Peter Corris - The Big Score

We were in Youngs flat and he was looking pretty deflated. ‘They must’ve been watching,’ he said, ‘and they saw you and Chester sniffing around.’

‘My fault,’ I said. ‘That was careless of me, but I think I’ve got an idea.’

‘What?’ Young said.

‘It’s to do with the number of people they had on the job, and something I spotted the other day just clicked in my head when I arrived this morning.’

‘Care to elaborate?’ Ivens said.

‘I’d rather not in case nothing comes of it and I look silly, again.’

The two men exchanged glances. ‘We have faith in you,’ Young said.

That didn’t make it any easier.

One householder wanting a better water view doesn’t employ four men. Someone had a big stake in the poisoning. The thing that had been niggling me for the past few days was triggered into clarity when I took a closer look at the properties affected by the killing of the trees. I’d thought of them as a cluster, perched up in a series of interlocking cul-de-sacs, and that was accurate. The houses in what might be called the front line were all substantial, well-maintained residences, obviously their owners’ pride and joy. So were most of the places further back, but off to one side in the third street was a row of houses showing wear and tear. I’d noticed them almost subliminally at first, because my house has some of the same signs-shaky guttering, overgrown garden, faded fence. Now I drove up to take a closer look.

There were five houses, freestanding brick and tile bungalows on quarter-acre blocks. They were far from derelict and were obviously occupied, but there was enough neglect in their appearance for them to stand out. I took note of the street name and the numbers of the houses. One displayed a ‘For Lease’ sign and I wrote down the agents name. Any one of them afforded a perfect view down to the parkland, the scrub and the trees. With four or five of the trees dead, the vista of the Pacific Ocean would open up nicely. Perfect development site. Low rise, but you could fit in quite a few townhouses.

Then it was time to visit the council office to check the titles of the properties. Over the past two years a development outfit by the name of Todd Holdings Pty Ltd had acquired the five houses in question. I was beginning to enjoy myself. I kept a discreet watch on the houses for the next few days. Two were occupied by families; one by a gay couple; the other two by men without women, men who wore overalls and went to work at a couple of building sites where Todd Holdings was doing the honours.

I phoned Hank. ‘Tell me you kept the video of the guys on the retreat.’

‘Sure I did.’

‘Any chance you could blow up and identify an individual?’

‘Did it already. Got a reasonable shot of the guy carrying the can.’

Being American, irony and puns aren’t Hank’s strong suit. I suppressed a laugh. ‘Want to do some more filming?’

‘Sure.’

There was a good deal of weed to clear at one of the Todd Holdings building sites and one of the Dover Heights tenants was clearing it. Hank and I parked advantageously and Hank captured him on film-or tape, or disk or whatever it is.

Hank closed off as the poison treatment stopped. He examined his digital result and nodded. ‘It’s him. So it ain’t over?’

‘We never say die,’ I said. After a bit of web research I had what I needed and called a meeting with Young and Ivens.

We met in Young’s flat again. My phone call had bucked them both up.

‘D’you reckon the stuff would be stored at one of those houses?’ Young asked.

I nodded. ‘Probably.’

‘Wish I wasn’t in this bloody chair. I’d like to come on the raid with you and your mate. You’d be in that, wouldn’t you, Chester?’

Ivens smiled. ‘I think Cliff’s got something else in mind.’

I said, ‘We’d have trouble proving that any given poison had been used in any given case. It’s not against the law to own it, or a hand drill or a torch.’

Young looked puzzled. ‘But you’ve got the man on tape.’

‘But not committing the act.’

Ivens grasped it. ‘The thing to do is go to the top, to whoever put them up to it, and that’s this Todd Holdings mob, right, Cliff?’

‘Right. I don’t know the ins and outs of the law, but I imagine that the penalty for causing that kind of environmental damage in the interest of a property development would be severe. I’d guess any development approval would be withdrawn. The company’s name would be mud.’

‘I get it,’ Young said. ‘Who’s the boss?’

Just to look professional I got out my notebook. ‘Guy called Peter Todd.’

‘Hey, I know him,’ Ivens said. ‘State Liberal candidate.’

‘Wannabe,’ I said. ‘He challenged the sitting member. Didn’t quite make it but he might next time.’

‘Vulnerable,’ Ivens said.

I put the notebook away. ‘Very,’ I said. ‘I propose a two-pronged attack. Present the evidence to Todd and to the can-carrying guy. If Todd tries to bluff I’m sure the can-carrier won’t carry the can, if you see what I mean.’

‘You’re a sly bastard,’ Young said.

I nodded. ‘Thank you. I didn’t like them outfoxing me.’

That’s the way it worked out. Royce West admitted that Todd Holdings was letting him live in the house at a peppercorn rent in return for certain services. Peter Todd admitted nothing, but knew he was in a corner and asked for terms. I consulted Joe Young.

He’d already made a list and he ticked the items off as we enjoyed a celebratory glass of merlot. Agreement to pay for a supervised treatment to try to revive the affected trees. Agreement to renovate the houses over there and not to destroy them. Complete confidentiality at our end. Think he’ll come at it, Cliff?’

‘It’s the best of all possible worlds.’ I said. ‘He has no choice.’

She’s convinced he’s holding something back,’ Roger Carlson said.

‘Don’t wives make an ambit claim to allow for that?’ I said.

He nodded. ‘Some do, but Mrs Morgan just went for a thirty-seventy split of the assets.’

Carlson was a lawyer handling the divorce between Ralph and Danielle Morgan. My solicitor, Viv Garner, had suggested Carlson talk to me about a problem he had in drafting his client’s response to the other side’s version of the settlement.

‘Seventy-thirty,’ I said. ‘That seems on the generous side.’

‘She’s a nice, intelligent woman and he’s a prick, but she acknowledges that most of the money that came in during their marriage was earned by him. Not all, by any means, but she estimates her contribution at less than twenty. She tops it up to thirty on the basis of home-making, and social and personal support.’

‘No kids?’

‘No, thank Christ.’

Carlson looked uncomfortable in his suit and tie. He was a big, athletic type who’d have looked more at home on a golf course or a boat. Just as I was thinking along these lines he loosened the tie and slid it down-maybe he fancied himself as one of those wildly eccentric Hollywood movie lawyers who don’t wear a tie and have a ponytail.

‘A sticky one?’ I said.

‘Didn’t look like it at first, at least from her end, but things took a turn for the worse. I’d hate to think what would’ve happened if there’d been custody involved. His strategy is delay, delay, delay. If there’d been a young child it’d be voting before things got finished.’

I don’t much like working for lawyers. They live in a world of their own with its own rules, most of which outsiders don’t know and wouldn’t want to know. They think and sometimes talk in subsidiary clauses and hypotheticals. Straight-talking Rumpoles are rare-I’ve never met one. Even Viv Garner has his cagey moments. Carlson was doing his best to make sense.