Turn A Blind Eye

by Neil A. White

  At their court martial their lawyer argued the deaths of the eight villagers were the result of extensive questioning in search of information about the attack. The army disagreed and called it cold-blooded murder. The legal teams on both sides eventually agreed upon a dishonourable discharge rather than a lengthy prison sentence and unwanted media attention. In the fog of war, some things were best swept under the rug.

  The two men then drifted in and out of mercenary work for the next 18 months, before the opportunity to work for their current employer fortuitously arrived. The private investigation firm, based in the Channel Islands, rewarded them handsomely for their sporadic assignments. They’d never visited the head office; all communications went through encrypted email. Nor did they care. So long as the money appeared in their accounts on schedule, putting a face to the name of Howarth Investigations was of little concern.

  The man in the passenger seat straightened.

  Looks like he’s on the move. Follow him and see where he leads us.

  The Opel Astra backed out of the driveway and accelerated away along Prospect Square. The driver, the taller of the two men, placed his Styrofoam cup into the cup holder by his side and shifted into drive.

  Time to earn their pay.

  Melbourne, Australia

  Thursday, March 24

  Thom Lewis paced impatiently back and forth on the third level of the parking garage. Not a breath of wind blew through the concrete structure, and the stagnant air was rife with the smell of exhaust fumes and motor oil. He wasn’t accustomed to being summoned to meetings and certainly didn’t abide tardiness, even if it was the senior partner of Williams & Teacher.

  Adding to his frustration was the information Lenny Mansfield dropped in his lap that morning. With the Asian markets in turmoil, he hated to waste time on a trivial security concern of Lenny’s. But he’d already put-off meeting with the security man for two days; he quickly wished he hadn’t.

  Now, Ambrose Sinclair requested to meet. ‘Extremely vital,’ he’d emphasised on the phone. He could picture Sinclair punching the air with an index figure to accentuate the point as he spat the words into the phone. But, he thought, wasn’t it always the case with Sinclair? Why he let the man get under his skin was a puzzle, and his inability to control the situation a further irritant.

  The pall of carbon monoxide continued to swirl around him, and he could sense the first inklings of a headache. He just wished Sinclair would show, the sooner to get the meeting over with the better. Thanks to Lenny and the information he’d dumped in his lap, important decisions needed to be made.

  Thom glanced up from checking his watch to see a sleek black Mercedes-Maybach S600 swing into view from the level below. It glided to a stop, and he quickly opened the rear door.

  Ambrose Sinclair sat on the far side of the lavish back seat; the richly-grained leather upholstery let out a small squeak as Thom Lewis slid into the seat beside him.

  Glad you could join me on such short notice.

  I didn’t know I had a choice, Ambrose.

  Take us down towards Frankston would you, Grigor. And on the beach road, please. The bay will look splendid on a beautiful day such as this.

  The driver then raised the partition between front and back seats, and with the dark tinted windows, the two men sat in an eerily dark and silent cocoon. Thom breathed deeply of the fresh, cool, circulating air and hoped it sufficient to quell the pounding in his temples.

  I don’t have time for a scenic drive, Ambrose.

  Yes… you do, Thom. And you’ll also make time for this conversation. But before we get started, how is business? Our friends in Spain were enquiring as to how their investment was coming along.

  Thom stared out the window as the Mercedes cruised by the shops on Toorak Road. So, this is how it’s going to be, he thought. Sinclair, letting him know who’s in charge. Like a dog pissing on a lamppost to mark his territory.

  When his bank ran into financial difficulties a few years back, Ambrose Sinclair offered to help find interim funding to keep it afloat. At the time, the loan from the private Spanish bank saved the bank from insolvency. Now, it hung like an anchor around his neck, and with Sinclair in position to tug gently on the chain whenever he desired.

  A more submissive Thom answered.

  What do you need, Ambrose?

  Grigor turned left onto Punt Road and headed south towards St Kilda Junction. Midday traffic was unusually heavy with commuters leaving work early to get a head-start on the Easter weekend. With the Mercedes mired in traffic, Thom stared blankly at the progress of two female joggers across the road in Fawkner Park.

  Sinclair turned slightly towards Thom and crossed left leg over right.

  How well do you trust Eric Mullane?

  Not the question Thom expected.

  Eric? Eric’s my most trusted banker.

  For the next 20 minutes, a silent Thom listened as Sinclair laid out what he’d discovered: The attempted hack on the firm’s infrastructure. The successful hack of Garth O’Neal’s workstation. What files were compromised and for what purpose was still unclear. But when digging deeper, the little Sinclair unearthed within Garth’s archives was bad enough. He shared with Thom the role Eric played in Garth’s little scheme. The hospice fraud. The offshore accounts. The shell corporations.

  Ambrose Sinclair wasn’t yet able to put a dollar figure to the pair’s little undertaking, but Thom had a very good idea. Utilising the information received from Lenny Mansfield, he’d researched each of the accounts brought to his attention. Thom, at first glance, merely thought he’d a nosy assistant on his hands, now he knew it went much deeper.

  So, what you’re telling me is Eric and Garth are defrauding the patients at the hospice, as well as the Australian government?

  Correct, Thom. Fraudulent accounts from which they are syphoning off funds to their offshore accounts.

  Ambrose let those words sink in for a moment. In the silence, Thom noted the pressing pain in his skull tick up a notch. And, with this dire situation sinking in, doubted it would subside anytime soon.

  Thom took a deep breath and realised it best he be upfront with his business partner and benefactor.

  It goes even deeper, Ambrose. Eric is also trading on those accounts. So, you can add securities fraud to the list as well. My question is, how does a simpleton like Garth O’Neal know how to set all this up?

  They’d reached the Ormond Esplanade, and as Ambrose peered out across the bay’s vista he contemplated how much he should share with Thom Lewis. He watched a seagull circle overhead, before diving kamikaze style toward the shallows.

  All or nothing, he thought.

  Because that is precisely what he does for my firm. His speciality is setting up offshore accounts and tax havens for our clients. What his motivation is, I can’t say. To hazard a guess, I’d say he’s tired of hiding hundreds of millions on behalf of our clients and only receiving a pittance in return. And, Eric’s motivation?

  Easy. He’s just flat-out greedy. It’s what I’ve always liked about him. I just didn’t know he’d be so fucking stupid to put both himself and the bank at risk.

  Grigor slowed the Mercedes, turned right into the foreshore reserve at Brighton Beach and parked facing the bay. The small lot empty but for one other vehicle; an unoccupied black Toyota ten parking spaces away.

  Let’s take a walk, shall we?

  The two men headed north along the shoreline trail. Ahead, in the distance, the Melbourne skyline appeared to rise from the water, shimmering in the sun’s glare.

  Garth has become a liability to my firm and will be dealt with accordingly.

  Thom blanched at the statement’s delivery. The level of disdain palpable, so matter-of-fact and dismissive.

  You’ll turn him in? Aren’t you afraid of what he’ll tell the police about your operation?

  Ambrose threw his head back and let loose an enormous laugh which shook his entire body. An elderly lady walking her dog along the
foreshore turned in their direction. Her Irish Setter paid them no mind and continued to lope ahead through the shallows.

  Oh, Thom. I don’t think you know who you are dealing with here. No, we won’t turn him into the police. And exactly how we deal with him is not your concern.

  Ambrose resumed his measured pace along the trail, Thom a half a step behind trying not to look submissive in the man’s wake.

  The next question is how best to deal with Eric? For obvious reasons, the police cannot get wind of this. You must keep Eric on a short leash until the fraudulent accounts are expunged and the damage he’s caused mitigated. Then, once the dust settles, he needs to disappear. He is a liability who cannot be allowed to remain in plain view.

  Okay, Ambrose. I’ll make the necessary personnel changes, but my over-riding priority is to ensure as little upheaval as possible within the bank. I won’t abide seeing the Southern Cross brand dragged through the mud; it’s involvement in this affair can’t become fodder for the vultures in the press.

  Ambrose came to a halt, leant forward to grip one of the wooden rails marking the trail and looked out over the water. Thom noticed the elderly lawyer’s face turning a light shade of crimson. Like a storm building on the horizon.

  Involved? You don’t want to be involved? I don’t believe you are fully grasping the implications of this situation, dear boy. Just who exactly do you think I am? Just what exactly do you think my firm does?

  Thom stood firm, gazing out to sea, but inwardly the implications of Ambrose’s words began to find their mark. He could feel his command of events slipping from his grasp, his body shrinking in upon itself.

  The next words spoken were measured and forceful, like a knife to Thom’s heart.

  How exactly do you think my firm raised your $20 million loan? Do you honestly believe we just happened to find a friendly Spanish bank? In the middle of the world’s financial melt-down?

  As the import of his words hit home, Ambrose turned from the forlorn banker and gazed out over the bay. He gulped in large amounts of the fresh sea air to calm his breathing. He could taste the salt on his tongue, and the smell of decaying marine life filled his nostrils.

  Turning back, Ambrose switched to a more soothing tone.

  Your bank… Thom… is only a very tiny cog in my firm’s extensive worldwide operation. However, it only takes one small cog to malfunction for the gears to grind to a halt. You’re already involved, dear boy. Very much so. Right up to your baby-blue eyeballs.

  They’d completed a circuit of the trail and stopped a few metres from the Mercedes. To Thom’s right stood a sandstone memorial to those fallen in the Great War. He swallowed hard trying to summon just one ounce of their courage. He knew he’d fall far short.

  I’ll take care of this situation immediately.

  Good, then I fully expect we can put this nasty matter behind us.

  Grigor held the rear door open, and while Ambrose folded one leg inside the cabin, Thom spoke.

  Not exactly. We may have one other small problem.

  Driving back to the city, Thom shared the additional information provided earlier by his security chief. Ambrose’s response to the news of a further leak was subdued but not unexpected.

  Thom stared out the tinted windows and watched the beachside suburbs slide by; Brighton, Elwood, St Kilda. While waiting for a green light at Carlisle Street, he attempted to order his thoughts. He was in danger of losing everything, and his mind a jumble of conflicted emotions searching for a coherent plan of action.

  Across the street, the huge, gaping, grin of the clown’s mouth guarding the entrance to Luna Park seemed to mock him and the pure folly of his actions.

  Bray, Ireland

  Thursday, March 24

  Eamonn Mahoney sat at the small kitchen table and gazed through the window opening onto the home’s slender backyard. Flagstone pavers zigzagged from the steps by the back door to a small shed positioned snugly against the back fence. By the shed door, a wheelbarrow, half filled with dirt and weeds, waited patiently to be parked inside out of the rain. The small patch of grass needed mowing but its neglect was understandable, the man making coffee bore far weightier issues.

  Do you want milk with your coffee or a drop of the Bushmills?

  Eamonn didn’t anticipate spending the night in Bray, but then again, he also didn’t expect to turn up on the man’s doorstep the day he buried his wife.

  ’Tis a little early for me, just milk will be grand.

  Sam placed the coffee cup in front of the man he now knew as Eamonn Mahoney and joined him at the kitchen table.

  I appreciate you joining me yesterday and paying your respects to my wife. I must admit, when you first introduced yourself, I wanted to beat the livin’ shite out of ya. If it wasn’t for your kind, my Marnie would still be here.

  Aye, I understand. ‘Tis a lonely road we’ve set ourselves upon. But bein’ here is the least I could do for an old soldier.

  The two men sipped their coffee, both wondering what the respectful amount of time was before asking the questions they each wanted answered. They’d reached an uneasy truce the night before out of respect for Sam’s wife.

  Sam, found he could wait no longer.

  Eamonn… I’ve been around long enough to recognise an accident from an accident. Do you know what I mean?

  Aye, I do. And, Sam, that’s why I’m here.

  So why did you lot have her killed? I’ve always been loyal. I just want to know. Dammit, I deserve to know!

  Sam broke eye-contact with Eamonn, turned, and began pacing back and forth in the small kitchen.

  Eamonn picked at a loose thread on his cardigan hoping to buy a little time, and for the storm clouds gathering over Sam to pass.

  Aye, that you do. But you’re asking the wrong man. I’ve come looking for me own answers. Like why were you chosen for a second job?

  How am I supposed to know? Your people were the ones calling me! Remember? Jaysus, I swear on my poor wife’s grave I’d never betray the cause.

  Sam clenched and unclenched his fists with rage; his face the colour of a screaming newborn.

  I know, I know. Calm down, Sam. It was more a rhetorical question. I’m trying to figure this mess out too.

  And why did you cancel the job at the last minute?

  Believe me, Sam. It wasn’t me. The only conclusion I can draw is someone got spooked.

  Spooked? Enough to kill my Marnie? And by who?

  Sam halted his pacing and stared out the kitchen window as if searching for an answer amongst the overgrown garden. Eamonn followed his gaze for a time before fixing his attention on the refrigerator’s brushed chrome panels. An upcoming church fête notice held pride of place, beside it a clump of grocery coupons, and beneath a kitchen magnet in the shape of the Roman Coliseum, two tickets.

  Eamonn stood and plucked the tickets from under the magnet. Two passes for the ferry from Dublin to Holyhead destined to go unused.

  Sam noticed what Eamonn held in his hand and sighed.

  Huh, guess I won’t be needing those any longer. And, I suppose, you’ll be wanting back the travel money too.

  For Eamonn, the mist began to clear. A week before the robberies, as with each operation, he’d supplied the five primary agents with ferry tickets and cash to start them on their way.

  No, you can keep it.

  A note of trepidation now in Eamonn’s voice.

  I’m assuming Marnie knew of the trip then?

  Sam leant against the kitchen counter, his anger spent, his voice heavy with grief.

  Aye, of course. She was a smart one, my Marnie. She wasn’t too happy about the job, but the prospect of a second vacation to Rome helped soothe her fears. We were going to visit Vatican City this time. We’d not enough time on the last trip.

  She wouldn’t have told anyone about your holiday, would she?

  Marnie? No, she wasn’t one to brag to her friends. With my background, she knew better. Outside of me, only God knew
what was going on in that one’s head.

  Eamonn began to assemble the missing pieces, somehow Marnie must have let slip about their impending travel plans… or worse. It explained both her accident and the operation’s hasty cancellation.

  Knowing who the parties were at risk, Eamonn worked off of a hunch.

  Your Marnie was a big one for the church, was she?

  Oh aye, she was always volunteering at the church for one thing or another. The Most Holy Redeemer she attended, just down the way. You met Father Crowley yesterday.

  And was she one to speak freely with the Father? Perhaps go to confession?

  Indeed. It cleansed her soul, she said… she… Oh, Jaysus.

  The colour drained from Sam’s face as his recollections of yesterday’s funeral returned. He slumped into a kitchen chair, his rough workman’s hands massaging his face.

  His next words were barely audible to Eamonn.

  Father Crowley asked yesterday if I’d still be taking the trip we planned. I told him no, I’d cancelled it. He said that was probably a good thing then. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. What with all… oh, Marnie.