Cyanide Games: A Peter Tanner Thriller

by Richard Beasley

  The man at the urinal turned his head as far as he could. ‘Sorry about your wife,’ he repeated, more softly this time.

  ‘Is that some kind of joke?’

  ‘No,’ the man said. ‘I –’

  ‘What the fuck is it to you?’

  The man finished what he was doing and zipped himself up. He turned around slowly. Richter stood between him and the hand basins. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I was just –’

  ‘Keep your fucking mouth shut.’ Richter’s nostrils flared. His right hand, resting against his thigh, had formed into a fist. ‘Are you a member?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m . . . I’m a guest.’ The man would have to pass him to leave the bathroom.

  Richter was half a foot taller. He leant over the man, who moved back, nearly to the urinal behind him. ‘You even look at me again,’ he said, ‘and I’ll throw the whole fucking lot of you out.’

  The man nodded, said nothing. He waited until John had left the bathroom before leaving himself.

  • • •

  Klaudia and Elena were thinking about sharing a flat together, a few streets from Bondi Beach. The men found this out on their fourth round of rol and ryes.

  ‘I suppose you’re studying English lit as well?’ Richter said to Klaudia.

  She shook her head. She was seated on Justin Matheson’s lap. It was after three am. The club was winding down, only a handful of members and guests left. Elena sat next to Richter.

  ‘We met at our modelling agency.’

  ‘Models too? Which agency?’

  ‘Jade,’ Klaudia said. ‘Do you know it?’

  Richter froze for a moment, and Matheson looked at him. Jade had been the agency Nikki Richter had been with, when she’d still been Nikki Perovic.

  ‘By reputation,’ he said.

  ‘What kind of modelling do you do?’ Matheson asked.

  The girls looked at each other. ‘The usual,’ Klaudia said. ‘It was a gothic-glam shoot today, though.’ She grabbed hold of one of Elena’s hands, held it up and laughed. The Italian girl had ultra-long black fingernails.

  ‘Wow,’ Matheson said.

  ‘The usual has to include swimsuit, surely?’ Richer asked.

  Klaudia put her mouth next to Matheson’s ear. ‘Sometimes,’ she said.

  Matheson looked at Elena. ‘So, you’re studying English literature, you work here part time, and you pick up more spare cash as a swimsuit model?’

  She shrugged heavily, and smiled. Matheson picked up his drink and sipped while looking at Richter. He grinned, a bit lopsidedly. He was starting to slur his words. He’d been drinking since the start of a business lunch earlier that day, and the rol and ryes were taking their toll.

  ‘That’s always been your ultimate fantasy, hasn’t it, Jack?’ he said. ‘Beauty and brains?’

  • • •

  At three thirty am, Richter sent a text to his driver. A few words with the manager of Pantheon, and the hostesses had accepted a chauffeur-driven ride back to the Richter estate at Point Piper.

  Richter opened a bottle of champagne after they arrived. They were in the guesthouse his father had built next to the main house. He’d put John in it after he’d finished school. It had two palatial bedrooms, a huge lounge area, and a home theatre that seated ten in reclining chairs. They called it the Retreat.

  He put the champagne on a coffee table in the living room where he’d seated his guests. Matheson was on one lounge, Klaudia with a K on his lap. She was whispering in his ear again, but he looked in danger of falling asleep. Richter went back to the kitchen and opened half the cupboards. He cursed, and took another bottle from the fridge.

  ‘No champagne glasses,’ he said when he returned. ‘They’re . . . gone.’ He was about to say that they were still with fucking Nikki, but caught himself. He handed a bottle to Matheson, slammed his own hard into it, and they both took swigs. Klaudia laughed. Richter handed his bottle to Elena. ‘I’ll be right back,’ he said.

  When he returned, he threw the packet of powder on the coffee table. ‘Party time.’

  When he’d first started buying from his in-house lawyer, he was paying over four hundred dollars a gram. This annoyed him, because in the States or London he could buy it for half that price, although the quality varied. He asked the lawyer how much he was paying his dealer. The lawyer assured him no margin was involved. Richter asked for the dealer’s number. The lawyer though, with Citadel’s best interests in mind – and that of the heir to the throne – suggested it was safer for Richter to only come into contact with the product once it had been safely purchased. Richter agreed, but still baulked at the price. They settled on three fifty a gram, which reflected a compromise between the wholesale and street prices of the product. Richter told the lawyer later that negotiating the per-tonne price of iron ore with the Chinese was easier than dealing with him. And, unlike ore, the price of coke rarely dropped.

  Justin Matheson ran his hand through his hair and straightened up. ‘Is this still the most expensive blow in Sydney?’

  ‘I’ve negotiated a drop in price,’ Richter said, as he started cutting lines with his Pantheon member’s card. He bent and snorted. ‘But not in quality,’ he said when he’d finished.

  The coke didn’t prove the instant hit he expected. Matheson made a token attempt at doing a thin line. He’d had a bad reaction on two previous occasions, and wasn’t up for swollen nasal cavities again; he went back to intermittent swigs of the Krug, and laughing and giggling with Klaudia. She had a line too, but Elena required coaxing. ‘I like the champagne,’ she kept saying.

  ‘This is the stuff,’ Richter said. He was sitting next to her, putting his fingers in her hair. ‘Very pure.’

  Klaudia jumped off Matheson’s lap momentarily and picked up Richter’s red card. She cut a fine, short line, right in front of Elena. ‘Just this much for you, baby,’ she said. She leant towards Elena, and kissed her hard on the lips. She smiled, then put her lips to Elena’s ear. ‘It’s perfetto,’ she whispered.

  Another bottle of Krug was opened. Matheson took it in one hand, and led Klaudia away with the other. Richter watched them walk towards the corridor that ran down the back of the Retreat. He heard Klaudia shriek. Then he heard laughter. A door was shut firmly.

  ‘Music?’

  ‘No,’ Elena said.

  ‘I’d like you to dance.’

  ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘On coke?’

  She smiled. ‘It is many hours in the club today.’

  Richter ran his fingers through Elena’s long hair. He took a swig of champagne. The bottle was a third full, but the intensity of the bubbles had gone. He did another line of coke. It gave him a rush, but he was still waiting to feel like Superman; it was taking more and more to get there. He wanted to feel like he had once, the first time he’d taken it. Like the ruler of the world. He had the money to rule the world. He wanted to feel it.

  ‘How long have you been with Jade?’

  ‘Only my time in Australia.’

  ‘How long is that?’

  ‘Nearly one year.’

  He moved his fingers from her hair to her face, running his index finger over her lips. She recoiled by just the barest amount.

  Next to the couch, on a table with a lamp that was designed like a spotlight outside an old movie theatre, was his iPad. He picked it up, then turned his body away from her, so she couldn’t see the screen. In less than a minute he had what he was looking for.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. He held her face up to her. Then he scrolled down the screen. ‘And here,’ he said, holding the screen up again, ‘is Klaudia with a K.’

  She smiled, said nothing, and shifted in her seat.

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ he said. He touched her face on the screen, and thumbnail photos of her portfolio came up. On the left of the screen, her unadorned details. Five foot ten. Bust 33. Waist 26. Hips 35. Dress: 8. Shoes: 8. Hair: Brown. Eyes: Brown.

  ‘You’re in imperials,’ he s
aid. ‘They don’t do you justice.’ He flicked along the photos. ‘Amazing how you can look like an entirely different person,’ he said, ‘depending how your hair and make-up is done.’

  She said nothing.

  He magnified a photo of her in a black bikini. The top was tied together in a bow. ‘Nice,’ he said. He slowly ran a finger along her breasts on the screen. Some fashion shoots followed, all casual clothes. He kept flicking. ‘Whoa,’ he said, leaning towards her, raising his eyebrows. ‘This is more like it.’ He was looking at a series of photos taken for a line of lingerie. He used his fingers to enlarge the shot, and held it up to her. ‘Justin was wrong,’ he said. ‘This is my fantasy.’

  Elena stood up. ‘I’m not enjoying this.’

  He threw his iPad to the other couch and stood too. He reached out and grabbed her hand. ‘C’mon,’ he said. ‘This way.’

  He took a step towards his bedroom. She went with him briefly only because of his momentum and strength. Then she resisted, and pulled her hand from his grip.

  ‘I should go,’ she said.

  ‘C’mon.’

  ‘I’m very tired.’

  He smiled, and took her hand again. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. He moved forwards to kiss her.

  She stepped away.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m tired. I’d like to go.’

  ‘Sleep here,’ he said. He tried to take her other hand as well, but she pulled away from his grasp.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Please. I am really tired.’

  ‘There are no cabs around here.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll find one.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot.’ He spoke more loudly now, anger at the back of his voice.

  ‘I want to go,’ she said. She picked up her bag, and threw it over her shoulder.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’

  She walked past him, heading for the door. As she did, the bag hit his arm and dragged across his chest.

  He only meant to grab the bag. He was going to snatch it from her, and throw it against the door. Fucking tease. If she wanted to go, she could go. That was all he meant to do.

  The website for Jade Modelling Agency had her measurements. It did not have her weight. Had they divulged that, the Jade people would have said she was one hundred and seven pounds.

  He’d only meant to grab the bag. When he tore at it with all his force, though, she came with it.

  There was a loud bang as her head hit the coffee table. What was left of the cocaine he’d taken from the packet flew upwards in a small, precious cloud of dust.

  He thought at first that she was looking at him, that she would get up. She would be angry or scared. She might fly at him, or run. Then he saw that her lids were open, but her eyeballs were flickering. It was as though they were being controlled by rubber bands stretched to breaking point, straining to pull her eyes to the back of her head. Her left arm was held upwards and bent, like she was fending him off with her forearm. It was in spasm. Her body twitched twice, the second time so violently that he stepped backwards.

  He’d only meant to grab her bag.

  Slowly he leant down next to her, not sure whether to touch her. ‘Oh fuck,’ he whispered.

  He saw blood. A dark crimson stain on the beige carpet, coming from the back of her head. She made strange sounds from deep in her throat. A gargling noise.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said again. ‘Oh fuck.’

  She twitched once more. Her head moved upwards slightly. He nearly jumped in fright.

  ‘Elena?’ he said. ‘Elena?’

  He saw blood in one of her ears. Her right arm was still gripping her bag. Her left arm lowered slowly. The noise in her throat stopped.

  ‘Oh Jesus,’ he said.

  He sat down on the couch, and started rocking back and forth. He kept willing her to get up, to get out of his house. The bloodstain grew larger.

  He went to the kitchen. He picked up his phone, and then quickly put it down. He opened a drawer, and took out a set of keys. He went out the front door and walked through the garden. The wind had picked up. Leaves blew past him and into the pool. He walked to the main house and unlocked the French doors that led into his father’s study. Next to the wall, he punched a keypad to turn off the alarm. He closed the door carefully.

  He sat down behind the antique desk and picked up one of the three phones – the one he knew was secure. He checked his own mobile for the number. It was four fifty am. A man answered on the fourth ring.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s been – um . . . I need your help.’

  A long pause. ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s . . . a girl. I’m – I’m pretty sure she’s not breathing.’ He didn’t cry often. Not even when he was told Nikki had OD’d. When he said these words, though, he thought he might.

  There was another pause. ‘Fuck,’ the man said, sounding exhausted. Then, ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Your father’s house?’

  ‘I’m – yeah, I’m calling from there. But –’

  ‘Where’s the girl?’

  ‘Next door. Where I’m staying.’

  The man sighed. ‘Is this something I can handle on my own?’

  John Richter tried to think. He rocked back and forth in the chair. ‘Um, you know, I don’t think so . . . there’s . . .’

  ‘Are there drugs involved?’

  ‘Um, not much, yeah.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Coke.’

  ‘What else.’

  ‘Just coke.’

  ‘Your coke, John?’

  There was a pause. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Anyone else there?’

  ‘A friend of mine. And another girl.’

  ‘Christ,’ the man said slowly. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘In a bedroom. I think.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘They’re in a bedroom.’

  ‘Where’s the girl?’

  ‘She’s in the lounge.’

  ‘And how long has she not been breathing?’

  ‘Just now. Five minutes.’

  ‘Why is she not breathing?’

  Now John Richter paused. ‘She – it was an accident. She fell.’

  ‘Fuck you, John,’ the man said, his voice deep and hoarse. ‘Where is the coke?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Is it in a fucking plastic bag, is it – ?’

  ‘Yes. There’s some on the table, and the floor. The rest is in a plastic bag.’

  ‘Go back to the house. Don’t touch anything. Don’t touch her. Don’t call me from there.’

  ‘What do I do?’

  ‘Wait.’

  11

  On the plane to Shanghai, before he tried to sleep, Tanner thought back over the years he’d known Joe Cheung. He would have been amazed if Joe even once mildly exaggerated his time for a bill. The idea that he’d seek a bribe seemed ridiculous.

  Something Dennis Jackson had said had stuck with him, though. How well do you really know him? Tanner remembered Joe once telling him that was the strange thing about working in a big law firm: you could be partners with someone for years, yet never get to know them. You saw them under stress, or when they were too busy, or not busy enough. You were there when they were worried about a case or a file, or when they were fretting over some real or imagined mistake. Judging lawyers is fraught with danger; many want to do the right thing, but the game won’t let them.

  If there was a way of making a fortune quickly, even a dishonest way, would Cheung take it? The money was good for a partner at a big law firm, but it was no way to instant wealth. It was a long, hard grind.

  In his own practice, Tanner had many clients who were recalcitrant. Some seemed programmed to be violent; others had it beaten into them. Some wrecked their lives with a single moment of madness. There were other
s who had never appeared remotely capable of committing a crime until the day they did. Then you could look at the same life all over again, and see how the whole catastrophe was always inevitable.

  • • •

  Their flight touched down in Shanghai just after six am.

  ‘Why are you coming to China?’ the customs official asked Tanner.

  ‘To see a prisoner in one of your jails seemed provocative. ‘On business,’ he said, which was more or less the truth.

  The drive from the airport to the Grand Hyatt took nearly an hour. Tanner had at first booked a different hotel, but Melissa said she wanted to stay where Joe had been when the police came for him. ‘I just do,’ was all she’d said when he’d asked why.

  Their bags were put in storage until their rooms were ready later in the day. They weren’t due at the consulate until eight forty-five, so they took a table at the Grand Café in the hotel’s lobby near one of the huge windows. Melissa ordered tea, and Tanner coffee. They were silent for a few minutes, both anxious in their own way about what the day would reveal.

  ‘Joe called me from here,’ she said, looking out of the window. They were fifty-four floors up, and the other skyscrapers of Pudong were barely visible through the misty air.

  ‘When?’

  ‘The day he got here. He must’ve arrived at the same time as us. I’d just come back from dropping the boys at school.’ She took a sip of tea, and looked at him.

  ‘How did he sound?’

  ‘Tired. He told me he didn’t sleep on the plane. He said he was looking over Shanghai from the window. It must have been clearer than today.’ She smiled. ‘He said his coffee was too weak.’

  Tanner nodded. ‘I’ll stick to tea from now on.’

  ‘We’ve got a new machine at home,’ she said. ‘It takes him about an hour to make a cappuccino with it. He grinds the beans, makes sure the temperature of the milk is –’ She picked up her napkin, and dabbed at her eyes, looking at her reflection in the window. She shook her head and tried to smile. ‘Joe makes really good coffee, Peter.’

  It was a twenty-minute taxi ride across the Huangpu to the Australian Consulate. Before flying to Shanghai, Tanner had contacted some lawyers he knew who worked at firms with offices in China. He’d asked them to help find someone to act for Cheung. One recommended a lawyer called Yinshi Li, who was on a list provided by the consulate. Li agreed to be retained, and the plan was to meet at his office at eleven, after meeting with the consular officials. When they arrived at the consulate, though, they were told Li had just called to cancel the meeting.