Follow the Money (7 page)

I scouted the area, no sign of anyone watching the apart- ments. There’s a rule in investigation that holds true about half the time—like most rules: test the weakest link. As things stood that was Rosemary Malouf. She’d gone to water after a question or two and had summoned support. The more I thought about it the more it seemed as if this was the place to probe.

Houli was one of those who’d given weight to the theory that Richard Malouf had serious problems by claiming he’d won a lot of money from him. Rosemary Malouf had identified the body. What was the connection between those facts? It was hard to see them as collaborators. From what I’d experienced at Houli’s hands it was more likely he’d intimidated her, was controlling her in some way.

A ride in a near-empty bus is good for contemplation and speculation. Suppose Malouf was alive and his apparent death had been contrived somehow. By whom? Houli or Wong, or both? Why, and how it went wrong, allowing that this supposition was correct, were the questions.

I looked through my notes and clippings again and rang Prospero Sabatini.

‘Hardy, about time I heard from you. What’s been going on?’

‘Quite a few things, which I could tell you off the record. Nothing at all on the record.’

‘Bloody hell. All right. At least you got in touch. Fill me in.’

I told him as much as I thought I should, still not mentioning Standish, but bringing Freddy Wong and Selim Houli into the picture as well as Chang and Ali.

‘You might talk to Chang without telling him who put you on to him,’ I said. ‘You might get something interesting.’

‘Might, might, might. Might doesn’t write stories. You say you’re still thinking Malouf could be alive. That’s the crux. Anything solid there?’

‘Not really, and that’s where I need your help.’

‘You haven’t built up much credit.’

‘Yes or no?’

‘Go ahead, ask.’

I reminded him that in one of his articles he’d mentioned that Malouf’s wife had left their home in Gladesville.

‘That’s right, she couldn’t handle the media pressure. The time I talked to her I told her it wouldn’t last much longer but she didn’t listen.’

‘Do you know where she went? That’s what I’m asking.’

There was a silence at the end of the line and I could imagine what he was thinking.
What’s he up to and what’s in it for me?
When it came, his response surprised me.

‘She’s very vulnerable, Hardy.’

I almost said I knew, but remembered that I’d edited my meeting with her out of my story. ‘She’s had time to get over it,’ I said, ‘and I can be gentle when necessary.’

‘I bet.’

‘Look, she’s either on the edge or in the middle of something very nasty. Maybe she knows nothing about it at all. If that’s right I’ll talk to her and say goodbye. If she’s in danger I’ll bring the cops in. That’s a promise.’

‘I can’t help you.’ He hung up.

I was losing my touch and running out of allies. I’d put the phone too close to my damaged ear and it was hurting. Sitting too long in one position stiffened me, and all the places where Yusef had hit me ached. I was angry. Time to play dirty. I called the Bondi Junction travel agency. Troy answered.

‘Mrs Malouf, please.’

‘Can I say who’s calling?’

I got as close to Perry’s soft voice as I could. ‘Perry Hassan. Her late husband worked for me.’

She came on the line. ‘Yes, Mr Hassan?’

‘Sorry to trouble you, Mrs Malouf, but there are some papers I need you to sign. There’s some money coming your way.’

‘How? I don’t understand.’

‘I’ll explain, but it’s urgent. This needs to be handled today to cope with the time difference between here and the UK. I’m tied up now, but I could bring them to you after office hours if you give me your address.’

I was guessing money would be a problem for her. I couldn’t see Malouf leaving her with a nest egg. After a very brief hesitation she gave me an address. I thanked her and said I’d see her around seven pm. I wasn’t proud of myself when I put down the phone, but my ear and mid-section still hurt and she was the one who’d sicced Yusef on to me.

The address was in Dulwich Hill, a little cul-de-sac off Livingstone Road. I scouted it: a single-fronted cottage with a neat garden at the front and a laneway behind. Some of the houses had driveways and there were few cars in the street. Good lighting. I parked in a nearby street and let the minutes tick by. I was on the doorstep at seven pm precisely and rang the bell. Footsteps.

‘Who is it?’

‘Perry Hassan.’

The door opened and I pushed it in and bustled the little woman away. She squealed and I kicked the door closed. She raced down the hall, flung open a door, and snatched up her mobile from a table. I clamped her wrist and took it from her.

‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ I said.

‘You
are
hurting me.’

I released her and pointed to my ear while lifting my windcheater up to show the yellow and blue bruise across my middle.

‘My eardrum’s broken and the ear is only held on by stitches. This is where they hit me—those people you sent after me. You owe me some explanation.’

She was still in her business clothes, minus the jacket and the heels. In slippers, she didn’t come up to my shoulder. She slumped down into a chair and covered her face with her hands. I pulled the hands away roughly.

‘Don’t do that. You’re in trouble, Mrs Malouf. Maybe I can help you, but first you have to tell me about your dealings with Selim Houli.’

She looked up at me, big grey eyes pleading in a small, terrified face. ‘I can’t. They’ll kill me.’

‘I can arrange protection for you. I told you I’m working with the police.’

She snorted and scrabbled in her bag on the table for a packet of cigarettes. She lit up and blew smoke through her nostrils. ‘The police,’ she said, ‘they aren’t worried about the police. They’ve got . . .’

‘What?’

‘Their people inside the police.’

I said, ‘That might be true, but there are honest police.’

She smiled and blew more smoke. She was gaining confidence. ‘And you know them, do you?’

I hesitated just a beat too long.

‘I thought so,’ she said. ‘How can you know? I’ll tell you something, Mr . . . who are you again?’

‘My name’s Hardy.’

‘Mr Hardy, I’ve learned something this year. You can’t trust anyone. I was married to a man I thought I knew and I found out that I didn’t know him at all. I didn’t even know his real name. How’s that for trust?’

I pulled out a chair and sat. I slid the ashtray closer to her. My windcheater was still rucked up and I pulled it down. At least she was talking.

‘Tell me about it,’ I said. ‘I do have experience at helping people in tight corners. I do have influential friends I can trust.’

She studied me as she took a few drags on her cigarette. She butted it out and lit another one. ‘There’s a bottle of wine in the fridge. I need a drink. Would you mind? Don’t worry, I’m not going to scoot off.’

I went through to the kitchen, found the chardonnay and a couple of glasses and brought them back to where she was sitting. I poured and sat.

‘I married . . . Richard five years ago. I was a flight attendant with Qantas and I met him on a flight back from Dubai. It happens. He was working in the finance industry and seemed to have plenty of money and lots of time. I kept working for almost a year while we carried on the affair but it wasn’t satisfactory, as you can imagine. So we got married and I took a job in a travel agency.

‘After another year or so Richard had an affair with the wife of his boss and he got the sack. I forgave him. I loved him. Then he went to work for Perry Hassan. It was a good job in terms of status and money and he seemed happy in it for a time. He worked very hard—incredible hours. He started to drink and gamble. We argued a lot, almost broke up, got back together. He was sexually . . . compelling.’

The third person to say something similar and the second woman.

‘Breaking up and getting back together can add spice,’ I said. ‘I’ve been there.’

‘Mmm, but it was more than just that. You’d have to have seen him in action to understand.’

In fact I had. I remembered the way several women in Perry’s office had looked at Malouf as he moved around. Looked quickly and then away. He had a word for a couple of them as we went out for a cup of coffee and they smiled as if he’d given them a bunch of flowers. At the coffee shop he got immediate service from a waitress who stood as close to him as she could. The thing was, as I’d said to Standish, he wasn’t extraordinarily handsome and there wasn’t any conceit to him. He seemed not to notice the effect he had on women; he certainly didn’t play to it, and that attitude appeared to have a powerful effect on them.

‘You noticed, didn’t you?’ she said.

I nodded.

‘Shit. It wasn’t his looks or his voice, that was just foreplay. His touch was . . . electric. I’m sorry.’

She finished her cigarette and drank some wine. She was naturally pale, but the wine brought a little colour into her face. As she forced herself to relax, I saw how attractive she could be under the right conditions. Her hair was a rich auburn and thick and her features were generous when not under strain. The wine was OK; I poured some more for both of us.

‘After a while, it was a marriage in name only. I left a couple of times but he always managed to draw me back. He said he needed me, but he always needed plenty of others. I thought I was pregnant at one point and that brought me back. I wasn’t and that just about finished us off.’

She paused and I nodded, letting her tell it at her own pace.

‘He was under a lot of stress; he worked all night at the computer sometimes and wouldn’t tell me what he was doing. I heard him on the phone a few times speaking Lebanese and Chinese. Then I wouldn’t see him for days.’

‘Chinese?’

She shrugged. ‘Yes, you pick up a few words as flight crew. I wanted to ask him about it but by then I was . . . afraid of him. God, I’m spilling my guts, aren’t I? How’ve you managed to get me talking like this?’

‘I’m a good listener.’

She smiled for the first time. ‘I hope you’re a bit more than that. You’ll need to be. Anyway, I hadn’t seen him for almost a week and then Selim Houli and another man paid me a visit at home. Houli asked me if I knew where Richard was and I said I didn’t. They searched Richard’s office and spent a long time at his computer. Then Houli said Richard was in a lot of trouble and that Richard Malouf was not his real name. He gave me a mobile number and said if Richard . . . if he contacted me I was to call him immediately—immediately.’

I could imagine the threat that accompanied the demand and the memory of it brought a nervous twitch to her hands.

‘I asked why would I do that and he said that if I didn’t he’d have acid thrown in my face. He showed me photographs of people who’d suffered that and how the surveillance of them had been done. He said the same thing would happen if I spoke to the police. I’m not a brave person and I believed him.’

I nodded. ‘I can see why you would. What happened then?’

‘Houli came again and told me the police would be arriving soon to ask me to identify a body they believed to be Richard. Houli told me to make the identification or the same threat would be carried out. I did what he said.’

We’d worked our way through two-thirds of the wine but she hadn’t smoked since she began talking. Now she lit one. Her hands were steady and she blew a strong stream of smoke well away from me.

‘I gave up smoking when I met him. He didn’t like it.’ She laughed. ‘He wasn’t who he said he was; he rooted around; he embezzled millions of dollars; he was involved with gangsters and I let him tell me what to do. How dumb can you get?’

‘You know what I have to ask you next.’

‘Before you do, what’s your interest in all this? Did he steal your money?’

‘Yes, but it’s more complicated than that. There’s something big going on. Then there’s what Houli did to me.’

‘I’m sorry about that. All right, you want to know whether that was the man I knew as Richard Malouf in the morgue?’

‘Yes.’

‘It wasn’t.’

She said Houli had made the same threat—acid in the face—to compel her to contact him if anyone came asking about Richard Malouf after the initial fuss had died down.

‘That’s what I did when you turned up.’

‘I understand. Does Houli know that you’ve moved here?’

‘I don’t know. I had to rent out the Gladesville house because I couldn’t afford the mortgage. Richard had handled that and I had no idea it was so high. You found me easily enough, so I suppose Houli could. He could follow me from work, for example.’

She put her hand to her face and I knew what she was thinking about.

‘I suppose talking to you’d come under the same heading as talking to the police or not telling him about anyone enquiring after Richard. I don’t know why I’m doing it.’

I did. Even people under as serious a threat as she was can bottle things up for only so long. Eventually the pressure has to be relieved, but it would have sounded patronising to tell her so.

‘Before we get on to how to protect you, Mrs Malouf, I’ve got another question. When you said you didn’t know where your husband was, was that true?’

‘It was then, but I’ve had time to think about it.’

‘And . . . ?’

Her smile was professional—the kind an airline hostess or a travel agent might use to comfort a passenger or sell a package.

‘Let’s talk about the protection first.’

I’d been thinking about it and had come up with two ideas. ‘Do you remember a journalist named Prospero Sabatini?’

She was about to finish the wine in her glass but she stopped and gave me a quizzical look. ‘How the hell did you know about that?’

‘I don’t know anything, but I spoke to him and—’

‘He didn’t tell you . . . no, of course not, you tricked me.’

‘I tried to get him to help me find you but he wouldn’t.’

Her smile now was entirely different. ‘That’s nice.’

‘I was just guessing that you meant something to him. But it’s more than that, right?’

She poured out the rest of the wine. Well, it wasn’t a full bottle to start with.

‘It’s weird,’ she said. ‘I met Pros in a bookshop one night during one of my separations from Richard. We were both after the same book and they only had the one copy. He let me have it. We went for coffee and got along very well. I met him again and gave him the book. I’m pretty sure something could have happened but . . . Richard came back and that was it. He phoned me after . . . the death, but I was too afraid to really talk to him. What’re you thinking?’

‘That he might help. Might give you a place to stay that Houli doesn’t know about.’

I could see the idea appealed to her but she shook her head. ‘I still have to get about, go to work, buy bloody food.’

That led to my other idea. I told her about the task force Chang was heading up and its brief to investigate the connection between Chinese and Lebanese crime. I said Chang had resources and manpower. If he was convinced that Malouf was some kind of lynchpin he could provide her with protection.

‘Houli and a gangster named Freddy Wong are both trying to find Richard Malouf,’ I said. ‘And you heard him speaking Chinese and Lebanese. I think Inspector Chang will find that of great interest.’

She thought about it. This time she didn’t touch her face or smoke or drink, but from her eyes I could tell that she was weighing a number of things in the balance. Time had dragged on and it was cold in the unheated room. She shivered, but not from the cold.

‘You’re a bit of a shit for all your winning ways, aren’t you? That’s the deal, eh? Protection in return for information?’

‘Put it that way if you want to, yes. But I’m taking you on trust that you do have something to contribute.’

‘You could twist a corkscrew straight. All right, you set everything up the way you said and I’ll tell you something.’

It took a series of phone calls—to Sabatini, to Chang, from Chang to others and back to me, but eventually the arrangements were made.

We were both edgy, but on first name terms by then and drinking coffee as she packed a couple of bags. She had the flat on loan from a friend who was overseas, and she hadn’t brought a lot of stuff with her. No problem about leaving. She’d had her mail diverted to her business address and didn’t have a landline to the flat.

In the hook-up, she’d spoken briefly to Sabatini and was having trouble suppressing her excitement at the prospect of seeing him again. I had to tell Sabatini I couldn’t promise any scoops, but he was smart enough to know that he was, to some extent, on the inside now. Anyway, he seemed as enthusiastic as Rosemary about them meeting.

Sabatini lived in Coogee, handy to Rosemary’s office. She didn’t have a car. She told me that the Merc Richard Malouf had run was repossessed by a finance company after he went missing. I drove her and we had a discreet police escort.

‘He told me he owned the Mercedes,’ she said as we headed east. ‘I’m trying to think of one thing he told me that was true or even partly true.’

‘He must have been a good actor,’ I said.

‘Mmm, whoever he was.’

‘You only have Houli’s word on that.’

Her laugh was nervous. For all her eagerness to see Sabatini, she was aware that she was on dangerous ground and Houli’s name had triggered that fear. ‘It’s funny,’ she said, ‘but I’m inclined to believe that bloody gangster rather than the man I was married to.
If
I was married. Shit, what a mess.’

She pulled out her cigarettes and lit up. I wondered what Sabatini’s attitude was to smoking. She glanced back at the police car.

‘How do you know you can trust these particular police?’

‘Instinct,’ I said.

‘Jesus Christ, I’m not sure about this. What if . . . ?’

‘We’re here.’ I pulled up outside a small block of flats a few streets back from the beach. The police car slid in behind us and two uniformed officers escorted us to the entrance. Sabatini was in flat 4. I rang, he answered, and the security door opened. We took the stairs to the second level and I knocked. Sabatini, in jeans, sneakers and a jumper, appeared. He’d trimmed his beard and smelled of the shower and shampoo.

‘Hello, Pros,’ Rosemary said.

‘Hello, Rose, Hardy. Come in.’

The senior cop said they’d be on watch in the street.

‘Thank you,’ Rosemary said.

‘I’m off,’ I said. ‘Remember, Rosemary, there’s a meeting tomorrow at nine am.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I can’t say I’m looking forward to it, but at least I feel I’ve broken out of some kind of prison.’

Rosemary’s words stayed in my head as I drove home. It hadn’t occurred to me before, but they amounted to a pretty good description of the condition of a lot of the people I’d dealt with in my work: the parents of missing children, the blackmailed, the threatened. And it applied not only to the innocent—the liars and cheats made prisons for themselves and squirmed to get out of them.

Those thoughts led inevitably to me considering my own position. Was I in a prison of my own or somebody else’s making? I wasn’t usually given to negative self-examination and I shook the impulse off. I was working, possibly being of help to people, and I had scores to settle. That was enough on the positive side. For the rest of the way home, I played the new Dylan album Megan had left in the CD slot. The voice was just a growl now, but a great growl:

. . . it’s all good.