by Peter Ralph
Another loose end tied up.
As Pell was talking, the Sting tone emitted from Aspine’s mobile. “Sorry, Norman, I have to go. I’ll be in touch.”
“Hello, Douglas. Congratulations. You must have impressed Helen. I have an offer that I’d like to courier to you. Where should I send it?”
“Send it to Max Vogel, Hamish. I’ll let him know it’s coming.”
“The offer’s not exactly as you wanted. Helen’s lawyers have included a number of nasty clauses about early termination that you may not like.”
“What about the five million?”
“I have a bank cheque made payable to you in front of me.”
Aspine laughed. “That’s good. It’ll make those nasty clauses a lot more palatable. I’ll phone you later this afternoon after Max has looked over the offer. Keep tomorrow morning free.”
- 34 -
COLIN SARLL WAS a bitter man. After the bank had terminated his services, he applied for jobs with other banks, finance companies and financial planners only to receive rejection after rejection. No-one told him that he was too old, but at fifty-four he knew he was virtually unemployable. His bank payout of four hundred thousand dollars had been enough to pay off the mortgage and leave him a little over one hundred and fifty thousand − to live on for the rest of his life. The long-planned overseas trip with his wife of twenty-seven years had no longer been possible, and she’d walked out on him, taking his two teenage children, the furniture and most of the money with her. The house was cold and empty without his family, but shortly that would no longer be a problem − his wife’s lawyers had advised him that it was to be sold, and that she would be claiming nearly all the proceeds. He was a defeated man and had no intention of contesting his wife’s claims. The last time that they’d spoken, she’d told him that he was a loser and had been all of his life − worse, she’d shouted it in front of the kids, and any respect that they’d once had for him was dashed in a few vicious minutes.
He was sitting on the one wooden chair that his wife had left him. It was cold and his fingers were numb, but the oil on his hands felt good – it had been over thirty years since he’d done his national service, but he hadn’t forgotten how to clean a rifle. The five-shot bolt action Winchester was soothing and he rested the butt into his shoulder, stared down the scope and imagined the cross hairs were focused on Douglas Aspine’s head. He’d hidden the Ford in the garage and hadn’t used it since that day at the Coroner’s Court. The bonnet was dented and the passenger side head light had been smashed. He’d been too scared to get it repaired − besides, he didn’t have the money. He wouldn’t miss a second time, and a thin smile crossed his mouth at the thought. Once the house was sold and the last of his scant assets were signed over to his wife, he’d kill Douglas Aspine, and then turn the rifle on himself.
- 35 -
THE NORMALLY URBANE Max Vogel was furious, and barely glanced at the letter from Sainsbury & Co, before putting it back in its envelope and re-addressing it ‘Private and Confidential, Douglas Aspine, Mercury Properties.’ “Douglas,” he shouted, down the phone, “don’t you understand I can’t act for you and Mercury. I have a conflict of interests. I’m not even sure that I don’t in the ACCC matter, but I definitely do regarding the job offer.”
“What do you think?” Aspine asked, ignoring his concerns.
“I hardly looked at it. I can’t and don’t want to comment. I’m having it couriered to you.”
“Is it onerous?”
“Not if you fulfill your obligations but, if you don’t, the penalties are severe,” Vogel responded, immediately wishing that he hadn’t. “Douglas, I didn’t read the letter, the offer or the form of acceptance in their entirety. If you’re going to consider accepting, you should seek legal advice from someone outside this firm.”
“Consider accepting? Didn’t you see the part about the five million dollar signing on fee? I don’t know what you’re worried about; you’ll soon be able to act for me again without breaching your precious ethics.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Mercury’s not going to retain you as legal counsel after I’m gone. Anyhow, that’s not important now. How are your negotiations with the ACCC progressing?”
“They’re receptive. I’ve sent them a draft indemnity that they’re considering. They’ll be back to me early next week.”
“And it covers me against any form of legal action?”
“Yes, Douglas,” Vogel groaned.
Aspine carefully read the offer and acceptance. They did no more than reflect the representations made by Gidley-Baird and the pompous Helen Philmont. The five million dollars and the pending disastrous news about the Melton land deal were compelling reasons for him to phone Hamish. “I’ve just signed the acceptance. I’ll be in your office at nine in the morning to make the exchange?”
“Congratulations, you’ve made a wise decision. I thought we were going to meet at Sly & Vogel?”
“Max has something else on that he can’t cancel.”
“It’ll save me a walk. I’ll see you in the morning. Oh, Douglas, taxation hasn’t been deducted from the cheque. I’ll need you to sign an undertaking to meet any and all tax liabilities on the payment.”
“No problems, Hamish. See you in the morning.”
Aspine grinned, it wasn’t every day that he got to walk down Collins Street with a bank cheque for five million dollars in his pocket. He had his passport, driver’s licence, and a rate notice that would provide him with enough evidence to open a new bank account − he had no intention of letting Phil Kendall know what he was up to. He entered 101 Collins Street, and caught the elevator to the twenty-sixth level, the offices of the Macquarie Bank. Ten minutes later he’d deposited the cheque, paid for a quick clearance, and handed a letter to one of the clerks that authorized the transfer of unlimited sums to the account of Mapago Pty Ltd in Hong Kong.
The drive to the Fairhills Nursing Home was relaxing and Aspine gloated about how he’d managed to turn a certain disaster into a magnificent victory. He arrived just before midday and parked the Ferrari at the end of the car-park, in a row where it was concealed, and strolled over to the veranda of the home and waited. Five minutes later, a bright yellow Audi pulled into the car-park and Fiona Jeczik got out. Aspine quickly entered the reception. “I’d like to see Mrs Dunstall,” he said, using the name of a patient that Tom Donegan had given him.
“Are you related to her?” the nurse behind the counter asked, stifling a yawn.
“I’m her nephew.”
“She’s in room 115. Five doors down the corridor on the right. Poor lady.”
“Thanks.” As he walked along the corridor, he noticed that the rooms were not only numbered, but that the patients’ names were also on the doors. He knocked gently on the door to Mrs Dunstall’s room, and when there was no answer he pushed it open. The woman in bed was old, frail, and showing no signs of life. There was a tube projecting from her throat, and he guessed that she was being force fed. He sat in the visitor’s chair and pondered how Tom Donegan had so accurately managed to ascertain the state of her health. Ten minutes later he left the room and walked out onto the veranda − sure enough, the bitch was sitting with her back to him, talking to an old man in a wheelchair. “Good afternoon, Ms Jeczik, fancy meeting you here.”
She turned abruptly, open-mouthed and shocked. “What are you doing here?”
“I have a close friend who’s a patient,” he said, his mouth upturned in a smile, while his eyes remained cold and hate filled. “Are you going to introduce me?”
She was shaken. “This is my father, unfortunately he rarely speaks.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“None of your damn business,” she responded, recovering her composure.
“Sorry, it’s just that I’m here quite a bit, and if it’d help, I’d bring him a present.”
“He wants nothing from you. Please leave.”
“I was thinking of b
uying him a bottle of Smirnoff or Johnny Walker, but maybe metho’s more appropriate.”
“You bastard!”
“Ms Jeczik, do you know that alcoholism is hereditary? Do you drink?”
“If you don’t leave this minute, I’ll call a nurse,” she said, trying not to tremble.
“I’m going.” He grinned. “You like dishing it out, bitch, but you sure don’t like receiving it. You keep going after me, and I’ll expose your old man for the drunken disgrace that he is. Then there’s your boss. Why don’t you ask him about helicopters, drugs and daughters? Now you have a nice day.” Aspine drove slowly down the driveway savouring the look of shock and horror on Fiona Jeczik’s face. Why couldn’t every week end like this?
In all of her years of exposing crooks and bullies, Fiona had never been physically
confronted before, and she trembled uncontrollably. She knew that he’d been lying about having a friend in the home and was sending a message that he could hurt her. What did those questions about Barry Seymour mean and how damaging were the answers?
Aspine spent the weekend planning to tie up the few remaining loose ends before his imminent departure from Mercury. He was confident that by his last day, all bases would be covered.
When Duncan Milgate phoned he was blunt and angry. “Someone bought over a million shares in Cyber-Games and drove the price up before our clients could get fully set. Do you know anything about it?”
“That sounds like an accusation to me.”
“The buying came out of Hong Kong. You were up there a few months ago weren’t you?”
“Yeah, looking for joint venture partners.”
“Do you know anything about a company called Mapago?”
Aspine froze. “No. Why?”
“That’s the name of the company that bought the Clean Energy shares. A lawyer’s nominee company did the buying, but the bank account of Mapago was debited with the contract note amounts. It was so bloody amateurish.”
“Well it’s not me. Christ, how do you get access to someone else’s bank account?”
“We’ve got someone inside the firm of lawyers. We don’t know who’s behind Mapago yet, because their computer records have been tampered with, but it’s only a matter of time.”
“I want to sell my shares in Cyber-Games. What price are they trading at?”
“It’s too early, they’re trading at $1.70 but they’re going higher.”
“Sell them. I resent your aspersions, Duncan.”
“We’ve narrowed it down to three, and you’re one of them. I hope it’s not you, Doug, because we can be very bad enemies. Good-bye.”
As Aspine put the phone back in its cradle, he mused that Duncan Milgate hadn’t given him a new share recommendation. Clearly he was on Blayloch & Fitch’s black list.
The week dragged on and Aspine started to become worried that the ACCC indemnity would not be received before the Minister announced his ruling on Melton.
When Max Vogel phoned, he couldn’t take the call fast enough. “They’ve granted you full immunity, Douglas but, if you withhold any information, they’ll rescind it.”
“Yeah, but they’re not expecting a full confession are they? They have to ask the right questions.”
“Are you worried about Balmoral?”
“Yes.”
“If they ask you anything about Balmoral, you’ll have to answer, fully and truthfully, or your indemnity will be of no use. Do you have to tell them about Balmoral without being asked? Definitely not.”
“Good. I’m happy with that. Max, the ACCC have a history of leaking to the media. I don’t want to read something like, ‘Whistleblower Does Deal’ in the papers, so let them know, no leaks and no publicity. I want this kept hush-hush.”
“I can ask. They might hold off for a few days, but you’re not going to be able to keep this quiet and, Douglas, they want to interview you, and they want to do it now.”
“Stall them; I need a little more breathing space.”
He didn’t put the phone down; instead he punched in Marcus Easton’s private number. “Hello.”
“Marcus, it’s Douglas Aspine. I have a real scoop for you. Can you meet me for coffee in half an hour? I’d prefer somewhere discreet, not in the city.”
“What’s this about?”
“I can’t say anything over the phone.”
“I’m really busy, Douglas, so I hope it’s going to be worthwhile. There’s a coffee shop in Burke Avenue, Camberwell with a little car-park opposite it. No-one will see us there. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
“You’ll thank me after you hear what I have to say.”
- 36 -
“UNBELIEVABLE,” EASTON SAID. “You were told that you’d be put out of business if you ever discounted prices?”
“That’s right.”
“When?”
“Right after you published your article about pricing and the quality of our apartments. It upset some powerful people and our competitors increased their prices.”
“But you won’t tell me who made the threat.”
“I can’t run the risk of a defamation action. Marcus, one thing you never do is defame a billionaire.”
“It was Vic Garland.”
“I can’t comment.”
“You just did,” Easton said, scrawling furiously. “Are you sure the ACCC’s going to launch a full investigation into the building industry?”
“I’m positive.”
“And there’s been a cartel comprising Apartco, Urban, and Vicland fixing apartment prices?”
“That’s what I said.”
“And they tried to force Mercury to join them?”
“Yes.”
“Why did the ACCC approach you?”
“Sorry, I’ve been sworn to confidentiality. Just be careful about who you name.”
“I will. I’ll just mention the ACCC, the building industry, and that the prime mover behind the price fixing is rumoured to be a billionaire with connections to the liberal party.”
“Will you run it this week?”
“Are you joking? Front page, tomorrow morning.”
“Remember, you mustn’t quote me or even hint that you’ve spoken to me.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll be ‘sources within the industry’,” Easton grinned.
“Thanks, Marcus.”
“Thank you.”
Aspine sat in the car-park gloating. He would look innocent, and the victimised party, in the article that Easton would write, whereas the ACCC would have painted him as an active participant who’d rolled over. The loose ends were coming together nicely, and his only worries were Kerry Bartlett and Blayloch & Fitch. He’d have to handle Kerry very carefully, or he’d likely make a full confession that’d put them both behind bars for ten years. And if Blayloch & Fitch’s clients lost heavily on Mercury’s shares, there’d be hell to pay and they’d almost certainly go after him. Somehow he had to tip them off before the pending Melton disaster became public.
Fiona Jeczik wasted no time in confronting her boss with Aspine’s accusations.
“I won’t be blackmailed, Fiona,” Barry Seymour said.
“Did you really deny liability when those poor people were killed in that helicopter crash?”
“I didn’t want to, but I had no choice. The insurers threatened to remove all cover if we admitted liability. I should’ve stood up to them.”
“Yes, you should have,” Fiona agreed, struggling to hide her disgust.
“We all make mistakes. It was a long time ago. I was young, the circumstances were different, and our lawyers were adamant that I shouldn’t oppose the company’s insurers. After the litigation was over, I made significant personal payments to the families. I’m not remotely similar to Douglas Aspine, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“What about your daughter?”
“I don’t care to discuss my personal and private relationships with you.”
“Don’t you understand? If I c
ontinue to pursue Aspine, you won’t have any privacy. All of your dirty washing will be aired.”
“The other channels and newspapers won’t run it.’
“They don’t have to,” Fiona sighed. “He’ll release it into the chat rooms over the internet, and it’ll develop a life of its own. From there it’ll go to talkback radio, and in the end the mainstream media will have no choice but to run with it.”
“I’ll just have to cop it on the chin,” Seymour grimaced. “I don’t want you to back off on any exposé to protect me.”
“Thanks for your support,” Fiona muttered. Despite what he’d said, she felt sorry for him and, and knew that he would be badly hurt if she didn’t back off.
“Are you going to move your father?”
“No! I won’t be intimidated. I’ve ensured that he has around-the-clock security. Our slimy friend won’t be slipping him any alcohol.”
“Be careful. When you corner a rat, it’s at its most dangerous.”
Before reading Saturday’s newspapers, Aspine put the recording device next to his land line and mobile. The front page of The Australian carried the headline, ‘Collusion and Coercion’ and stated that the ACCC was investigating massive pricing rorts in the building industry. Aspine reveled and, while it was just eight in the morning, he phoned Max Vogel at his home. “Max,” he shouted, “the bloody ACCC’s leaked the investigation to the press. Didn’t you talk to them?”
“Of course I did.”
“Well it was meant to be kept hush-hush. I’m bloody annoyed.”
“I don’t know why, the journo was very kind to you. When I read it, my first thought was that you leaked it.”
“That’s absurd. I wanted it kept confidential. You know that. It either came out of your office or the ACCC.”