by T M Heron
“Thing is, Ants, I’m not intending this to be my last week here at Bakers.”
“Wise choice. Resign today and it doesn’t need to get ugly.”
“Oh, it’s going to get ugly at some stage,” I say reflectively. I’m suddenly very glad I agreed for Ingrid to widen her investigation of him.
He laughs. “You have no idea.”
“You keep telling yourself that. Now don’t get up. You’re welcome to stay here. I have a meeting,” I say cheerfully and leave the room, thus depriving him of any dramatic exit he was planning. He would have no idea how irate I really am.
“What the hell?” I hiss at Eliza as I walk past her desk.
“I sent you a warning text,” she murmurs. And no doubt she will have, but I don’t care.
Ingrid is waiting in the basement looking formal and gorgeous and unattainable. And just for a second I have the depressing thought that a relationship between us will never happen. Then I metaphorically slap myself over the face and remind myself that I will always have the ability to make something happen. It may not be something she wants, but it certainly can be something.
I immediately feel better.
“Have you talked to your person?’ she says.
“I have. I should be in possession of the information by eleven.”
“That’s very encouraging. I’ll be around if you want a second pair of eyes to review it.”
Ingrid places a slim file on the coffee table. “This is Jo’s second police file. Pacitto’s team know nothing about it.”
“Why not? I can’t see Pacitto leaving a stone unturned.”
“It wasn’t available for general viewing.”
“How did your guy get to see it?”
As soon as I’ve asked the question, I know the answer. “Your guy is very high up?”
Ingrid doesn’t say yes, but she also doesn’t say no. It makes sense of a few things. I couldn’t see her dating a humble cop. He’s probably the damn Commissioner for all I know. My mood turns sour.
“In 2015 Jo was meant to be a witness in a trial,” says Ingrid, oblivious to the change in temperature. “But it didn’t end up going to court. This file contains nothing more than her personal details and the initial checks the cops made into her character.”
“What was the trial about?”
“I don’t know. It’s sealed..”
“Then this tells us nothing.” Not exactly true, but I want her to feel unrewarded. Like I do around her all the time.
“It tells us what her occupation was prior to July 2015,” says Ingrid, still oblivious to my mutiny.
I’m embarrassed to have missed this connection, so I say nothing.
“She was a clerk in an electronics store in Silverstream,” says Ingrid. “She had no secretarial background to speak of.”
Still I say nothing. It’s great information but I’m still pondering over her date with the Commissioner, or someone like him, and can’t shake the mulish urge to give her nothing. I think I may be sulking.
“Are you okay?” Ingrid asks finally.
“Of course I am. Just thinking,” I lie. “I need to get back upstairs. I’m meeting my person at ten-thirty.”
Once Ingrid has left I’m ashamed of myself. What is wrong with me? I’m in grievous danger of being thrown out of the partnership and even incarcerated, and I’m getting wound up about a woman? The only way forward now is to pretend everything is normal and if she ever wants to discuss it, I’ll tell her she was imagining it.
◆◆◆
Tasha Driver meets me outside Emilia’s Book Emporium at 10.30 on the dot. She is wearing a brown coat that looks like it has been stolen from someone’s great-grandmother. She would no doubt call this look “vintage”. I am developing a strong suspicion she shops at places like the Salvation Army. Perhaps she’ll put the $3000 to good use and buy herself the beginnings of a new wardrobe.
She is not carrying anything on her person.
“What happened?” I say immediately.
“She’s not on our records.” Tasha looks sincere but relieved.
“She is on your records. I know it.”
“No. Not even as a secondary account holder.”
“What about under a different surname?”
Tasha gives me a look normally reserved for the mentally impaired. “How am I meant to know what that would be?”
“Just give me a couple of minutes to think.”
“Do you have any idea how many Joannas we have in the system?”
“Give me a couple of minutes.”
“I don’t have a couple of minutes. I have to go back to work. Look, you can have the money back and we never need see each other again. It’s been nice knowing you.”
“I don’t want the money back.”
Tasha nods dismissively and goes to walk off. I grab her by the arm and start applying pressure. As I talk I steadily increase the pressure. If you’re going to apply pain in a public place a gentle start with incremental intensification is the best way. It prepares your subject for the discomfort, lessening the risk of them suddenly screaming in surprise. “You misunderstand me, Tasha. I don’t want the money back, because you’re going to earn it.”
Tasha’s eyes water over.
“Here’s what you’re going to do. You’ll go back to work, get yourself a kombucha, or whatever it is you people drink, you’ll give it half an hour and you’ll phone me.” With my free hand I slide a business card into her coat pocket.
Tasha says nothing. She’s quite focused on her arm. I’m not surprised. Too much longer at this and my hand will be cramping.
“You’re going to scout around in your system until you’ve worked out what her maiden name is. I don’t care if you have to go through every Jo, Joanna and Joanne in the country.”
I release her arm and encircle the other one with my hand. She winces in anticipation but really, I’m not going to do anything. “Don’t look so worried,” I say. “You’re going to call me as you’re doing it and I’m going to be helping you every step of the way.”
◆◆◆
I race back to work, lock my office door and retrieve Jo’s diary from its secret compartment. The phone goes and it’s Tasha. I don’t care about the bug because whoever is listening will glean nothing of interest from the dialogue.
“Try her maiden name,” I suggest. “It’s Kirkland.”
“Nothing.”
“Try it under both short and long Christian names.”
“I have.”
“With and without the middle name?”
“Yes. Nothing.”
“Try Charlotte as a first name.”
In the pause I page through the diary.
“No.”
“A middle name.”
“Nothing.”
I glance at the firm letterhead. “Try Baker.”
“There’s a Joanne Baker with a checking account and a pension, but she’s in Auckland. All the transactions are in Auckland.”
“Wrong one.”
I look back at the names on the Bakers letterhead. “Try Scale, Warburton, and Fife.”
“No.”
I go back to her diary. Start flipping through the pages looking for names. Pages and pages of her observations about me. Pages and pages of my bad behavior. A horrible thought crosses my mind followed by a sense of the inevitable.
“Try Ray,” I say weakly.
There’s a pause and I can hear the beating of my own heart. “Joanne Charlotte Ray?” says Tasha.
I need some coke.
“You know what you have to do,” I tell her. “I want you to have it express couriered to me at the address on my business card. Make sure it’s marked urgent and confidential.”
I slam the phone down and repulsion competes with euphoria.
◆◆◆
When Ingrid and I meet at the basement at two-thirty I still don’t have the bank statements in my possession. I have phoned Tasha Driver three times and she hasn’t
picked up. I’m just about ready to storm the Kilbirnie FCB and start shooting. I am tense and snappy and to make matters worse in the last three hours my day has been interrupted by a stream of people seeking my opinion on matters that have no relevance or priority to me. I have a feeling Anthony is behind it.
“I managed to speak to a woman called Isadora Stack,” says Ingrid. If she has noticed I’m jumpy she’s not letting on. “Isadora is the Hartmans’ long-term housekeeper.”
“Yes,” I say. I’m having trouble concentrating but I daren’t have any more coke while I’m feeling this hostile and aggressive. I feel as though I’ve taken a bad batch of speed. My mind is working disproportionately faster than everyone around me, nothing is happening the way I want it to and there’s no escape.
“Long story short, in early 2015 the Hartmans’ oldest daughter was in a car accident. When she’d recovered from that she didn’t go back to university. Isadora said there was speculation among the staff that she went to rehab. It was all covered over, of course. One of her friends was killed in the accident and it didn’t even make the papers.”
“That’s great work,” I say. “But we already know it wasn’t Anthony.”
Ingrid looks mulish for a moment. “He could have organized it.”
“Look, I know how men like Anthony work. He wouldn’t open himself up to someone having that over him. If Jo somehow knew something damning about the accident he would be much more likely to pay her off. They have loads of money.”
“I could go back to the friend who gave me the file.”
“The friend who wants to be more than a friend. I don’t think so,” I say. “Now I’m going back upstairs to wait for these bloody documents. I’ll call you as soon as they arrive. In the meantime I’ll be sitting in my office peeling my skin off as a mild distraction.”
By the time Tasha calls me at three-thirty I’ve caved and had more coke and am on my way out the door. I’ve had enough of waiting and am going to drive over to Kilbirnie FCB and find out what the hell is going on.
“Where the fuck are you?” I say loudly.
A receptionist looks at me in horror and I shoot her an ugly look in return and hurry back to my office. I’m beyond caring who is listening at the other end of the bug. It should be pretty bloody clear I’m investigating Jo’s murder and really, what idiot would commit a murder then go to such extraordinary lengths to investigate it?
“We had a bomb scare. We’ve been in lock-down.”
“Don’t you ever not answer my calls again. You see my number come up, you answer. I don’t care if the bank is in flames.”
“I didn’t physically have my phone on me at the time.” Tasha is whispering.
“Why are you whispering? Where are you? You’re not near anyone official, are you?” I suddenly have the abysmal thought that maybe she’s been caught, or told someone, and this is a trap.
“No. I’m outside. I don’t know why I’m whispering. I’m still scared, I guess.” She sniffs, right into the phone, and my throats tightens in disgust.
“Well, now you need to do what you’ve got to do.”
I’d like to inject a strong element of threat instead of being so cryptic but I’m still not one hundred percent sure our conversation isn’t being listened to.
“They’re on their way. Ah, she also had some papers in our document storage facility.”
I don’t answer. I smell a trap.
“I’ve included them as well,” says Tasha.
I hang up and call Ingrid.
48
Ingrid and I are back in the basement. We open the courier bag and start poring through the contents. It’s probably too much to hope for that Ingrid doesn’t notice they are in the name of Joanne Ray. But I’m not going to shine any light on that stark reality for her.
Jo’s secret bank account was opened in April of this year. At least there are only three pages. One for May, one for June, and one for July. June has no transactions going through whatsoever, other than an interest deposit of $565 from the bank, and weekly cash withdrawals of $700. But halfway through May is a deposit of $1.5 million. And at the end of July an outward payment of $850,000.
Something hot and painful explodes in my brain. Why? Why? Why?
Why, when she already had such a large amount of money, did the greedy bitch have to go lusting after the $20,000 reward for Dukie? Why couldn’t she have been satisfied with the million and a half? Thinking of the catastrophic chain of events her greed initiated hurts my head. I have to actively force my attention back to the bank statements.
Neither the deposit nor the payment has any indication in the reference column as to who the other parties to the transactions were. Just the date. Other than further bank interest for both months and the regular cash withdrawals of $700, there is no further activity.
We sit on the leather couch and stare at the bank statements.
Then I read through the additional pages Tasha has included, which have “Document storage facility” scrawled across them in pencil. Turns out she wasn’t trying to trap me, and I may have been a tad distrustful. I’m guessing Tasha has given me everything she could possibly think of, to avoid further requests.
The contents from document storage are official. Legal forms. The first is an FP 11. I’ve seen all kinds of legal forms in my career, but I’ve never seen this one. I re-read the title to make sure I’m not mistaken: Application by one party for order dissolving marriage or civil union. Section 37, Family Proceedings Act 1980.
With the exception of the Date of Hearing the form is all completed. All four pages of it. In my personal fountain pen, I note. But my heart is racing too much with excitement to be upset about this right now. Jo was filing for divorce. The greedy fat bitch. Two weeks before receiving her $1.5 million deposit.
Behind the FP 11 form is another form. A G7. Information sheet to accompany certain applications (including certain applications made without notice). So, the divorce was to be an ambush on the poor sod she called a husband.
I slap the pages down in front of me. Now I understand why Jo was getting weekly facials and massages. She was preparing herself for single life. Taking what little she had to work with and trying to make it palatable. Maybe she had earmarked part of the remaining money for a gastric bypass and liposuction?
“I wonder if the husband found out she was hiding money?” says Ingrid.
“You said his alibi was solid.”
“Well, maybe not in light of this. He was with friends and they were airlifted to remote territory to hunt, then airlifted back again by helicopter. Maybe he paid a different company to airlift him back early then put him back again to return home a final time with his friends. Do you want me to see who else does helicopter services in the area?”
“Check it out,” I say. “But it won’t answer the question of where the money came from in the first place. And what the hell was that eight hundred and fifty for?”
I phone Tasha’s mobile. She answers immediately.
“I need to know who and what were on the other side of the transactions,” I say.
There is a pause. “I think the large purchase was a house.”
“Surely not? The documents would have been in the document storage facility if it were a house.”
There is another pause and I can hear her tapping away on the keyboard. “The payment was made to Frank and Abigail Windsor, for a property,” she says. “That’s all I can see.”
“Fine. Well who gave her the one point five million?”
More tapping. “I can’t tell you.”
“Well, why could you with the other transaction?”
“The Windsors also bank with FCB. Whoever paid the money in doesn’t. They bank with Whitford Guardian.”
I make Tasha give me the Windsors’ address and hang up on her again. Ingrid is looking at me expectantly.
“The eight hundred and fifty was a house purchase.” I hand her the piece of paper with the Windsors’ details. �
��She had no information on the one point five million. But it came from Whitford Guardian. If I follow up on that, can you track down the address of the property Jo bought from the Windsors?”
“I can, but it won’t be until tomorrow morning now,” says Ingrid. “How are you going to follow up on Whitford Guardian?”
“Someone there owes me a favor,” I say.
I leave the room to make the call. Whitford Guardian is the country’s largest private bank. No one there owes me anything. But I went to boarding school with Flynn Whitford Junior and we share some history.
Flynn Whitford Junior is a lay about, a drunk, and a severe family disappointment, and he’s been this way since school. In our final year we were both part of a diving team that visited the Whitsundays. Every pair on the team consisted of a Senior whose job it was to mentor a Junior. Flynn’s junior was a scholarship student from a disadvantaged family. I’m not sure this affected Flynn’s opinion of the boy, but it certainly made it easier for Flynn Whitford Senior to smooth things over with money when Junior got intoxicated before a dive and his buddy drowned. There were only four boys on the boat that day and it was my good luck to be one of them.
Flynn’s voice is slurring when he answers.
“It’s only six o’clock,” I say. “I trust you’re not totally trolleyed.”
“Who is this?”
“Jackson Ray. I need your help.”
“Ringing up with this tone is hardly likely to secure it.”
A strong statement, but it is delivered without the prerequisite force. Flynn’s life has been a shipwreck and I’m sure his young diving buddy was just minor collateral damage in the scheme of things. But I also know the threat of exposure is something that hangs over the family like a cloud.
“I’m texting you a banking transaction between FCB and Whitford,” I tell him. “I need to know all the details from the Whitford end. Let’s not waste time pretending you have the option of refusing me.”
In the small silence at the other end I’m certain I hear him unscrewing a bottle. Then he says, “Where’s your honor, Ray?”