Steve Slattery rocked back in his favourite patio chair and rested his feet on the handrail. He basked in the waning sunlight of a glorious autumn day. And as he watched the sun begin its slow-motion dip into Bass Strait, the first hint of a freshening breeze ruffled the spinifex below on the dunes.
Reaching down, he lifted the glass of Munari Schoolhouse Red from the gnarled wooden boards of the veranda, rested the stem on his stomach and closed his eyes.
The intoxicating aroma of lamb chops searing on the barbeque began to drive his taste buds insane with anticipation. He opened his eyes and followed the smoke spirally skywards from the barbeque to where two seagulls circled in hope.
Now six weeks removed, he’d come to terms with most of the events from that hectic week ushering in the month of April. He didn’t yet have all the answers but felt sure, with time, he’d know enough to satisfy his curiosity.
Thom Lewis, released on bail and confined to his South Yarra home, faced a conspiracy to commit murder charge, among a handful of other lesser crimes. Within hours of his arrest, he was begging to plea bargain in exchange for testimony implicating Ambrose Sinclair.
The Federal Police continued their investigation of the pension fraud scheme, as well as O’Neal’s work with his law firm. However, untangling the Gordian knot of offshore accounts and shell companies O’Neal established during his partnership with Mullane, not to mention those on behalf of the clients for Williams & Teacher, may take them years. And help with regards to O’Neal’s handiwork was going to be extremely difficult to obtain. Ambrose Sinclair hadn’t spoken a word since his arrest; Garth O’Neal was dead and Eric Mullane missing.
Homicide detectives missed Mullane by minutes on the day they’d arrested Lewis. Two days later, the Captain of a passing freighter reported Eric’s twelve-meter boat, Matilda, adrift two kilometres east of Swan Island. Whether he’d managed to pull off an elaborate escape, or simply drowned, was still just speculation. A body hadn’t surfaced, and with the tides in that section of the bay notoriously powerful, chances of doing so were slim. And, of course, sharks do eat their own. Adding to the mystery, all bank accounts discovered by the forensics team in Mullane’s name were emptied via wire transfers the day before his disappearance.
Investigators traced the initial transfers to an HSBC branch in Hong Kong, but by the time formal requests for information landed on the bank’s desk, the money was long gone and the account closed. All other questions were met with stoic silence and a recital of bank privacy laws.
Slattery sipped the last of his wine and rose for a refill. A quick check on the lamb chops showed they were close to perfection. In the kitchen, he sliced fresh tomatoes, cucumber and avocado and dropped them into a bowl. He mixed in a dash of olive oil and lemon juice and carried the creation, along with his wine, back to the veranda.
One item still baffling him was the connection of Dayne Wallingham to a group known as Plutus 7. As part of the investigation into his death, the Digital Forensics department conducted an inspection of his computer hard drive. However, a virus implanted in the system, named Plutus, destroyed the contents before police technicians could retrieve a scrap of data. The name of the virus meant nothing to the investigators until the morning of April 4.
That morning a group calling itself Plutus 7 transferred an enormous amount of data to WikiLeaks – the whistle-blower website – who subsequently uploaded it to the internet. Within hours, the documents – collectively known as the Panama Papers – exploded across newswires worldwide, exposing the use of offshore shell companies as tax shelters for the rich and famous. Strangely, the name of the law firm in Panama whose data was stolen also appeared in an internal email discovered in the files of Ambrose Sinclair. The coincidence impossible to ignore.
The fallout from the release of the Panama Papers continued to reverberate worldwide. Implicated were business people, entertainment figures and politicians from every continent. Among them, the Prime Minister of Australia, Malcolm Turnbull. Within days, the call for a Royal Commission to investigate echoed through the halls of Parliament House in Canberra. Slattery contemplated if the hastily called election, announced the first of week May, had anything to do with the matter.
Slattery placed the salad bowl on the small wooden table and retrieved the lamb chops from the grill. He set the tray of meat in the centre of the table and divided up the salad into two bowls. Once seated in his favourite chair facing the water he speared two of the succulent chops onto his plate.
So, are you ready to eat?
Sure, all this cooking has made me hungry.
Need a beer?
I’m good.
And are you ready to talk?
Yeah… I guess I have some explaining to do.
***
The moment I’d been dreading.
Acting Chief Commissioner Slattery – he’d since told me to call him Steve – met my flight at Tullamarine Airport two days earlier, then whisked me away to his bungalow at Rye. I reluctantly agreed to board the flight based on his assurance there was no further threat to my life. But a lingering doubt still remained.
First up. How in the hell did you manage to disappear?
Actually, it was Dayne setting it all up. You probably know by now he was an accomplished hacker. Well, the group he worked with…
Plutus 7?
… I never knew the name, but it could be. He’d put systems in place in case his work came under attack. Part of which involved having fake identification to go underground if necessary. He had the photo changed out in one of his fake passports with mine. He already had a credit card issued under the same name, which is what I used while I was gone.
We know you went for a run the day you disappeared.
That was the plan. I’d picked up a rental car using my fake passport the day before and parked it on Clarendon Street just a few metres from the parklands trail. I’d also packed a bag with everything I’d need and stowed it in the boot. The idea was to go out for a run and disappear. It was only two kilometres to the car; the keys were in a pocket of my running shorts. Once on the road, I changed clothes at a McDonalds in Preston, then continued on to the airport. My flight left not long after I arrived.
And the email you sent to me? Why not just hand me the files?
I was in danger and we weren’t sure how seriously you’d take the information. Dayne thought it would expedite matters if you discovered me missing.
Steve smiled and shook his head back and forth, I assumed, in disbelief. I finished chewing a piece of lamb before continuing.
I paused to get another beer from the kitchen. Talking about Dayne was still very raw. I’d caused his death, and no amount of soul-searching or justifying actions or looking at the big picture would ever change that. He was dead, and it was because of me.
It was a couple of days later before I read of Dayne’s murder on the internet. It left me numb and totally at a loss for where to turn for help. For the next two weeks I hid in my hotel room afraid to be seen in public. Knowing I couldn’t live that way forever, I took a chance and emailed Steve. It took a week to get a reply and a further week before he cajoled me into returning home.
The cold lager helped to soothe the fire of emotion in my throat. I sat back down at the table and cut into another lamb chop and concentrated on the simple exercise of sawing into the meat, using it as an alibi until I could find my voice.
Steve took note and picked up the conversation.
With a mouthful of succulent lamb, I reluctantly nodded yes. Steve seemed happy to tell the story, though I wasn’t too thrilled to hear how close I came to dying.
Steve paused to stab the last chop off of the tray and dropped it onto his plate.
The third lamb chop of Steve’s disappeared, the L-shaped bone remaining he pushed to the side of his plate to join its two friends.
I cleared the plates from the table and took them inside. The last sliver of sun succumbed to the sea, and the sky to the west turned a wondrous shade of orange, auburn and fuchsia.
Steve continued his story as I unscrewed the Schoolhouse Red’s cap and refilled his glass. He slowly swirled the deep purple liquid, releasing a heady aroma of dark berries with a hint of aniseed. Steve’s favoured wine came courtesy of his good friend, Adrian Munari, who plied his craft amongst the fertile Cambrian soil of Central Victoria. Steve told me he worked a murder case near Heathcote once, and after solving the case spent a few extra days in town exploring the local wineries. He’d kept close contact with the Munari family ever since.
Funny thing. We discovered Costello was employed by a mob called Howarth Investigations. Incorporated in the Channel Islands of all places. We reached out to the UK authorities and, lo and behold; they were investigating the same company.
Why?
Well, it so happens two other employees of Howarth Investigations were murdered in Dublin a week earlier. Irish police have no leads in the case, but it makes you wonder.
Steve held up his glass and inspected the contents.
And get this, thanks to the lead we shared. Our friends at Interpol placed the Dublin office of Williams & Teacher under surveillance and began digging a little deeper into their affairs. The same week we arrested Sinclair, the senior partner in Dublin was copied in on a frantic email to their London headquarters from the Rome office.
About?
Their client in Rome – all they had was an initial “V” – wanted the investigation in Dublin dropped immediately.
V?
Steve sipped his wine then placed the glass on the wooden boards of the veranda before answering.
Steve paused for effect but seeing I was totally dumbfounded continued.
Could all this be happening? Contract killers working around the globe. Money Laundering. The Vatican? The layers associated with this mess were impossible to fathom.
Money Laundering? You think they and Garth were somehow working together?
Hold that thought. Remember the two Howarth employees in Dublin?
Sure. So, who else turned up dead?
The comment came out a touch more blasé than I intended. The stony gaze on Steve’s face immediately made me want to stuff the words back down my throat.
Coincidences were beginning to leave the same unsavoury taste in my mouth as they did Steve’s.
And care to guess what a cursory search of Mahoney’s home uncovered?
Steve was wound-up and not about to let me get a word in.
A notebook full of details about bank locations and procedures dating back to the first of the Euro bandit robberies. And to tie the whole thing up in a nice little conspiratorial bow. That same week, an Irish politician was found hanging from a tree limb by a farmer out walking his dogs. And the politician, man by the name of Clancy, just happened to be one of those implicated in the Panama Papers.
He stabbed a slice of cucumber and slipped it into his mouth. Then while pointing the fork in my direction continued.
You would think suicide except for two small problems. He was found dead a week before the leak hit the news. And, he’d been shot in both kneecaps. The old calling card of the IRA. Clancy was a known member back in the day.
I’d lost my appetite.
Now, I may be adding two and two and getting twelve. But I believe by you uncovering the hospice fraud, you unwittingly exposed Williams & Teacher’s shady practices worldwide. Plus, a money laundering scheme involving Sinn Fein, the bank robberies, and the Vatican. Thanks to you, half of Europe’s police forces will be plenty busy for the foreseeable future.
Steve pushed back from the table, stood and stretched. I followed his gaze out towards the water, and we both watched in silence the waves rising then collapsing upon the shore. The sea, in the darkness, was a dense mass of roiling energy. In the pale moonlight, the foam of the breaking waves produced a phosphorescent glow.
The point-blank question caught me off guard. I chewed over the implications of how much to tell.
We both continued staring out to sea. Steve content with the silence, leaving me alone to fight my inner-demons.
***
Dayne, with assistance from his associates, worked furiously during the last week before our worlds came crashing down. It turned out Garth O’Neal wasn’t the only expert at setting up shell companies offshore. And with a little help from myself in accessing the Southern Cross intranet, well, it took no time at all for Dayne to move a little travelling money for me around the globe.
I arrived in Singapore still with a headache from my hangover. The frenetic taxi ride from Changi Airport to the Clover 7 Hotel on Hong Kong Street helped not in the least. After sleeping for much of the weekend, Monday morning I made my way to the United Overseas Bank at Raffles Place.
There, I produced identification and signed a signature card allowing me access to the account of D&C Investments. The registered owners of D&C Investments? Two brothers of New Zealand descent with the last name of Caterpaul.
Dayne’s homage to our tenth-grade computer science teacher.
And the funding of the account? After a circuitous trip around the globe propelled by untraceable IP addresses, through a labyrinth of shell corporations dissolving just as quickly as they formed, appeared an amount of cash Dayne secreted away from the accounts of Eric Mullane and Garth O’Neal.
The young female associate, after verifying my identity and updating a signature card, asked if I needed any further assistance.
Yes, I need to make a fairly large withdrawal.
Absolutely, sir. How much would you like?
I think $2,000 Singapore dollars should be enough.
With the value of the Singapore dollar very close to the Australian dollar, I assumed the amount enough to hold me over for a few weeks. Dayne suggested using cash as much as possible, keeping the credit card for emergencies.
My request produced an unexpected response. The young girl covered her mouth with both hands, lowered her face and giggled uncontrollably.
Is there something wrong?
I’m sorry. But you make a small joke.
How do you mean?
I felt my face begin to flush. Had I asked for too much?
You said, ‘fairly large.’
Yes?
What you asked for is such a meagre amount against your balance.
She turned her terminal in my direction and the colour creeping along my neck and into my cheeks quickly headed south. I’d only reluctantly agreed to take enough from Eric’s account to fund my disappearance for a month. Rationalising the theft as compensation for being on the lam. Apparently, Dayne, and his associates around the world harboured other ideas. I signed for and collected my withdrawal in a daze.
The United Overseas Bank building opened onto a promenade facing the Singapore River. I crossed the stone pavement and sat on the steps leading down to the water. A construction crane on the opposite bank turned lazily under the glare of the morning sun.
The account balance for D&C Investments was a little under $2 million. Dayne had swept away every last dollar he could find.
***
A freshening sea breeze blew in off the Strait and dropped the temperature several degrees. We moved inside and sat on opposite ends of an overstuffed leather couch. Steve propped his feet on the coffee table, pushed aside a couple of magazines and aimed the remote at the television.
The Saturday night football game was well underway; heavily favoured Sydney taking on Richmond under the lights at the Melbourne Cricket Ground. The small home crowd in attendance reflected Richmond’s chances.
An excellent question, and one I’d been avoiding.
I’m not sure.
You know, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. I’ve no wife, never married. No kids. The job… well, you try not to let it become your life but before you know it 40 years have passed and the best-laid plans become just distant memories.
Thanks. I may stay a while, just until I get some things sorted out in my head.
Besides, your uncle Bert was a good friend to me when I was young. Returning the favour would be a pleasure.
Richmond held a five-point lead as the siren sounded for half-time. I grabbed a fresh Boag’s Premium from the fridge as they replayed results and highlights from the day’s earlier games.
Steve, I was wondering, do you have any idea what happened to my car?
That old piece of shit! We towed it from Abbotsford to the police impound yard. I’d drop down there once a week just to turn over the engine. My way, I guess, of not giving up on finding out what happened to you.
He laughed before continuing.
Poor beast.
One more question. What, or who is a Plutus?
Yeah, I needed to look that up myself. Plutus was the Greek God of wealth. Anyway, legend has it Plutus was blinded by Zeus, therefore better able to dispense his gifts without prejudice. Such a grand and noble concept. And apropos for what your friend’s group did, eh!
Steve held my gaze for a moment longer than felt comfortable. With his words still ringing in my ears, he slapped his palms on his thighs and rose from the couch.
Well, I’m off to bed. Goodnight, Craig.
’Night, Steve. And thanks again for the hospitality.
No worries, mate. Oh, but if you would do me a favour?
Sure.
Could you clean up around the place a bit? I’ve invited a friend down for the weekend. Should be here anytime. I’d hate for them to think the place a pigsty.
Sure thing.
He paused in the hallway leading to the larger of the two bedrooms and looked pensively over his shoulder towards the veranda and the darkened beach beyond.
Then he turned and ambled down the hall, his cryptic message left to float out into the night.
After learning of Dayne’s death, I hadn’t given my future, or the money, a moment’s consideration. Dayne’s impetuous lark; his triumphant blow for the downtrodden, became a stark reminder of a horrible tragedy. For now, all I wished was to resurrect a life which lay in ruin. No amount of money could bring back my parents, nor remove the stain from my hands for my best friend’s death.
For now, a small unit in Alphington awaited. Its contents: A music collection full of sad memories. A few pieces of rickety furniture whose best days were in the last century. And a lumpy bed with a cheap metal frame, but which held fond memories of the nights lying there next to Judy.
Judy.
Dayne thought it best to keep her in the dark. To keep her safe. We still haven’t spoken. How to explain? How to apologise? How to even take that first step?
I was elbow deep in soapy water when a vehicle’s headlights sliced through the living room illuminating the dunes beyond the back veranda. Farther out, the sea, black as ink, churned and fizzed relentlessly upon the shore. Drying my hands on a tea-towel, I looked over both rooms to make sure all was in order.
Tyres crunched over the rocky driveway strewn with crushed sea shells and pulled to a stop. I reached the front door just as the headlights dimmed, allowing the shadows to reclaim lost ground. I unlocked the door just as the driver switched off the ignition.
As the stubborn engine, coughed and spluttered and refused to die, my face broke into a knowing smile. The engine expired with one final sigh; only the metallic ticking of the cooling engine broke the silence. From the veranda, I waited for the familiar squeak and whine of the driver’s side door as it swung open.
And tears clouded my eyes when the interior light illuminated the driver within tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
With arms spread wide, I stood at the edge of the wooden steps, ready to embrace a new beginning.