re being followed,’ I said.
Whitney shivered as if he was cold, although the night was mild and he should have been comfortable enough in his shirt sleeves. ‘Can you see who it is?’
‘I’m not looking,’ I said. ‘A good driver can tell if someone he’s following is looking back. The trick is to pretend you haven’t noticed. That is if you want to get away.’
‘What else would you want to do?’
‘Confront them.’
He massaged his back where I’d hit him, maybe harder than I’d intended. ‘And what’s our strategy?’
I liked that. He wasn’t scared of a fight. ‘I haven’t decided yet,’ I said. ‘We’ll string along for a bit and see if they make a move.’
‘What sort of a car is it? Who’s got the power?’
‘I only caught a glimpse-Falcon or Commodore, maybe.’
‘They can outrun this.’
‘In my experience, Mr Whitney, it doesn’t come down to that. It comes down to manoeuvrability and who’s the most serious.’
‘Have you got a gun?’
‘You can’t take a firearm on domestic flights without a lot of paperwork.’
‘So, you don’t?’
‘I’ve got one. They don’t check the baggage the way they say they do. But come on, this is white collar crime, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, I don’t think anyone would come after me with a gun. I was thinking it’d look good if you displayed one.’
I kept my eye on the road and the traffic, drove and didn’t say anything. This Whitney was no fool and, while I didn’t mind him getting into the spirit of the thing, I didn’t want him taking over.
We went through Seymour and were between Euroa and Benalla when I noticed that the petrol gauge was showing half full, or half empty depending how you like to look at it. Two sly checks had told me the tail was still with us and I was getting tired of it.
‘D’you know this road?’ I asked Whitney.
‘I’ve driven it often enough.’
‘What’s at Violet Town?’
‘Nothing much. The highway bypasses it.’
‘What if you need to stop for petrol?’
He drew a deep breath. ‘Yeah, I’ve done that. Self-serve. Nothing open.’
‘Good. We’ll pull in there and see what gives.’
I took the exit to Violet Town and went slowly along the quiet, dark road that looked to be headed to nowhere. A set of headlights appeared behind me, not as far back as before and gaining. I pulled into a petrol station that had a self-serve sign glowing faintly with the third ‘e’ missing. I told Whitney to stay where he was, got out and tossed the car keys casually from hand to hand before making a show of feeling for coins in my pocket. I slipped the Smith amp; Wesson. 38 from the underarm holster and held it close to my body while I unscrewed the petrol cap.
A dark blue Commodore slid up behind the Pulsar and two men got out. I recognised them, not as individuals but as types. Muscle but not crude muscle; talking muscle, persuading muscle, convincing muscle. I mimed putting coins in the machine, unhooked the hose and stuck the nozzle in the opening. One car went by while this was happening and the nearest lights were some distance away through trees.
The men approached and stood a metre or so from me. Both about my size, one younger-dark shirt and pants, no tie; one the same vintage as me-blue shirt with loosened tie, cream trousers, lower half of a suit.
‘We’d like a word with Mr Whitney,’ the older one said.
I said, ‘No.’
The younger one took a step forward. ‘He’s telling, not asking.’
I pulled the nozzle out, gripped the hose and swung the metal end against the side of his head. He yelped and went down on one knee. The older one moved quickly, seeing me encumbered by the hose. He charged with his shoulder lowered, attempting to crowd me against the bowser. I took a bit of the shoulder but not enough to move me. I kicked at the back of his knee as he went past and made a lucky connection. He fell hard, bumping his head on the bitumen. The other man looked ready to have another go until I showed him the gun.
‘I said no and I meant it. Help your father back to the car and then you can compare notes on what went wrong.’
The trousers of that cream suit were going to need a good dry-clean and its owner looked shaken. I marched them back to their car. They didn’t resist and in a way I admired them. They hadn’t been briefed or paid for the heavy stuff and in their game you have to know exactly how far to go. They got in and I stood a little to one side with the pistol trained on the driver, the younger one. I pocketed the gun, took out my Swiss army knife and drove the long blade into the front passenger side tyre. A quick skip across and ditto on the other side. I took the gun out again and waved it at them before going back to my car, putting the petrol cap back and driving off.
Whitney was slumped in his seat looking drained, as if he’d done the work. ‘They’re going to wonder why I didn’t drive off,’ he said.
‘I showed them I had the keys. Have to hope they noticed.’
He glanced at me. ‘You thought of that?’
‘It’s not all just biff, Mr Whitney.’
‘How badly did you hurt them?’
‘Hardly touched ‘em. Hurt their pride more than anything. Still, it should do us some good. You keeping such poor company.’
As we headed up to the border I asked Whitney to tell me how the scam had worked. He seemed to be sliding into depression which wouldn’t do either of us any good and I thought that talking about the sort of stuff he knew might pick him up a bit. It worked. He sparked up.
‘They picked their marks-companies and individuals who’re happy to make losses for tax purposes. They paid enormous commissions and handling fees without a blink. When they did make losses the losses were inflated, when they made gains the money was swallowed up by the losses. The big money was made by using the clients’ money to trade successfully and then falsifying the results. They were shrewd, looked after the clients who were careful and played fast and loose with the careless ones. I know what you’re thinking-who cares if people with too much money get taken?’
I shrugged as best you can when you’re driving. We were back on the highway, moving smoothly with the usual mix of traffic-cars, trucks, caravans-and nothing suspicious in sight.
