Eye for an Eye (3 page)

‘I gather your
late mother was ill for a long time, in residential care?’ The
question came with quiet delicacy. ‘Some of the treatments were
expensive? From what I understand they did alleviate her distress,
but the cost was beyond your father’s capacity to pay for very
long. I’m afraid he took a gamble, and one which was to prove very
ill-advised.’

‘But why didn’t
he come to us?’ burst out Robyn.

‘Who was
responsible for the bad advice?’ asked Pete.

‘What sort of
gamble are we talking about?’

‘He went to
some sort of investment broker in Wellington.’ The lawyer steepled
his fingers and pursed his lips disapprovingly. ‘This fellow
convinced him that he could double his funds in a year with no
risk.’

There were
simultaneous snorts of derision from both Robyn and Pete. The
lawyer smiled thinly.

‘Obviously you
wouldn’t have fallen for such a wild promise, but apparently the
man was extremely convincing, and by this time your father was
clutching at straws. He withdrew all the remaining capital from the
farm reserve account and invested it with this broker.

Pete’s face
paled.

‘I never look
at that account - we never touched it except for major capital
expenses, and Dad didn’t plan for any of those this year. Oh my
God.’ His face fell into his hands.

‘So what’s the
situation?’ broke in Robyn. ‘How bad is it? Do we have to sell the
farm, or what? I mean, we’ve got to be practical about this.’

She ignored
Pete’s anguished look at the suggestion.

‘Well, no.
Fortunately not, under the, er, current circumstances. Your father
was sensible enough to take out a substantial life insurance policy
several months ago, which guaranteed repayment of the mortgage and
allowed a useful working capital for the farm. Also, under the
terms of his will, you each get an individual payment of ten
thousand dollars once the balance of the estate has been dealt
with, and of course you are both joint owners of the farm. I know
this was a very important point for your father.

Pete breathed
more easily.

‘Good old Dad,’
he said softly. ‘I knew he’d think of the farm first.’ He stood and
held out his hand to the lawyer. ‘Thanks for that - I guess you’ll
be in touch with anything else we have to do, papers to sign,
whatever?’

‘Hold on Pete,’
Robyn cut in, putting a gentle hand on his arm. ‘There’s something
more I want to know here.’ She turned to the lawyer. ‘You’re saying
that the money was lost, but the life insurance paid up and we’re
OK, right?’ He nodded. ‘So what happened to the money that Dad gave
this investor guy in Wellington. Can’t we get it back? Where
exactly did it go?’

The lawyer
leaned back in his seat.

‘I haven’t been
able to find out yet. This investment broker Colwyn Symons seems to
be a rather slippery character who has a number of clients looking
for him - and I suspect that even if he’s located, his affairs will
be tied up in court for some years. Apparently yours are not the
only funds to have been, ah, mis-invested, shall we say?’

‘When you say
"mis-invested", do you mean stolen?’

‘Let’s say that
the possibility is there, but it will take some considerable time
to unravel the complexities of the transactions made in each
individual case.’

‘And are we
likely to see any of that money again?’

He spread his
hands and smiled sadly. ‘Most unlikely, I’m afraid.’

Back at the
farm, Robyn and Pete spent the next few days going through their
father’s papers and sorting out his effects for disposal. They
spread out all the paperwork on the oak dining table and sat one at
each end. Low winter sun angled through the windows catching dust
motes as the pages were shuffled and turned.

‘Jeez, this is
even worse than sorting through Mum’s stuff. At least she had time
to put most of her affairs in order before she had to go into
hospital.’ Pete pushed a stack of papers away and sighed. ‘Why do
we accumulate so much junk in our lives, Rob? I reckon I’ll have a
big bonfire when I’m sixty and start all over again with just the
stuff I really need. Then you won’t have to do this for me.’ He
smiled weakly, pointing at the pile he still had to sort.

Robyn decided
he needed cheering up. She went on the offensive as only a sister
could.

‘Good on yer,
mate – and while you’re at it, would you please burn all those
ghastly old clothes of yours too? I wouldn’t want to be seen
dropping them in the charity clothing bin.’

Pete threw a
scrunched-up envelope at her and smiled.

‘You’re still a
brat, aren’t you? You were just as obnoxious as a kid. Look at this
photo, remember this?’ He held out a picture of Robyn as a
grim-faced child holding a very dead seagull.

‘Oops, yes, I
remember. I hit it in the head with my catapult after it had
attacked Blackie. Wasn’t a bad shot, was it?’

‘Well it
definitely didn’t peck any more lambs’ eyes, I’ll grant you
that.’

‘Didn’t help
poor Blackie though, did it? It was rotten for Dad, having to put
him down. He couldn’t face me for a week.’ She handed back the
photo. ‘Got any more snaps there?’

‘Yeah, check
out Dad’s old passports, they’ve got photos in going back to the
year dot.’

Robyn flicked
through them, seeing the small black and white photographs age
decade by decade from the stiff self-conscious pose of youth, to
the lean, lined face of a man who’d worked the land for a lifetime.
The tan lines across the forehead marked him as an outdoors man
used to wearing a hat, but the crinkles at the corner of his eyes
were as much from laughing as from the summer sun.

She slowly
slipped the rubber bands back round the bundle and went to make a
cup of tea.

‘Huh? Oh,
thanks, Rob,’ grunted Pete absently as she put a steaming mug at
his elbow. He was reading an official-looking letter and frowning.
‘Look at this. It must be from that investment guy in Wellington,
dated six months ago. "Golden Fleece Investments" - Dad would have
liked the name, he always used to tell us the story of Jason and
the Argonauts, and Hercules, do you remember? Listen to these
promises... "Dear Mr. Taylor, we are delighted by your interest in
our investment offer, and we are entirely confident that we can
increase your funds by at least 100% in a year. Our specialised
knowledge of the New Zealand sharemarket means that we can take
your money, Mr. Taylor, and make it work for you in a way that
nobody else can. We are so confident in our services that we
guarantee your profit - yes, guarantee it! If for any reason you
are unhappy with our performance over the year, we will return all
your money, with no charge at all for our efforts on your behalf.
You cannot lose!" Blah blah blah. What a pack of bullshit!’ Pete
threw the letter down in despair.

‘How the hell
could Dad fall for crap like that? He must have been
desperate.’

They looked at
each other in dismay.

‘How come I
didn’t see it, Rob?’

She put her
hand on his shoulder. ‘Probably because you didn’t want to. Neither
of us did. I mean, things were awful enough with Mum being so ill
that we never thought of money troubles as well. Don’t blame
yourself, Pete.’

Pete picked up
another letter. ‘Listen to this one. "Thank you for your cheque,
Mr. Taylor. Rest assured that our expert staff has put your money
to work right away. Any time you’d like an update on the current
state of your mounting investments, just pick up the phone and call
our Managing Director Colwyn Symons who will be happy to personally
pass on all the details of your progress." Yeah, sure he will, if
he’s not out stashing it away in a Swiss bank account or spending
it on a fur coat for his fancy woman. God I wish Dad had told me
about this - I could have stopped him.’

‘I told you,
don’t beat yourself up over it, it’s not your fault. The guy to
blame is this bastard who stole the money. I mean, there’s no way
he can get away with making promises like that, is there? It’s got
to be against the law, surely?’ Robyn looked more closely at the
letter. ‘I wonder if there’s any point in calling this Colwyn
Symons character. I know the lawyer couldn’t get hold of him but if
he’s still around fleecing people maybe he can shed some light on
where Dad’s money went.’

‘Yeah, right!
And he’ll send us a cheque for the whole lot plus interest,’ said
Pete bitterly. ‘In your dreams, sis. You heard what the lawyer said
- legal complexities, tangles of red tape, there’s no way.’

‘Well I’m going
to bloody ring him anyway.’ She checked her watch. ‘He should still
be at the office, looking for helpless old ladies to steal
from.’

She dialled the
number and waited, twisting the phone cord round her finger. A
recorded message replied in smooth tones.

‘Hi there, this
is Colwyn Symons speaking. I’m sorry that the pressure of business
prevents me from taking your call right now, but please do leave a
message after the tone and I’ll be delighted to get right back to
you. Thank you very much for calling.’

Robyn hung up
in disgust, rubbing her hand against her jeans.

‘God, what a
greasy message! He sounds like a used car salesman. Maybe I’ll try
tomorrow.’

She picked up
the next letter from the pile. ‘Ha, only three months later, and
they’re already weaselling out of telling Dad how things were
going. "Dear Mr. Taylor, we are unable to give you the figures you
asked for, as the share market is extremely volatile at present,
and any current balance will change rapidly from one day to the
next. In the right hands, fortunes are being made, so sit tight and
wait for our next report. If you wish to take advantage of the
rapid rises that some shares are making, we will be happy to
increase your investments upon receipt of a cheque..." Jesus! He
didn’t send them any more money, did he?’

‘No, not
according to the chequebook,’ said Pete. ‘What’s the next letter
say?’

‘OK, let’s
see..."Dear Mr. Taylor... blah blah blah... your investment has
already increased beyond predicted returns, in only six months! We
are certain that you will wish to continue to enjoy this
outstanding performance, and would strongly advise against
withdrawing your money at this particular point as the market is
set to rise even further in the immediate future..." Sounds like he
asked for his money back. Maybe he wasn’t completely taken in.’

‘He didn’t get
it though, did he? I wonder if he ever figured out that he’d been
had. He never said a thing to me.’

‘Well he
wouldn’t, would he? Dad would never admit he’d been ripped off,
he’d be too ashamed. I would too.’

She pushed back
from the table and paced across the polished floor, her footsteps
sounding loud on the bare wood, then quieter as she stepped onto
the rug.

‘The more I
read of those letters, the angrier I get. They’re so - so -
superior and smug, as if the writer knows exactly what he’s doing
and also knows that the poor mug at the other end can’t do a damn
thing about it. Doesn’t it want to make you rush over to Wellington
and grab Colwyn Symons by the throat and beat the crap out of
him?’

‘More your
style than mine, Rob. You always were the firebrand of the family.
Now let’s get this lot finished, shall we? There’s heaps to do on
the farm and I can’t concentrate while this is hanging over my
head.’

They returned
to the piles, reading through each page and sorting them into some
semblance of order. It grew dark outside, so Robyn switched on the
light. It still made her smile to flick the switch, now that
electricity had been connected to the property after so many years
of noisy diesel-generated power.

‘Not like the
old days, eh Pete?’ She became aware that he was sitting very
still, staring at a document. ‘Pete? What’s up, bro? You look like
you’ve seen a ghost.’

He glanced up,
his face bleak.

‘What was the
date on that last letter from the investment company?’

She rummaged
through the relevant pile. ‘Ah, June 3rd. Why?’

‘This is the
life insurance policy Dad took out. It’s dated three days later. He
knew, Robyn. He realised the money was gone and he took out the
policy to look after us.’

It wasn’t until
some days later that Robyn voiced the thought that had occurred
privately to both of them since they’d found the policy. They were
standing at the kitchen sink washing the dinner dishes after the
last day of tidying up their father’s belongings. Robyn was due to
drive home the next day, and Pete was planning to interview a few
likely lads to work on the farm.

The evening sun
sparkled across wave-tops stirred by a steady northerly breeze. Up
on the hill behind the house, a sheep baaed plaintively.

Robyn pushed
the window open and drew in a deep breath of fresh air, knowing
she’d be back in suburbia the next day. Pete was drying a handful
of cutlery.

‘Pete, do you
have any doubts about the way Dad... died?’

‘About who
robbed him, or what?’

‘About any of
it. You said it didn’t make sense that he would have been robbed
way out there, remember? Where nobody would have expected him to
come along?’

‘Yeah, well it
was pretty weird, wasn’t it? It’s a bloody stupid place for a
mugger to hang round just on the off-chance that some rich tourist
might turn up. I mean, Walter’s Bluff isn’t exactly number one
attraction in the Blenheim guide book, is it?’

‘True. So who
just happened to be out there when Dad went for a quiet walk?

‘I don’t know!
Maybe Smitty’s got it figured out but I sure haven’t.’

He threw the
cutlery into the drawer and slammed it shut. ‘Look, I just want to
put it behind me, OK? We got nowhere with Dad’s robbery, we got
nothing but an answer-phone for Colwyn Symons, there’s nothing more
we can do.’