The Dying Diplomats Club

by Matthew Benns

  CHAPTER 7

  A Gun in the Hand

  ‘I don’t see why you are making such a fuss over her bloomin’ ankle when I’m sitting here bleeding,’ complained Brett Porterhouse again. ‘That damn dingo might have given me some disease from his razor-sharp fangs.’

  ‘Nonsense, Brett,’ said La Contessa from her position on the beige sofa with its over-fussy embroidered cushions, where Charlotte was holding a makeshift ice compress against her ankle. ‘I have Baxter’s teeth cleaned regularly. My concern is what he might have picked up from biting you.’

  ‘Possible alcohol poisoning from his blood,’ chuckled Charlotte. ‘Poor Baxter.’

  ‘Poor Baxter!’ grizzled Brett. ‘What’s the point of having a doctor for a partner if you have to clean and bandage your own wounds?’

  ‘Wounds you received by taking flight and leaving me behind,’ said Charlotte sternly. ‘Not the heroic and gallant act I expect from a partner of mine.’

  Brett wisely slumped into silence, inexpertly attempting to wrap a bandage from the Kirribilli House medicine cabinet around his leg. Guard dog Baxter sat no less than half a metre from him, watching intently and growling occasionally.

  ‘I will bandage this tightly and you will be as good as new,’ said Charlotte, holding La Contessa’s outstretched foot in her lap. ‘Baxter was very fast – do you exercise him frequently?’

  ‘Oh no, that’s Nick’s job,’ said La Contessa. ‘I took him for a walk once and he simply dragged me on the route Nick takes him on every day.’

  ‘Why is that a problem?’

  ‘He took me into every single pub and wine bar within a kilometre’s radius of our house,’ said La Contessa. ‘I was practically sozzled by the time I got to the last one. At which, I might add, they pulled out a water bowl for Baxter that even had his name on it!’

  The other guests were milling around the room after the excitement and chatting in huddles. No one was really relaxed, knowing they were all under suspicion of trying to blackmail the Prime Minister of Australia. Monaro was standing by the windows with Sir Aiden and casting occasional glares at Brett. His body language spoke of betrayal and suspicion. Nick’s reassurances when they had limped back following Brett’s bolt for freedom had clearly done little to assuage the Prime Minister’s suspicions. ‘I don’t care what Nick says,’ he told the Governor-General now. ‘Running for the hills at the first sign of trouble is a sure sign of guilt in my book.’

  The Dieudonnes were talking to Karen at the table while Alexander offered a consoling arm to Patricia as Charlie looked on. Hayden continued to provide a running commentary about his business interests in China to a bored Taylor, who clearly was not listening.

  ‘Now look what I’ve managed to uncover,’ said Nick, walking up to his wife and Charlotte excitedly.

  ‘Oh, a clue to the identity of the blackmailer?’ said La Contessa.

  ‘No, a cocktail shaker,’ said Nick. ‘Plus gin – Gordon’s no less – Stolichnaya vodka and Lillet Blanc vermouth. Not only can I mix us a martini, I can make the Vesper from Casino Royale. Which is particularly fitting.’

  ‘Well, darling, of course I would love one,’ said La Contessa. ‘But why is it fitting?’

  ‘Because,’ said Charlotte, bandage in hand, ‘you are being tied up by Dr Ngo. A Bond villain with a different spelling. I get that a lot. Not very original, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Just two martinis then,’ said Nick, taking the hint and heading over to the foyer and the dripping carved unicorn for some ice.

  ‘So Dr Ngo, I wasn’t expecting you,’ said La Contessa in her best Sean Connery Scottish brogue, receiving a frosty frown in reply. ‘I mean to be here. Did you know Robert and Patricia before the operation?’

  ‘I had met them through various charitable functions but I didn’t get to know them properly until Patricia was diagnosed with a brain tumour.’

  ‘Yes, I remember that we all thought it was terminal until you stepped in,’ said La Contessa. ‘That was truly amazing. From a dead woman walking back to her old self. She has been an absolute rock for Robert through his whole life, particularly since he went into politics.’

  ‘In many ways she reminds me of another Australian first lady who loved this house,’ said Charlotte. ‘Hazel Hawke was a particular favourite of mine when I was growing up.’

  ‘She certainly had a lot to put up with old Bob. The drinking and the womanising were legendary,’ said La Contessa. ‘I read Blanche D’Alpuget’s biography of Hawke and there was a lot of hanky-panky going on. Somehow Robert does not strike me as being that kind of Prime Minister.’

  ‘It’s certainly very different from the culture I was born into.’

  ‘Oh really?’ said La Contessa. ‘Do you think that is part of the reason why you are prepared to push boundaries with pioneering surgery that others are more cautious about?’

  Charlotte paused from wrapping the bandage around La Contessa’s ankle and gave the question some serious thought. She bit at her lower lip and frowned. ‘Yes, I really think it is my background. Or rather, having left it behind. A sense of having nothing to lose,’ she said finally. ‘I arrived here with my parents on a boat from Vietnam. I still remember sitting on my father’s shoulders as the boat beached at night – if I had jumped over the side I would have drowned.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realise you came here as a refugee,’ said La Contessa.

  ‘Yes, we left a country filled with terror, retribution and bloodshed, and came to a welcoming land of sunshine and joy. I cannot understand how we have become so hostile to forced migrants now.’

  ‘Particularly when you see what migrants such as yourself have given to the country.’

  ‘I wanted to give back to my new homeland. My parents worked so hard to put me through a private school and on to study medicine at university, and to put my brother through law school. When I realised that I had a gift for medicine I wanted to do more. The problem is that I have moved too fast for the traditionalists to keep up. And now they are punishing me.’

  ‘Punishing you? How so?’

  ‘They are threatening to take away my medical licence. As we were saying earlier, not every patient I treat has the same positive outcome as Patricia,’ she said, her voice suddenly wavering and threatening to crack. ‘The threat of losing my licence is alone enough to drive people away from my practice. Unless I can get an injection of capital very soon, I will be forced to close down.’

  ‘Surely it cannot be that bad?’ said La Contessa encouragingly. ‘You must have some very wealthy and grateful former patients who would be willing to help out until you clear everything up?’

  ‘It is funny how quickly people forget once they are recovered. Good health is taken for granted right up until the minute you don’t have it,’ Charlotte said. ‘I was too ambitious and grew the practice too fast. I have re-mortgaged my home, swapped my Maserati for a Corolla and begged and borrowed from everyone I can think of, including Patricia, to keep going. But unless I get the medical board to clear my name, or another injection of cash, I will lose the lot.’

  Brett had been listening to the exchange as he bandaged his leg and now leaned over. ‘I’ve got an absolute certainty in the fifth at Flemington tomorrow,’ he said, sotto voce. ‘You could put the house on it and it will pay up deluxe.’ Both women turned as one and fixed him with withering stares. ‘OK, suit yourselves. I was just trying to help,’ he said as Baxter emitted a low guttural growl. Brett struggled to his feet and began to hobble towards the Champagne. ‘Keep this damned hound of yours under control, can’t you?’

  ‘As you can see,’ continued Charlotte, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as she leaned in to confide with La Contessa, ‘I am also blessed with an ability to find and attach myself to bad men. My husband is no better. He has sponged off me the entire time we have been together. You are lucky to have a good one. He clearly adores you. When did you meet?’

  ‘It was a few years ago now,’ sighed La
Contessa happily. ‘At a health spa.’

  ‘At a health spa!’ said Charlotte, looking across at Nick as he finished shaking the cocktails and poured two generous martinis into glasses that he had carefully cooled with ice. ‘I would not have picked that. Was it Betty Ford?’

  ‘No, no. I have forgotten the name of it. One of those up in the hinterlands of Byron Bay or somewhere similar. I was there with my mother.’

  ‘That dearly sainted woman,’ said Nick, barely suppressing a shudder as he walked up with the two martinis and caught the end of the conversation. ‘What’s happened? Lost her broomstick?’

  ‘No, darling, I was telling Charlotte about the time we met.’

  ‘Ahh yes, the case of the murderous masseur,’ said Nick, taking a sip. ‘Oh, I say, that’s really rather good.’

  ‘Oh yes, darling. Some of your finest work,’ said La Contessa sipping hers appreciatively. ‘Now, where were we? Oh yes, so Mother and I were staying at this spa and I noticed this rather out-of-place character hanging around looking thoroughly ill at ease, dodgy and miserable.’

  ‘Was that the killer?’ said Charlotte, who had finished bandaging the ankle but was now thoroughly engrossed in the story.

  ‘No, silly, that was Nick. The spa did not have a bar.’

  ‘It was awful,’ recalled Nick. ‘I was there undercover after two guests had died in mysterious circumstances. They could both be explained as natural causes, but the health spa owners were worried about their reputation and wanted matters investigated more thoroughly.’

  ‘Anyway, he looked so lost and out of place I took pity on him and befriended him,’ said La Contessa. ‘Took him under my wing so to speak.’

  ‘Yes, it was marvellous,’ recalled Nick, a happy smile on his lips at the memory. ‘She had a full bottle of vodka stashed in her room and a hot water bottle to shake the martinis in.’

  ‘I had been before,’ explained La Contessa. ‘And the combination of a detox program and an ageing Sicilian mother is not something one should contemplate without the benefit of a good strong drink.’

  ‘So what about the killer?’ asked Charlotte, keen to steer the conversation back to what she considered the point at hand.

  ‘Ah yes, the killer,’ said Nick. ‘Well the case had me totally baffled. Two victims, both elderly, a man and a woman. Both rich – naturally: they were in a health spa and those places are not cheap – and both dead in their beds after a full day of activities.’

  ‘Nick discussed the mystery with me over our nocturnal rendezvous with the vodka and the hot water bottle,’ said La Contessa. ‘It was so, well, thrilling. To think a killer could be among us.’

  ‘It was La Contessa who actually came up with the common thread,’ said Nick, nodding to his wife proudly. ‘I mentioned that the only thing they had in common on the day they died was that they had both had a massage from the same person, and that the first responders had remarked that the corpses’ skin had been very red. Mariabella said that reminded her: there was this very specific oil she had seen as an option when booking treatments for her mother and in one of those lightbulb moments we realised how it could have been used.’

  ‘Keith the masseur,’ said La Contessa. ‘Later to be known as Keith the Massage Killer. You may have heard of him – it was in all the newspapers.’

  Charlotte shook her head.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued La Contessa. ‘The problem was figuring out how having a massage could end up with the victim dying in bed later that night. And why, of course – although that was later solved when Nick uncovered Keith’s records and found he had been rifling his dead clients’ bank accounts.’

  ‘So how did he do it?’ asked Charlotte.

  ‘Quite simple really,’ explained Nick. ‘He would massage them with a superhot chilli massage oil and then as they got off the table, burning up and bright red, he would tell them to drink plenty of water . . . which he gave them.’

  ‘Of course it was poisoned,’ said La Contessa. ‘He would heat his victims up to ensure they drank enough of the tainted water to kill them but the quantity meant the poison was diluted enough to be undetectable by the time the coroner conducted the autopsy.’

  ‘You arrested him?’ asked Charlotte.

  ‘Caught him in the act,’ said Nick. ‘Unfortunately just a moment too soon.’

  ‘Don’t you mean a moment too late?’

  ‘No, he means a moment too soon,’ sighed La Contessa. ‘My mother had been massaged and was about to sip from the bottle of water Keith the Massage Killer gave her when Nick burst in and arrested him.’

  ‘There was a bit of a scuffle,’ recalled Nick. ‘I was swinging lefts and rights, he was ducking and diving and unfortunately . . .’

  ‘Unfortunately?’ said Charlotte, her mouth agape.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said La Contessa, ‘one of Nick’s wild roundhouse swings connected with Mother’s jaw.’

  ‘A really good, satisfying punch,’ said Nick. ‘Connected beautifully. She went out like a lamp. Of course, I then charged over her prone form and clobbered Keith the Massage Killer good and proper. Put the cuffs on and the jury sent him down for life.’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ warned La Contessa.

  ‘Say what?’ asked Charlotte.

  ‘Say that he got a life sentence of his own because he married me,’ said La Contessa. ‘It’s a terrible joke and I know he doesn’t mean it. But Mother on the other hand . . .’

  ‘Has she forgiven him?’

  ‘Forgiven me?’ said Nick. ‘Of course. I told her that Keith the Massage Killer had clobbered her and that if I had not arrived in the nick of time she would be brown bread, dead as a doornail, toes up and dancing with the angels. She loves me.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said La Contessa. ‘Whenever she comes to visit, all she wants to do is see Nick and spend time with him. Her “saviour” she still calls him. Every Easter she dedicates a full decade of the rosary to him. The irony is beautiful.’

  ‘I have only been back to a health spa once since then,’ said Nick. ‘The heiress Virginia Valentine ended up dead, crushed to death by a seaweed wrap. That was a nasty experience.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Charlotte.

  ‘No bar again,’ explained La Contessa.

  ‘Friends,’ the voice of the Prime Minister rose above the hubbub, ‘perhaps we can take our seats back at the table. Patricia has cleared the plates and there is a little palate-cleansing sorbet there for you all to enjoy.’

  As they took their seats, Monaro watched from the head of the table with a strange expression on his face. Once they were all seated, he reached into the pocket of his dinner jacket and put a pistol on the table. There was an audible gasp. Taylor grabbed Alexander’s hand with her own. He patted it reassuringly as Patricia and Hayden glared at them both. Nick saw Charlie observing his counterpart’s actions with a slightly cynical smile that seemed out of character.

  ‘Surely that’s not necessary, Robert,’ said the Foreign Minister, who had remained uncharacteristically silent for the first part of the evening. ‘I think that is taking things too far.’

  ‘I concur,’ said Sir Aiden tautly. ‘You cannot go around threatening your New Year’s Eve guests with a handgun. What are you going to do? Shoot someone?’

  ‘No, of course not, Sir Aiden,’ said Monaro abruptly. ‘I took this from my protection officer before he left. Actually, he insisted I take it. This is the standard issue Glock 17 self-loading pistol. No safety catch, relying instead on three internal safety mechanisms to prevent accidental discharges, and with a magazine holding seventeen rounds, each of which automatically reloads once the trigger has been pulled and the gun discharged.’

  ‘We all know how a handgun works,’ said Sir Aiden. ‘The question is why you think it is necessary.’

  ‘I’m giving you an armoury lesson to remind you that I was formerly an officer in the Special Air Service Regiment and I don’t take the handling of weapons lightly,’ said the Prime Minister gr
avely. ‘Someone in this room is attempting to blackmail me. Brett has already made a sudden dash, which Nick assures me is not a signal of guilt, despite what it looks like. If the blackmailer is prepared to go to those lengths, what will they be prepared to do when they are finally unmasked? Hand themselves over and accept they have been caught, or put up a fight?’

  ‘Hmm, I see your point.’ Sir Aiden nodded. ‘With the security staff withdrawn, it does seem to be a prudent precaution when you put it like that.’

  ‘I have no intention of using the gun, although you all know I am more than capable of doing so,’ said Monaro. ‘I am merely putting my cards on the table, so to speak, so that whoever the blackmailer is knows exactly what they are dealing with.’

  ‘Well don’t keep us here as hostages for too long,’ quipped Brett. ‘We might get Stockholm syndrome and not want to leave.’

  ‘I read a fascinating book on Stockholm syndrome recently,’ piped up La Contessa. ‘It was awful at the beginning but by the end I really liked it.’

  Several of the guests looked up to see if she was joking, and were met with a picture of earnest sincerity. Nick studied his martini glass intently, shoulders shaking slightly, until Patricia cleared her throat at the opposite end of the table. ‘Entremets, everybody. It’s an orange sorbet. The perfect palate cleanser for what’s to come.’

  *

  The man moved silently through the Kirribilli House foyer, his rubber-soled combat boots silent on the marble floor. He passed to the left of the dripping ice carving and ghosted down the hallway to the carpeted stairs. A faint creak from the third stair was drowned out by the murmur of conversation from the dining room. At the top of the stairs, the man turned right and headed along the corridor to the furthest door at the northern end. He turned the handle and entered a casual sitting room with spectacular views across the harbour to the Opera House and Harbour Bridge. Dusk was falling and the reflection of the lights from the city were glittering among the large and small boats bobbing around waiting for the fireworks to start. To his left there was a bank of monitors that had clearly been set up recently on two long fold-out plastic tables. They were being run from a desktop computer standing on the floor in the middle of the two tables with a keyboard sitting on the top. Without hesitating, the man walked over and hit a key on the keyboard, pulling out an office chair on wheels and sitting down as the monitors flickered to life. He typed in a long numerical code from memory and hit enter. As he waited for the system to boot, he pulled the handgun from his rucksack and set it on the table next to the keyboard. He pulled on a set of earphones that were sitting next to the cable and allowed himself a quick nod of satisfaction. Before him were a range of real-time images covering doorways and windows for the dining room below. The main screen showed 14 people gathered around a long dining table with 11 tense, anxious faces turned towards Prime Minister Robert Monaro.