Chapter 47
Ewen awoke, startled. His Samsung on the bedside table sounded like an ambulance trapped inside the room. He fumbled for it. It rang out. Mouth dry from a two am sleeping pill, he slumped back into the warmth, hoping the drug’s weight would smother him back to sleep. It didn’t. Anxiety, as bright as morning light, had kick-started his day. He rolled his eyes across to the bedside clock. Seven am.
His mobile again. His bedroom was too small for all the sound. He groped for the culprit, and checked the screen. Lon. He hinged his elbow until the phone flattened against his ear. “I’m starting to dread communication.”
“Understandable. Especially this morning. You haven’t rung, so I’m guessing you don’t know. Log onto Old News, Zeya Hogmyre, and ring me back.”
“Zeya. What’s doing?”
“Zeya’s dead.”
Ewen sat naked at his kitchen table. The cat did figure eights against the fridge corner. As he opened his laptop, he couldn’t stop thinking about Zeya arguing with Francis. And the more he stared at the file photos of father and son on the Old News website, the more vivid the argument.
The caption read.
Zeya Hogmyre, adopted son of Francis Hogmyre, killed in a motorcar accident.
He read on.
A bushwalker found Zeya’s wrecked Ferrari in a valley below the Zig Zag road at Kalamunda. Zeya, a resident of the picturesque hills suburb, owned a multimillion-dollar mansion overlooking Perth. The narrow Zig Zag road, five hundred metres from his house, is a well-known tourist drive. Major crash investigators believe speed was the probable cause. Zeya is…
Ewen dialled his friend as he read on.
“How do you read this?” asked Lon.
“With trepidation.”
“You see Zeya arguing with his dad. You receive an email stating both yourself and Nobody one, two, three are in danger. One, two, three turns out to be Zeya, and now he’s dead. Trepidation? This is an acid trip gone horribly wrong.”
“The cops reckon it was an accident.”
“It’s time for Frank. He’s not going to throw you to the wolves.”
“I have to contact Francis. No getting away from it.”
“Just act shocked. Which shouldn’t be hard.”
It took five minutes of planning and two minutes of tapping his forehead lightly against the kitchen wall before Ewen phoned Francis. But even as he dialled, his heart began bludgeoning his carefully thought-out plans to pieces. No anger, no sadness, no guilt. Without an emotion to prop on, his life had started to lean. His world had gone wonky.
The dial tone sounded drawn. He hoped for message-bank, knew if he didn’t get it, his speech would sound clinical. Not unreasonable, considering the circumstances.
Hogmyre eventually answered. On top of his unusual request for Ewen to come to the office, he wanted to know everything about the ASIO exchange.
After the call, Ewen rang Lon. “He wants me at the office, now.”
“How did he sound?”
“What, like someone ready to throw me off the rooftop, or more like a grieving father?”
“If you haven’t rung Frank, do it now. Don’t tell him everything. Not over a mobile. And give him my number.”
“Francis even managed a small laugh.”
“Some people laugh when faced with adversity…you don’t have to visit him.”
“In one way, I want to.”
“Remember; reality is data. You’re up shit creek. Try not to feel your way when surrounded by turds. Stay analytical. Look around. Join the dots. And ring me the moment you leave his office tower.”
Ewen called Frank.
“Ewen. How are you?”
“Not good. I may be in trouble.”
*
The moment the lift opened, it rushed him, florist shop perfume.
Cheyenne, the receptionist, gestured towards Hogmyre’s door. “Hello, Ewen, Francis is waiting for you.”
She sat behind a service counter overflowing with flowers and cards. The rich had responded swiftly.
He opened the door.
Hogmyre, sitting at his desk, swivelled his chair round and stood up. He quickly turned away towards the view, unable to face the living. Then he turned back, unable to face the dead.
Ewen offered his hand. They shook strongly. Ewen reasoned they both hung onto something. “I’m so sorry.”
“He loved his cars.” Francis used the view again.
Ewen asked himself, did I hear sadness in the older man’s voice? Join the dots. This may be theatre.
“Damn it,” Francis said, towards the window. “Such a hot head. You saw him the other day…I’m guessing he pushed his car too hard. I’m just glad we patched our little rift before this happened.” He turned back into the room, drifted over to an easy chair, sat and offered the other to Ewen. “There’s a lot to organise for the funeral. I’d like you to come.”
“Certainly.”
“And don’t worry about ASIO, because Renault is working on something special.” His dull eyes lit up. “We’ll outsmart them.”
Back on St George’s Terrace, waiting for the lights, Ewen rang Lon. “Joining the dots is difficult.”
“Did you ring Frank?”
“He’s coming straight to Perth.”
“Telling him everything will relieve pressure. It’s why people visit therapists—expensive chats.”
Ewen pocketed his Samsung and leant back against the traffic pole. Skyscrapers walled the sky, yet the sun had managed to zero in on his bald head, his naked scalp like a solar dish collecting the rays. Three buses, so close to each other they appeared connected like caterpillars, idled through the intersection. Their passengers, faces to the front, waited for their time. Voices surrounded him. They sounded distant, like talkback radio.
The traffic slowed to a standstill, both ways. The intersection sat empty. Attracted to a morsel on the bitumen, a lone pigeon swooped down and pecked, while all around, Perth waited. The walk-man sign flashed green and the buzzer machine-gunned. The bird took flight. Ewen didn’t move. He watched. Pedestrians everywhere: bustling, talking, laughing, powering. Cars driven; bikes ridden. A society active and engaged. Lives content to shunt from A to B.
*
The moment he sat at his office desk Bernadette peeked over her shoulder. “I forgive you for not hitting on me. I’m up thirty-seven thousand on the stock market.”
Ewen ignored her and flipped open his laptop.
An email from Hogmyre.
I appreciate you visiting my office, Ewen, as much as I appreciate our friendship. I wasn’t sure whether to show you this trade, what with my son’s passing. But hell, Zeya traded for a living, and this set up was brokered in heaven. And if we don’t act on it, when I do land in heaven Zeya will kick my arse. FX, the euro Swiss franc. I haven’t shown you this move yet, and due to the recent tragedy, I’ll show you another day. For now, simply treat it as a normal FX trade. You said you now had eight hundred thousand in your trading account. So place one hundred grand long, euro Swiss franc.
The bets are getting bigger, thought Ewen.
Normally, with what’s happened, I wouldn’t bother you, or me. Anyway, do this trade, and if it goes the way I envisage, man, you’ll be laughing. Remember to pull your stop loss in tight. $5000 maximum. This trade could generate 1 million. If it turns against us, you lose $5000. A brilliant profit to loss ratio. It’s time to follow the so-called smart money. Tag behind what the hedge funds and world banks are hoping for with the franc. Comprende?
I’ve attached the trade details.
And Ewen, thanks.
Ewen considered the trade size, his biggest ever. Join the dots. Whether I like it or not, I need to stick close to Francis. He placed the trade, double-checking his five thousand dollar stop loss.
His Samsung. “Lon.”
“Come over to my place, pronto.”
“Now? For how long? I’m expecting Frank around lunchtime.”
“Excellent. You can ring him if this takes too long. Which it will. So get your arse over here.”
“What’s happening?”
“Another surprise. Something else not to discuss over the phone.”