by Tara Moss
‘Meg was a good girl,’ Mrs Wallace said. ‘She was a mystery to me…’ She shook her head. ‘So independent. I don’t know how much help we might be with your questions.’
Mak was relieved to no longer be justifying herself to them. ‘Anything would be of help—’
Mrs Wallace paused and looked into Mak’s face with a strange familiarity. ‘You look like a model.’
Mak was thrown by the comment, considering the setting. ‘Um, I used to model.’
‘Oh, how wonderful. Meg was very pretty, like you. She did some modelling. She was always such a pretty little girl.’
‘Did she do a lot of modelling?’ Mak asked.
‘She did some photo shoots but they kept telling her she was too short.’
‘I see.’
Mrs Wallace got up and wandered away, leaving Mak with her husband. He was staring at the television screen as if Mak wasn’t there. Thankfully, Mrs Wallace returned a few minutes later. She had a small album of photos in her hands.
‘See how pretty she was?’
Mak took in the photographs slowly. They showed Meaghan posing in a glamour studio in a gold bikini, heavily made up. Mak understood now why Meaghan’s mother had made the comment about Mak’s appearance, and perhaps why Mak had been so easily received. Noelene had been proud of her daughter’s appearance. Her daughter had once dreamed of being a rich and famous model. It was a common dream, and one that was rarely realised.
‘She looks very pretty. Those are very nice photos,’ Mak said, feeling strange to be making such comments. ‘Did she do any modelling recently? In the past few weeks?’
Mrs Wallace shook her head.
‘Did Meg visit you often, Mrs Wallace?’
‘Occasionally she’d find time to visit us boring folks,’ Mr Wallace blurted from his lounge chair, then clenched his jaw and continued staring in the direction of the mute television. He might as well have kept the sound on, Mak thought.
‘She used to visit once a month or so,’ Mrs Wallace said.
Once a month didn’t seem like much, especially as Meaghan had only lived thirty minutes’ drive away, but every family was different and there could have been all kinds of dynamics happening within the Wallace family. Mak was so often far from home that the idea of seeing her dad at least once a month seemed like heaven. Even with all his meddling, she missed him terribly.
‘What sort of things did you talk about when she visited?’ Mak asked Mrs Wallace.
‘Oh, this and that. She told us how good things were going with that real estate company, and she’d show me her new clothes. She always dressed well, kept herself nice. I wished she’d find someone, but she never seemed excited about anyone special. We’d hoped she would have settled down…’
Her words trailed off, the unspoken hanging in the air: Now she never will find someone. Meaghan was an only child; there would be no grandchildren now. No new Wallaces for Ralph and Noelene.
‘Do you recall the name Simon Aston? Did she ever mention him?’
‘Simon Aston?’ Noelene said. ‘Well, no. Were they together?’
‘I’m not sure that they were together,’ Mak replied cautiously. ‘But they knew each other, I believe.’ She had cut out a photo of Simon from a printed image off the internet, and she showed it to Mrs Wallace. ‘Do you recognise him?’
‘No. What did he do? Was he involved?’
‘No, no. I was just wondering if your daughter ever brought him up in conversation.’ Damn. She’d been hoping for some recognition. ‘Did Meaghan ever mention a girl named Jag? Or Amy?’
‘Um, Amy…yes. Meg did have a friend named Amy, but she moved interstate, I think. I met her a few times. She was a pretty girl, too, but a bit…wild.’
‘I see,’ Mak said. ‘Do you remember where Amy moved to?’
‘Melbourne, I think.’
‘And who were Meaghan’s best friends—the friends she spent the most time with?’ Mak asked, but Mrs Wallace was no longer really listening. She seemed to be lost in her own thoughts.
‘She was a good girl, Meg,’ Mrs Wallace rambled, looking as if she may be on the verge of tears. ‘Meg, she…’
In that moment Mak felt horrible about being there, probing into the details of their life with their murdered daughter, taken too soon from them at the age of twenty-three. Is this what I am destined to do? Probe into the grief of other people like this, for a simple assignment? For no reason but to report some information back to a client?
‘Would you like a tour of the house?’ Noelene Wallace said suddenly.
Mak took a moment to respond. She had not been expecting the offer.
‘Certainly.’
CHAPTER 13
Simon Aston entered the reception area of Jack Cavanagh’s office on the fourteenth floor of the famous Cavanagh building on George Street, his nerves ruffled by Damien’s call. The sun was going down and the area of the CBD outside the building was like a ghost town. Apart from small groups of businesspeople milling around the after-work bars, it was terribly quiet.
The Cavanagh building felt empty. Fluorescent lighting buzzed.
‘Someone tried to blackmail my dad, Simon! I thought you said it would be okay? I thought you said it would be taken care of? I gave you that money. You said it would be okay…
‘My dad wants to see you in one hour. And he’s said if you don’t show up, he will forbid you from ever showing your face around the family again.’
Things were spiralling out of control. Fast.
Simon had been the best friend of Sydney’s richest young heir for years, and in all that time he had never been invited to Cavanagh senior’s office. Considering the situation, the building felt oppressive, the weight of all that power and influence pushing down on him.
All that money.
All that power.
Simon was so close to it, and yet so far away. He was not Damien Cavanagh. He was not protected by the wealth and influence of Jack Cavanagh.
Even before Damien’s panicked phone call an hour earlier, Simon could see that things had gone bad. Warwick’s phone call had put him on edge, but still, Simon had not really believed he would follow through. After all, how could any video actually exist? He’d crushed the phone of that meddling Meaghan woman. Wasn’t that enough? Had that not destroyed it?
If a video exists, there’s going to be serious trouble.
With that in mind, Simon straightened his tie and mentally prepared himself to be his most convivial. He would have to handle this situation very cautiously, and with charm. He had worn his only suit specially for the occasion, to try to impress on Mr Cavanagh that he was a concerned, upstanding and loyal friend of Damien’s.
The offices were dead quiet—everyone had gone home. The vast windows were not curtained, and he could see straight into the modern office buildings next door, where the lights inside were already off, and his own eerie reflection moved across the glass. The hallway from the elevator was still lit, and he walked down it towards the desk of Mr Cavanagh’s personal receptionist with a thinly veiled dread.
‘Hello, I’m Simon Aston.’
The receptionist wore a tight, impenetrable smile. Amongst various cards, framed family photos and trays of neatly kept paperwork on her desk, he noticed a small name plate which simply said ‘Joy’, but even before he could open his mouth to address her by name, she said, ‘Mr Cavanagh is expecting you. Please come this way.’
Joy stood gracefully and led him towards Mr Cavanagh’s office. She opened the door for him. Simon was terrified at what he might find inside.
‘Mr Aston is here to see you, Mr Cavanagh.’
‘Thank you, Joy.’
With that Joy disappeared and Simon remained in the doorway, temporarily unable to move forwards. Jack Cavanagh sat in a chair behind a massive office desk. His office was the size of some people’s entire homes. He was not alone, Simon noticed—there was a man in the office who Simon did not recognise. A man who looked serious.
> ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ Simon said from his position across the room.
‘Come in. Sit down, Simon,’ Mr Cavanagh said in a way that was neither openly angry or welcoming.
Simon’s mouth felt dry. His hands were wet.
He entered timorously, remembering to smile. Confidence. If he seemed relaxed about it, they would be more relaxed about it. Confidence was the key. Confidence and attitude, he reminded himself.
Mr Cavanagh’s guest did not seem to be leaving. Damien had mentioned a man he called ‘The American’, and Simon guessed that this must be him. But the man was introduced as Mr White.
‘Hello, Mr White,’ Simon said and offered a hand that Mr White did not shake.
‘Mr White will need to be privy to all the information. He needs to know everything,’ Mr Cavanagh said ominously.
Everything.
Simon took a chair, the three of them in a semicircle with Mr Cavanagh sitting behind his imposing desk. Joy shut the office door.
It was odd for Simon to see Jack Cavanagh this way. He had seen Damien’s father in the flesh as often as he had seen him in newspapers or on the cover of business magazines. In the flesh he could often be found smiling. He was not smiling now. Mr Cavanagh and Mr White were both looking at Simon and waiting for him to speak, but Simon didn’t know what he should say.
‘Sir, may I speak frankly?’ Simon began in his most disarming tone. He crossed his legs and gestured with one hand. ‘I—’
‘You had better,’ Mr Cavanagh snapped back. ‘Or you won’t be speaking to my son again. Ever.’
That gave Simon pause. Was that a real threat? Would Jack really cut Damien off from him?
‘Yes, sir,’ Simon began again. ‘Um—can I just say firstly what an honour it is to be invited here to speak with you. I only wish the circumstances were better.’
Mr Cavanagh narrowed his eyes. ‘Cut the bullshit,’ he said. ‘Tell us about this man who tried to blackmail me today.’
Simon had to collect himself. This was all moving too quickly. Warwick had hung up on him and hadn’t called him back or answered his phone. Damien was freaking out about his dad.
‘Who is he?’ Mr Cavanagh demanded.
Simon hesitated. ‘I honestly don’t know who contacted you, sir. I am not sure why you think I would be involved with something like that, but I am confident we will get to the bottom of it all.’
Jack leaned towards him. He was a man who liked to remain casual and personal, despite his great success and formidable influence. He was known to value professionalism, but honesty and mateship even more. He took his employees out on a boat once a year. He gave bonuses. He asked about people’s families and took an interest in their health and wellbeing. But now he was not being low-key or disarming. Simon was getting a taste of the more formidable side of Jack Cavanagh. It was a darker side that journalists sometimes hinted at—a more ruthless side. Mr Jack Cavanagh clearly did not take threats to him or his family lightly.
‘Don’t fuck with me, Simon,’ he said, swearing for the first time Simon had ever heard, and making the small blond hairs on the back of his neck stand up. ‘I can make your life very different, very quickly.’
Simon believed him. If Jack Cavanagh cut him off from Damien, everyone in Sydney would know about it in a matter of days. Simon’s connections would instantly fizzle. It would be a disaster—social suicide. Financial suicide.
‘I mean no disrespect, sir,’ Simon responded, trying to regain some ground. ‘I just am not sure…I didn’t mean…I found out about him through a friend…’ he babbled. He took a breath and tried to slow down. ‘Look, I came across this thing happening. I was, you know, shocked. And this woman was there filming it. I wanted to protect my friend. I know people, and I knew they could make this problem go away for Damien. I was only trying to protect him.’
The American, who up until now had not entered into the conversation, pulled his chair forwards and opened a notepad. He took a pen from inside his jacket pocket and, when he had it ready, his eyes met Simon’s with a cool gaze. He said, ‘What was the name of the woman who was doing the filming?’
‘Um…she was nobody. Just a guest.’
‘Name please,’ Mr White said simply.
If he finds out the name, he will find out what’s happened to her.
The American waited. Simon was too fearful of him to deny him an answer. ‘Her name was, uh, Meaghan Wallace. She worked as a PA for Robert Groobelaar at Trident Realty. Robert’s a colleague of yours, I think.’
Jack nodded thoughtfully. ‘Robert has worked with me on some minor real estate.’
The American took note, but he was not finished with Simon’s last statement. ‘You ordered that something be done to silence this Meaghan Wallace?’ he pressed. He must have noticed that Simon had spoken of the woman in the past tense.
Simon nodded sheepishly in reply to The American’s brutally direct question, his eyes to the floor. The words sounded horrible: You ordered that something be done to silence this Meaghan Wallace? Had he done that? Yes, he supposed he had. But he had not wanted to—he’d had no choice. He’d had to have her taken care of.
‘Okay. We’ll get back to her in a moment,’ The American said. ‘You said you found this man through a friend of yours. I need to know the name of this friend.’
He waited for an answer.
Simon was panicking inside. He had not found Warwick through a friend, but how would it sound to Mr Cavanagh if he admitted he was the sort of person who knew people like that personally? Still, he was afraid to lie to The American. Warwick had done odd jobs for Simon before. If Simon gave them a false name, he felt sure he would be found out. Simon knew that just by looking at him.
For the first time in Simon’s life, truth seemed like the best policy, and his only option.
‘Um, I approached the man directly, sir,’ he admitted.
The American wrote something on his small notepad. Jack Cavanagh was grim-faced throughout, but said nothing.
‘The man’s full name?’
‘Warwick O’Connor.’
When Warwick had run a few errands for Simon in the past, they had mostly been for buddies in need. His price was $15 000 to take care of someone like this girl they had been having trouble with. It was a good price: competitive—cheap, to be exact. Warwick had been paid half in advance. Simon wondered if Jack already knew that his son had actually paid Simon an accumulated $50 000 to take care of the problem, no questions asked. Simon thought of the extra as a kind of administration fee, but Jack might see it differently, especially given how things were turning out. He wondered if he should give back the latest $35 000. He didn’t really want to do that.
Simon would tell only what he had to.
‘You dealt directly with Warwick O’Connor,’ said The American.
Simon nodded.
‘And Damien?’
‘Damien has never met him.’
‘Good,’ Jack Cavanagh interjected. ‘There are no other loose ends to tie up with regard to the hiring of this lowlife? Just you and this man, Warwick—no one else?’
Simon felt uneasy about the way he’d said ‘loose ends’ but he nodded his head.
The American stepped in again. ‘What was the recording device used by the woman?’
Simon looked shocked. ‘I have never seen a video. I didn’t think there was one. But, uh, she was using her mobile phone at the party and I caught her recording. That could be it.’
‘Good. Let’s hope that any recording is of low quality. Do you remember the make and model of the phone?’ The American asked.
‘Uh…no.’ Simon did not take note of things like that. At least, not in those circumstances.
‘We will need to find the phone. Do you know where it is now?’ The American asked.
Simon bit his lip. ‘I broke it. When I saw her recording I took the phone off her and stepped on it.’
The American kept taking his notes. ‘And then what happened to the
phone?’
‘It was broken so I threw it out,’ Simon explained.
The American looked at him like he was a moron. ‘So you saw this woman making a recording at the party and you “stepped on” her phone. Did you check to see if there was anything damaging on it before you threw it out? Did you check to see if there was any recorded material on it, or if anything sensitive had been sent to anyone?’
Simon felt the blood drain from his face. ‘No, sir. It was broken. I just got rid of it.’
‘Where did you dispose of it?’
‘In the wastebasket at the house.’
Jack Cavanagh slammed a fist down on the desk, making Simon jump with fright in his chair. His heart began pounding even harder. He felt like a man staring at a noose that was made for his neck alone.
‘Has the rubbish been collected since the party?’ The American asked Jack.
‘Yes. Estelle, the maid, cleans the rubbish out daily. It would be long gone,’ Mr Cavanagh said, sounding very displeased.
‘Is there any chance she, or another of your staff, might have seen something?’
‘No, no,’ Simon tried to reassure them. ‘The phone was in pieces, I swear. No one could have used it.’
‘We need to find out what was on it,’ The American said. ‘And if anything sensitive on it was sent to anyone else.’
‘But I don’t know how,’ Simon pleaded. ‘The phone was wrecked. I just didn’t think—’
‘No, you didn’t,’ Jack Cavanagh hissed.
‘Let me take care of that,’ The American said.
Mr Cavanagh was clearly livid now. He sat behind his desk, seething. Then he pointed a finger at Simon. If it were a gun he would have pulled the trigger, Simon felt sure.
‘Because you failed to come to me when there was an issue concerning the protection of my family, you will now have the responsibility of seeing that things are made right,’ Mr Cavanagh said darkly. ‘This is an opportunity to regain my faith, Simon.