Just Business (23 page)

‘It's for you,' she said, coming back into the kitchen. ‘I asked who it was and he said he was from Channel Nine. Smart-ass!'

Denis took a moment to think. It was ironic that the journalist from the current affairs programme would pick now, of all times, to call him. ‘Someone's playing a joke, all right. Tell them I'm not here,' he said and Lily obediently went back out to the hall to pass on the message.

Niamh walked into the busy restaurant and scanned the tables for Scott. She saw him just as he saw her and they shared a smile that transcended all the people and the noise.

He stood up from the table to kiss her cheek. ‘My date is here. Phew!'

‘I'm only a few minutes late,' she laughed.

She drank him in. A white shirt hung casually over his denims, a few buttons open at the neck. His hair looked a little damp at the ends, maybe after a rushed shower. His face was darker in the dim lighting, his eyes glinting.

‘You look beautiful.'

Suddenly she was too shy to meet his eyes. ‘Thanks.'

She sat down, he filled her wine glass, and, like it always did, the initial awkwardness dissolved. Soon the conversation had a momentum of its own, glancing off the ridiculous and the serious, the present and the past. Niamh found out that Scott grew up in Perth and that his parents still lived there.

‘I'd like them to be closer, for Jenny's sake. But their life is over there – their house and friends and the local club …'

He paused and looked at her.
Really
looked at her. As if he was trying to see inside her. ‘Niamh, you mentioned something yesterday, something about being more like your mother than your father. What did you mean by that?'

She realised that he wanted to know her, to understand her, to
get
her. ‘I meant that I was someone who could walk away, like my mother, as opposed to someone who couldn't cope, like my dad. My biggest fear over the last few months was that I'd be like my dad. I look like him. We have, I mean
had
, similar personalities. And I was terrified that if I broke up with Chris I'd end up like him, falling apart.'

‘Did your dad suffer from depression? Is that why he did it?'

‘I don't know. He had his ups and downs like everybody else. Particularly in winter because he hated cold weather. But he died in the summer, the time of the year when he was usually on top of the world. Except that summer was different, we weren't there, he was all alone, so maybe he was depressed.'

It had been years since she had talked about him out loud, given herself the chance to remember him. It was weird this was all coming out now. She was getting divorced yet all she seemed to want to talk about was her dad. First with Tom, now with Scott.

‘Do you think he was selfish?' she asked suddenly.

‘Pardon?'

‘Do you think Dad was selfish to kill himself? Do you think he knew what it would do to us? That we'd never get over it?'

‘No, Niamh, I don't.' His voice was strong and certain. He must have sensed how important his answer was. ‘Not from how you've described him. He was a practical joker who loved his little girls. His death was sad. It was a waste. But I don't think it was selfish.'

The meal finished and Scott suggested a walk along the beach. The sand was cold and damp. Harmless-looking waves crashed down with surprising vigour and several times they had to race
to the softer sand to avoid getting wet. They were up the far end of the beach, the lights on the main strip a distant blur, her hand secure in his, when he said, ‘You seem to have a love-hate thing going with your mother.'

Niamh felt suddenly ashamed. ‘I know. I blamed her, as well as myself, for what happened to Dad. I'm only starting to understand now that I had very unrealistic expectations of her. Now I know first-hand that some marriages can't hold together – no matter how hard you try.'

Keith Longmore was at home, eating breakfast, when his phone rang. He swallowed quickly, dabbed his mouth, and answered it.

‘Good morning, Keith. It's Niamh Lynch.'

‘Good morning,' he replied, instantly wondering what was behind the early Monday morning phone call.

‘Can you take on another assignment?'

‘What kind?'

Niamh lowered her voice. ‘Well, it's rather sensitive … It's one of my colleagues … Lucinda Armstrong …'

Keith didn't let on that he was already on the case. ‘I'm sorry, I have too much on my hands.'

‘Can you recommend someone?'

‘I'm afraid not.'

Keith hung up with a worried frown. Niamh hiring someone else to follow Lucinda was the last thing he needed. But he couldn't stop her without breaking Helen's confidence. He
wondered what was motivating her, and if her concerns about Lucinda were the same as Helen's.

Keith hoped this wouldn't jeopardise the progress he was making. He'd followed up on the receptionist's comment that Marcus owned his own company. A contact at ASIC confirmed that Marcus Diddams had been the director of a company named Virus Solutions Pty Ltd. The company had gone into liquidation over three years ago.

Keith's next port of call had been the bankruptcy court. There he confirmed that Marcus Diddams had been declared bankrupt in January 2002. Not a good way to start the new year! Keith read through the long list of creditors. A venture capitalist, who'd put up most of the cash to get Virus Solutions off the ground, had lost twenty million. His name was Kel Sheridan.

But Keith still didn't have an address. After breakfast, he had a brainstorming session with the smartest person he knew: his wife.

‘You could try your contact at Telstra,' she suggested.

‘It's a silent number – Telstra won't give me that kind of information unless it's an emergency.'

‘What about the wife? Doesn't the company have an after-hours contact number for her?'

‘They don't even have the right address, so it's a safe bet they don't have the right home number.'

‘But they must at least be able to contact her after hours on her mobile?'

‘Obviously.'

‘And this couple have a child, don't they?'

‘Yeah, Helen said he's four.'

‘Then it's easy – keep calling the mobile after hours until
the boy answers. He'll be able to tell you his address. He's old enough to know it.'

Keith kissed her quickly and went upstairs to send an email.

 

 

Keith went out for the rest of the day and didn't return until dinnertime. He was happy to see that Helen had replied, and he made two carefully spaced calls to Lucinda's mobile. Each time a brusque female voice answered and he pleaded wrong number.

Later on, his wife tried her luck. She hit the jackpot on her first call.

‘Hello,' she said when she heard the child's voice. ‘What's your name?'

‘Jack Diddams,' the kid stated confidently.

‘And what age are you?'

‘I'm four.' She couldn't see him but she was sure the child was holding up four fingers to demonstrate his age.

‘Oh, you're a big boy then,' she said, hoping the praise would prompt him to volunteer more information to the stranger on the phone. ‘Do you know where you live, Jack?'

‘Number 29 Rover Avenue,' he said, obviously proud that
he knew all the answers to the questions he was being asked.

‘Jack, who are you talking to? Jack? Give me the phone.'

Keith's wife heard the father negotiate to take possession of the phone and she got her story ready. ‘Hello. I'm doing a survey on dishwashing detergents. Would you have ten minutes to spare?' She guessed that ten minutes would be too long for any harried father, especially on the topic of washing detergents.

‘It's bedtime,' he said abruptly. ‘And I don't know the first damned thing about washing detergents.'

Keith's wife was left with a dialling tone. The married couple shared a giggle.

‘You're superb – you can talk your way around anything,' Keith said with admiration.

‘That's how I got you to marry me.'

They laughed again before Keith asked, ‘What's the address?'

‘Number 29 Rover Avenue.'

‘I know that address.'

‘Come again?'

‘I know that address,' he repeated. ‘I was sitting outside that house a few weeks ago, waiting for Denis Greene. There was a young child living there. And a white-haired man.'

Willem was back at work but still shaky from his relapse. His bones felt like they were rattling in his body, his eyes as though they were swimming unanchored in his head. Regina had wanted him to take even more time off but he'd insisted on coming back to work. She'd said that Bruce had been supportive and concerned, but Willem knew that sympathy for schizophrenia never lasted long.

The voices started, faint at first, then getting louder. Willem
stood on his chair and pushed the air vent into the ceiling. Now he could hear nearly every word and some of his questions were finally answered.

‘I've talked to Malcolm – I don't know what's got into him – Niamh must have got to him somehow.'

‘It's water under the bridge, Lucinda. We had decided to stop anyway – eight sites will do it. Denis doesn't need to get his job back now.'

Willem almost forgot to breathe. Lucinda. It all added up: the voices were coming from the lawyer's office.

‘Denis hasn't confirmed Westbank – that means we only have seven. And he hasn't been picking up his phone. He's trying to hide from us.'
There was a brief silence, then Lucinda spoke again.
‘I think we should go, Marcus. Let's just do it now, this week. Pack up our things and start the rest of our lives. It's time to cut the kite loose.'

‘Will seven be enough?'

The man called Marcus sounded unsure. His voice was echoing and Willem suddenly realised he was on a speakerphone. That was why the voices were making sense: for the first time he was hearing both sides of the conversation.

‘You said eight was enough a few moments ago,'
she reminded him.

‘I know, I know. I guess you're right … we'll have to sort Greene out, though. He could ruin it all.'

‘And Niamh,'
Lucinda added.

‘Look, I don't want any unnecessary blood on our hands,'
Marcus cut in.

‘She knows too much,'
Lucinda insisted.
‘For Christ's sake, she even has a photo of you with Greene.'

‘But she doesn't know it's me.'

‘That photo is still lethal. It's all over for us if she can unravel what's going on before we get out.'

There was another short silence; Willem could feel his heart pounding away.

‘I'm going to call Kel Sheridan,'
Lucinda said.

‘Is that a good idea?'

‘This is his damn money – we're doing all of this for him.'
Her voice was hard.
‘He's had his thugs threatening us for the last three years. The least he can do is direct their talents elsewhere.'

‘Greene is easy, we know where he lives.'
Marcus was thoughtful.
‘It would take us time to figure out how to get to Niamh.'

‘Don't worry about it,'
Lucinda said confidently.
‘I know exactly where to get her.'

Marcus was reluctantly on board.
‘Are you sure you don't want me to call Kel rather than you?'

‘No, I'll do it. You just book the flights and concentrate on the packing. Don't forget some toys for Jack. He'll need familiar things to play with when we get there.'

The call ended and Willem took a long steadying breath before he came down off the chair. Niamh was in trouble. They wanted to shut her up. He needed to do something; he couldn't ignore the voices any longer.

He went home early, unable to concentrate on work after what he had heard. He sat in his room desperately trying to decide what to do. He was very aware that with his history he would find it hard to make anyone believe that this time there really was a conspiracy. And people would find it even more unbelievable that the internal legal counsel, Lucinda Armstrong, was orchestrating the whole thing.

Downstairs Regina's family were watching TV together. Willem didn't watch television. For a long time he'd believed
the presenters were giving him a message, saying one thing to him while the others were hearing something else. It was sometime later that he learned this was a classic symptom of schizophrenia. Once he was diagnosed and gained an insight into his illness, his life returned to a diluted version of normal. He tried not to drink too much, or let himself get too tired, and set his day around the routine of taking the medication. But, despite being well, he never went back to watching TV. He was still terrified that the presenter's eyes would fix on him and command him to do something bad.

His family had migrated from Holland when he was in his teens. His illness had raised its ugly head in his first year of university. The psychiatrist said it was a common time to develop schizophrenia: university could be a scary and demanding place. The psychiatrist also explained that men were generally not very good at living with relatives who had the illness. Their coping abilities were less advanced than females'. That explained the reaction of his father who was horrified that his son had lost interest in his appearance, ate like a bird, ranted about their mail being opened by spies and repeatedly checked the house for bugging devices. He didn't care what fancy term the doctors gave his son's behaviour. He was a selfish, spoiled boy who was causing nothing but distress for his family. Relations in the Boelhoers household were at crisis point when Regina stepped in. Newly married, she rescued her brother. Allowed him to live in her new home. Stood by him when he was officially diagnosed and stood by him every day since.

Willem rose from the single bed he had been sitting on. He went downstairs and yelled from the hall that he was going for a drive. The family understood that Willem never came into the living room while the TV was on. It was just the way things
were. Regina shouted at him not to be too late. He knew she was afraid he would get overtired and have another attack on the back of the last one. She would go crazy if she knew he intended to sleep in his car tonight. He would face the music with her tomorrow. Right now, he had to go to Niamh. Watch over her, do his best to protect her from harm.

This time Niamh wasn't at all bemused when she opened the door to Scott, Jenny and their inevitable baggage. She was just delighted to see them. Both of them.

‘Hi.' Scott kissed her.

‘I've missed you,' she said, and kissed him back.

‘Me too … How did your thinking time go?'

The brief time apart had been his idea. He wanted to be a hundred per cent sure that she wasn't on the rebound before they went any further.

‘Well … I tried to tell myself that I didn't care for you …' She wrinkled her nose. ‘And that you weren't right for me. And that I was running into the first pair of arms after the break-up with Chris. But it didn't work. Sorry.'

Scott grinned. ‘I'm glad.'

Jenny had scrambled down by now and was off on her usual mission of destruction. She was wearing a pair of dungarees that stopped well short of her ankles.

‘They look a size too small for her,' Niamh commented and Scott laughed.

‘What's so funny?' she asked.

‘When you meet Deb you'll understand,' was all he said.

They followed Jenny to the kitchen where she made a beeline for the rubbish bin. Niamh's mobile rang and she answered it as she steered the toddler towards the living area.

‘Niamh …'

‘Just a minute,' she said to the caller before turning to Scott. ‘Why don't you help yourself to a beer? I shouldn't be long.'

‘Niamh, thank goodness I've got you. I was trying your office all afternoon.'

The accented voice on the other end of the phone sounded familiar but she couldn't readily put a name to it. ‘I was in a meeting. Who is this?'

‘Willem. Willem Boelhoers. I'm so glad you are all right.'

‘What are you talking about?' Niamh asked, using sign language to tell Scott where to find the bottle-opener.

‘They are going to hurt you. You need to leave your house right away, go somewhere safe.'

‘Willem – your medication. Have you forgotten your pills again?'

‘No. I have taken the pills. This is real – you are going to be hurt – the voices said so.' The urgency was making his English less clear than usual.

‘Who is going to hurt me?' Niamh asked, trying to keep an unexpected amusement from sounding in her voice.
I've already been hurt
, she wanted to tell Willem,
but I'm fine. I've come through it.

‘One of your colleagues.'

‘Why?' She wasn't really concentrating on what he was saying. Otherwise she would have asked ‘who' again instead of ‘why'.

‘I don't know.'

‘Willem,' she said gently, ‘you seem to be having one of your attacks. Please call Regina –'

‘I'm not hallucinating. Please believe me, you're in grave danger,' he pleaded.

‘Okay,' she conceded only because she couldn't seem to get through to him. ‘I promise to be careful. But you have to promise me that you'll tell Regina and your psychiatrist about this.'