Chapter Fifty-one

That same afternoon, Jack started the car and drove out of the carpark. As soon as he’d driven beyond sight of the police station, he picked up his phone and made a call, keeping a wary eye out for rogue potholes as he dialled.

‘Northern Rivers Shire Council, this is Megan, how can I help you?’

‘Mayor Bradshaw, please.’

He was connected to a tired-sounding female voice. ‘Mayor’s office.’

‘I’d like an appointment to see the mayor this afternoon.’

After a cluck, clucking of disapproval, she said, ‘I’m afraid he’s only here until four, and he’s fully booked. The next available time is tomorrow at three. Who’s calling?’

‘I’m an auditor from the Australian Tax Office. It’s personal. Tomorrow at three suits perfectly. Have a good afternoon.’ Jack ended the call. That should cause a few sleepless nights for Bradshaw if he’s bent, he thought.

The drive to Mullumbimby was magical: sunflowers bobbing in the breeze, iridescent-green cane fields, the perfectly pyramidal peak of Mount Chincogan, Hilltop Hoods on the radio, and a dodgy property developer shitting himself about a tax audit. Occasionally, all the planets did line up.

He parked the car in a quiet street and phoned Caitlin. When she answered, he said, ‘I need you to do something for me. Can you stay on the line? You can talk if you want, but I won’t be listening. Just don’t hang up. I’ll explain later.’

‘Jack?’

As he slid the phone under the driver’s seat, he could still hear Caitlin talking, ‘Jack. Jack. What the hell? JACK.’

He pulled on a plain grey hoody before setting off, head down, towards the council office. He approached from behind and came to a stop with his back to the rear wall of the building. The staff carpark was full, but he didn’t need the ‘Reserved Mayor’ sign to identify the car he was looking for. How many council employees could afford a racing-green Aston Martin?

A single security camera watched over the carpark from low on a wall. Jack checked there was nobody in sight, removed his hoody and, after a few swings, managed to loop the hood over the lens of the camera.

Ricky Martinelli had shown him how to break into most cars, but Aston Martins hadn’t been part of the syllabus. To be fair to Ricky, they were hard to get hold of. It took Jack longer than he’d hoped, but eventually, after wiping his fingerprints from the door, he found himself comfortably seated on soft leather in the rear seat. The window tinting was so dark, he didn’t bother crouching down to hide.

Bradshaw was recognisable from his election posters. He emerged from the building right on cue at four o’clock, a hand energetically gesticulating as he spoke into his phone. Big jowls gave his head a distinctive pear-shape, jowls that wobbled in sync with his equally pear-shaped torso as he waddled towards the car. In contrast to all those posters, he wasn’t smiling. Jack remained silent in the back seat as Bradshaw, still on the phone, opened the door and sat behind the steering wheel.

‘Pick the kids up later. I want you to take the laptop and as much paperwork as you can to your sister’s, in case they arrive with a warrant. I’ll warn the accountants. I’m on my way.’ The mayor ended the call and said to himself, ‘Jesus H Christ.’

The motor sprang to life with its trademark eight-cylinder roar and Jack could breathe again. Bradshaw turned the car out onto the road, drove past the council building and was approaching a roundabout when Jack leaned forward, close to his ear, and said, ‘You must be Tom.’

Even minor accidents seem much worse when you’re sitting in a half-million-dollar car. In retrospect, Jack thought, he might have waited until after the car had safely negotiated the roundabout, particularly a roundabout with a dozen or so small ornamental trees in its centre. As it was, at the sound of Jack’s voice, Tom Bradshaw yanked his head around in fright and the car, in the absence of any other guidance, ignored the give-way sign and careered straight through the centre of the roundabout, scraping the length of the driver’s side along one of the sturdier saplings, all accompanied by a very expensive sound of screeching metal. The car bucked and bounced out the other side of the roundabout and Bradshaw jerked his eyes back to the front, yelled, ‘Shiiiiiiit!’ and snatched the steering wheel to the right just in time to avoid crashing into a drainage culvert.

Bradshaw stomped on the brakes and the car jolted to a halt in the middle of the road. His head spun around. He was breathing heavily, eyes wide. ‘What the hell are you doing in my car?’

‘I want to ask you a few questions about your tax.’

‘What?’ Bradshaw shook his head as if trying to untangle a confusion of irreconcilable thoughts. ‘Are you from the ATO?’

‘No. I’m not interested in your Australian tax affairs.’

‘Then what the hell do you want?’

‘I’m interested in your Luxembourg tax affairs.’ And there it was. Jack saw the flicker in Bradshaw’s eyes, and the brief hesitation before he recovered, and Jack knew he was right, knew who had been the beneficial owner of the Jetty Hotel.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m calling the police.’ Bradshaw reached for his phone.

‘Suit yourself. I’d say you’ll get done for dangerous driving and damage to public property.’ Jack opened his door a fraction, in case Bradshaw tried to lock him in.

A car sounded its horn behind them.

Bradshaw put down his phone. ‘You broke into my car.’

‘Why did you block access to all council documents from 1987?’

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘I’m a journalist at The Beacon.’

Jack could see Bradshaw trying to make sense of it.

‘So, you must be Malcolm Harris’s son?’

‘Uh huh.’

Bradshaw visibly relaxed. ‘Why didn’t you say so? Your father was a very good friend of my late father, Ian.’

‘Are you the owner of a company called Metol?’

The rage returned to Bradshaw’s face, his jowls tremulous. Too late, he screamed, ‘Get out of my car!’ but Jack was already gone, a cacophony of horns from backed up cars accompanying him as he set off to reclaim his hoody.

Back at the Toyota, his phone was still connected with Caitlin’s, but she wasn’t listening. He ended the call, locked the car and walked to the supermarket on the main street, where he used his credit card to buy provisions from the deli.

The tree had been shaken hard, now all he had to do was wait and see what fell out. He didn’t have to wait long.