The Ambulance Chaser

by Richard Beasley

  Based on all the evidence available to me, clearly your policy of granting gold cards is non-discriminatory on financial competence grounds. I can only conclude therefore that your refusal to grant me a gold card is based either on my racial background or religious beliefs. I find this outrageous, shocking, humiliating and deeply offensive.

  Unless my gold card application is approved within 14 days of the date of this letter, I shall be forced to take this matter up with the Banking Ombudsman, the State and Federal Discrimination Commissioners, the Minister for Ethnic Affairs, the Immigration Minister, the State Member for the electorate of Coogee, and the Federal Member for the electorate of Kingsford Smith.

  Yours sincerely, etc.

  If I’d been a practising lawyer I probably couldn’t have written that kind of letter. This was another good thing about being struck off. You can only be hung once.

  ‘How does that sound?’ I asked Mr Shmastri. He beamed and clasped his hands together. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘you are a very wise gentleman and a true scholar.’ He shook my hand warmly and left the centre in a glowing mood, holding my letter and the copies we had made for him like they were part of the original text of the Mahabharata.

  ‘Do you think they will do anything?’ the student asked me as Mr Shmastri left.

  Well, they gave me several gold cards, I thought. ‘The letter will be sent to the PR department head,’ I said, ‘who will write back to Mr Basmati, informing him of their non-discrimination policy in relation to both customers and employees on matters of sex, race and religion. They will deny all of his allegations emphatically. If they were totally honest they would also add that their non-discrimination policy extends to matters of retrenchment too, something necessary every six months or so to prop up shareholder value, provide comfort to the markets, and to pay a series of white males in management very large bonuses for coming up with bright ideas about new fees. No, Mr Shmastri will not get a gold card.’

  ‘So the whole thing is a waste of time, then?’ she said.

  ‘Did he look happy when he left? Do you think we made him feel important?’

  ‘I guess so,’ she said.

  ‘Then we get ten out of ten.’

  Gabby looked tired when I finally spoke to her after everyone had left. Washed out under the harsh fluorescent lights of the office, lead rings under her eyes. Two hours on a custody fight can do that. I suggested that we go home back to her place, talk tomorrow, but she insisted I fill her in. We headed to the pub.

  I brought her up to speed on my meeting with Col Dixon, and then lunch at Machiavelli and my surprising promotion.

  ‘Head of Claims?’ she said, coming to life.

  ‘National Head. And some kind of strange suggestion that all my debts would be cleared. A low-interest loan arrangement.’

  ‘Do you think they suspect . . . ?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘They might. Or they might just think they can use me. Or buy me. I’m a crook, remember.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Or, least likely, they are entirely honest and just want to reward and promote, quite innocently, their most outstanding talent in claims.’

  ‘Assuming that’s not the case,’ she said, ‘what then?’

  ‘Then I think I should be scared. I think I should find a new flat and identity.’

  ‘What are you really going to do?’

  I hadn’t made it that far yet. I’d thought about the claims bordereau, though. I could try to keep track of all of the big claims, pester the claims handlers about them. But that wouldn’t save a life. I could ring every plaintiff’s lawyer in the same matters. Anonymously warn them that their clients’ lives were in danger. Unless they withdrew their claims or hired a team of bodyguards, that is. That’d work. Or I could do what all good lawyers do. Get some more evidence, and fast.

  ‘What?’ Gabby asked, swirling the remnants of her beer like she was looking for gold.

  ‘Something incriminating,’ I said.

  ‘You mean more incriminating than a pile of corpses?’ I shrugged. She looked up at me. ‘There’s always a smoking gun somewhere,’ she said. There is. Or a shredded document. Or another dead plaintiff. ‘Maybe we could hire an investigator,’ she continued.

  ‘An investigator?’

  ‘To follow Hardcastle and these other guys – Jarrett and De Luca – around. See who they meet, what they do.’

  I shook my head. Logistically difficult, and far too expensive. Then again, I did have some paintings worth 60, maybe 100K. And an investigator following around insurers? Covertly filming them instead of plaintiffs? The concept had ironic appeal.

  ‘There has to be something else, some other way,’ I said. ‘I can’t get into Hardcastle or Jarrett’s offices. I don’t have access to that floor. And what am I looking for, anyway? I’m not exactly going to come across a memo ordering a profit-enlarging execution. I can’t do nothing, though. And I can’t wait for the cops to get interested. And say they do investigate? They might find nothing but coincidence. SP might pull out of the murder game, but that won’t help nail it for what it’s already done.’

  She put her hand over her nose, ran it up to her forehead and rubbed her brow before wearily bringing it down over the side of her face. ‘I think we need to discuss this over coffee tomorrow,’ I said. ‘One more beer and we’ll go?’ She nodded absently, and I left her for the bar.

  While the waitress poured our beers from the tap, I tried to think. There were too many poker machines and too much light in the hotel for me to concentrate, though. What little intelligence I had they were leeching away.

  ‘So, how was your night at the Centre?’ Gabrielle asked when I returned. ‘I forgot to ask you. All the talk about murder and mayhem distracted me.’

  ‘Easier than your night,’ I said, then told her about Mr Shmastri. ‘I just typed a few demands other than that.’

  ‘Demands?’

  ‘Yeah. For Harry. I do a bit of legal work on the side for him – cash money. We’re both shameless criminals. The demands were for Bill Doyle, the gardener. Harry and I have been chasing his wealthy recalcitrants for years,’ I said. And with that, a soft yellow light lit up the cavity between my ears. ‘Ever broken into a house?’ I said.

  She looked at me blankly. ‘Once,’ she said. ‘I found a dead body clutching a remote control.’

  ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’

  ‘Something stupid I think, but I was planning on going to work,’ she said. ‘It’s Friday.’

  ‘Exactly. Friday. Ever done any gardening?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  She’d look sexy in overalls and work boots. A good-looking woman in bloke’s work wear. Kind of a little fantasy of mine. ‘Digging, weeding, raking,’ I said. ‘Or at least pretending to. I’ve got an idea, but we have to act now. I think I can get into Barry Hardcastle’s house tomorrow. I know where his private study is too.’

  ‘How?’ she said, lighting up. ‘What are we looking for?’

  ‘How is easy,’ I said. ‘What are we looking for? Everything. Anything. Something. We have to try.’

  ‘We’re going to break into his house? In broad daylight?’

  ‘Trust me,’ I said. ‘We can walk in. It’s desperate, but it’s all I can think of.’

  She shrugged. ‘I do own a pair of overalls.’

  I knew it.

  Twenty-Nine

  Bill Doyle had a team of contractors at Barry Hardcastle’s mansion every Friday. There were lawns to cut, gardens to maintain, hedges to trim, trees to prune, a pool to clean, fishponds to check on, even the sauna and spa fell within Bill’s domain. For a financially rewarding client like this, Bill usually dropped by to make sure things were being done to his exemplary standards.

  I caught him on his mobile first thing in the morning, just after seven, and he was already heading out for the day. Mrs Hardcastle the third was having some sort of lavish soiree for the eastern suburbs elite on Saturday night, an
d it was going to be a bigger job than usual. They would be working around caterers who were setting up the kind of marquee you need a DA for, once one of Bill’s boys had clipped and blow-dried the enormous lawns to centre-court perfection.

  Bill wasn’t surprised to hear that I was thinking of tossing in the insurance job. He was amazed I’d lasted more than a week. Hearing that I wanted back into the home maintenance game did cause him to pause, though. He thought that the bat had finished all ambition I had for the outdoor life.

  I told him I’d hung up my Scorpion prematurely. ‘The ankle’s fine again,’ I said. ‘I need a chance to really clear my head. Work out what I’m going to do.’ Bill was wary of my insistence on starting straight away. Especially at Hardcastle’s. ‘I have to be sure it’s really for me,’ I said. ‘Before I resign here. And there is perfect. I can just follow orders rather than doing everything on my own on a smaller job.’

  ‘Crap,’ he said. ‘What are you up to?’

  It would have taken too long to explain, and the truth was out of the question, anyway. ‘Nothing. What I said. I need to work at Hardcastle’s today, Bill. No questions asked, that kind of thing. For old time’s sake?’

  ‘This is my business, mate. I can’t have you fucking around –’

  ‘Your business won’t be jeopardised, Bill, I promise. How long have you known me? C’mon. Please?’

  ‘Fuck.’

  As good as a yes. I told him I was ringing in sick at SP, and that I’d work gratis for the day. So would the friend I was bringing. Another disenchanted lawyer. Expert gardener. Might be looking for a job, or some contract work. Female, but a strong worker. Not a bad sort, either.

  ‘Not too good, I hope. Buggers up everyone’s concentration.’

  ‘I’ll tell her not to wear her see-through overalls.’

  ‘Do that,’ Bill said. ‘Still, she can’t be more useless than the last new bloke I took there. Fell into the pool while he was vacuuming it. Perving at Fiona Hardcastle. Dick out over the water like a leaf scoop.’

  ‘I’ve seen a photo of her in the papers.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bill chuckled. ‘Designer gear only when she’s out, but at home when we’re around she dresses to reveal all assets. Had a bloody skirt on that showed most of the nature strip when the kid fell in the pool. I nearly went in the fucking fishpond myself.’

  ‘She nice?’

  ‘As prickly as a two-tonne echidna.’

  I guessed as much. We’d have to steer clear of her if she was around. That was the plan, anyway.

  I should have known to be wary of my plans. It had once been my plan that I’d slip into some international arbitration that ran for ten years. I’d be on the side of saving the planet and world peace. I’d marry this socialist who had a PhD in feeding Third World countries and training revolutionary forces in Asian sweatshops, and who knocked back a modelling gig for Lancôme each year. We’d have beautiful children who would end up human rights warriors and Harvard professors with more gold medals than Ian Thorpe and batting averages well above Bradman’s. And that’d just be the girls. Nothing in my life went to plan.

  She did look good in overalls. Especially ones flecked with paint. She was dressed when I got out of the shower, and smiled at me over her bowl of muesli. A night’s sleep had done wonders. A dab of Dulux on her nose and I swear I would have proposed. I got dressed instead.

  It was a clear winter’s morning, the cloudless sky having that extra depth of blue that the summer sun drains away, and in the shadow of Gabby’s apartment building there was enough nip in the air to have me hopping clumsily on the spot in my work boots until she opened the car door just before nine. We were due at the Hardcastles’ at nine thirty, and I’d already rung the office to tell them I was unwell again.

  It was only then that I noticed her work boots. Hiking boots, really. A remnant from a trek along the Inca trail that she did last year. The Female Dr Carter had bought them for her, she told me. Which reminded me that the FDC was now in deepest darkest Africa. That thought gave me a warm inner glow.

  Hardcastle’s place hadn’t become any smaller since my last visit. Someone was already mowing a good acre and a half of lawn as we arrived, while at the same time a crew was putting up the support beams for the marquee and caterers scuttled in and out of the side entrance to the kitchen. Another worker was busy further away, rechalking the lines of the championship court. Obviously, the shindig that the Hardcastles were hosting would involve gourmet treats, dancing and a round robin grass court event.

  Another member of the Doyle team was concentrating hard at the dry end of the pool vacuum, possibly the kid who had fallen in the last time being given a final chance to clean up the gas-and-solar-heated, salt-water natatorium without taking a dip himself. Someone else was using shears in the midst of the lavish garden like they were a hairdresser, and another was at the wrong end of a firefighter’s ladder, high above the cricket-pitch-wide-first-floor balcony, deleafing a gutter. Finally, standing like the King of Siam on the mosaic-tiled terrace in front of the sandstone mansion, hands on hips, simultaneously perusing all of the activity, was Bill Doyle. The Andre Le Notre of Sydney outdoor living.

  ‘You’re late,’ he barked after some mysterious unseen force let us through the electronic gates. He was at his gruffest during a big job. He probably pulled out the kid who fell in the pool with his teeth.

  ‘You said nine thirty.’

  ‘Nine. I said nine.’

  He’d said nine thirty. I wasn’t arguing with him, though.

  ‘Take the clipper, get around the edges. She wants them like a billiard table. You – what’s your name?’

  ‘Gabrielle,’ we both said. Bill looked her up and down as though he was undercoating her with his eyes. Then he slapped on a couple of coats of high gloss for good measure. He then looked at me. ‘See what you mean,’ he said, scratching his tan and grey beard. So subtle. ‘You grab that vacuum thing over there. It’s already plugged in. Suck the leaves up with it. Try not to make them the ones still attached to the plants. You follow?’

  Gabby nodded, and looked at him like she might suck out his eyes with the contraption.

  ‘The master of the house isn’t here, is he?’ I asked. I’d have to bolt if Hardcastle came home for any reason.

  ‘Nah,’ Bill said. ‘The glamorous echidna is, though. At least, she was. Steer clear. Don’t make eye contact. She doesn’t like it.’

  ‘She’s not the only one,’ Gabby said, turning and walking towards the leaf-sucker machine. Which I’m sure has a name other than leaf-sucker machine, but not in my vocabulary.

  ‘Nice attitude,’ Bill said. ‘Which one of your Bolshevik meetings did you find her at?’

  ‘RSLC.’

  ‘You on with her?’

  ‘She’s gay.’

  Bill looked Gabby over again and raised his eyebrows. He looked back at me. ‘Son,’ he said, ‘you are on the longest fucking losing streak I’ve ever come across. How many mirrors did you break last year?’

  I walked the clipper around for about twenty minutes. It was like riding a bike. I hadn’t lost my touch. No stitches, no leg amputations. Just half a flowerbed decapitated while I was casing the joint looking at the windows upstairs. Gabby’s sucker soon got rid of the evidence. I let her have a spin with my clipper. She could have cut my hair with it, then parted it with the sucker. She was gifted. A natural.

  Our plan was simple, like all the great ones. We would work our way over to a far corner of the garden on the other side of the house. I’d stop first. Go in the back door. If anyone asked, I was going to the little boys’ room. She’d follow precisely two minutes later. Same story. Wee-wee time for the workers. We would make our way upstairs as soon as we met. If we were caught, we were both lost, looking for the facilities. It’s a big house, and we’re not very bright.

  I headed in right on ten. Gabby met me in the anteroom of the main downstairs bathroom near the entrance to the sauna at ten oh-three.
r />   ‘You’re late,’ I said.

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘This way.’

  We marched off quickly through the kitchen, which itself was within a huge atrium-style conservatory twice the size of my flat. The two caterers inside paid us no attention. We turned right out of the kitchen into a wide hallway with soaring ceilings, some landscape artwork on the walls, and a couple of crystal chandeliers.

  We turned left at the end of the hallway into another hallway of similar proportions, in the middle of which a museum-piece staircase of carved walnut swept upwards against a wall to the upper floor. At the foot of the staircase I looked left, right, then up. No sign of maid, no sign of Mrs Hardcastle. I heard nothing but Gabby breathing near the back of my neck, then the low growl of the mower starting again somewhere near the front of the house. We headed up.

  The staircase was a monument to Barry Hardcastle. It was lined with identical-sized photos of Hardcastle shaking paws with every major and not so major celebrity he had cocooned in his entrepreneurial aura. Down the bottom were Barry and Bill Clinton, a couple of likely lads both beaming at the camera during the former president’s speaking tour a few years ago. Then Barry and Mick Jagger, for God’s sake, maybe backstage at a concert. Next, Barry and ex-Prime Minister Hawke, Barry and a few of his favourite test cricketers, Barry with Bill Gates, Barry with what I think was Warren Buffett, Barry handing out some cheques to some delighted recipients at what I assumed were some charity dos, and finally a younger-looking Barry with John Paul II on what must have been his last tour of Australia. It was like a gradual climb upwards from the incorrigible to celibacy in incremental steps. Hardcastle appeared to be handing the Pontiff a piece of paper. Either asking for an autograph or trying to interest His Holiness in a professional liability policy tailored for the Vatican. No doubt with an errant bishop and cardinals exclusion clause.