The Weaver Fish

by Robert Edeson

  ‘This is for your exclusive use. You can do everything on it. It’s important you don’t touch any of the others, please. Printer’s online. Here’s your email address.’ He pointed to a sheet of paper on the bench. ‘Username. You need a ten-character password, case sensitive, the usual string caveats. You can set up access to your UK address using these instructions,’ he gestured again toward the sheet. ‘It calls an encryption routine. Obviously, don’t mention where you are, or me, in your messages.’

  ‘Where am I, anyway?’

  ‘Level thirty-three, the Grosvenor. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Yes. I took a while getting off, but then I was fully out to it till the alarm.’

  ‘Do you have everything you need for the moment?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘I’ll make coffee while you set up your mail.’

  ‘You said that you’d sensed that Nicholas was becoming unhappy in his work. Why did you think that?’ They were sitting on the main balcony, where Worse had served coffee.

  ‘Well, he had been hired to develop a suite of specialized instruments for the wine industry—futures, options, hedge products, insurance tools and so on. It was exciting stuff. They seemed like a very sophisticated business, they wanted the best, and they were prepared to pay for expertise. They treated him very well at first, professionally and socially. He was loving it here.’

  She fell silent, and Worse waited. ‘Then his last few messages seemed different. Early on, they’d left him to get on with it, and it was going really well. He was at the stage of testing prototypes—basically running lots of simulations—when I think Fiendisch started interfering.’

  ‘Do you know what that was about?’

  ‘I gathered that they disagreed about parametrization. I don’t know any details. Nicholas wondered if the bank was under financial strain. That was in his last message. I’ve printed them off for you.’

  ‘What did the parametrization issue mean to you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t thought that through. Margins, maybe. Acceptable risk, profit projection.’

  Worse was silent for several seconds. They sat in canvas chairs, both facing out, with a small table between them. The project seemed sound in principle. The Australian wine industry had made enormous advances in recent years, and had become a billion-dollar export earner. Conventional economics would prescribe profitable management for each stage of harvesting, production, packaging, marketing, shipping, retail, associated tourism, and so on. As far as Worse was aware, the industry was successful in those respects. But bankers and brokers would inevitably want more. A specialist derivatives market would assist in capital raising, risk management, portfolio gearing and, above all, provide another layer of opportunity for profit. It wasn’t surprising that a boutique investment bank like Humboldt had seen the potential for niche financial products and set about developing them.

  But something else made a connection for Worse. His reconstruction of Zheng’s final days placed the killer in the heart of the South-West premium wine district. For a man with a minibar tab listing beer only, the visit was surely not for pleasure.

  ‘Coffee okay?’

  ‘Great.’ She hadn’t yet tasted it, and was prompted to reach for her mug. As she did, and unpredicated by anything spoken, they exchanged glances with such exact coincidence that Worse felt slightly unnerved, as if embarrassed by trespass and discovery. It was one of those events that, however trivial, draws attention to itself by virtue of improbability. But for Worse it was more than that; he knew from experience that it signalled in him a particular curiosity and self-consciousness around another person. Even looking away, he sensed her smiling as she raised the coffee to her lips.

  ‘Tell me what you think has happened to your brother.’ The shift was sudden, and she seemed to startle slightly.

  ‘Well, even before meeting you I was worried about something awful. I told you that it’s completely out of character for Nicholas not to keep in touch. And I found his flat burgled. All that might have had nothing to do with the Humboldt, except that the mood of the emails did change, and Fiendisch behaved so oddly, nothing like you’d expect of a business principal with even ordinary concern for a staff member.’

  Worse was always entertained by disjunctive pairs such as odd and even in the same sentence, and turned to look at her. His momentary distraction went unnoticed.

  ‘Anyway, I thought the bank aspect of it looked sufficiently strange to sneak in for a look around. I mean, Nicholas would have had an office there. No signs of that last night.’ She gestured negation with one hand while resting her coffee on the table with the other. In doing that, she looked at Worse.

  ‘Now, of course, from everything you’ve told me, I’m really worried. For Nicholas. And for myself, I suppose.’

  Worse stared at the balcony railing, and took the conversation back a step.

  ‘Is that something you do regularly, breaking into banks?’

  ‘I didn’t really break in,’ she said defensively, ‘I had an entry card. No, of course I don’t. Do you?’

  ‘Denial, fallacy, protest, deflection. Very infrequently. Weren’t you scared?’

  ‘Absolutely. Especially when—’

  ‘The flower arrangement sprang into life. I’m sorry.’ Worse was looking into his coffee, but was aware of her grinning.

  ‘You’re forgiven.’

  He looked at her as he rose from his chair, collecting her mug. ‘Well, you scared me too, and you’re forgiven.’

  Worse had been thinking about the best course of action. There were two mysteries. The first, Zheng’s attack, was his. The second was Millie’s—what had happened to Nicholas, and why she herself had been targeted. The relational complex Zheng implicated Ritchie implicated Fiendisch, though not necessarily the Humboldt. Nicholas implicated the Humboldt and Fiendisch, and as well, Nicholas implicated Millie implicated Ritchie, though not necessarily Fiendisch or the bank. It seemed inconceivable that the two sets of events were not related, at least through Fiendisch, and if that were the case, Worse believed that finding Nicholas should take priority. He shared these thoughts as they walked through the kitchen to the computer room.

  On the way, Worse briefly showed her the other lab, explaining that should the need arise, they could do basic forensic work in-house.

  ‘Why do you have all that stuff at home?’ she asked.

  ‘I used to be interested in it.’

  ‘I hope you’re not some kind of arch-criminal and I’ve been completely hoodwinked.’ She was being humorous, but Worse was blunt.

  ‘I’m not.’ A moment later, before she could formulate something apologetic, he added, ‘Hoodwinked is a nice word. We should use it more.’

  Millie stayed quiet.

  ‘I don’t think I told you about our spyware in the bank’s IT system,’ Worse said as they entered the computer room. ‘We have a copy of everything there is.’

  ‘Wow,’ Millie almost whistled appreciatively.

  ‘First, I think we should independently record everything we can remember about all the rooms in the bank. Then combine notes. Then we’ll start mining the computer records: keywords Nicholas, Zheng, Grosvenor, for example. I’m also going to find out more about Fiendisch. Interrupt me at any time. Otherwise we’ll discuss progress over lunch.’

  Millie assented briskly by sitting at her desk, turning to give Worse a stack of printed emails. Worse had already thought about the fact that these represented her last contact with Nicholas, and he accepted them with slight formality.

  Before beginning his own tasks, Worse checked on Ritchie and Kev. The car was no longer at Millie’s address. He streamed through the record and found what he expected, a phone call from Ritchie to Fiendisch reporting a lack of sighting of their target. The latter had instructed them to leave the scene and get some sleep. Worse called out to Millie.

  ‘Another link established. Those two watching your place are taking orders about you from
Fiendisch. Not surprising, but now confirmed.’

  Millie looked up. ‘Are they still there?’

  ‘No.’ He was pleased to report that.

  Worse was keen to find out more about Fiendisch, and follow his movements. He began with the banker’s mobile phone, accessing the account file and copying the numbers dialled. He recognized those of Ritchie and Zheng, but it was another that caught his attention. This was a frequently called fixed line number in Margaret River. Worse pursued this, to find it was registered to Verita’s Wines, a fully controlled entity of the unlisted Providence Portfolio, having directors Karl Fiendisch and Charles Finistere. Providence itself was a subsidiary of Humboldt. As he discovered these connections, Worse copied relevant material into a research folder, as well as writing some notes on a pad. After several minutes, he sat back, staring at the screen. Strand within strand; every thread of enquiry seemed to unravel another.

  For the moment, he decided to return to Fiendisch. The mobile account led him to a home number. Worse noted the address. After this, he wanted a break, and collecting the sheaf of emails from Nicholas he walked through to his bedroom and lay down, his head supported on three pillows. He first confirmed they were in chronological order, then read the last first.

  Hi M. Sorry to hear about Pico. Has he got alternatives worked out? Good luck with the marking and remember to be kind. If it gets too awful you could run away like me. Actually, things aren’t so great here at the moment. I thought my stuff was going brilliantly. Retrodiction tests for Autonomous Trader have been unbelievable, 32pm12% virtually guaranteed. For some reason Dr F doesn’t seem pleased. He wants big changes with parametrization that look dangerous to me. They’re way off for the market behaviour. I don’t think he understands all that much, though his doctorate (he says) was in economic modelling. He does seem OK with programming though. Anyway, his mood has changed the last few days. He really was quite kind to me before but I’m feeling fairly uncomfortable now. I suppose the bank may have hit some difficulties. I’m not party to the general business. Two of the front office staff seem to have quit last week. I’m not sure I’ll want to stay much longer myself if the unfriendliness continues. Do you think I should be upfront about it?

  Do you remember Hiro Wasabi? He was the one who found the problem in RT’s draft proof of Fitzsimmons III. Pointed it out with infinite politeness of course. I don’t think you ever met him. Anyway, I discovered that he has a visiting professorship over here. We’ve talked on the phone and plan a Japanese meal out next week. I think I’ll try to get to their weekly research seminars too, to keep in touch. It’s a bit isolating professionally here, which is saying something, after where I was before. Hope all’s well. Love N.

  Worse stared at the page for several seconds. He then went back to read the earliest, working forward chronologically. There was a definite change in sentiment in the penultimate message, where Nicholas mentioned some unexpected, and evidently unreasonable, pressure to get the project completed. It was a comment that might have passed unnoticed, its significance only illuminated by the subsequent message, and events. Worse noted the dates. The last fully optimistic, unreservedly positive email was on August 12; two days later the mood was changing.

  ‘Did Nicholas write letters by post, or only email?’ Worse had left the printouts on his bed and walked through to Millie’s desk.

  ‘A couple of postcards early on, that’s all.’

  ‘Did you chase up the Hiro Wasabi contact?’

  ‘I did. Actually, I ended up having that meal out with him myself last week. Nicholas was to phone Hiro to confirm the arrangement, but never did. Hiro tried email and phoning the bank, only to be told that Nicholas had left the company.’

  ‘Were there emails, Nicholas to Hiro?’

  Millie hesitated, possibly thinking she should know. ‘I don’t know.’

  Worse glanced at Millie’s screen, but didn’t ask about her progress. ‘When you have time, it might pay to search for Nicholas’s email files. There may be versions of things written but not sent, internal memos, correspondence with other colleagues. Whatever.’

  Millie nodded agreement but already Worse was moving to another terminal.

  He had been unable to trace the origin of payments to Zheng’s account. However, the problem could be greatly reduced with a little more information, essentially by searching for a link from both ends. Over the next few minutes, Worse remodelled the task by incorporating accounts associated with Humboldt Bank, Fiendisch or Finistere. It remained computationally demanding, and he fully expected the analysis to take days. But now he was confident of success; in the end there would be a result, some pathway of maximum likelihood connecting Zheng to an account number, a password, and the name of a person of interest.

  26

  SIGRID BLITT

  ‘Why do I think there’s trouble afoot?’

  Knowing his friend’s capacity for play, Worse examined each word for obliquity, especially ‘afoot’.

  ‘Afoot? A foot,’ he pronounced carefully. Sigrid eyed him patiently. He continued. ‘It’s funny you should say that. A foot has been the sort of gestalt of my day. I’ve seen an amputee on crutches, a young man in a wheelchair with a leg in fixators, a shop window full of right-hand shoes, and kids playing hopping games in a car park. Now you say afoot. Why is it a one-legged day?’

  He seemed genuinely intrigued, and Sigrid, not quite sure of the comic temperature, said seriously, ‘It’s Scalene Thursday; you should know that. In many cultures it’s an important festival. You’re meant to cross your legs for luck.’

  Worse looked at her suspiciously, but with no shift in tone began to describe in detail the events of the previous few days, keeping his account factual and largely free of opinion or inference.

  Sigrid listened without interruption, showing concern, surprise and amusement as the story unfolded. From time to time he stopped talking, as other diners or café staff moved close to their table. He concluded with a précis of his conversation with Millie just prior to leaving the apartment that evening. It was about taking a look at the Fiendisch house later in the night. When he finished, Sigrid stared at her water glass, eventually looking up.

  ‘Have you talked to the police?’

  ‘Not at this stage.’

  ‘Could the Zheng attack be to do with SpeakEasy?’

  It was a natural question. SpeakEasy was an internet site managed exclusively by Sigrid and himself, dedicated to commentary that would normally invoke the hopelessly archaic and repressive Australian defamation and contempt laws. Sigrid and he as editors, and any contributors, were protected by Worse’s own DPA encryption code and a distributed virtual server system using cuckoo programs that switched rapidly and randomly across almost a million public access servers.

  For over three years now they had offered a forum for essays and critiques on subjects such as censorship, judicial impropriety and incompetence, law of contempt abuses, parliamentary privilege, political nepotism, conflict of interest, and corporate bullying. It was the modern incarnation of a dissident printing press, and their regular pamphleteers’ dinner on Thursday evenings dealt with editorial matters for the following week. Obviously, the site had many enemies, and it could easily be that Fiendisch had reasons to attack SpeakEasy unrelated to the Nicholas business.

  Their meals had arrived, and Worse was carefully dissecting bones from his grilled fish.

  ‘I’m investigating that, but it’s looking very unlikely—no irregularities, no security flags, nothing direct and nothing statistical.’ He was referring to automated self-checks embedded in the operating system. After a few seconds, he added, ‘I need to understand exactly what purpose Fiendisch had in hiring Nicholas, and if it changed. Anyway, has anything unusual been happening in your world?’

  ‘My patients. They’re all unusual.’

  ‘I thought you made them normal.’

  It was Sigrid’s turn to scrutinize her meal. ‘Well and normal are different things.
What would you like me to do?’

  ‘I was hoping you might look after SpeakEasy this week. Maybe a BenchPress edition; you could use the judicial activism material we worked on.’

  ‘Yes. I could do that.’

  ‘I’d also like you to apply your mind to what I’ve told you. Give me any ideas.’

  Sigrid looked serious. ‘I think you should talk to Spoiling.’

  ‘I thought you would say that. How much should I tell him?’

  ‘Everything. Except whatever could incriminate you. Leave out your little contingency gift in Ritchie’s car, for example. And where Zheng rests.’

  Worse accepted the advice with a slight tilt of the head.

  ‘Call him now.’ She reached for the water bottle and refilled their glasses.

  Worse removed a mobile from his jacket pocket and dialled a stored number. Almost immediately, Sigrid could hear, ‘Worse, how are you?’

  ‘Hello Victor. I have a perplexity for you.’ Worse and Spoiling shared a private vernacular.

  ‘I feel a headache coming on.’

  ‘Victor! You enjoy perplexities.’ There was mock hurt. ‘It’s about the Humboldt Bank in Fremantle, a director called Fiendisch, and a missing person, Nicholas Misgivingston. Can we meet tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course, for coffee.’

  ‘Thank you, Victor. I will call you. By the way, I have a name and number for your Sydney colleagues looking into their shootings.’ He gave Smudge’s contact details taken from Ritchie’s mobile. As he pocketed his own phone he reached thoughtfully for his water glass.

  ‘Any concerns?’ Sigrid eyed him searchingly.

  ‘About Victor? No, I don’t think so.’ Worse was ruminative, using an unopened sugar sachet to corral scattered breadcrumbs into a neat square. After several seconds, Sigrid re-enquired.

  ‘I mean, do you feel better or worse, less or more disturbed, after speaking to him?’

  ‘Better, less,’ he answered. He pushed his chair back from the table and crossed his legs, one knee over the other.