A Novel
by Barry Ward
Non fici facio – vera prae ceteris
For my loved ones, for those who believed, and especially
by Barry Ward
Non fici facio – vera prae ceteris
For my loved ones, for those who believed, and especially
for those who didn’t survive that long night of evil.
BOOK ONE
Assassination is the ultimate form of censorship
G.B.Shaw
Chapter 1
A HUSH permeated the office of the premier of New South Wales, a midnight silence at odds with the sunlight filtering through the tinted windows where the premier stood, looking down at the city. Twenty storeys below, Sydney’s business district was going about its daily machinations on a crisp winter’s morning.
Sir Richard Carter’s piercing blue eyes glinted as he surveyed the hub of his empire but he was oblivious to the bustle of the city: his mind was focussed on a major problem. He was planning a murder and he knew that some delicate organisation was required if the project was to reach fruition without involving himself, his office and his state government. Because if the project flopped or was exposed all three could fall and Labor would sweep into power for the first time in almost two decades.
He hadn’t spent all these years manipulating the system to risk everything now, he thought, just as his retirement plans were about to reach fruition. Only a few more months, that’s all he needed to tie up the loose ends, in the House and outside, to cement his defence mechanisms, personal and political. Then he would call it quits after the coming election, retire to his beach-side home, secure in his position as elder statesman to whom his colleagues would continue to defer, a handsome income swelling his already gorged Swiss bank account.
That surely was no more than his due after all he’d done for the state and the party over the years? And no sticky-beaked bloody newspaper publisher was going to screw it up for him.
It was too bloody ironic, he thought. Through all the years of his rise to power a compliant media had been at his beck and call, glossing over his rare political errors, disguising his duplicity and lauding his occasional coup. The media moguls were putty in his hands, eager to curry political favour and with the common objective of keeping Labor in opposition.
And now some jumped-up bitch of a suburban newspaper publisher with a few social connections thought she was going to change the world by exposing his private arrangements! And the bitch had the bloody audacity to think he’d take it lying down!
How in hell had she got her hands on the information in the first place? All the dealings of the board were secret, or at least they were meant to be. He’d been implacable about the confidentiality of the monthly payments and their lodgement into his numbered account. In all the years he’d been a member of the board’s executive he had not personally accepted more than the usual perks and graft common to Sydney politics. The big amounts, the pay-offs, went to Zurich without his ever seeing them.
Sure, he mixed with some of the mob socially, but that was to be expected of him. He had a gregarious image of being seen with all manner of people, from his political enemies to the racing fraternity at Randwick, to the drinkers at his local beach-side pub. No standing on ceremony, either: they still called him Dick. Just because he was now a knight of the realm was no reason to change the habits of a lifetime. His public persona and appearances meant votes, after all. And he’d never been listed as a shareholder in any of the board’s major interests. He was too smart for that. His only direct public connection was via a minor share in one of the holding companies involved in real estate. That was totally legitimate, quite beyond suspicion.
Ostensibly he knew nothing of the illegal activities, the casinos, the vice and the drugs and subsequent money laundering that fuelled the state’s organised crime, all sources of the black money the taxman ignored. He had a social and business relationship with certain members of the board but the secrecy of the latter necessitated some corporate insurance. He didn’t trust them as far as he could throw one of their Mercedes, particularly the Hungarian Mafia: hence his use of trusted nominees for anything remotely risky.
Somehow, though, the newspaper bitch had linked him with the board. Somebody had slipped up somewhere, had left a loophole in the corporate structure that had led to him via one of his nominees. It was the only possible explanation. Thank Christ he’d got a good intelligence organisation, he thought; otherwise he might not have discovered the security leak until it was too late, until that bitch had published what she knew. But there was still time to cover his tracks.
‘You are playing a dangerous game little woman.’ The words bounced around the walls, signalling the start of the next phase of his planning, the operational organisation. He’d arrived at the necessary conclusion and he knew precisely how it should be executed without personal involvement.
He smiled to himself. He’d leave that to the Hungarians. They’d have to carry the can and the cost. He was sheltering them as well as himself so they could cough up for it. They were about to pay for all the bloody building approvals and development contracts, for all the legislation he’d arranged, all the strings he’d pulled. And the whole thing would be at least three stages removed from his desk. His old mate Ben McLoughlin would do the business for him. Get the bitch knocked off and nobody would be game to start enquiring about the motivations. And if they did there was Mike Reynolds, his police commissioner, to build another line of defence for him. But it wouldn’t come to that. Reynolds’ senior detectives, and their close affiliation with the board, would ensure that it all happened in low key. Satisfied with his deliberations, Carter smiled as he turned to reach for the private phone from the battery on his leather topped desk and dialled a number he had long memorised.
“Paul?” He didn’t need to introduce himself. Only a few people knew the unlisted number he had dialled and his voice was instantly recognisable. “We’ve got a major problem. I need to see you. Usual place, about six? Righto.”
A HUSH permeated the office of the premier of New South Wales, a midnight silence at odds with the sunlight filtering through the tinted windows where the premier stood, looking down at the city. Twenty storeys below, Sydney’s business district was going about its daily machinations on a crisp winter’s morning.
Sir Richard Carter’s piercing blue eyes glinted as he surveyed the hub of his empire but he was oblivious to the bustle of the city: his mind was focussed on a major problem. He was planning a murder and he knew that some delicate organisation was required if the project was to reach fruition without involving himself, his office and his state government. Because if the project flopped or was exposed all three could fall and Labor would sweep into power for the first time in almost two decades.
He hadn’t spent all these years manipulating the system to risk everything now, he thought, just as his retirement plans were about to reach fruition. Only a few more months, that’s all he needed to tie up the loose ends, in the House and outside, to cement his defence mechanisms, personal and political. Then he would call it quits after the coming election, retire to his beach-side home, secure in his position as elder statesman to whom his colleagues would continue to defer, a handsome income swelling his already gorged Swiss bank account.
That surely was no more than his due after all he’d done for the state and the party over the years? And no sticky-beaked bloody newspaper publisher was going to screw it up for him.
It was too bloody ironic, he thought. Through all the years of his rise to power a compliant media had been at his beck and call, glossing over his rare political errors, disguising his duplicity and lauding his occasional coup. The media moguls were putty in his hands, eager to curry political favour and with the common objective of keeping Labor in opposition.
And now some jumped-up bitch of a suburban newspaper publisher with a few social connections thought she was going to change the world by exposing his private arrangements! And the bitch had the bloody audacity to think he’d take it lying down!
How in hell had she got her hands on the information in the first place? All the dealings of the board were secret, or at least they were meant to be. He’d been implacable about the confidentiality of the monthly payments and their lodgement into his numbered account. In all the years he’d been a member of the board’s executive he had not personally accepted more than the usual perks and graft common to Sydney politics. The big amounts, the pay-offs, went to Zurich without his ever seeing them.
Sure, he mixed with some of the mob socially, but that was to be expected of him. He had a gregarious image of being seen with all manner of people, from his political enemies to the racing fraternity at Randwick, to the drinkers at his local beach-side pub. No standing on ceremony, either: they still called him Dick. Just because he was now a knight of the realm was no reason to change the habits of a lifetime. His public persona and appearances meant votes, after all. And he’d never been listed as a shareholder in any of the board’s major interests. He was too smart for that. His only direct public connection was via a minor share in one of the holding companies involved in real estate. That was totally legitimate, quite beyond suspicion.
Ostensibly he knew nothing of the illegal activities, the casinos, the vice and the drugs and subsequent money laundering that fuelled the state’s organised crime, all sources of the black money the taxman ignored. He had a social and business relationship with certain members of the board but the secrecy of the latter necessitated some corporate insurance. He didn’t trust them as far as he could throw one of their Mercedes, particularly the Hungarian Mafia: hence his use of trusted nominees for anything remotely risky.
Somehow, though, the newspaper bitch had linked him with the board. Somebody had slipped up somewhere, had left a loophole in the corporate structure that had led to him via one of his nominees. It was the only possible explanation. Thank Christ he’d got a good intelligence organisation, he thought; otherwise he might not have discovered the security leak until it was too late, until that bitch had published what she knew. But there was still time to cover his tracks.
‘You are playing a dangerous game little woman.’ The words bounced around the walls, signalling the start of the next phase of his planning, the operational organisation. He’d arrived at the necessary conclusion and he knew precisely how it should be executed without personal involvement.
He smiled to himself. He’d leave that to the Hungarians. They’d have to carry the can and the cost. He was sheltering them as well as himself so they could cough up for it. They were about to pay for all the bloody building approvals and development contracts, for all the legislation he’d arranged, all the strings he’d pulled. And the whole thing would be at least three stages removed from his desk. His old mate Ben McLoughlin would do the business for him. Get the bitch knocked off and nobody would be game to start enquiring about the motivations. And if they did there was Mike Reynolds, his police commissioner, to build another line of defence for him. But it wouldn’t come to that. Reynolds’ senior detectives, and their close affiliation with the board, would ensure that it all happened in low key. Satisfied with his deliberations, Carter smiled as he turned to reach for the private phone from the battery on his leather topped desk and dialled a number he had long memorised.
“Paul?” He didn’t need to introduce himself. Only a few people knew the unlisted number he had dialled and his voice was instantly recognisable. “We’ve got a major problem. I need to see you. Usual place, about six? Righto.”
Chapter 2
THE white Mercedes, its occupants hidden behind tinted windows, purred slowly passed a pair of sleek, shining horses being exercised on the trail that ringed Sydney’s Centennial Park.
“Such beautiful animals.” Sir Paul Samson was wistful. “Sometimes I wish I had more time for a hobby like that.”
Ben McLoughlin turned to look at him. “A bloke in your position should make time. It’s important to have a hobby that gets you out into the fresh air. Me, I go beach fishing for a couple of hours every morning. Starts the day off right and it beats having to look at the wife.”
They both laughed. Michael, Samson’s chauffeur for almost twenty years, allowed himself a smile as he activated the privacy window behind him. Usually, Samson didn’t care one way or the other if his driver overheard anything, either in the car or out of it. He trusted Michael implicitly. It was just that sometimes, depending upon who was travelling with his boss, Michael would rather not hear. This was one of those times. If McLoughlin was a passenger they could only be planning bloodshed and he didn’t want to know, didn’t wish to hear any of the details.
Samson noticed the window sliding into place and gave Michael a mental pat on the back for his acumen. Best keep things as secure as possible. Dick Carter was the only other person to know about this meeting; he had set it up when he’d come with the news of what the newspaper bitch was doing.
“She’s got to be taken care of, quick as maybe,” the premier had said, “or we’ll all be in deep strife. Have a word with Ben McLoughlin. He’s expecting your call. He knows the story and he’ll know what to do.”
It was going to cost, Samson knew. McLoughlin was the top gunny in the country and his services didn't come cheap. Carter had hinted at a hundred grand for the contract. That was top dollar by any standard but this was a desperate situation. There was little time and no room for mistakes. As the senior member of the board the ball was in his court. The others would toe the line and chip in when he explained the urgency.
Samson had pulled a few stunts and some swift moves in his climb to the top but negotiating a murder contract was breaking new ground for him. McLoughlin made it easy, though.
“Dick tells me you have a problem that needs fixing.” He might have been a plumber discussing a blocked drain. “He also says it’s urgent. What’s the deal?”
Samson outlined their troubles, and the threat they brought. “The sooner it’s done the better. We’ve got no more than a week, I’d guess. We don’t know exactly how much she knows, except that it is too much and we can’t allow it to go further.”
McLoughlin didn’t much fancy the job when he’d heard the time factor involved but he wasn’t about to let on, not just yet. He’d do a bit of fishing first.
“Who else knows about this? Which coppers are involved?” He was thinking ahead. If he didn’t take the job the information would come in useful. A hit like this, one that involved Carter, needed a strong cover. That meant sound planning and an easy investigation with the right cops on the scene. Anything else could lead to a fuck up. He wasn’t about to risk his reputation for a bunch of Hungarian plonkers.
“Just now, only three of us know; you, Dick and me. But I’ll have to tell the board when we’ve reached an agreement. They’ll be splitting the cost, so they’ll need to be told.”
Samson saw McLoughlin’s eyebrows rise. He sensed this didn’t go down too well. “As for the coppers involved, that’s Hunter’s department. But it will be done properly. Don’t worry. There’s too much at stake here.”
“What about payment? It’s a hundred grand, right? And I’ll need to have it in a bank before the job’s done. I can see the shit hitting the fan on this one. Don’t want any second thoughts.”
Samson wasn’t surprised. Carter had warned him that this might be the case. “No problems. Underworld hits are one thing. Drug killings are another. But this….” he paused for emphasis … “this is quite another matter. This is a very big one. It must be done without mistakes. We take no chances. Agreed?”
Neither man spoke for a few seconds. The only sound was the purr of tyres on tarmac. McLoughlin was doing some mental arithmetic. He knew there were six on the executive of the board; there’d be at least four coppers involved, plus maybe three outsiders to handle the setting up and the disposal. “A bigger cast than bloody Ben Hur,” he thought. It was odds-on a leak, particularly when that bastard Crain got wind of it, which he would. They’d been daggers drawn for years. And then there was the time factor. They’d be starting from scratch to have the job done in a week, with a bloody committee involved! The more he thought about it the less the job appealed. And all for a hit on a woman. He didn’t fancy that at all. He’d had his share of contracts but he’d never wasted a woman and didn’t much like the idea of starting now. His first instincts had been right. This one was best left alone, even for a hundred grand.
The car approached the wrought iron gates and turned, just short of the exit, for another lap around the tree-lined avenue. The horses re-appeared in the distance.
“I’ve got to be honest with you, mate, and say this one sounds to me like a heap of strife. Too many people involved, not enough time for planning, too complicated. I don’t like the odds, even for a hundred. So I’ll have to say I’m going to give this one the big miss. Go see Crain. That bastard would chop his granny in half for a grand, let alone a hundred.”
Samson gave a silent curse. This was one possibility he hadn’t foreseen. For the sort of money on offer he’d anticipated having his hand snatched off. But at least it got him off the hook with Carter. With the time factor he had no choice but to accept McLoughlin’s advice about Crain. But he could leave that chore to Hunter, Crain’s mate and the unofficial secretary of the board.
The decision came as a relief. He wouldn’t even consider persuasion. Murder was not his bag. He’d leave it to the professionals. Looking on the bright side, Samson told himself he was well out of this scenario. He tapped on the privacy window. “Take us back please, Michael”.
Chapter 3
BIG Tony Benson had been Don Hunter’s right hand man for close on fifteen years, his front man in effect, with a minor financial stake in the business that only he and Hunter knew about.
Their association had started just after Benson had arrived from London following a hasty departure prompted by a bank robbery, a sudden death in a nightclub and the imminent attentions of Scotland Yard’s Murder Squad. Benson had been in his thirties and didn’t fancy spending the next twenty years or so as a guest of Her Majesty so he’d made a spur of the moment decision on a protracted holiday.
THE white Mercedes, its occupants hidden behind tinted windows, purred slowly passed a pair of sleek, shining horses being exercised on the trail that ringed Sydney’s Centennial Park.
“Such beautiful animals.” Sir Paul Samson was wistful. “Sometimes I wish I had more time for a hobby like that.”
Ben McLoughlin turned to look at him. “A bloke in your position should make time. It’s important to have a hobby that gets you out into the fresh air. Me, I go beach fishing for a couple of hours every morning. Starts the day off right and it beats having to look at the wife.”
They both laughed. Michael, Samson’s chauffeur for almost twenty years, allowed himself a smile as he activated the privacy window behind him. Usually, Samson didn’t care one way or the other if his driver overheard anything, either in the car or out of it. He trusted Michael implicitly. It was just that sometimes, depending upon who was travelling with his boss, Michael would rather not hear. This was one of those times. If McLoughlin was a passenger they could only be planning bloodshed and he didn’t want to know, didn’t wish to hear any of the details.
Samson noticed the window sliding into place and gave Michael a mental pat on the back for his acumen. Best keep things as secure as possible. Dick Carter was the only other person to know about this meeting; he had set it up when he’d come with the news of what the newspaper bitch was doing.
“She’s got to be taken care of, quick as maybe,” the premier had said, “or we’ll all be in deep strife. Have a word with Ben McLoughlin. He’s expecting your call. He knows the story and he’ll know what to do.”
It was going to cost, Samson knew. McLoughlin was the top gunny in the country and his services didn't come cheap. Carter had hinted at a hundred grand for the contract. That was top dollar by any standard but this was a desperate situation. There was little time and no room for mistakes. As the senior member of the board the ball was in his court. The others would toe the line and chip in when he explained the urgency.
Samson had pulled a few stunts and some swift moves in his climb to the top but negotiating a murder contract was breaking new ground for him. McLoughlin made it easy, though.
“Dick tells me you have a problem that needs fixing.” He might have been a plumber discussing a blocked drain. “He also says it’s urgent. What’s the deal?”
Samson outlined their troubles, and the threat they brought. “The sooner it’s done the better. We’ve got no more than a week, I’d guess. We don’t know exactly how much she knows, except that it is too much and we can’t allow it to go further.”
McLoughlin didn’t much fancy the job when he’d heard the time factor involved but he wasn’t about to let on, not just yet. He’d do a bit of fishing first.
“Who else knows about this? Which coppers are involved?” He was thinking ahead. If he didn’t take the job the information would come in useful. A hit like this, one that involved Carter, needed a strong cover. That meant sound planning and an easy investigation with the right cops on the scene. Anything else could lead to a fuck up. He wasn’t about to risk his reputation for a bunch of Hungarian plonkers.
“Just now, only three of us know; you, Dick and me. But I’ll have to tell the board when we’ve reached an agreement. They’ll be splitting the cost, so they’ll need to be told.”
Samson saw McLoughlin’s eyebrows rise. He sensed this didn’t go down too well. “As for the coppers involved, that’s Hunter’s department. But it will be done properly. Don’t worry. There’s too much at stake here.”
“What about payment? It’s a hundred grand, right? And I’ll need to have it in a bank before the job’s done. I can see the shit hitting the fan on this one. Don’t want any second thoughts.”
Samson wasn’t surprised. Carter had warned him that this might be the case. “No problems. Underworld hits are one thing. Drug killings are another. But this….” he paused for emphasis … “this is quite another matter. This is a very big one. It must be done without mistakes. We take no chances. Agreed?”
Neither man spoke for a few seconds. The only sound was the purr of tyres on tarmac. McLoughlin was doing some mental arithmetic. He knew there were six on the executive of the board; there’d be at least four coppers involved, plus maybe three outsiders to handle the setting up and the disposal. “A bigger cast than bloody Ben Hur,” he thought. It was odds-on a leak, particularly when that bastard Crain got wind of it, which he would. They’d been daggers drawn for years. And then there was the time factor. They’d be starting from scratch to have the job done in a week, with a bloody committee involved! The more he thought about it the less the job appealed. And all for a hit on a woman. He didn’t fancy that at all. He’d had his share of contracts but he’d never wasted a woman and didn’t much like the idea of starting now. His first instincts had been right. This one was best left alone, even for a hundred grand.
The car approached the wrought iron gates and turned, just short of the exit, for another lap around the tree-lined avenue. The horses re-appeared in the distance.
“I’ve got to be honest with you, mate, and say this one sounds to me like a heap of strife. Too many people involved, not enough time for planning, too complicated. I don’t like the odds, even for a hundred. So I’ll have to say I’m going to give this one the big miss. Go see Crain. That bastard would chop his granny in half for a grand, let alone a hundred.”
Samson gave a silent curse. This was one possibility he hadn’t foreseen. For the sort of money on offer he’d anticipated having his hand snatched off. But at least it got him off the hook with Carter. With the time factor he had no choice but to accept McLoughlin’s advice about Crain. But he could leave that chore to Hunter, Crain’s mate and the unofficial secretary of the board.
The decision came as a relief. He wouldn’t even consider persuasion. Murder was not his bag. He’d leave it to the professionals. Looking on the bright side, Samson told himself he was well out of this scenario. He tapped on the privacy window. “Take us back please, Michael”.
Chapter 3
BIG Tony Benson had been Don Hunter’s right hand man for close on fifteen years, his front man in effect, with a minor financial stake in the business that only he and Hunter knew about.
Their association had started just after Benson had arrived from London following a hasty departure prompted by a bank robbery, a sudden death in a nightclub and the imminent attentions of Scotland Yard’s Murder Squad. Benson had been in his thirties and didn’t fancy spending the next twenty years or so as a guest of Her Majesty so he’d made a spur of the moment decision on a protracted holiday.
Sydney had seemed an attractive destination and became more so after a drinking session in a Kings Cross bar where, with his management background in London nightclubs, he’d watched the staff on the take. It took no effort at all to trace the owner and advise him of his little problem. Initially livid, Hunter was so grateful he’d hired Benson on the spot. Thereafter, Big Tony never gave the old country a thought.
In time he moved up the staff scale from club manager to general manager of the holding company. He ran the clubs and the bars, the strip joints and the brothels on a daily basis, hiring and firing as the need arose, checking the stock and keeping an eye open for potential rorts by light fingered staff.
He managed the two sets of books, fronted in liquor license applications, liaised with the coppers and fixed the entertainment and the payouts for their weekly parties. He acted as factotum for his boss who liked to control things from a distance, to keep his hands clean and his reputation as far out of harm's way as possible.
They’d been through some traumatic times together over the years and had faced a heap of emergencies and threats to the status quo. That’s how Benson had acquired his reputation as rust proof hard man, by sorting out upstart challengers in the time honoured way, putting an abrupt end to some promising careers, legal and illegal. He and Hunter were close without being best mates, and trusted each other as far as anyone could in their joint undertakings on the darker side of humanity. So there wasn’t much that Benson didn’t know about Hunter and his moods. He’d had first hand knowledge of most of them and could usually pick the cause of anything intemperate. Usually was the key word. It didn’t apply today.
He’d just arrived at Hunter’s headquarters following a peremptory summons that indicated something was seriously amiss. Hunter beckoned him into his office and it was plain he was in a barely controlled fury, his swarthy complexion flushed.
“Cop a read of this load of crap.” Hunter’s temper was explained when he passed over a sheaf of papers. “A couple of the whores have been squealing to that newspaper bitch. Seems she’s been investigating us for months.”
Flicking through the documents, it took only seconds for Benson to identify them as witness statements, signed by Tina Osmond and Shirley Freeman.“This reads like they’ve been having a regular fucking knitting circle. They’ve told the bitch everything. The board know about this?”
Hunter ignored the question. It was something he didn’t care to contemplate just yet. He’d have to advise the executive of the threat but that chore could wait. He had other priorities right now. “They’ve got to be wasted, all three of the molls, or the newspaper bitch will blow the lot.”
Benson sucked his breath, a silent whistle. A triple hit was some challenge. It would take big-time organising and cost top dollar. This one couldn’t be done for contract rates, particularly if Crain was involved. That bastard charged like a wounded bull.
“Yeah. I said months ago she should have been wasted but nobody listened. Now it’ll be complicated; could be a risk of things getting out of control.” He was already contemplating exigency plans. “It’ll need a fool-proof cover story, and the right coppers involved. The whores won’t be missed but the shit’ll hit the fan when the Nelson moll goes.”
“I’ve already thought of that end of it.” Hunter was conversing in more muted tones now, his anger under control. “Whiteman is a natural. He owes me favours for the way I bailed him out over that rat shit development of his. In the public eye he’s Nelson’s natural enemy. If we work this out everybody will reckon it was him who fingered her. We’ve got to make sure it doesn’t bounce back on us, or the board.”
Benson nodded approval. There were risks involved, sure, but he could get kudos out of this, cement his place in the hierarchy. And he’d file away the information as insurance. A bloke in his position could never have too much of that. He could visualise the outline of a plan. “Have to use somebody like Freddie from the Mardi Gras to do the setting up, but he’ll want a good briefing. This one needs the perfect alibi. Some of our copper mates will do an easy investigation. There’s a few who owe us, but they won’t cop a fuck up.”
“Tell Freddie I said OK. Probably have to use Crain again. I’ll clear this with the board. They’ll be paying. The planning I’ll leave to you. Just remember, this Nelson moll is dangerous. She could blow the lot, everything. Let’s get it right. And let’s do it soon.”
“Leave it to me, Don. Hang loose. And tell those Hungarian plonkers not to panic.”
In time he moved up the staff scale from club manager to general manager of the holding company. He ran the clubs and the bars, the strip joints and the brothels on a daily basis, hiring and firing as the need arose, checking the stock and keeping an eye open for potential rorts by light fingered staff.
He managed the two sets of books, fronted in liquor license applications, liaised with the coppers and fixed the entertainment and the payouts for their weekly parties. He acted as factotum for his boss who liked to control things from a distance, to keep his hands clean and his reputation as far out of harm's way as possible.
They’d been through some traumatic times together over the years and had faced a heap of emergencies and threats to the status quo. That’s how Benson had acquired his reputation as rust proof hard man, by sorting out upstart challengers in the time honoured way, putting an abrupt end to some promising careers, legal and illegal. He and Hunter were close without being best mates, and trusted each other as far as anyone could in their joint undertakings on the darker side of humanity. So there wasn’t much that Benson didn’t know about Hunter and his moods. He’d had first hand knowledge of most of them and could usually pick the cause of anything intemperate. Usually was the key word. It didn’t apply today.
He’d just arrived at Hunter’s headquarters following a peremptory summons that indicated something was seriously amiss. Hunter beckoned him into his office and it was plain he was in a barely controlled fury, his swarthy complexion flushed.
“Cop a read of this load of crap.” Hunter’s temper was explained when he passed over a sheaf of papers. “A couple of the whores have been squealing to that newspaper bitch. Seems she’s been investigating us for months.”
Flicking through the documents, it took only seconds for Benson to identify them as witness statements, signed by Tina Osmond and Shirley Freeman.“This reads like they’ve been having a regular fucking knitting circle. They’ve told the bitch everything. The board know about this?”
Hunter ignored the question. It was something he didn’t care to contemplate just yet. He’d have to advise the executive of the threat but that chore could wait. He had other priorities right now. “They’ve got to be wasted, all three of the molls, or the newspaper bitch will blow the lot.”
Benson sucked his breath, a silent whistle. A triple hit was some challenge. It would take big-time organising and cost top dollar. This one couldn’t be done for contract rates, particularly if Crain was involved. That bastard charged like a wounded bull.
“Yeah. I said months ago she should have been wasted but nobody listened. Now it’ll be complicated; could be a risk of things getting out of control.” He was already contemplating exigency plans. “It’ll need a fool-proof cover story, and the right coppers involved. The whores won’t be missed but the shit’ll hit the fan when the Nelson moll goes.”
“I’ve already thought of that end of it.” Hunter was conversing in more muted tones now, his anger under control. “Whiteman is a natural. He owes me favours for the way I bailed him out over that rat shit development of his. In the public eye he’s Nelson’s natural enemy. If we work this out everybody will reckon it was him who fingered her. We’ve got to make sure it doesn’t bounce back on us, or the board.”
Benson nodded approval. There were risks involved, sure, but he could get kudos out of this, cement his place in the hierarchy. And he’d file away the information as insurance. A bloke in his position could never have too much of that. He could visualise the outline of a plan. “Have to use somebody like Freddie from the Mardi Gras to do the setting up, but he’ll want a good briefing. This one needs the perfect alibi. Some of our copper mates will do an easy investigation. There’s a few who owe us, but they won’t cop a fuck up.”
“Tell Freddie I said OK. Probably have to use Crain again. I’ll clear this with the board. They’ll be paying. The planning I’ll leave to you. Just remember, this Nelson moll is dangerous. She could blow the lot, everything. Let’s get it right. And let’s do it soon.”
“Leave it to me, Don. Hang loose. And tell those Hungarian plonkers not to panic.”
********
THE mini-skirted secretary completed her circuit of the vast boardroom table as she topped up the champagne glasses. Her blonde hair spilled into her plunging neckline as she leaned, pulling five pairs of eyes to her sun-tanned cleavage. All eyes followed her as she retreated, high heels noiseless on the thick carpet, silently closing the solid oak door behind her. A collective sigh of appreciation tinged with lust whispered its way around the room. At the head of the table Don Hunter tapped his glass to attract attention. He paused, looking around at the faces turned to him. This was the scene he’d been dreading. “We’ve got big problems with that newspaper moll. She’s onto us.”
The brief silence was almost tangible. Then: “Now what? She’s becoming a real pain in the arse.” The accent was guttural and mid-European. Peter Ableman, his eyes magnified by his thick-lensed glasses, drummed his fingers on the blotter in front of him, the knot of his silk tie bobbing on his scrawny neck as a swallow betrayed his nerves.
The brief silence was almost tangible. Then: “Now what? She’s becoming a real pain in the arse.” The accent was guttural and mid-European. Peter Ableman, his eyes magnified by his thick-lensed glasses, drummed his fingers on the blotter in front of him, the knot of his silk tie bobbing on his scrawny neck as a swallow betrayed his nerves.
Sir Paul Samson, his elegantly cut suit accentuating a massive frame, reached slowly for his glass, his gaze never leaving the swarthy man at the head of the table. He wasn’t about to let on that he already knew the problem: that would have jeopardised Carter’s contact in Hunter’s office. “Suppose you tell us what she’s been doing now.” The quiet tones oozed lethal menace. “Let’s have the problem. We’ll soon find a solution.”
Hunter leaned back, stretching his arms to leave his manicured hands in view on the table, a jewelled ring on the little finger of each. “The bitch has just spent two days at Companies House. She knows all about our company arrangements, the structure. And she’s tracked down our friend in Parramatta Jail She’s got the guts of what he knows and he’s given her copies of his files.”
There was a lull lasting for perhaps three seconds before Harry Landorf, his cropped grey hair bristling, spat out his fury and slapped the table with a manicured hand. “I said we should have had the bitch blown away a year ago but nobody would listen. She has to go now, before she stuffs everything for us.”
“I’ve always thought it would come to this eventually.” Samson was leaning forward now, his presence dominating the table. “We have to contain the threat first, though.” He turned to look directly at Hunter. “Tell us how she found out, and who else might know. Containment is vital.”
“The Parramatta connection is an old one, apparently. Seems he heard about her investigation and called her from jail. She went to see him and he spilled his guts, told her where his files were. There’s a lawyer involved. That’s why we couldn’t track ‘em down.”
“Do we have his name?” Samson was thinking ahead, as usual.
“We do now. He’s got the originals. She has copies.”
“What about Lantana? How did she find out about that?”
Hunter looked down at his note pad, avoiding the eyes now all turned on him. “She met one of the whores at a massage joint near where she lives, in the Cross. The moll was stoned and spilled her guts. Then she followed up at Companies House. She’s linked us there, through Lantana. She traced the ownership of the massage joint through one of our holding companies. She’s been investigating us for bloody months, the bitch.”
The table erupted in anger but Samson, now in command, silenced it with a raised hand. “Getting angry won’t help. What’s done is done. Right now we’ve got to put the lid on this. That’s the priority. Who else knows?” He turned again to Hunter, his look saying he feared the worst.
“Well, I found out about it before she could leak it. I’ve got her partner tied up and he says he’s the only one who knows but he thinks she’s going to publish the material soon, probably in a couple of weeks.”
“Christ! Where is it?” Ableman was close to panic. “Can we get hold of it?”
“It’s all in her office files but she probably has other copies in safe places. That’s the danger. ”
Rising from his chair, Samson walked to the window and looked down on Rushcutter’s Bay. There was a gentle swell in the harbour and the yachts in the marina bobbed on cue. Cars crawled up the hill, past the hotel forecourt, heading for Double Bay. It was mid-winter in Sydney but the city, basking in sunshine, wore the mantle of spring.
“It’s gone too far,” he said. “Lifting the evidence won’t stop her. She knows too much.”
He came back to the table and stood there. “We can’t waste any more time. The job’s got to be done now, before she prints the material. Get Crain in, Don. All agreed?” His eyes went around the group, their nods answering his rhetorical question. The executive of the board was unanimous. They had no choice.
*This blog will carry only these first three chapters of The Nelson Conspiracy which has now been published in book form. If you would like to order a copy please visit http://wwww.amazon.co.uk/ and type The Nelson Conspiracy in the search box at the top of the home page.
