Whitney sighed. ‘They’ve got into bed with some of these companies that’re stripping their assets and not paying redundant workers their due. There’s a lot of that going on at a fairly low level. Doesn’t attract media attention. But if you’re getting a good cut it mounts up.’
He had my interest now. I’d tried to nail an operation of this kind for some unionists and failed. The shields thrown up by lawyers and accountants were just too solid. Whitney fell silent and I had to jog him by telling him about my experience.
‘Yes, that’s the sort of thing. Look, it’s not so hard to steal money inside the system. Insider trading goes on every day. The real trick is to avoid tax and launder it. That’s where they’ve been extraordinarily clever.’
By the time we got to Wodonga I was tired. Rest stop in Albury, I thought. I’d had enough of financial shenanigans for now. ‘Just tell me one thing. Is Kenneth Bates the prime mover in this thing?’
I could feel the surprise and outrage run through him. ‘Good God, no. He’s the one who suggested that I take the steps I’m taking.’
I installed Whitney in Morgan’s Hotel in Victoria Street, Darlinghurst. It’s a small, low-key place-no mini-bar, help yourself breakfast, like that-but it has good security. You have to buzz from outside to get in, a touch Whitney appreciated.
The following morning I escorted him to the ASIC offices in King Street. Stuart Mackenzie was waiting for us.
I kept my distance while they were talking and looked about for things or people that shouldn’t be there. Everything appeared to be kosher; the men in the good suits were presumably lawyers. There were also a few in bad suits, bitter-looking types who I took to be ex-cops. Me in my linen jacket, open-neck shirt and slacks and the men in bad suits eyed each other suspiciously.
Overnight, Mackenzie had supplied Whitney with a suit, toilet gear and a briefcase. He was looking appropriately executive as he was led away with Mackenzie tagging along to be ‘debriefed’, whatever that meant. I sat down in a Swedish style armchair in pleasant surroundings and went over the notes on my expenses. They were mounting up- plane fare, Avis rental (with a penalty for not delivering it back in Melbourne), hotel bill on my card, at least initially. I was on my second day, therefore a thousand bucks to the good. In theory. I still didn’t have my contract with Mackenzie. I’d faxed my standard contract to him before leaving for Melbourne. I hadn’t been into the office since getting back. Maybe it was sitting in front of my fax machine (or, more likely, scattered over the floor), all signed and sealed. Maybe.
Waiting around is a big part of this game and you learn to find ways of filling in the time. A bit like acting. What was it Gary Cooper said? ‘I spent twenty years acting-one year acting, nineteen years waiting to act.’ Some do cryptic crosswords, some play cards, some play pocket billiards. I read. I settled into the comfortable chair and got on with Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. I was carried away by it and feeling that Savannah heat when I saw Mackenzie and Whitney approaching.
‘How’s it going?’ I said.
‘Not bad,’ Mackenzie said. ‘We’re continuing over lunch. They’re getting some food in. I thought I should let you know so you can take a break. I expect we’ll be finished by about three and we can decide what to do next then.’
Stuart was looking pretty pleased; Whitney was looking professionally neutral. He nodded at me, friendly enough for someone you’ve punched in the kidneys.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back here at two thirty.’
That gave me the better part of two hours; plenty of time to check the faxes in the office and have a salad sandwich and a glass of wine somewhere, maybe two glasses. I left the building and was taking the steps to the street level when my right arm was gripped solidly.
‘Police, Mr Hardy,’ a voice said in my ear. ‘Let’s take it nice and quietly, shall we?’
A big body loomed up in front of me and I was wedged between the two of them. The one holding me flashed his card and the other one helped himself to my pistol. They were both big and very good; their bodies concealed what was happening from the passers-by and then we were moving in unison towards the kerb as if this was as much my idea as theirs. I was bundled into a police car and off down King Street in one smooth movement and I knew I could forget about my quiet lunch.
I settled back against the seat and tried to relax. ‘How about some names and a hint as to what this’s all about?’
Two cards came out. ‘I’m Detective Constable Masters and this is DC Quist,’ the one who’d applied the expert arm grip said. ‘A serious charge may be laid against you, Mr Hardy. We’re going to Darlinghurst to talk about it.’
‘One of my favourite places. I’ve got some good friends there.’
‘You might need them,’ Quist said.
‘Quist,’ I said. ‘Any relation to Adrian, the tennis player?’
He looked at me as if I’d spat on his shoes and didn’t reply. No sense of history.
They took me to a room I’d been in before, or the one next to it or one across the passage. They’re all the same, nothing like the old sweat and smoke smelling holes with rising damp and flaking paint. Your modern interview room, while not exactly designed to make you feel comfortable isn’t set up to put the fear of God into you. It’s austerely appointed and efficient-looking with practical chairs and tables and recording equipment that works without needing to be kicked. In a way, it’s worse. In the old days the cowboy cops could lose it and, although it might cost you a few bruises, you could sometimes get the better of them when cooler heads prevailed. Not so now-you feel processed.
‘According to our information,’ Masters began, ‘you assaulted two men near Violet Town in Victoria last night. You caused physical injuries and menaced them with a firearm.’
‘No,’ I said.
‘You deny you were in Violet Town?’
‘I want to lay a counter complaint against two men who followed me from Melbourne and when I stopped for petrol attempted to abduct my passenger. I used a controlled amount of force to prevent that happening.’
Quist looked at his notebook. ‘You call bashing a guy with a petrol pump and dislocating a knee controlled force?’
‘Under the circumstances, yes.’
‘What about the gun?’ Masters said.
‘I’m licensed to carry it.’
‘How did you get it to Victoria?’
‘It flew.’
‘Unless we can see the paperwork, that’s a serious breach of the regulations. Your PEA licence looks shaky, Hardy. I assume your passenger was a client?’
‘In a way.’
‘Would there be a contract for your services?’
Trying not to show any undue concern, I leaned back in the chair and studied them. They weren’t the old- style knuckleduster, brown paper bag cops. They were players by the rules, obeyers of orders. The trouble was the people giving the orders were often obeying orders themselves and so on along a chain that ended up with someone who didn’t give a shit about the rules. It was pretty clear that this was some kind of diversionary tactic, designed to separate me from Whitney for a period. Someone with influence was taking an interest in the matter, and that interest was hostile to mine.
‘Viv Garner,’ I said.
Masters looked at Quist and Quist looked at Masters. ‘What?’ Masters said.
‘My solicitor.’ I fished out my wallet and handed over a card. ‘I’m not saying a word until he gets here, and probably not then.’
Masters nodded and took the card. They both got up and left the room. They’d done what they’d been told to do and now they had to ask what to do next. I knew what I had to do-worry about what might happen to Whitney when I didn’t turn up to nursemaid him at two thirty. Thank God for mobile phones, I thought. I took mine off my belt intending to call Mackenzie’s office number. They’d have Stuart’s mobile number and I could instruct
