Just Business (18 page)

Denis rang the bell of the house and the door opened. Keith caught a brief glimpse of an elderly man, a young child at his knee. When the door was safely shut, Keith left his car to walk past the postbox. He picked the lock but his efforts were wasted: there was no mail inside to tell him the names of the residents. He walked down the street, looking at the square houses set well back on their square blocks of land. He hoped to run into a neighbour, one of the most reliable sources to find out what he needed to know. But there was nobody about and he went back to his car, turning on the radio again to pass the time.

Denis came out after twenty minutes or so. The other man walked with him to the car and Keith was surprised to notice that he was younger than his white hair had suggested. He was probably the father of the child rather than the grandfather as he had first thought. The two men spoke as the boy watched from the doorway. He was about four or five years old.

The men shook hands and Denis got in the car. Keith waited until the front door of the house was shut with the man and child safely inside before he started the engine. The Saab was first in line at the traffic lights at the end of the street. He followed it onto the motorway and through the city to North Sydney, utilising all his wits and skill to keep on its tail. It started to rain and Denis put up the soft top as he circled for a parking space. He found a metered one on the Pacific Highway but Keith wasn't so lucky. He had no option but to park in a disabled spot. Parking fines were par for the course in his job.

Denis got out of the car, turning his face up to the rain to see if it was heavy enough to warrant more protection than the baseball hat. He seemed to think it wasn't too bad and took a canvas bag from the boot of his car, balancing it on his shoulder as he headed towards Miller Street. The bag must have been
heavy because he stopped a few times to rest it on the footpath while he flexed his arms.

Denis's journey came to an end at AIZ Bank. He spoke to the lady at the information desk. She made a call and the security doors to the back office were opened to let him inside.

Keith quickly called his wife at home. After a brief conversation, he sauntered up to the information desk. ‘I'm with the guy who just went through to the back,' he said with a cheerful grin.

‘The computer-repair guy?' The clerk's voice was terse. It had been a busy morning.

‘Yes.'

‘Where's your ID?' She looked at him suspiciously. ‘You should have an HDD badge.'

Keith had found out all he needed to know for now and, with perfect timing, his phone started to ring. It was his wife. He listened to what she was saying, nodding occasionally for the benefit of the information clerk. Hanging up, he turned to the lady with a rueful expression. ‘I'm terribly sorry. I've been called out to another site. An emergency, or so they tell me. Don't worry – Denis can deal with the repair without me.'

He left before she thought of asking any questions. Another customer was quick to take his place at the desk. The clerk would be kept busy and Keith felt sure she wouldn't mention the incident to Denis when he came back out.

Keith went back to his car and lifted the wiper to retrieve the parking ticket. He shoved it in his pocket and checked his watch. It was one-thirty. He decided that he had done enough for one day and would surprise his lovely wife by getting home early.

Denis's wife wasn't as lovely as Keith's. It was late when he got home from AIZ Bank. He was tired and jumpy. All afternoon he had been expecting to get caught. Ironically, in the end it was Lily who caught him. She was ready to pounce as soon as he got in the door.

‘Your lawyer called,' she said from the sofa, her eyes fixed on the muted TV.

‘Jacobsen? What did he want?' Denis pulled off his sweater; it was damp from the rain that was now falling heavily.

‘It's very interesting what he wants – he wants a statutory declaration from me saying that Australia is my home and I've cut off all ties with England.'

She still had her back to him and Denis swore under his breath. The stupid lawyer, what did he go talking to Lily for?

‘He only needs that for the Industrial Relations Commission,' he said. ‘It doesn't mean we have to stay here or anything.'

‘Oh, yes,
the Industrial Relations Commission
.' She turned to face him. ‘And, of course he told me all about your application for permanent residency.'

Her face was expressionless and, for the first time in many years, Denis felt unsure of himself.

‘Tell me now – just tell me and don't lie –
did
you apply for residency?'

Denis could only nod.

‘Without consulting me? Your wife? You applied for this visa without consulting your wife?'

She wasn't screaming. Usually she'd be screaming by now. But her voice was flat and that's what chilled him.

‘I'm sorry.' It was a decade since a word of apology had been used between the bickering couple. It hung in the air, out of place, unfamiliar.

‘Sorry?' Lily repeated. ‘Try again! You're not sorry. You're only telling me about the visa because you want me to sign the declaration for your solicitor.'

It was true and there was nothing that Denis could say in his defence. Lily walked away, her slippered feet heavy on the stairs.

‘What are you doing?' he called after her.

‘I'm getting my things together,' she answered as she walked along the landing. ‘You want to stay in Australia? You're welcome to. Me, I'm going home. I should have gone back a long time ago.'

Denis stayed downstairs, listening to the floorboards creak as she went to and fro between the wardrobe and her suitcase. This had never happened before, not even after the most bitter of arguments. A suitcase had never been packed. He didn't know whether to stay downstairs or go up there to try to talk some sense into her.

He was still in the kitchen when she came down, some thirty minutes later.

‘I'll come back for the rest of my things during the week.' She rested the suitcase on the tiled floor that she mopped every day. She was in control of the situation, her faded eyes were even excited. She wasn't sad to leave him, she had been waiting for the guts to go. A car honked outside. ‘That's my taxi – I called myself a taxi.'

She didn't drive. She had nagged Denis to teach her but he had never got around to it.

‘Lily,' he said, ‘you've still got your slippers on.'

She looked down. ‘So I have.'

She kicked them off. Her feet were bare when she walked out on him.

Niamh found herself in a lull – a rare moment in time where her inbox was clear, her phone wasn't ringing and the only thing outstanding was the last blue envelope, still in her in-tray.

She got up from her desk and strolled out to Sharon's. ‘Who does the stationery orders these days?'

Sharon looked up from her computer screen, her eyes bleary. ‘Donna in Accounts.'

Niamh went around to Donna's workstation and found her up to her neck in files. ‘What are you working on?' she asked curiously.

‘Finishing off the spare-parts audit.'

‘How many parts are on loan to Denis Greene?'

Donna pointed to a thick file. ‘That many.'

Niamh flicked through the file but the part numbers and descriptions meant nothing to her. She became aware that Donna was looking at her, no doubt wondering why she was there.

She showed her the blue envelope. ‘Does this look familiar?'

‘No.'

‘Have you ever ordered these envelopes for anyone?'

‘No – I would remember.'

Donna's face was clear and guileless.

Niamh shrugged and grimaced as she looked around at all the files. ‘Well, good luck with the rest of the audit.'

Donna's expression changed. She suddenly looked quite awkward and unsure of herself.

‘What is it?' asked Niamh.

‘I'm not sure if I should be saying this –'

‘Go on …'

‘It's about Denis Greene. My boyfriend's father, Steve Jones, said that his case had no merit.'

Niamh was transfixed. ‘The barrister … Denis fired him, didn't he?'

‘He wasn't fired, he resigned.' Donna was defensive. ‘He's very well respected in his field – he only takes cases he has a chance of winning.'

Niamh looked at her carefully. ‘Do you know
why
he thought he had no chance of winning?'

‘Not for sure, but I was thinking about it while I was away on my holidays,' Donna replied earnestly. ‘I have a friend who applied for a permanent visa last year and she got a bridging visa while her application was being processed. If Denis is in the same boat, then his argument about having to leave the country doesn't stand up.'

Niamh nodded slowly. ‘Thanks, Donna. That's very valuable information. Obviously, I'll be careful about how I use it.'

She returned to her office, her head swimming. Why hadn't Lucinda picked up that Denis's case was baseless? Was it because she was too busy to think straight? Or was it because she was unfamiliar with the immigration process and rules? But if it was the latter, then why hadn't she hired an external lawyer who was?

Niamh stood by the window and gazed blindly at the view as she pondered on what to do. Lucinda was an extremely intelligent and talented lawyer. No matter how busy or arrogant, an oversight like this just didn't make sense. Neither did it make sense that Paul Jacobsen was continuing to defend the case. Someone wasn't telling the truth: Steve, or Lucinda, or Paul. She had to handle it carefully, very carefully.

Helen left work at six, the drive to Pyrmont taking much longer than it should. She parked her car in its allocated spot and took the elevator to her apartment. As she opened the door, she was greeted with the mouth-watering aroma of her mother's cooking.

‘Hello, love.' The old lady looked up from straightening the cutlery on the table. Helen noticed there were two places set.

‘Mum, I'm going out tonight. I won't be having dinner.'

‘Oh,' her face dropped, ‘you should have told me.'

‘I did.'

Helen was preoccupied as she changed out of her suit into a more casual skirt and top. Her mother was still recovering from a lingering cold and now her sharp memory seemed to be slipping. Was it just a normal symptom of old age or was something else wrong? She emerged from the bedroom, crossing the living room to get to the mirror at the far end. The light was much better there for applying make-up.

‘Have you heard anything more from
him
?' old Mrs Barnes
asked from her armchair. The table had been cleared and there was no evidence of the dinner that had been prepared on Helen's arrival.

‘Phil?' Helen asked, knowing full well who her mother was referring to. She saw the old woman's nod in the mirror.

‘No,' she lied but it was for her mother's own good. She wouldn't sleep at night if she knew that Phil was still harassing her daughter with phone calls. Claiming he was going to get her back for all the trouble she had caused him.

‘That's good – he was a nasty piece of work.' Mrs Barnes flicked through the channels until she got to the right one.
The Bill
wouldn't start for another ten minutes but she liked to be prepared. The story was ruined if the first few minutes of the show were missed. ‘Where are you going tonight?'

‘It's just a work thing – it could go on quite late so don't wait up for me,' Helen answered, not happy with her lipstick and putting on another coat.

‘You've been out a lot these last few weeks.'

‘It's the job, Mum,' Helen said lightly. ‘If I'm going to be paid a whacking finance director's salary, I've got to take on the social commitments.'

Mrs Barnes nodded as if she agreed but inside she was questioning her daughter. Was it really the job? Helen had social engagements most nights of the week. She came home late and a few times her bed hadn't been slept in at all. And when she was at home, there were phone calls. She took them on the balcony and sometimes she was out there for over an hour. It was true that she had purchased smart clothes to dress the part for her new role. She had her confidence back, plus some more. But was it really the job? Or was there a man? Surely Helen would tell her if she had finally met someone?

Helen saw the questions on her mother's face but wasn't inclined to answer them. Their relationship had always been very open but a distance had been building steadily over the last year. The boxlike apartment enforced a proximity that would kill the strongest of relationships. Helen knew she had to do something. They couldn't continue to live on top of each other like this.

‘Do I look like a successful hardnosed executive?' she asked, doing a light-hearted twirl to take the look of worry off her mother's face.

‘I've never seen you look better, love,' her mother responded with a sad and proud smile. She was also acutely aware that she and her daughter were damaging their relationship by living together in the tiny apartment. But the only other option, a retirement home, still held no appeal for the old woman. She wished there was an answer that would make them both happy, but couldn't imagine what it might be.

Niamh arrived at the office after another night of tormenting nightmares.

Sharon's head shot up as she passed her desk. ‘You look like you've been out on the town all night.' Sometimes her perceptiveness was a pain in the neck.

‘I wish!' Niamh gave a weak grin. ‘Any calls?'

‘Paul Jacobsen – again,' Sharon replied

‘Right …'

‘Aren't you going to call him back?'

‘Not yet.'

Sharon gave a long-suffering sigh and went back to her work.

Niamh sat at her desk and stared out the window for a few
minutes. Work was a sanctuary, a place where she could banish Chris and her dad from her thoughts. Even so, she felt exhausted today, and she didn't think it was solely down to a lack of sleep. After a few moments she roused herself to answer emails and return phone calls. When everything urgent was out of the way, she rang the Department of Immigration. It took a while to navigate her way through the phone prompts, but eventually there was a real person at the end of the line. She asked him about the bridging visa and he confirmed that one would have been issued in the circumstances described.

Niamh hung up the phone and passed another few minutes thinking through everything she knew, trying to make sense of it. She needed a sounding board. Someone to talk to before she spoke to Lucinda. Who was best? Malcolm? Helen? Yoshi?

Sharon knocked and came in. ‘Express delivery for you.'

Niamh took the envelope and tore it open. It was a progress report from Keith Longmore.

 

Niamh looked at the photograph. She had no idea who the man was. Bruce might. She would have to tell him about AIZ. He would not be happy. She tried his extension and his mobile phone but they both rang out. She called Keith instead. He answered without delay but the reception was bad; he sounded as if he was in the car.

‘I'm just stopped at the queue for the toll so I have only a few seconds before I lose reception in the tunnel,' he said. ‘Did you receive the progress report?'

‘Yes, thank you, Keith. I don't know who the man in the photograph is. And I'm extremely concerned that Denis is apparently stealing our clients as well as our parts …'

There was some crackling and she could just about make him out. ‘Denis is pretending that he still works for you – I don't think he'd be doing that if he was stealing your business. Look, I'm confident I can nail him, I just need a few more days. In the meantime, you may want to make some discreet enquiries at AIZ –'

The line dropped out and Niamh hung up the phone. She waited a few minutes before trying Bruce again. No joy. Her stomach gave a growl of hunger. She had left the house without breakfast.

‘Sharon, I'm going down to the coffee shop. Do you want something?'

‘It's not ten-thirty yet.' Her assistant regarded her somewhat accusingly. ‘You're early!'

‘A muffin?'

Sharon's flimsy resolve was shaken by the unscheduled temptation. ‘If you insist.'

Coming out of the fire stairwell, Niamh had a headlong collision with Bruce who was on his way in. There was a fresh smell of cigarette smoke about him.

‘I'm sorry.' His weathered face was an embarrassed red as he stepped back from her.

‘It's okay – I needed to see you anyway. I have some news on Denis Greene.'

‘What is it?' He was distracted, ill at ease.

‘Do you want to have a quick coffee with me while I fill you in?'

‘A coffee …' he repeated without enthusiasm. ‘Maybe just a quick one.'

They walked up the alley to George Street and were lucky to get the last free table in the thriving coffee shop.

‘Keith Longmore saw Denis going into the back office at AIZ,' Niamh said bluntly as soon as their order was taken. ‘The clerk said he was the computer-repair man. Keith thinks he had the stolen parts in the bag he was carrying.'

The weight of the statement was enough to shock Bruce out of whatever had been distracting him. ‘AIZ?' His face registered panic, his first thought being the contract renewal. The proposal was to be submitted to the bank later in the week.

Niamh helped him focus his thoughts by giving him the most relevant facts up front. ‘He has an HDD identification badge – AIZ think that he still works for us.'

‘He can't have an ID – he handed it back to me the day he left,' Bruce said simply.

‘He got one from somewhere,' Niamh shrugged. ‘Any ideas?'

‘No! What the hell can he be doing at AIZ? I don't feel good about this, the bastard's up to something … and the proposal, damn it … the bank will have us out on our ear if they find out that an ex-employee is gaining access to their premises with a false ID.' His flat white arrived just in time to stop him from
blowing a fuse. He downed the coffee in a few tense seconds.

‘Keith suggested we make some discreet enquiries at the bank,' said Niamh.

‘Willem and I have a final pricing meeting with them in the morning,' he replied, getting to his feet. ‘While we're there, I'll get Willem to check our hardware and software to make sure it's all clean.'

He lit another cigarette as he walked away. Niamh was left to finish her coffee and toast alone. Soon after, her mobile phone rang. It was Sharon.

‘I've changed my mind about the muffin. Don't get me anything – I'm going to be strong for once.'

‘Okay. You're the boss,' Niamh smiled.

She drank back the last of her coffee. She felt a little better. It was getting harder and harder to maintain a façade of nothing being wrong. Things with Chris were unbearable. The absences and silences were building and building. Soon it would all come to a head.

Scott's words played over and over. ‘At some stage you will both reach a conclusion and move forward.' She had reached a conclusion. She just needed the courage to move forward.

She slid her sunglasses down over her tired eyes and walked across the street to the post office. She needed to get a birthday card for Uncle Tom. The man who'd killed her dad was going to turn sixty-five over the weekend.