Follow the Money

'I'm sorry, Cliff,' he said, 'but that's right. Dick Malouf had the management of the portfolio and that's what he did to you with those shares, probably just because he could. I know I was out of line telling Standish but he said he was thinking of employing you. I thought I was putting work your way.'

We were in his office in Five Dock, a large suite of rooms above a sprawling DVD rental joint. It used to be a relatively pleasant place to go the few times I went there-young, energetic accountants of both sexes working away in apparent open-plan harmony. Perry was a cynic who'd worked for the tax office in earlier days and was thought to know all the angles. He'd complained about executive lunches and desk-sitting piling on the kilos and I'd suggested he join my gym. He did and became an enthusiast. Now there was an air of despondency about the office and many fewer bodies.

'Well, you have, I think,' I said. 'What d'you make of Standish?'

'An operator. He put some people my way and then leaned on me to do certain favours. He says he's going to help me with the insurance people and I'm going to need all the help I can get. That's another reason why I gave him the details of your situation when he asked. Sorry.'

'It's all right. Is there any way to head off the margin call?'

Perry shrugged. 'A very good lawyer might be able to stall it for a while.'

'What about a conviction of Malouf for fraud?'

'He's dead.'

'Say he isn't.'

'Cliff, I'm up to my neck in lawyers, aggrieved clients and auditors. I can't sleep for worry. I can't find the will to go to the gym. I can't play games.'

'OK. One question: can Standish be trusted?'

He threw back his head and laughed. Then he looked astonished and pleased that he was still able to laugh. So I'd done him some good.

Like Perry, I hadn't been to the gym for a while. I decided to have a workout and see if a spell on the treadmill gave me any ideas. It's been known to happen. Late afternoon and not many about. I stripped, stretched less thoroughly than I should have, and started the treadmill at a brisk walk. If I felt good I'd increase it to a trot. I was warmed up, considering increasing the rate, when I heard a door crash and a shrill voice cut through the doof doof musical fug.

'Where is that bastard? I'll kill him.'

I heard a crash of metal on metal and hit the off button. A large man in a suit had picked up a short bar and slammed it against one of the machines. A couple of people were doing floor exercises on the mezzanine level. A man and a woman leaned over the rail to look down. The intruder saw them and rushed towards the stairs.

'You bastard, you cunt. I'll kill you both.'

He threw the short bar away. It clattered against a wall and he picked up a longer, heavier one. That slowed him down long enough for me to get between him and the stairs.

'Take it easy, mate.'

'Fuck you!'

He was big and strong and swung the bar with one hand, but it wasn't made for swinging-too long, too heavy. The movement put him off-balance. I grabbed the bar with both hands and twisted it out of his grasp. He roared and made a grab at me but I re-gripped and prodded him in the chest with the end of the bar and he stumbled and fell. I pinned him with the bar across his chest while Wesley, the gym manager and instructor, and two others came in to help. The would-be attacker glared up at us, swearing and spitting, but the fight went out of him.

We got him calmed down and convinced him that the two people he was after had left by the back exit.

'Just as well for you Cliff here stopped you,' Wesley said. 'You were on the way to assault with a deadly weapon grief.'

The man shrugged and brushed down his clothes. 'Who cares?'

He pushed us aside and made his way to the door.

'Cliff, my man, you've still got some moves,' Wesley said.

'He'd have done better with the short bar.'

'Don't even think it. I need a murder in here like I need swine flu. Haven't seen you for a while, man.'

'I've had some bad luck money-wise and other worries. In fact I'm probably going to be late paying my membership.'

Wesley laid his big dark hand on my shoulder. 'After what you did for me a while back, you've got a free pass as far as I'm concerned.'

I got back on the treadmill but my heart wasn't in it and I did the minimum amount of work on the machines and with the free weights. Although it was kind of Wesley to make the gesture (I'd got his son out of trouble a few years before), the idea of being a charity case didn't sit well with me. The Standish job, if it could be firmed up, gave me the prospect of recovering some money and earning some more. It was worth the effort, and I'd worked for less than honest people before.

I slept on it and decided that the first thing to do was get a stronger grip on Standish. I phoned the office but got nothing new from May Ling. I imagined her sitting there, able to cope with whatever came up, immaculate, carrying out her instructions to the letter.

In my experience, most separated wives keep pretty close tabs on their husbands for various reasons, some considerate, some not. I had a Vaucluse address for Felicity Standish.

I drove there in the usual sluggish traffic. The water to my left had a dull, gun-metal gleam under a heavy grey sky. Cars turned off New South Head Road towards Royal Sydney golf course, but I doubted that the players would get a full round in. What the Americans call a storm cell seemed to be building away to the east. I'm told they have leaf blowers on the tees and greens at Royal Sydney and people to immediately repair the fairway divots, but a flash of lightning and everyone heads for shelter just as at the roughest council course.

The Standish house was in a street that overlooked Nielsen Park out towards Shark Bay. Living there you were gazing out from one millionaire's enclave across the water to another at Mosman.

The squattocracy that established the tone of Vaucluse included some honest men but not all, just as the present nabobs have some decent people among them. The address I had was a sandstone pile. There were pillars, a high wrought iron security gate and an electronic driveway gate in a high wall. Through the grille I could see a sweeping driveway and a fountain. It failed elegance, qualified as pretentious.

I buzzed at the gate.

'Yes.'

'I'd like to see Mrs Standish.'

'What about?'

'My name's Hardy. I was hired yesterday by Mr Standish to do a job. You could check on that by calling his office. I need to talk to him and I don't know where he is.'

'This is Felicity Standish. Are you saying Miles is missing?'

'I don't know. Maybe.'

'What does Rose Petal say?'

'Rose Petal?'

'May Ling.'

'She won't tell me anything. I'm not sure she knows where he is.'

'She knows. Have you got any ID?'

I held my cancelled PEA licence and driver's licence up to where I guessed the camera was.

'Thanks. Hang on, I'll make that call.'

I waited for no more than a minute before hearing a click and seeing the gate move a centimetre. I pushed and I was in. There was a two-car garage beside the house with a white Saab slotted in. A couple of colourful and expensive-looking children's tricycles occupied the other space. There were plastic toys around the fountain. So Standish was a family man. I'd never have guessed. Where was the profit?

I went up the wide steps to the front door, which opened at my approach. The woman who stood there was tall and slim, her figure displayed to best advantage in tight black jeans and a loose blue denim shirt. She wore ankle boots with medium heels and her dark hair and makeup had a perfect but unstudied look. She wasn't beautiful; she was almost plain, but she presented as if she were beautiful and it worked.