Peter Corris - Follow the Money

'I wouldn't argue with you, but…'

'When you contacted me just now I thought you might have been hired by one of the insurers to investigate, break the code of silence, but unless you're bullshitting me this is all new to you.'

'It is. I started in at a very small scale. I thought it was just a rip-off missing person scam with a twist-the missing party apparently dead. But it seems to be growing hour by hour. How do you know as much as you do?'

'Sealed containers leak.'

'Do you have names for these other embezzlers?'

A waiter cleared our table and asked if we wanted anything else.

'No,' Sabatini said. 'I mean yes.'

'Sir?'

'Sorry. Coffee-long black, please. You, Cliff?'

'The same.'

As the waiter left I leaned across the table as if we had a secret: we didn't, just a question. 'What's behind it all, then? You make it sound like a conspiracy.'

'You said it, not me. That's why I'm talking to you and letting you buy me lunch. If Malouf's still alive and you can grab him, there're two possibilities.'

A guessing game, I thought. 'One is that if I can grab him we might find out what's going on. What's the other possibility?'

Sabatini stroked his beard. 'Malouf was one of the smartest hackers and cyber fraudsters we've seen. If he's alive he'd still be at it. This stuff's an addictive game for someone like him. All this might just be him! And remember, you said I'd get first bite.'

The person I most wanted to talk to next was Gretchen Nordlung but it wasn't the time. I went home. Sabatini had given me references to several other articles he'd written where he skirmished around the question of dodgy financial advisers and managers without getting himself into trouble. We have new libel laws allowing greater freedom for journalists, and judges are awarding lower damages than juries once did, but caution is still the keynote.

It was a familiar scene: I pulled up by my house and the door of a car parked on the opposite side of the street opened and the men who stepped out could only have been police. Not that they wore suits and hats; they favour leather jackets these days and a casual but clean look. Neat beards are in rather than moustaches. I stood by the front gate as they approached, the taller and older of the two showing his warrant card.

'Detective Sergeant Caulfield and DC Manning, Mr Hardy. We'd like a word with you.'

'What about?'

'Could we go inside?'

I looked up at the clear sky. 'Why? It's not raining.'

Caulfield sighed. 'They warned me about you. Here or at the station.'

'Could rain,' I said. 'Come on in.'

We went in and down the hall to the kitchen at the back where I set about making coffee. I spent a fair bit of money on the house a while back, but somehow its essential shabbiness had reasserted itself and it didn't look much different from what it was before the makeover.

Manning leaned back against the sink; Caulfield sat down at the breakfast nook and took out a notebook. The water boiled and I filled the glass jug and set the plunger.

'Black or white?'

'Nothing for us. What's your interest in Stefan Nordlung?'

'Who says I have one?'

'Photographs and footage taken by a bystander at the Spit marina where Nordlung was found dead this morning show you to have been present. You were also caught on a sweep shot taken by a TV news crew when they arrived. All this went to air on the midday news and one of our analysts identified you. So here we are, being nice.'

'Not very nice. You've refused my hospitality.'

Caulfield glanced at Manning. 'This is what they told us about, Ken. He wears you down with this sort of stuff until you lose your temper and do and say things you shouldn't. He's a past master at it, especially when he had a PEA licence, which he doesn't anymore.'

'Years of experience,' I said.

Caulfield closed his notebook and stood. He stacked up to about 185 centimetres, but I'm 188 and these days pushing 90 kilos. Not that it was going to get physical, not like in the days of DS 'Bumper' Flanagan, when physical was the name of the game. But it helps to stand your ground on an equal or better level.

'You're in our books, Hardy. First time we catch you putting your nose into police business you're in serious trouble. You're not licensed to do anything except pick your fucking nose. Any hint of harassment, a speeding violation, a nine thousand dollar deposit in a bank account, any sign of a gun and you're gone.'

'On what sort of charge?'

'Conspiracy's a big net with fine mesh. As witness the judge presently not getting out and about and having a jolly good time on his pension with his pals.'

I nodded. 'Terrorism'll stretch a bit, too.'

Caulfield glanced at Manning. 'That's a thought. All unnecessary if you tell us what you were doing there.'

'Maybe later,' I said. 'Leave me your card.'

Caulfield slapped a card down on the table and they trooped out, not slamming the door. This kind of thing had happened quite a few times since I'd lost my licence. I suppose the cops couldn't be blamed. There were always rogues in the profession; I wasn't the worst but, as Caulfield said, I had a habit of getting under police skins. For tough guys, police skins are thin.

I was upstairs at the computer, working through Sabatini's articles, when he rang.

'You didn't put all your cards on the table,' he said.

'How's that?'

'I saw the news. You were there when they fished Nordlung out.'

'Yes, I was just sticking to our no-names policy.'

'I'm not sure I buy that, but it's blown now. I bet I can guess who hired you.'

'Guess away.'

'Miles Standish, right?'

'Let's say you're right. How did you get there?'

'I'm not sure I can trust you. You're economical with the facts.'

I laughed. 'Nice one. Aren't we all? OK, well I'll give you something that might interest you. Two cops came to see me when I got home. Like you, they'd seen the news coverage and they warned me off. Obviously Nordlung meant something to them or why would they bother?'

There was a long pause and I thought I knew what was going through his head. I'd discussed this sort of thing with Lily a few times. Names, information, connections are the lifeblood of investigative journalism and private investigation alike. They're also the currency, to be hoarded or traded. Sabatini thought I'd hoarded a bit. He had something to trade, but was it worth his while? The other thing about information is that its value drops the more people share it. It has a use-by date. Sabatini made his decision.

'OK, you'd find out something about it sooner or later so you're getting it from me now: the real stuff. I'm investing in you, Hardy.'

I smiled. I'd read him correctly and he was even using the appropriate language. I didn't say anything.

'Nordlung and Standish were hand in glove. Standish brokered the deal that enabled Nordlung to buy the Southern Star. Are you with me?'

I was. The Southern Star was a cruise ship that was being fitted out for luxury voyages to the Antarctic. The work was being done in Hobart. The ship had exploded and was a total loss.

'Nordlung had it insured to the hilt and beyond,' Sabatini said. 'Massive premium. Standish raised the money and arranged the terms for that as well. Nordlung got a whacking great payout. If Nordlung's the one who's supposed to have seen Malouf you could be chasing shadows. Nordlung'd do anything Standish wanted him to.'

'So it wouldn't be in Standish's interest to kill him.'

'No; but there'd be plenty of candidates. Nordlung was a specialist in marine fraud of one kind or another. He started small and had some trouble, got bigger and honed his act. So are you investigating an alleged death or a real one, or both?'

'I wish I knew. Maybe nothing. Standish has made himself unavailable.'