Good Money

by J. M. Green

  ‘Correct,’ Rod said. ‘When the bank called in the debt, Bailey Range had no option but to go into receivership.’

  ‘We lost everything,’ Ida said to the table. ‘All our savings.’

  ‘And you know that a company called CC Prospecting, a parent company of Blue Lagoon Corp, has the Bailey Range tenements now?’

  Rod held my gaze. ‘We know.’

  ‘Tell me why you tried to crash the Blue Lagoon offices.’

  Rod’s hands rested on the table in front of him. ‘We made official complaints to ASIC. We went to the police. Got us nowhere.’ The voice was calm but the knuckles were white.

  ‘Got us an intervention order — and a hell of an anecdote at dinner parties,’ Ida said.

  ‘If we ever get invited to one.’

  ‘You accused Blue Lagoon of making false statements regarding the gold deposits, and demanded their test samples.’

  Rod nodded. ‘We had time to go over it all. When we looked back on the fiasco from the beginning, we realised the entire venture hinged on their geology report. In hindsight, we thought this bloody gold business was fishy. Too positive. These geologists use equivocal language, but this report was all certainty and over-confidence.’

  ‘You think Blue Lagoon Corp was aware that the gold deposits were minimal before 2010?’

  The Lloyds swapped a glance. Rod nodded and Ida said, ‘Yes. But we couldn’t prove it.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Some evidence has come to light.’

  Rod’s eyes travelled to the file on the table in front of me.

  ‘It’s not conclusive, but it may provide grounds for further scrutiny.’

  Ida’s eyes were bright in the gloom. ‘What evidence, Stella?’

  I put the printout of the original report on the table. ‘This is an analysis of samples from the area, written a year before the joint venture.’

  Rod put his head to the side. ‘The original report?’

  ‘Yes. Stating that the likelihood of gold deposits in the claim area was slight. Essentially unlikely.’

  Ida’s mouth fell open.

  ‘We believe the directors of Blue Lagoon withheld that report and had another report written. The one they submitted to Bailey Range.’

  ‘You believe? Why don’t we ask the bastard who wrote it?’ Ida said. ‘Get the police to interview him, get sworn testimony?’

  ‘You can’t speak to her, because she’s dead.’

  Ida put a hand to her mouth, with an audible inhale.

  ‘I need a beer,’ Rod said. ‘You thirsty, Stella?’

  They locked the van and we walked to the pub. In the main lounge, Rod went to the bar and came back with a jug of beer and three glasses held in his fingers.

  Ida pointed at my bag, where I’d put the printout. ‘What do you intend to do?’

  ‘As yet, I haven’t revealed its existence to anyone. The fact that the report is not public yet gives us some leverage with Blue Lagoon Corp,’ I said.

  ‘No point,’ said Rod. ‘Whatever you’ve got there, it won’t hold up in court. The lawyers Brodtmann has — unbelievable. We can’t win that way.’

  Ida drew a tissue from her sleeve and sniffed. ‘That girl who wrote the dodgy report? What happened to her?’

  ‘She was found murdered in a drug den near Melbourne.’ I hesitated. ‘Brodtmann’s daughter.’

  ‘His daughter? Good heavens. We didn’t … I mean, we’ve been out prospecting for the last two weeks, no contact with civilisation. No wonder we haven’t heard about it,’ Ida said.

  ‘Then you probably haven’t heard that one of the directors of Bailey Range committed suicide in a car near the mine site.’

  ‘Which one?’ Rod asked, his steely eyes unblinking.

  ‘Trevor Michaels. The police have pieced together his last known movements. About two weeks ago he checked into the motel here in Laverton, left some of his stuff there, and headed out to the desert. His car was found at the site.’

  A few blokes in bright orange boiler suits gathered round the bar, others stood smoking in the small courtyard. Jugs of beer were handed around. The noise level steadily increased.

  ‘I was thinking I might go out there, have a look around,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’ asked Ida.

  ‘Does the name Funsail mean anything to you?’

  Ida shook her head. ‘Never heard that name.’

  ‘Look out, here’s Chris.’ Rod topped up our glasses.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Chris Randall, the local sergeant.’ Rod nodded at the bar, where a fellow with a pink face and white, feathery hair was sharing a joke with the barmaid. He picked up his beer and scanned the room, clocked Rod and Ida and ambled over. ‘Rodney, old son. Ida, lovely as usual. Any luck?’

  ‘Some. You know Miss Hardy?’

  ‘Have not had the pleasure.’

  ‘Stella.’ I put out my hand. He grabbed it in his paw, turned it sideways, and planted his gob onto it. ‘You work for?’

  ‘On holiday.’

  He pulled up a chair. ‘And what are you folks chatting about so earnestly over here? Lasseter’s vein of gold?’

  ‘A bloke died in the desert,’ Rod said.

  ‘Which bloke? Not the tool out on Yamarna Road? Up to the axles in sand. He rings his mate with the winch — he comes to get him. He gets bogged. Had to rescue the pair of them.’

  ‘Not those men,’ I said. ‘Trevor Michaels, from the motel.’

  ‘Terrible,’ Randall said. ‘Search and Rescue came up from Perth. They’re handling it after the Germans found the car.’ He drank half the glass. ‘Place called Dead Mans Soak.’

  ‘What’s the best way to get there?’ Rod asked.

  ‘Two choices. A well-prepared adventurous type might take the Great Central Road and turn right near Cosmo Newbery territory.’

  ‘Cosmo Newbery?’ I asked.

  ‘A great whack of Aboriginal land north of here. You need permits to go through it. Keep going and in three days — non-stop, mind you — you end up in Alice Springs.’

  ‘Great Central Road sounds the way to go,’ I said to Rod.

  Randall agreed. ‘The other way’s quicker but only a suicidal lunatic would risk it. The White Cliffs road to Yamarna goes all the way to Coober Pedy. Half of it is loose sand. Zero water, food, fuel on the way — and that’s if the road’s open. There’s corrugation two-feet deep, with the added fun of rocks and breakaways. So, you know, I wouldn’t advise it.’ Randall spoke without condescension. I sensed only the concern of someone who didn’t want to get a call for the use of his winch.

  ‘Okay. Great Central it is,’ said Rod.

  ‘Go off-road and there’s abandoned bores and mines all over the shop. Tell me you’re not going to do something stupid.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Randall.’ It was Ida. ‘We know what we’re doing.’

  ‘Rightio,’ said Randall. ‘I’ll follow you out there. Good excuse to have a look around. Been meaning to do that ever since the poor bastard dropped off the radar.’ Randall’s name was called out and he placed both hands on the table and heaved himself to standing. ‘That’ll be my lunch. See you all later — say, meet back here in about an hour?’ He hitched up his shorts and elbowed a path to the counter.

  Rod stared at his beer. ‘She has peacocks,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Crystal,’ Ida said. ‘We got a call one day. After she’d had us removed from the Blue Lagoon offices, she invited us to afternoon tea at her house.’

  Stunned, I burped and said, ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’

  ‘You go up the drive, a good hundred metres of city real estate before you see the house, and there’s someone feeding peacocks on the lawn.’

  ‘Wha
t did they say?’

  ‘Not they, only Crystal. He was overseas.’

  ‘He doesn’t know the half of what that woman is capable of,’ Ida said. ‘The blonde airhead thing is an act. Behind those sad eyes lurks the business acumen of Kerry Packer.’

  ‘She offered us money to back off, stop the protests.’ Rod finished his beer. ‘We took it, too.’

  Behind the bar was an open window, through which an Aboriginal man with a bushy beard was buying a carton of beer. I recognised him as one of Walkabout Annie’s companions. And for some reason I wondered why the museum was called The Great Beyond. The idea made me vaguely nauseous. I thought of Trevor Michaels — going into the great beyond and not coming back.

  I turned to Ida. ‘I might get changed, if we’re going out to the desert; pack a few essentials.’

  The air outside was cool and pleasant, and baking aromas drifted from the pub kitchen, something buttery with lots of sugar and fruit. Rhubarb? I was tempted to head back inside, get that sweetness into me. Surely it could drive out this awful sense of everything being wrong. I felt a loneliness that bordered on the existential and found myself drifting over to the public phones across the street, but I changed my mind and started to walk back to my unit at the caravan park. It was quiet out and only a few people were sitting under the trees in front of the pub. The lady in the caravan-park office was sweeping the path out the front. All the way back to my unit, I had a strong sensation of being watched.

  37

  I PACKED the bread and pinched the knife from the drawer, and filled my water bottle from the tap. The printout was still in my backpack and it seemed prudent to keep it with me — as well as my laptop, even though it was heavy. I didn’t trust the dodgy locks on the unit. For company, I turned on the TV and caught the news.

  Flamboyant South African mining magnate Merritt Van Zyl discusses the new Shine Point refinery deal, said to be worth billions of dollars, and which will create thousands of new jobs and boost the flagging economy. He sat down with Shelley Swindon in Darwin:

  Swindon: Mr Van Zyl, this deal was a long time coming, what sealed it?

  Van Zyl: Veldt Minerals required certain guarantees from its partner.

  Swindon: You mean the Australian government?

  Van Zyl: Yes.

  Swindon: And what has the Australian government brought to the table?

  Van Zyl: That’s confidential, but the deal is done. And it’s a win-win.

  Swindon: Can you explain how you were able to secure the deal when you’re facing fraud charges in South Africa related to the manipulation of share prices to prevent the hostile takeover of one of your companies.

  Van Zyl: I deny all charges. It’s a beat up by my competitors. I will be found innocent and then I will take legal action to clear my name.

  Swindon: One of your top executives was beaten nearly to death at his home in Port Elizabeth, rumours abound that you were involved.

  Van Zyl: I assure you I had nothing to do with the assault on that man, a man who is a personal friend. I have done everything in my power to see that he and his family are taken care of. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a busy schedule and I’m due in a meeting.

  There was something odd about the way the journalist pronounced Van Zyl’s name, like Vun Zail — Mr Vun Zail.

  I turned off the set and stood still as the room began to move. I was plastered in a film of sweat.

  Mr Funsail.

  Outside, the wind picked up, moving through the power lines and making them howl, stirring the dirt on the road. I could feel it stealing through the gaps in the unit, rattling the roof. Worse noises were coming from inside the room: groaning, and the agonised repetition of oh fuck, oh fuck.

  Van Zyl knew Finchley; they were members of the ‘Bow-Tie Club’ with Brodtmann. It was possible that Finchley introduced him to Cesarelli because Cesarelli was looking to launder his money. Along comes Van Zyl with a proposal about the Bailey Range joint venture. Anonymous investors, hiding behind various company names — so that even Brodtmann didn’t know Van Zyl had money in Bailey Range. But Van Zyl and Cesarelli both lost millions on the deal. Only to see Brodtmann prosper, mining iron ore.

  But how did Merritt Van Zyl become the Mr Funsail in Adut Chol’s book? That a man like Merritt Van Zyl even knew Adut Chol was absurd.

  I held my arms across my chest, trembling. Van Zyl wanted revenge on Brodtmann. He had lost millions, not to mention costing Cesarelli a small fortune. Had Van Zyl suggested to Cesarelli that he might kidnap Tania? Van Zyl knew Tania was really Nina, heir to the Brodtmann’s billions. In one horrible crime, he could have his retribution on Brodtmann and Cesarelli could have the ransom.

  And Cesarelli had given that task to Adut Chol. And the boy had dutifully written down Tania’s address and the name of the client. Mr Funsail.

  But then Adut changed his mind — kidnapping was way more serious a crime — and had refused to go ahead with it. So Cesarelli had him killed.

  The room was tight around me; I felt trapped. I needed fresh air in my lungs and I made a dash for the door and flung it open, breathing, gasping. Ida was standing on the step.

  ‘You’re early,’ I said, trying to compose myself.

  ‘Rod wants to get a good start.’

  ‘But what about Randall? He won’t know where we are.’

  ‘He knows, Rod’s told him.’

  ‘I just have to make a call first.’ I had to tell Phuong about Van Zyl.

  Rod tooted the horn on their four-wheel drive. ‘No time,’ Ida said. ‘Do it when we get back.’

  Rod gave me a curt nod. ‘All set?’

  I patted my bag. ‘I suppose.’ We drove around the edge of town until we were on the main highway, a single lane of bitumen that soon turned to dirt. After that, the going was slow and rough and vaguely sickening. In the empty, continuous desert — and with the sun directly above — I had no point of reference other than the low hills to the east. It really was a nice day. Clear skies, nice breeze wafting. We were a dull party though, with no games of I-Spy, or idle chitchat.

  ‘Here,’ said Ida, the first words anyone had said for an hour. She had a map spread out on her knees and was checking it against their GPS. Rod slowed and turned onto a track without a signpost. The road was rutted and progress was difficult, and we passed another hour of tedious lurching and reeling. Ida pointed to a rocky point around a depression in the sand, near a sad stand of saltbush and a bunch of spinifex. ‘This is it,’ she said. ‘Dead Mans Soak.’

  Rod stopped and we all got out. There was nothing special about it that I could see. It was a scrubby plain, swept by a continuous gritty breeze — and circling high above, a lonely wedge-tailed eagle. Other than the low whistle of the wind, silence was all around. Ida opened the rear door to get some water. I pulled out the backpack, heaved it over my shoulder and ventured out to the ridge, glad to be out of the car. I walked a short distance, about a hundred metres, to the rock formation. From across the hills to the east, I heard a melancholy cry, like the bellowing of a sick animal, possibly a donkey’s bray.

  Rod was moving the car, searching, I assumed, among the rocky peaks for some shade to park under.

  I climbed the rocks to see the nothingness beyond them. The sweep of the desert gave me a woozy rush and I was grateful for the wafting air that lifted my hair and cooled my neck. The problem was one of scale: here you had one small human, and her little problems; and over here, inconceivable breadth, bearing witness for a gazillion years. But now was not the time to dwell on such things. The sooner we checked the place out, the sooner I could get back and report Van Zyl to Phuong — or if not her then Randall or one of the local police.

  Michaels had not come here for the peace and quiet, or to kill himself, but to meet Crystal. The poor fellow probably had no idea he was a threat to Van Zy
l, as was anyone who understood the financial workings of the deal. I was convinced, now, that Michaels was just one more casualty in Van Zyl’s insane war against Crystal. If I could find evidence linking Van Zyl to Michael’s death, it would add more weight to my case when I spoke to the police.

  I looked about me. Below, stamped upon the soft red dust, were tyre tracks. Big fat tyres, like those on a Range Rover or a Hummer. There’d been no rain for weeks and the tracks were perfectly preserved. I turned around to announce my discovery to the Lloyds but I couldn’t see their car, only a rising line of dust that continued into the distance.

  The beer at the pub had made me slow-witted — the comprehension dawned in slow-motion: they had left me behind.

  I sat on a precipice of orange boulder. I picked up a stone and flicked it down onto the tyre tracks. This place wasn’t Bourke Street, but surely, sooner or later, a car would come.

  No. Not sooner. Maybe not even later. Maybe never.

  Trying to walk back to town was dumb. Waiting was suicide. Oh silly, silly me.

  The eagle circled. It looked menacing.

  I tried to think. I could do this — I just had to use my brain. Survival required a few simple things. I had some water and some bread. Out here, that would probably last me a day or two. Maybe three. Then I’d die.

  To make matters worse, I was busting. The art of outdoor urination had always eluded me. Whenever I attempted it, some disaster befell me. I’d squat and lose my balance and tumble backwards, arse-first, into the bushes. Once, a bug crawled into my undies. Usually, I’d just get wee all over my shoes, socks, and jeans. With a sigh, I climbed down and looked for a suitable place. Not many trees to go behind. But then who was going to see me? In the curve of rock, I took off my shoes and socks, and to be extra sure, my jeans as well. I crouched down and felt sweet relief.

  At that exact moment, I heard an engine in the distance. I tried to hurry but some things can’t be rushed. At last, I pulled up my undies and ran out to see what was coming. It was about five hundred metres away, a four-wheel drive, large, probably a Land Cruiser, approaching from Laverton and travelling east of me. There was not enough time to run back and put my jeans on; if I wanted this car to stop I had to start jumping up and down now. I was about to start flapping my arms but realised this was unnecessary. The car had turned, and moved with determined speed towards me. An unsettling thought came to me then; there was nothing out this way, no facilities, no town, nothing to see. Either this vehicle was off-course, or it was coming for me.