Good News, Bad News

by Maggie Groff

  ‘Diabetic,’ I told him.

  ‘Bummer,’ he said, and I shrugged my shoulders.

  We sat opposite each other at a table that was set apart from the others, affording some privacy. Both of us took out our notebooks.

  The lunch trade was building, and happy-looking people with healthy tans and expensive sunglasses were filling the other tables. I was pretty sure that McCormack and I were the only two doing business.

  He came straight to the point. ‘Are we agreed that we retain our own cases and barter assistance? I’m not sure what I can do for you, mate, but if it’s nothing, I’ll owe you.’

  ‘Agreed,’ I said. As long as he was honest with me I didn’t have a problem with the arrangement. If he double-crossed me I knew that Brian would give him a hard time and might even drop him from his books. And McCormack knew that I knew that he knew that.

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘How long are you up here for?’

  ‘Till Thursday. I’m listening.’

  ‘I need an outsider to secure photographic evidence of a cash drop,’ he said. ‘And I can’t do it because I’d be recognised.’

  I acknowledged his remark with a slight nod. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘I’ve been investigating illegal prostitution in Queensland for six months.’

  ‘I thought it had been legalised?’ I questioned.

  ‘Legal brothels are licensed by the Prostitution Licensing Authority, but street prostitution, unlicensed brothels and massage parlours used for sex work are illegal, and that’s over eighty percent of the trade. It’s big business. They take squillions in cash every year.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with Leila Leary?’

  He took an enormous bite of his sandwich and washed it down with a third of his beer. I took a delicate bite of my sandwich and a sip of water.

  ‘She’s laundering brothel money through the bar,’ he said, wiping beer froth from his moustache with the back of his hand. ‘I’ve been tracking a bloke from one of the brothels. I’ve evidence of his drops at a number of establishments. A few weeks ago I followed him to Silver Gull and witnessed the handover. It was a typical bag drop, and it wasn’t discreet. The bloke handed it to a woman wearing a name badge.’

  ‘Leila?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Why didn’t you get your evidence then?’

  ‘Bloody camera had a flat battery!’

  ‘And you can’t do it now because she’d recognise you from when you covered the boating accident on the reef?’

  He nodded again. He had finished his sandwich and I was still on my first half. I made a big show of using my serviette.

  ‘How did you know about Leila’s reference?’ I asked.

  ‘I have a mate in the human resources department on Silver Gull. I had a squiz at her personnel file. I saw the reference from Overton Siliphant and it was littered with terms like “dynamic team member” so I knew it hadn’t been written thirty years ago.’

  ‘Sydney was a long way to go just to check on her reference,’ I said.

  ‘As you so proudly told me before, I was dotting i’s and crossing t’s. Besides, a forged reference adds a nice human touch to a story, don’t you think?’

  ‘It does, but let me guess. You had to be in Sydney anyway, for another reason.’

  He grinned. ‘My godson’s wedding.’

  Several teenagers in shorts and T-shirts ambled onto the deck and pulled two tables together. A fat-bottomed girl in white shorts came over to ask if we needed the third chair. We shook our heads.

  Memo to Scout: Don’t wear polka-dot pants under white shorts.

  ‘Explain about the money,’ I said.

  ‘I examined the island accounts—’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ I interrupted. ‘Another mate?’

  He smiled. ‘Thousands of dollars in cash are taken at the island bar every few days, and every Monday and Thursday a cheque for $7800, as a standing order, is paid from the bar to a company called ABC Supply Events.’

  ‘Bogus company?’ I queried, making notes as he spoke.

  ‘Properly established, but it doesn’t supply any stock. Or hold events. It’s a third party set up to launder money. They handle other clients as well, and use a range of organisations to clean the cash.’

  ‘One of which is Leila’s bar?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘How do they work it?’ I asked.

  ‘The unlicensed brothel, which masquerades as a company called Kinki Events, hands over $9800 in cash to ABC Supply Events. ABC then pockets $1000 cash for its troubles and takes the remaining $8800 cash to Miss Leila, most likely in hundred-dollar notes.’

  ‘How much does she take?’ I asked.

  I could see he was enjoying explaining this to me. ‘She creams off $1000 and puts the remaining $7800 in the island bank account as bar takings. Then she writes an island cheque to ABC Supply Events for $7800 for either supplies or work during an event. The bar buys and sells enormous amounts of alcohol, buys glasses and other equipment, employs extra staff for events, and has weddings and God knows what else, so it’s never questioned.’

  ‘Then what?’ I asked.

  ‘Then ABC Supply Events write their company cheque out to Kinki Events for $7800, for work or supplies or whatever.’

  ‘And the brothel owner now has $7800 in their bank account that looks legit.’

  ‘Neat, isn’t it?’ he said.

  Mentally I calculated Leila’s rake-off. Over $100,000 a year. In cash.

  ‘Leila makes sure the bar accounts always balance,’ he went on, ‘and the staff turns over at an alarming rate, so no one ever notices.’

  ‘And all transactions are under $10,000, so the banks don’t look too closely,’ I said.

  McCormack nodded.

  I was quiet for some time, thinking through all that he had told me and whether I was game to help. While the link with organised crime had to be considered high risk, the drop to Leila was a peripheral issue and, on the face of it, wasn’t a direct danger to me. And I could see how it would now be difficult for him to get the evidence himself. I decided to reserve my decision until I’d ascertained whether McCormack could do me any favours.

  ‘Do you have mates in the insurance industry?’ I asked.

  He took his sunglasses off, held them up to the light, wiped a smudge from a lens and then put them back on. ‘Might have,’ he said evasively.

  ‘You do or you don’t?’ I demanded. I wasn’t going to play games.

  ‘I do,’ he said, grinning.

  I finished my sandwich. The insurance angle on the two Bomboras was one I knew I couldn’t resolve without information from a contact within the industry, which I didn’t have. I wasn’t entirely comfortable bringing McCormack into my confidence, but I could observe caution and tell him only what he needed to know.

  I made my decision. ‘When’s the next drop?’ I asked.

  ‘Tomorrow at 10 pm.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ I said.

  Then I told him a little about Mick O’Leary.

  Chapter 48

  Daisy and I sat under a palm tree and watched as Dandy McCormack jumped into a speedboat, cast off and headed out of the marina into Dent Passage. He handled the boat expertly and was way more agile than I’d expected.

  ‘How many men in boats do you see around here wearing a tie?’ Daisy said. ‘He sticks out like a pork chop at a Jewish wedding.’

  ‘That’s why he needs my help,’ I said, and gave her a rundown on my task.

  ‘Will he be of any use to you?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ll see. His boat might be.’ Already I was working through the possibilities.

  Then I had another bright idea.

  Starting on one side of the marina, Daisy and I worked our way around the berths, searching for a yacht belonging to Splash Charters. They operated out of Shute Harbour, about thirty minutes away by ferry, and it was entirely possible that a Splash yacht had cruised over to Hamilton Island for the day.
r />   We found the first one after half an hour. It was a beautiful yacht, long and sleek as an otter. The hull was shiny black and there was a brilliant white splash near the bow.

  ‘That’s Mick’s logo,’ I said somewhat pompously, pointing at the white splash.

  ‘Yes, and there’s a large sign saying Splash Charters attached to the side of the cabin,’ Daisy said.

  I looked up. ‘Oh, yeah.’

  The yacht was about fifty feet in length and the name Nadine was painted on the transom. There were also white numbers and a couple of symbols on the back and on both sides of the hull. I guessed they were the numbers Bill Shaw had told me about.

  Daisy took several photographs of the yacht and of the name and numbers.

  Nonchalantly I looked around. There were a few people putting things on boats and wheeling trolleys of supplies, but no one was paying us any attention.

  I hopped over the transom onto the yacht and knelt down.

  ‘For God’s sake, Scout,’ Daisy said in a hushed voice. ‘What if someone comes?’

  Standing up, I said, ‘Quick, toss me the camera. I’ve found the Australian Builders Plate.’

  ‘Is that important?’ Daisy asked, carefully leaning out to pass her camera to me. She’d gone as white as a sheet.

  ‘Might be,’ I said, and took two photos of the ABP and then tried the door to the cabin. It was locked, so I climbed back onto the jetty.

  ‘Phew,’ Daisy sighed, and I linked my arm through hers and we continued on our search, stopping every so often to admire the magnificent views.

  The second Splash Charters yacht was berthed near the yacht club. I had walked right past it on my way to meet McCormack.

  ‘It must have just arrived, otherwise you’d have spotted it before,’ Daisy said.

  Preferring her take on the situation, I mumbled, ‘Must have.’

  The yacht was a twin to Nadine. Her name was Belle de Fontenay and there was a young tanned woman sitting in the cockpit. She had sun-bleached hair cut short, a lot of silver earrings and was wearing black shorts and a black polo shirt bearing a white splash over the right breast. She was filing her nails.

  ‘How ya doing?’ she said. She was also chewing gum.

  ‘Very well, thanks,’ I said brightly. ‘Beautiful yacht. Is she yours?’

  ‘Nah. Belongs to Splash Charters,’ she said, indicating the sign. ‘Hang on, I’ll grab you a brochure.’

  She went below deck and I quickly took a photograph of the boat and the numbers on the hull.

  ‘Here y’are,’ she said, emerging into the sunlight and passing a brochure to Daisy.

  ‘I’d love to have a peek inside,’ I said enthusiastically. ‘I’ve never been on a luxury yacht before.’

  The girl smiled and beckoned us with her hand. Her teeth were perfect, like an Osmond. ‘Come aboard,’ she chirped, and then she turned and went through the hatchway and stepped down into the cabin.

  I nudged Daisy forward and she climbed aboard, purposely blocking the hatchway long enough for me to find the ABP on the transom and take a photo. As soon as I was done, Daisy glanced back, I gave her a nod, and she descended the steps into the cabin, closely followed by me. She was learning fast.

  The interior was as sleek and beautiful as the outside. The hull was lined with wood panelling and the upholstery was cream leather. There was a galley with a full-size fridge, and a swanky-looking dining table with fixed seats. The lounge area had a wide-screen TV and comfortable-looking sofas.

  ‘Gosh,’ I said. ‘How much would one of these cost?’

  The girl shrugged. ‘About half a million, I guess.’

  I tried not to look shocked and pursed my lips and nodded knowingly. ‘I’m not surprised,’ I said.

  ‘Me neither,’ Daisy said, mimicking my expression.

  ‘This isn’t one of Mitch Leary’s yachts, is it?’ I asked, sounding as though I’d just made an earth-shattering discovery. ‘I’ve heard about his terrific sailing skills.’

  ‘Yes, it is. You should book a day’s sail on Tuesday,’ the girl said. ‘That’s the day Mitch takes Kestrel out.’

  ‘Is Kestrel like this?’ Daisy asked.

  ‘Bigger,’ the girl said proudly.

  After a suitable amount of oohing and aahing we expressed our thanks, climbed back onto the jetty and left the girl to finish her nails.

  ‘Holy shit!’ Daisy exclaimed when we were out of earshot. ‘Half a million dollars. And he has two of them, and something bigger!’

  ‘Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

  ‘It sure does, though about what I’m not entirely sure.’

  I laughed and looked at my watch. The afternoon launch to Silver Gull would be leaving in an hour.

  We caught the island shuttle bus back to reception, collected our luggage and I asked the girl behind the desk, whose name was Angel, to book Daisy and I for a day’s sail with Splash Charters aboard Kestrel on Tuesday. I used the name Fantasia Jonson to make the booking and paid in cash. This had been my alias when I’d infiltrated a cult, and I was quite fond of it.

  ‘You’ll enjoy the sail,’ Angel said.

  ‘More than you’ll ever know,’ I replied sweetly.

  We caught the island shuttle bus to the jetty where we were to catch the launch. A dozen people were waiting, some of whom had been on our plane.

  We found two empty seats and Daisy handed me several postcards.

  ‘Here, write these while we wait,’ she ordered. ‘Just put Having a great time and then make something up. I’ll address them later.’

  I flicked through the pile she’d given me. ‘They’re all of dolphins,’ I said.

  ‘I know. Everyone likes dolphins.’

  ‘What I mean is,’ I said, ‘they are all the same picture.’

  Daisy gave me an odd look. ‘Of course they are. That’s the card I liked. I’ve never understood why people spend ages choosing different cards when they are sending them to different people.’

  I thought about it. One of the things I loved most about Daisy was her complete observance of the bleeding obvious.

  Smiling to myself, I wrote a postcard to Fergus and addressed it to Skipper.

  Chapter 49

  It was Lieutenant James Cook who put the Whitsunday Islands on the map. He found them on Whit Sunday in 1770, and when you cruise through the iridescent waters and gaze at the majestic islands shimmering in this tropical paradise, you can see why they made him a captain.

  The trip across to Silver Gull was smooth and took about twenty minutes. Like a couple of kids, Daisy and I hung over the side and held our hands out to the dolphins playing alongside the launch. They would race each other to the bow, dive deep and resurface behind us, and then do it all again. At one point the launch slowed and the skipper pointed out a loggerhead turtle basking on the surface. It took one look at us, slapped its head on the water and disappeared.

  It was getting dark when the launch slowed as it approached Calypso Bay on the northern side of Silver Gull Island. Ahead, the lights from the resort cast a warm welcoming glow across the water, illuminating yachts and small boats moored in the bay. The sound of jazz music and laughter drifted across the water.

  Daisy nudged me. ‘We need to check those boats tomorrow,’ she said, and I nodded. Hopefully we’d find two Bomboras with big signs saying HERE WE ARE.

  I looked back towards the Coral Sea. There were islands everywhere, their mountainous peaks silhouetted against the clear night sky. It was a little eerie and I was suddenly filled with apprehension. I shuddered. We were a long way from home and whatever I’d started was far from over.

  ‘You okay?’ Daisy asked, touching my arm. She looked concerned.

  ‘Yes, fine. Just cold.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said. ‘It’s nippy.’ She zipped up her jacket and put her hands in the pockets.

  I took out my phone and was relieved to see that I had immediate reception. The brochures had also advertised that the resort had broadband i
nternet, and I felt a whole lot better knowing I was linked to the rest of the world.

  The launch tied up at the end of a well-lit narrow wooden jetty that jutted out a long way from the resort. It was as long as a football pitch and had white railings along one side and ground lights at intervals, like an airstrip. I looked over the side of the launch. The lights made it possible to see clear to the sandy bottom. Small blue neon fish darted about like they were in a synchronised swim routine, and a colourful parrot fish swam smoothly around the pylons.

  Waiting for us when we disembarked onto the jetty was a welcoming committee of two athletic-looking young men. Fair-haired and clean-shaven, they had on blue and white floral Hawaiian shirts, knee-length dark blue shorts and high-tech sneakers. Apparently immune to the chilly night air, they were, respectively, called Hank and Yoyo and were thrilled to have us on their island. They would, Yoyo said enthusiastically, be taking us to our accommodation aboard the open-top minibus parked behind them.

  They loaded our luggage on board and we climbed in after it and clunk-clunked slowly along the jetty towards the resort. To our left I could make out a small lagoon cut off by an exposed reef. A beach lay on the far side of the lagoon, and behind that I recognised the shape of the bougainvillea-covered building where we would be staying. I pointed it out to Daisy.

  ‘Oh, my,’ she said. ‘It looks wonderful.’

  On our right was the main resort, nestled behind coconut palms. Small catamarans were pulled up onto the beach and we could see couples walking hand in hand along the shore.

  Yoyo showed us to our room, which was pleasantly warm and spacious with sand-coloured walls and a polished wooden floor. There were two single beds with camel cotton covers and a purple throw folded at the end, a rattan cane setting with purple cushions, a small desk, and plantation shutters leading to a balcony overlooking the lagoon.

  Daisy went to inspect the bathroom. ‘I could live here,’ she called out.

  At that moment Hank came struggling in with our bags. He was breathless, so maybe the athletic appearance was a front.

  ‘There will be a meet and greet in the Raffles Room in an hour,’ Yoyo told us. ‘Cocktails will be served before dinner.’