When I’d finished surfing the net, I rang a friend who reported for the Australian Financial Review and mentioned I was going to interview Potter. I asked what the billionaire was like.
My friend laughed. "George Potter makes the politicians you hang around with look like sissy boys. He’s tough, ruthless and very, very secretive, so I’m surprised he’ll talk to you. He usually doesn’t talk to the press."
"Why not?"
"Because he doesn’t like people poking their noses into his business."
"Why? What’s he got to hide?"
"Are you kidding? You don’t become a billionaire without breaking a lot of laws and having dozens of skeletons in your closet. Don’t forget what Balzac said..."
"Perhaps you’ll remind me."
"He said that ‘Behind every great fortune is a great crime’. Potter’s no different. If you want my advice, don’t ask any difficult questions."
"What'll happen if I do?"
"My friend laughed louder. "You might end up propping up one of his buildings."
"You’re joking, right?"
My friend paused and sounded serious. "You know, I’m not sure."
"Thanks. You’ve put my mind at ease."
I hung up. Maybe interviewing Potter was a really duff idea. But I couldn’t back out now. Too many questions needed answers.
Potter Tower was a gleaming 64-storey spike just behind Circular Quay. The next morning I joined a stream of luminous young professionals trekking through the lobby. I wore my number-one suit, which would be barred from entering their wardrobes. My barber-shop haircut and the huge bandage on my forehead also cost me style points.
I squeezed into a crowded lift and pressed the button for the top floor. The lift rose and steadily decanted passengers until I was alone. My hands trembled and upper-lip glistened with sweat. Even my bravado was gone.
At the top floor, the lift doors opened and I found myself in a large white-marble reception area. The receptionist had high cheek-bones and pouty lips. She sat behind an antique huon-pine desk. Both had well sculpted legs.
I explained my business. She asked me to take a seat and made a phone call.
A heavy black-leather couch sucked me into its embrace. A few minutes later, a panelled door opened and a woman in her early forties - sharply dressed, fine-featured and proudly grey - headed towards me, wondering why her boss wanted to see someone so poorly dressed.
She said: "Hello. I’m Beverley Harper, Mr Potter’s secretary. Please follow me."
She led me through the panelled door and down a corridor with offices on both sides. The Australian impressionist paintings on the walls looked sadly out of place. She took me through the last door on the right, into an enormous office with panoramic city views. It was the sort of room in which people plotted world domination.
Some distance from the door was a large granite-topped desk. George Potter sat behind it, watching us.
We hiked towards him across a wide expanse of thick carpet. Universes expanded and collapsed, galaxies disappeared, and stars turned to hot giants and fizzed out before we reached his desk. Not wanting to keep him waiting, I almost broke into a trot.
He was in his early sixties, with thick grey hair and a blunt face that looked like it belonged under a hard-hat. He took off his reading glasses, tossed them down and came around the desk, eyeing me suspiciously.
Despite his heavy build and big hands - which could easily strangle me - he was light on his feet. Did he look capable of having two women murdered and trying to have me iced as well? You bet. My balls started to shrivel.
Near the desk were two enormous leather couches, facing each other across an antique wooden chest.
"This is Mr Ryder," Beverley Harper said.
Still looking suspicious, he said gruffly: "OK. Leave him here. Don’t stay."
As the secretary left, he pointed towards a couch. "Sit."
I sat, pulled out my tape recorder, turned it on and put it on the wooden chest.
He sat opposite and glared. "You’re not recording this."
"I want to make sure my quotes are accurate."
"Turn it off."
"But …"
"Turn it off. You can make notes."
I reached over, turned off the tape recorder, and pulled out my notepad and pen.
He said: "You want to chat about Vincent Martin?"
"Yes. I understand you know him well."
"That’s right. Known him for about 15 years. When he was a barrister he often appeared for my companies. I also know his wife, Roberta. Lovely woman."
While speaking, he looked straight at me, sizing me up, probably wondering how his goons could have failed to murder me. Despite feeling queasy, I stared back.
I said: "When did you realise he had a big future in politics?"
"As soon as I clapped eyes on him, it was obvious he was different, stood out from the crowd. So when the time was ripe, I helped him find a safe seat."
"Do you regard him as your protégé?"
"Of course not. I’m the President of the NSW branch. It’s my job to ensure we send talented people to Canberra. Vincent was very talented and I was happy to help him."
"Do you talk to him often?"
"He sometimes turns to me for advice. But I’m sure he asks a lot of people for that. All good politicians do."
"Umm, what would you say are his strengths and weaknesses?" The loud-mouth spectator who sits in the bleachers behind my eyes jumped up and yelled that was a fucking stupid question. I ignored him.
Potter responded with a long spiel about Martin’s intelligence, imagination and honesty. I pretended to make notes, but was just doodling.
"…he’s someone who really has a big vision for this country. If he does become Prime Minister, he won’t just be a time-server. He’ll make things happen."
He talked as if dictating a memo. Then he glanced at his watch and leaned forward ominously. "Is that enough? Any more questions?"
A lump formed in my throat. "Yes. Just a few more."
"What about?"
I paused. The skirmishing was over. Now I had to start asking hard questions or go home. I was strongly tempted to do the later. However, I've always hated the rich and powerful, without exception, and had quickly grown immune to this guy's aura. He was just another smug corporate bully who, in a decent society, would be in gaol. Nor could I forget that two goons made me run for my life. Though I'm far from brave, anger and envy gave me just enough strength to plunge forward. "Umm, when I was researching this article, I saw you had an association with Jack Cooper, who recently …"
His face went hard as granite. I half expected him to leap over the antique chest and throttle me. Stupidly, I prepared to shield behind my notepad.
He snapped: "We’ve never had an association."
"Oh, umm, well, he got murdered in Canberra yesterday and …"
"We never had an association, understand?" he snarled. "Never. And if you print anything which suggests we did, I’ll sue you and your grubby little rag for every cent you’ve got." He stood and glared down at me. "So, if you want to stay healthy you'd better keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you. Have I made myself clear?"
Very, very clear. Couldn’t be clearer. He obviously did have a close association with Jack Cooper and employed the goon to attack me. Jesus. My courage evaporated under the white heat of his glare. Time to beat a hasty retreat back to Canberra. I spoke with lots of vibrato. "Don’t worry. I wasn’t trying to suggest anything. I mean, I’m not going to print anything that might upset you. So don’t worry."
He frowned: "Good. I’m glad we see eye to eye."
I was desperate to get out of there. I closed my notepad and tucked away my pen. "Thank you for talking to me. I’ll be on my way."
As I started to rise, he showed his palms, ominously. "Don’t go just yet. There’s one further matter we have to discuss."
I stayed seated. "What?"
"I understand you m
ay have an item I’m trying to acquire. Give it to me and I’ll pay you a very large sum."
"Really? What item?"
"An item you received from a woman called Joanna Parker."
Potter wasn’t the first person to assume I’d received an important item from her. So did the PM’s adviser, Richard Reston.
I now realised that Potter must have dispatched Cooper to Canberra to recover that item from me. Cooper’s mandate included kidnapping, torture and possibly murder.
I just wished I knew what the hell I was supposed to have that was so important, and dangerous. "I don’t know what you’re talking about. What item?"
He glared down at me. "Don’t play games with me, Mr Ryder. As I’ve said, if you give it to me I’m prepared to be very, very generous."
I shook my head. "I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Absolutely none."
He gave me a long stare, still sizing me up. He obviously concluded I was a weak bastard who, if I had the item, would have surrendered it for the money, because he shook his head unhappily. "You don’t, do you?"
"No, I don’t."
He made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. "Alright then. I’ve wasted enough time on you. Get out of here."
I leapt to my feet.
He scowled. "And just remember to keep your nose out of my business. As I said, your health depends upon it."
Maybe I should have laughed in his face and flung back a few threats of my own. But fear curdled my blood and snap-froze my brain. "You shouldn’t threaten me," was the best I could manage.
"Oh, I’m doing more than that," he snarled. To my surprise, he stepped over to the window and looked down at the street. "You know how long it took me to build this tower?"
I edged towards the door. "Ah, no."
He turned and glared. "Seven months. Just seven fucking months. So if you think I’ll let a piss-weak little bastard like you get in my way, you must be fucking kidding."
His anger was mesmerising. I almost agreed with him. Instead, I took a step back and almost tripped. "I’m going, I’m going."
"Good. Get the fuck out of here." He spun around and headed back towards his desk.
I left Potter Tower and stepped onto the pavement, hands still trembling. The building created a cold shadow. I looked up. Jesus, it was big. It seemed to lean forward, as if about to fall over and bury me. I scurried away.
I’d learnt three things from my interview with Potter. The first was that Potter had something to do with the deaths of Yvonne and Joanna Parker, though I wasn’t sure what. The second was that he sent Cooper to recover, from me, an item that Joanna Parker once had in her possession. And lastly that, if I kept snooping around, he’d probably have me killed.
The last revelation dwarfed the others. From now on, I’d stop trying to be a hero. No more poking about. Whatever Potter wanted to hide could stay hidden. Three billion dollars had won him that right.
Having finally listened to the coward inside me, I felt much more at peace with myself.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In less than 24 hours, Government MPs would meet to decide the leadership struggle between the Prime Minister and Vincent Martin. I was anxious to get back to Canberra and monitor events.
I caught a taxi to Sydney Airport and then the first plane back to Canberra. It touched down just after eleven.
I’d left my car at the airport overnight. I got behind the wheel and headed for Parliament House. After passing Duntroon Military Academy, I crossed over Kings Avenue Bridge. While passing through Barton I saw a two-storey tinted-glass building with a big sign on the roof: "Hot Bod Fitness Centre".
Someone had recently mentioned the centre to me. Who? And why? Then I recalled that Bob Douglas’ receptionist said Joanna Parker often trained there. She loved working out.
Not anymore.
After meeting George Potter, I resolved to stop snooping around. I’d let sleeping dogs lie. Yet I kept wondering about the missing item that George Potter and the PM’s adviser, Richard Reston, were hunting for.
I only knew three things about that item: it was very important, Joanna Parker once had it, and it was still missing.
Reston and Potter must have searched Joanna’s apartment and her office at Parliament House, without success. Where else could she have hidden it?
She loved working out.
Shit. My vow to stop poking around flew out the window. I fizzed with nervous excitement.
I pulled over to the side of the road and used my mobile phone to call directory assistance. I got the number of the Hot Bod Fitness Centre and gave it a call. A man answered.
I said: "Hello, I’m thinking about joining your gym and want to know how much it costs."
"The basic fee is $350 for six months and $600 for 12 months."
"Including GST?"
"Yes."
"Umm, and what about lockers?"
"We have lockers you can hire permanently, or just when you’re at the gym. It’s up to you."
"Right. Thanks a lot. And, umm, how much will it cost if I just want to visit for the day?"
"Casual visitors pay ten dollars, including GST."
"When are you open?"
"Eight to eight."
"Thanks. I’ll give it some thought."
Next, I called the Parliament House switchboard and got put through to Bob Douglas’ receptionist.
I said: "Hi. My name’s Paul Ryder, from the Launceston Herald. I spoke to you a few days ago."
"Oh, yes. That’s right."
"Umm. You said you went to a gym with Joanna Parker?"
"Yeah. The Hot Bod in Barton."
"Did she hire a locker there?"
"You mean permanently?"
"Yes."
"Ah, yeah. I think she did. Why?"
My heart thudded. "Do you know the number?"
Sounding suspicious, she said: "Why do you want to know that?"
"Umm. I lent her some swimming goggles. I want to get them back." I cringed. What a clumsy lie. Was I losing my touch?
"Really?" She obviously thought I was a heartless turd. "Well, I don’t know the number."
My heart sunk. I thanked her and hung up.
I rang the gym again. A different man answered the phone.
I tried to sound like Special Agent Gilroy: in other words, like a prick. "Hello. I’m Special Agent Gilroy, from the Australian Federal Police. I’m investigating the death of a woman called Joanna Parker, who, I understand, was a patron of your centre."
"I’ll have to check that. Hang on a mo."
I heard the faint chatter of computer keys. Then the man returned. "Ah, yes. She was a patron. Membership isn’t due to expire for another three months."
"Right. And I understand she had a locker there?"
"That’s right."
"According to my information, it was locker 115."
"No, you got that wrong. It was 102."
"Alright. I’ll be down there fairly soon to look inside it."
"Sure."
I hung up. Somehow, I had to sneak into the gym and bust open locker 102. That would require some break-and-enter paraphernalia.
I turned my car around and headed for my townhouse. When I go there, I trotted up to my bedroom where Anne had left, on the bed, a note in elegant handwriting.
"Paul. I’ve removed most of my stuff. I’ll come back later for the rest. Sorry it didn’t work out."
I opened the wardrobe and saw that most of her clothes were gone. Shit. Maybe my charm was more resistible than my ego was telling me.
However, my mind was focused on burglary. I took a sports bag from the wardrobe and went into the bathroom. Under the sink was a small toolbox. I extracted my largest chisel, slipped it into the bag and put a couple of towels on top.
The gym would have security cameras. So I found a baseball cap, jammed it on and pulled down the visor.
I sped back to the fitness centre and parked outside. Fear and excitement slugged i
t out for possession of my soul. It was a heavyweight contest.
Don’t get your hopes up, I told myself. There’s probably nothing in the locker. Nothing. But my heart pounded.
A woman sat at the reception counter. She was about twenty with an open face, lightly-toasted skin and long-blonde hair in a plait. She wore a singlet that exposed the edges of a sports-bra and ropey arms.
Surely, my love handles would betray me. I didn’t look like a gym junkie. She’d pick me as an impostor.
I said: "Hi. I’m not a member, so I just want to pay the daily rate."
She looked bored. "That’ll be ten bucks."
I paid and pushed through a turnstile into the main exercise room. Nasty-looking weight-machines made it look like a medieval torture chamber. Though several patrons were busy flagellating themselves, none sweated as hard as me.
A big sign with an arrow said "CHANGEROOMS AND LOCKERS". I followed the arrow past a 50-metre pool and down a short corridor until I saw, above a door, another sign: "LOCKERS". I stepped through the door into a large room with metal lockers around the walls and a long bench in the middle. Thankfully, it was deserted. I located locker 102 and rapped my knuckles on the flimsy looking door. A tinny sound.
I dropped my sports bag and, shaking hard, pulled out the chisel.
Now or never, I told myself. Do it. Do it.
No. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. You’ll get caught. You’ll get arrested. You’ll go to gaol.
Shut up. Shut the fuck up. Fucking coward. Show some balls for once. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
I inserted the chisel into the gap between the frame and door. Then I heard footsteps in the corridor.
Fuck.
I glanced around. A young man entered the locker room.
Keeping my back to him, I returned the chisel to my bag and rummaged around as if I’d lost something.
I heard a locker door open. Twenty seconds later, it closed again. Footsteps receded.
Heart pounding, breathing ragged, I inserted the chisel back into the gap and shoved hard.
I half-expected sirens to go off and security guards rush in. Instead, I heard metal scream. The door buckled, and didn’t open. Desperately, I reinserted the chisel and leaned on it again. This time, the lock broke and the door popped open.
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